Repost from the old site. The following posts will figure a fellow named Sexmaniacman, who is a friend of mine. He either wrote these posts himself and sent them to me via emails or else I am transcribing them based on conversations he had with me.
A commenter notes on the Personality Disorders
Schizotypal was always the odd-man-out personality disorder — both literally and figuratively.
Sexmaniacman thinks he had a gf once who was both a Borderline and a Schizotypal:
Hi Bob, this chick was so nuts, man, oh man oh man. She had a dx of “Borderline Schizophrenia” and was a serious acidhead.
She proudly said, “I’ve always been crazy.” Her Mom was schizophrenic and had tried to stab her in the back and kill her when she was 4 years old. Her life was desolate, and she would move back and forth between all these different personalities that you could not keep track of.
She lived in Hollywood, was a fag hag and was always getting picked up by guys and abused. She let groups of guys gangbang her and all sorts of crazy shit. She was always telling stories about guys or groups of guys picking her up, tying her up, torturing her, having sex with her, and threatening to murder her.
The stories seemed almost too weird to be true, but she was an extreme submissive who obviously was giving off “hurt me” vibes that a lot of sicko dudes might have picked up on and acted on.
She was also a bit bi and had sex with women sometimes. But she liked young girls, like 14 years old! Whoa! She also liked young boys, like 13 years old, and she loved to entertain me with stories about breaking in 8th graders. She was an old pro at this. I thought it was just plain weird.
We were going to go a lesbian bar in Hollywood and try to pick up a girl to take home with us (that was real easy to do in LA, which is full of all kinds of gays, bis and swingers), but she was so weird, I figured we would never be able to pick up any decent women.
Her idea of a good time was going to a gay bar and hanging out there all nite. I said pass.
She literally ate acid by the handful, five or eight hits at a time.
I took her to a Cure concert and for some weird reason, all these Goth chicks were grabbing me and trying to molest me the whole time at the concert, even when I was with her. While we were walking around, while we were sitting at the concert, the women just wouldn’t leave me alone. The whole thing seems like a hallucination now. It was 1983. She was flying on a handful of acid.
I took her to see Pink Flamingos, we watched Divine eat dog shit off sidewalk, and she thought that was hilarious. We went to see The Story of O, which I thought was weird, but she insisted was the story of her life.
She kept wanting me to inflict pain on her in all these different ways (A LOT of women are into pain! Is that weird or what?) but I wasn’t really into being a sadist too much. I did inflict some pain on her, but I didn’t really enjoy it. She sure did! Damn right! But it was the weirdest joy, a joy in a bottomless sadness. I couldn’t relate.
We went at forever, and she was a real screamer. One night she turned me in the middle and said, “You know what, Sexman?”
“You’re a good fuck.” She repeated that a few times.
I’d just been turned into a complete sex object by a woman, and I didn’t even care.
I’d leave her place at the end of the weekend. Her Hollywood apartment complex was full of all these Guatemalan and Mexican illegal aliens. It was 1984 and the invasion was well under way. I guess the guys had been listening to her sexual opera performance all weekend because as I walked out, the Hispanic guys would all stand up and start clapping for me and raising their beers.
Cheers to the Master Fucker! She would drink, take acid, smoke pot, do speed, and then grab a bottle of antidepressants and start taking pills and downing them with a glass of booze.
“Whoa!” I said. “What do you think you’re doing!”
“You don’t know the pain I’m in Sexguy,” she whimpered and started crying. “You have no idea what it’s like. I need this, Sexdude.”
I shrugged and hoped she didn’t die on my watch. Who wants to deal with a dead chick and cops?
She was schizotypal in that she used language in really weird ways, and even though she insisted she had all these friends, she seemed really isolated. Plus she was just flat-out fucking weird in a way that Borderlines simply are not. Like she was on another planet, an alien. Invariably, she accused me of being a fag too for some reason like all of her faggot friends, and that pissed me off.
I will say she had more insight into my personality at the time than most other women have ever had.
She used to regale me with stories about her gay friends. Her gay friends were all these seriously weird masochist dudes into the leather scene.
Her eyes got really wide.
“My friend Jim, he’s not satisfied until the welts are this big.”
That’s one of her sicko masochist gay friends. Every time she talked about them, I told her to shut up as she was grossing me out.
She stretched her fingers to make about a one inch measurement. In her eyes, she was trying to shock me and I know it turns her on. She wanted one-inch welts too. Obviously. Like Hell you’re getting ’em from me, you sick bitch, I thought.
She called me one time but I wasn’t home. A woman I knew was over at my place in my absence and answered the phone. “Tell Sexman it’s just me,” she sighed wearily into the phone. “It’s just me. Just V.” Her self-esteem was 80,000 leagues under the sea under an anchor. The woman hung up the phone.
Later the woman said: “That’s the woman you’re dating, Sexguy?”
“Yeah,” I sigh.
“Wow, she seems like she thinks she’s the biggest zero on the face of the Earth. How sad.” The woman shook her head, and an incredible sadness came over her face too, a hundred years’ worth.
I broke up with her.
“Can…you…at least…give me a reason, Sexcat?” V. whimpered into the phone.
“You’re just too nuts for me. I mean, I’m nuts, but I’m neurotic. You’re way more crazy than I am, and I just can’t deal with you. It’s like dealing with someone from another planet. I can’t handle you. Good luck in the rest of your life.”
She called me a few days later, crying.
“After you broke up with me, Sexbro, I put my fist through a wall, I was so mad. Now I have a hole in my wall.”
“Over me? You did this over me? Why? Don’t bother, V. Don’t smash walls over me. I’m not worth it. Smash walls over someone else…Look, I can’t handle this, this is way too nuts.”
I got a new girlfriend, K., pretty soon, and V. had given me VD like most sluts do, something called Trichomonas with no symptoms in the male. I immediately gave it to the new girl, and it causes four days of misery in the female. The new woman was pissed.
I said the only thing you can say when you give your girlfriend VD.
“Hey, don’t ever say I never gave you anything.”
I thought that was pretty funny.
She sure didn’t. Icy eyes shone at my across the room.
“That’s not funny, Sexman.”
“Yeah it is.”
“No it isn’t.”
I saw V. again two years later. She came down to visit me, an hour’s drive. I saw her on my porch like a lost poppy, the most forlorn thing you ever saw. We went inside and had some wild sex for a couple of hours. She got pissed at the way it ended and left in a huff.
I never saw her again.
I assume she’s dead, probably long ago. The way she was, she couldn’t have lasted long.
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