Being in a long-distance relationship tends to make you want to chew your own foot off. If you're with an amazing girl and you really care about her, it only gets worse.
Allyson and I have struggled through it before: for 18 months we lived on opposite sides of the country. We barely survived, and now it looks like we're doing it one more time. I've been offered a job out west and she might be headed for a gig in New Zealand.
The thing is, I swore I'd never subject myself to this again. By the end last time I was such a stress case that my clenched jaw could have turned coal into diamonds. But now, having lived with her for a year, I realize one key fact: she's fucking worth it, man!
She's cooler and hotter than ever, like a boiling-hot iceberg, and she was already everything I ever wanted in a partner. If she were bitchy or prudish or uninspiring, I could easily break up with her and move on. Instead, I'm getting ready for more long distance. That's like staring crazy in the face and then making out with it, but I've got a sexy plan that could save my sanity.
Let me explain.
The standard deal when a man and a woman are sufficiently interested in each other is that they will stop having sex with other people. Monogamy is the last accepted manifestation of humankind's desire to own other humans. I have to admit that a primal part of me kind of loves the fierce exclusivity of being in a couple, but an equally primal part of me wants to have lots of sex. There's no conflict if you're living with your sexual partner, but if you're far apart it's a lot tougher.
Phone sex is unsatisfactory at best, so you just have to suck it up and go without. After a while, though, the desire to fuck that cute girl in the bar becomes maddeningly strong.
Your libido is telling you, "Look, man, I just did some research on our species in the computer here, and it's not good for us to stop having sex. I'm going to need you to start spreading our genetic code."
An inner dialogue begins between your body's pounding wants and your mind's desire to stay loyal and true. Your mind knows that your future happiness is at stake, so, like anyone in danger, you use cunning to avoid hazardous situations. You grow a weird moustache because you know it's an effective chick repellent. You also get a bit crasser for the same reason. You steer clear of girls who are the least bit attractive and single. Life is good.
And it works, for a little while. Then your body just ups the dosage of hormones or something, because girls you never would have considered pursuing before suddenly look pretty good. In fact, every one of your female friends seems like a sexy possibility.
You catch yourself fantasizing while staring at your roommate's crazy girlfriend. You realize that you're losing control and begin to get paranoid. You're nervous all the time, and since when do you sweat so much? People start wondering if you have a meth habit. Temptation is everywhere, so you try to keep yourself safe by skipping most social events. You're a sweaty, foul-mouthed, facial-hairy recluse.
Meanwhile, the only contact you have with your precious, faraway girl is a daily phone call. And while I'm an advocate of open, good communication between couples, girlfriends tend not to understand when you say to them, "Yeah, I'm really struggling with not cheating on you right now."
So you don't mention it. You just say that you miss her, but you can't help but feel like you're already lying a bit. You try to keep everything bottled up. You've got one hand clamped on your mouth and the other clamped on your balls while you dance on the slippery slope of lying to your partner.
Now, I don't know why, but somehow for me this situation inevitably leads to feeling even more insane. Eventually, in a fit of sexually powered hysteria, I crack and realize that the only win-win situation is for me to start having sex with other girls all the time.
I'm a jerk, right? I'm reprehensible, right? But you know what? Allyson knows about it - and she approves.
As long as these girls are porn stars in the glowing depths of the Internet whose work helps me trick my pesky libido into thinking that I'm leading the lifestyle it wants, I'll be all right.
I've got Jenna Jameson when I want to get classy, Briana Banks when I want well, the opposite of classy. I've got the adorable Aurora Snow to wake me up in the morning and the feisty Jenna Haze to knock me out in the evening. Sometimes I like to just have a quiet night with farm girl Jesse Jane, and other times I'll party hard with some identical twins. Hell, I've even been known to invite a certain heiress up to my hotel room once in a while. And I've become a new man.
Things are totally cool with Ally. I've shaved and I can go out in public again. I can go to parties and hang out with people, even talk to a pretty girl, knowing that if she starts snuggling up close I'll have the strength of will to say, "Hey, you're great, but I've got a serious girlfriend right now, so let's not go there."
So to all the fine, upstanding women of porn: I salute you (no dick joke intended). Unlike the extremists who criticize you, your work is actually making a positive difference in the lives of everyday people. You are saving relationships.