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Often I need to stop and ask myself, who am I? Am I the person I present to the world, or am I the grotesque creature that sort of acts like a drunk stegosaurus in heat?

The things I've done in pursuit of pleasure are shameful. I've lied. I've consciously misrepresented my intentions and feelings. I've acted like a huge, selfish, insane clown.

And for what? To see you naked. To possibly sweat on you. To tell my friends about it.

It's not always about sex. It's often about affection. Just feeling someone touch me is half of it. To just have someone put their hands on me and let me know I exist, that I'm not just some mental construct that tells inappropriate jokes and only feels during that American Airlines commercial where the guy comes back home to his family during the climax of Elton John's "Rocket Man."

The things I've done. God, the things I've done.

I've Acted Like We're Living Inside a Tom Waits Song
If I had a dollar for every time I pulled a girl onto my Tom Waits Reality Tour, I'd probably be able to pay my rent. I come pouring into a situation like I'm Beer, talking about how life is short and let's have a drink and don't you wish we were blacked out in New Orleans, hey let's pretend we are!

I typically pull this patented move on a Sunday. It's my Hail Mary day, where I seize upon the fact that the work week is just around the corner, and everyone's super-fragile.

I let fly with the decency-pushing jokes and keep the good times rolling while promising you a life of boozy excess and heavy petting. Then we'll have sex, during which I won't make eye contact with you. I just don't trust myself not to laugh. I don't know why this is. I think it's because the act of sex is sort of hilarious, especially considering we barely know each other, and I've got a hair in my mouth. I'm sorry for this!

Then we both wake up. Now I'm distant, freaked out and twirling off into a shame spiral, greased with regret. Basically I've become the song "Rain Dogs."

Where have all the good times gone, you wonder? You're making the best of it, but I'm stoic to the point of being that Thinking Man sculpture. I mean, I try to be nice about it, but clearly I'm looking for solitude. Much like the end of any Tom Waits song, a sad piano plays you back into your pants.

If this happens on a Friday or Saturday night, I'll make up some "meeting" I have to attend, and will go as far as grabbing my computer bag. Then, as I walk you out of my apartment, I'll go meet my friends for brunch.

"What's with the computer bag?" they'll ask. Yes, what is with the computer bag? Oh right, I'm a huge assbanker.

I've Forced You Into a Dark, Poorly Acted Musical
God, this one's the worst. I've hinted at this in prior columns, this weird place I go where I tell women that I'm "trouble" and should be "left to die alone" like the Phantom of the Opera.

Why do I do this? It's often with women I actually want to be with, too! My mind should definitely win C-blocker of the year award at the C-Blocking Oscars (held in Boston). I think I do it because I hope, idiotically, it will make you think I'm slightly dangerous and intriguing and you'll want to get to know more about me. So dumb. I probably do this to make up for the fact that I look so damn innocent, what with this boyish, wide-eyed face I have. It's like I should be wearing a sash with scout badges festooned all over it.

Instead, you all get reasonably disturbed and/or annoyed. Recently, I was on a date with a woman I really liked. For some reason, I thought it would be a good idea to start acting like Kathy Bates at around drink number five. When I ended up at a bar after the date, I was all excited as if the date had gone well. I told my friends about her. I was really pumped up.

Days of thunderous silence came and went. Finally, an email arrived. The subject line was "hey." (In the history of electronic communication, has a "hey" ever been followed by something positive?) I read it in the fetal position. "You sort of made me really uncomfortable." "Sort of" and "really" are tough siblings in a sentence. It's an attempt to soften the blow of a battle axe. She was right.

I've done that routine like three times since. What is wrong with me?

I've Become Robin Williams in "Good Morning Vietnam"
In that your personal, private sexual maneuvers, methods and appearance have become my war news, and I'm broadcasting it to everyone. I. Am. Ashamed.

If we have steamy, eye-contact-less sex, within hours my friends know all about that face you made. Oh, you know that sound that happens during sex that sounds sort of like a fart but no one ever talks about it? I've just done an impression of you making that noise to all of my married friends! (True Fact: No one wants to hear more about single-person sex than married dudes. I could tell a 10-minute story involving ropes, anal beads and a Victorian wardrobe, and my married dude friends will still be like, "And then what happened?")

You're rolling your eyes? You should be. I'm an ass.

Can I Change?
I'd like to think so. I'm already less inclined to become Robin Williams about you all, in part because as you get older you realize more and more how mundane and functional sex is. It has to be a part of your life -- it's not some exotic thing. It's not mescaline.

Yet ... I like pretending certain nights are Tom Waits songs. I can't help but do my Dark Musical routine from time to time. I often want to be alone immediately after sex and will lug a computer bag around town all day to make that happen. I'm sort of a huge ass-senator a lot of the time.

So I'm really, really sorry.

[Redacted] is the resident Single Guy writer for Lemondrop. He has seen most of the naked breasts of the cast of "California Dreams." Remember in "St. Elmo's Fire," when hunky Rob Lowe had sex with dowdy Mare Winningham? He cried so hard.

You can easily access all of his work here, send him hate mail and love letters here, and follow him on Twitter here.

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