I had a sociopathic friend and his sex life was fucking fascinating [Part 2] [FM]

This is a sequel I never thought I’d write because it’s dark as hell. I think I wrote part 1 over a year ago [it’s pinned to my profile].

*Time flies when you’re writing about fucking.*

I had a friend in college who I am 99% sure was a sociopath. Am I a psychologist qualified to make that diagnosis? Fuck no. Of course I could be wrong so take what I say with a grain of salt. However, I grew up with a diagnosed sociopath and can usually sense when something is off with the way someone processes emotion. They’re incredibly rare and deceptively friendly. The person in this story is one of two people I’ve encountered who I sincerely suspected of being sociopathic, and I don’t think many people around him noticed.

I don’t usually “name” people in my stories, but for fun let’s call this guy “Patrick Bateman.”

*Yes, I realize the distinction between a psychopath and sociopath, but I found it interesting how much this guy unironically loved the character.*

This story is going to sound like we were close, and I guess in a way we were. We were fully entrenched in the same social circles and I genuinely found him fascinating. On his best days he was even a little endearing.

We most definitely held each other at arms length though. I didn’t like how Patrick treated women and he didn’t like how I could see through him. I would occasionally even call him out. At times I could sense him manipulating me, but a very real part of me wanted him to like me. He had all the currency valued in the hierarchy of college social life, and being around him was undeniably fun.

I genuinely did like that he read and was always interesting to talk to. He was also good at flattery and knew how to make me feel good about myself.

I don’t know what Patrick liked about me. That’s something I often tried to unpack because he always sought me out and wanted to hang several times a week. I suspect he liked how our friendship looked on paper. He had a tendency to collect people in his social circle and I fit the mold of an ornament he liked hanging around. Plus, I was his only platonic female friend and I swear he just liked having someone in that category because it made him look emotionally mature.

Plus, occasionally we flirted. I have a feeling he thought we’d have sex one day.

He tried to fuck me the first night I met him, but I shut him down pretty fast. Later when he was wasted he hit on me again, but I was dating his friend by then and had seen him with enough women at that point to be permanently repulsed by his advances.

*I know you’re reading this like, “Get to the sex, Viola!!!” I am. Fine.*

This dude had more sex than almost anyone I knew.

*He could give my ex a run for his money… My ex is a sex addict and physically a perfect 10.*

I’m not quite sure what this dude got out of sex. Once when he was tripping he said he felt “absolutely nothing but a physical release and the comfort of knowing it would up his social status.”

What’s really weird about this was that sex was 100% a performance. My friend briefly “dated” him and said they didn’t fuck when they were alone in her dorm. He had a hard time getting it up when it was private and more intimate. He liked seducing women in front of his friends, fucking them VERY loudly, and telling everyone the details of each encounter the following morning.

The amount of times I heard this dude fucking or the amount of times I heard ABOUT this dude fucking (*he ran through my friends pretty quickly*) was so pervasive I feel like I intimately know his sexual habits.

*No… We never fucked.*

He would fuck women against the walls, in his friends’ beds, and in very public places. We were once on a bus on our way to a date party and I turned around to see a girl giving him head in the back. My eyes caught his dead, blank stare and I’ll always remember the cold smile he gave me, knowing I had seen.

*Yeah… He might kill someone someday.*

This specific story actually begins when he pissed me TF off. I usually just accepted his casual misogyny but I broke one morning at breakfast when he was bragging about his most recent conquest to his frat buddies.

*Why was I was a frat house at breakfast? Don’t worry about it.*

He was talking about a really sweet girl and I finally snapped and called him a pig. We got into an argument and it ended with this lovely exchange:

“Go make yourself throw up your cereal,” he yelled.

“Go chase your steroid shot with a viagra.”

*Mine got laughs.*

This was our first fight but it wouldn’t be our last. I also assumed it’d be the end of our “friendship” because I knew he didn’t care about me. He wasn’t *capable* of caring about me. I honestly don’t even know if I cared about him and I was questioning what exactly I was getting out of that relationship by then.

He texted me three days later and begged for a chance to apologize. I stopped by his frat house after class, mostly out of curiosity. He offered me a shot of whiskey as a peace offering.

We ended up having several shots.

To his credit, he did apologize, but I’m not really sure he understood what he did wrong. When I asked him why he always felt the need to publicize his sex life, he was a little confused by the question.

“Why is it wrong to talk about sex?” He asked.

“I don’t know. It just feels like you’re playing a game and then brag like you won and the girl you fucked lost.”

He considered this. “I mean, it’s a power game, right? That’s what sex is.”

“Is that what it *really* does for you then? Makes you feel powerful?”

“Yes,” h stated simply, “I like that I don’t have to struggle to get sex when other people do.”

I sighed. I’m not sure what I was expecting but this answer frustrated me. “Why don’t you just fuck your frat brothers then? Skip a step and assert dominance directly?”

He laughed at that. He also smiled and poured us both another drink. “I never told anyone you fuck women, by the way.”

