All of this honestly crap might very well be good for my recovery from drug addiction (you know, being in touch with my feelings, or no longer lying about, oh I don’t know, how much crystal meth I may have ingested five minutes ago), but how do I apply this new-found familiarity with the truth to my sex life?  Isn’t sex built upon delivering the best bold-faced lies?

Oh my God that feels good.  You are so big I can’t take it.  I’ve wanted you since the minute I saw you.  Your love handles are making me so damn hot.

Sure, baby.  And your spunk tastes like crème brûlée.

I can’t imagine sex without lying. Who the hell wants to hear the damn truth when we’re both pretending that all the sweating and awkward lurching (and those strange odors!) are beyond our wildest imaginings?  I don’t think I have the heart to tell someone I am grooving on what’s really crossing my mind during sex.

Yeah, you mildly studly dude, what you’re doing right now feels…  well, it felt nice there for a second but it passed.  And your arms looked bigger in the shirt you had on.  And please can the chatter about how big I20am.  I know better.  And I know you’re hating my smoker”s breath right now but I’m getting close and I refuse to get up and brush my teeth.  Chew a mint for both of us.  Besides you’re no floral scented Glade plug-in yourself, mister.  Your sheets smell like poop.

Nope, this ain’t helping my hard-on any. I simply must have the freedom to take liberties with the truth.  My therapist contends that it is only through honestly that I can remain clean from drugs, but has he ever literally come face to face with a man whimpering for validation of his hot body when the guy’s whiteheads are about to blow more jizz than either of us?

Give me liberties or give me meth.