*I told him that when he was in the depths of tripping. Rather he already knew through very close observation and I confirmed. I was not “out” at the time, and I didn’t relish the idea of this man having a secret over me.*

“Why didn’t you?” I finally asked.

“I thought about it. I wanted to. I wanted to be the person who knew something different about you. I wanted everyone to remember how hot that girl you brought around once was, and then picture you with her. It would have fucked with everyone’s heads so much.”

“How is this supposed to be a point in your favor?”

“I didn’t because I… Like you. I think I genuinely like being your friend.”

“Why?”

He poured us both a shot. We didn’t say anything for a long time. We just drank and sat on his floor as he tried to think of a reason.

“I like watching how much you feel things. It’s interesting to me. People tell you things just after meeting you and I can’t figure out why.”

I blinked. “See this moment right here? I don’t know if this is real or if you know I’ll be charmed by that. It scares me.”

“Do I actually scare you?” He asked after a while with a sigh.

We were both very drunk at this point.

“Not really,” I admitted. “I think you might actually have a heart buried deep in there.”

“Doubtful. I scare myself sometimes.”

“Why? What’s so bad?” I laughed a little nervously.

Patrick blinked a few times and then got up and went to his closet. He grabbed a bag and watched me for a beat before dumping its contents onto the floor.

It was filled with underwear. *Women’s* underwear. A variety of shapes, styles, and colors spilled before me.

My jaw hung open as I stared at the evidence of his sustained debauchery. I studied the pile, trying to make sense of *how* such a collection had accumulated.

My stomach churned. “What… What the hell, man?”

He stared down and considered a pile with such empty emotions that I felt a little sick. “I started doing it freshman year. I don’t know why.”

“How?”

“I make them believe they weren’t wearing any.”

I blinked a few times as I tried to process this. “How is that possible?”

“I hide them somewhere, usually under my pillow or in my pocket really quickly during or after sex. In the heat of the moment it’s hard for them to tell.”

*He didn’t get caught up in the moment like “normal” people. It was a physical transaction. THAT’S how this is possible.*

“And you… convince them they weren’t wearing any?”

“Yep. When they start looking for them I claim I don’t remember taking them off. Eventually they let it go. I think they get embarrassed.”

“Why do this?”

He shrugged. “Why not?”

“Because you’re gaslighting them? Because it’s weird to keep someone’s intimate article of clothing? Because this feels a little like a fishbowl of keys?”

“I don’t think this is that wrong.”

“It’s psychotic!” I argued. “Is this a fetish? Do you get off on the thought of them walking home without underwear? Like one more dominance thing?”

Patrick didn’t move. He cocked his head to the side and considered the pile. “Not really. How else would I remember them?”

“Ever thought of journaling? And what do you mean by remember? It’s just a pile of discarded panties.”

“I remember the owner of every one.”

I pointed at a random thong. “What about that one?”

“Oh, that’s the president of [a sorority next door]!”

“…How was she?”

“Average. She’s too hot. She put in no effort, but she didn’t stay over.”

“How many of these are my friends, Patrick?”

He got quiet. “Do you really want to know the answer to that question?”

“I don’t know.”

“Am I freaking you out?”

“Honestly? A little. I can’t understand what this does for you. There are easier- less cruel ways- to remember your conquests.”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “I don’t think about it much in those terms.”

“Can I tell you what it looks like to me?”

*I took psychology freshman year, after all.*

“Sure.”

“I think this is measurable proof you’re winning the social game.”

He considered this. “To a degree, but that sounds like I’m insecure. I don’t think I feel insecurities.”

“What do you feel that makes you do this then?”

He shrugged. “Bored.”

“That’s all this is? You’re just bored?”

“Yeah. At least sex isn’t boring, you know that more than anyone.” He got serious as he studied me for a moment. “I’m always fascinated that you turned me down last year, because I think you wanted me. You didn’t like me when you first met me though.”

I shrugged. “True.”

“Why?”

“You hit on me when I was dating your friend.”

He cringed. “I was hoping you were too drunk to remember.”

“I was dead sober actually. Ok, maybe it’s not that you hit on me. It’s *how* you did it. You know what I like? When guys tell me I’m smart. You preyed on that. I saw you feeding my ego. It felt good and it scared me.”

“Do you think we would have hooked up eventually if circumstances had been different?”

“Probably not. I would have made you chase me and you would have gotten bored with my pace.”

He shook his head. “You need attachment before sex. I know you do, even though you always pretend otherwise. You would have gotten frustrated with me.”

“You terrify me sometimes with your accuracy.” I groaned suddenly, “Oh my god, I would have been one more pair of panties in your bag.”

He gave me a sad smile. “Does it mean anything that I’m glad you aren’t? I like that we’re never going to have sex. I like that you’re around.”

“Just please don’t murder someone someday.”

*Yes… This story is fucked up.*

It scares me how successful this dude is. Our friendship obviously didn’t last but we keep surface level contact. He’s not someone I would be friends with if I met today, but I find myself hoping he’s ok.

I also find myself hoping he never goes into politics or murders someone.

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/1341rd0/i_had_a_sociopathic_friend_and_his_sex_life_was