I want to want to stop blowing, but i dont really want to. How can i help myself wanting to want stopping?
My answer
Oh man. So many possibilities here.
First, "blowing". Let's not beat around the bush, pun maybe-not-maybe-intended: blowjobs, right?
If so: geez dude. We're all adults here, aren't we? My first reaction to encountering usage of "blowing" is that anydouche tiptoeing around grubby reality via dinky euphemisms like "blowing" must surely be one of those squawky castigating pearl-clutchers who publicly screeches denouncement at THE ICK yet secretly squirms with dark-triad allure. You know the type. They'll loudly vilify anything racier than a geriatric Diamond Jubilee couple bumping elbows across continental boundaries as Sin, and Devilry, and Horrid Horrid Debauchery. They're the textbook archetype of shrivelled super-DUPER-Baptists.
But I advanced past your word choices, didn't I. And began soaking up your phrasal choices.
You "want to want to stop blowing"? M'deude. I'd got you all wrong. Your own schlong-adjacent parlance appears extraordinarily more chillax-y and upfront. That ain't no Shrivelled Baptist talk. Customary Shrivelled Baptist phrasing proximal to mid-suck-y penises, judging by news bulletins and the spanglier fanfics, is either "begone generic vileness, I daren't wallow in specificity" or "Lord have mussy on this poor sinner for the nation's camera crews catching me in that toilet cubicle with those 217 gorgeous male strippers like omg SO dreamy lol".
That sure ain't you. Yet you assert you feel like you ought to scorn it? Indeed, sir? Perchance you inhale delish cock oceans on the regular, yet against your better judgement? Why? Which component of your conscience gnaws at you? Perhaps you quake at being seen to devour more than your fair share? Stockpiling penis for the winter like a naughty squirrel and leaving none for others like a heinous greedyguts? Bro! Did your aunties never tutor you on genital decorum?
But okay whatevs. You approached moi for advice and counsel and not excoriation, more's the pity. But honestly, good for you. One, you're showing proper guts, and two, on repellence not merely of penises but a multitude of broader degeneracies, you'd better believe I've got oodles of practical expertise.
Just follow my lead bro. You really want to take this bullshit seriously? Shun cock forever? Good. Kicking one's blowing-habit is little different than kicking any other habit. The trick, I find, is to literally boobytrap your chosen vice. With nasty-things. Explosions and spikes and astounding quantities of agony. Worked wonders with me when I was trying to kick the ol' Devil's Dandruff. I asked three thousand of my mate-iest mates to scatter tremendous heaps of random and dreadful white powders across my nightclubs. Roman cement, ground-up C4, baking soda, dried marmoset spunk, bleached gunpowder, anhydrous bleach, you name it, great snuffly piles of it now lay splodged in all directions. Powdery dunes to the horizon. Cockroaches kept snowboarding on them. I cared not.
The point WAS, I'd seen to it that my actual real Charlie stores, the GOOD shite, had become an exhilarating nasal needle lost in a million revolting and sneezy haystacks. Should I snort a random powder on the off-chance of banishing the shakes? Odds were, I'd merely plunge my sinus cavity into a renewed hell of rotten drivel or currently-exploding high explosives.
Withdrawal symptoms, hideous though they were, soon proved quite spectacularly the lesser of two evils. Holy SHIT. Ever snorted two ounces of what I soon deduced was deep-fried asbestos? Any silver lining of being able to devour Carolina Reapers like they're comely arm-candy is NOT WORTH IT.
You need to do similar with cock.
Spread the word to supportive chums near and far. Scatter pamphlets. Hire sky-writing planes. Arm every glory hole. Wear one of those ridiculous cow bells around your neck, clonking like buggery, tuned to a specific frequency, so that when your theoretically anonymous partners hear it, they can think "Oh hey here comes Kobi, what a cool dude, let's booby-trap my dick according to his prior specific instruction, such that he'll never dare slurp an anonymous dick ever again. This one's for you, bro!"
Specific instruction? Damn straight. You'd be amazed how much wasabi a well-endowed gent can squirt down his urethra. Should he edge himself imminent to your arrival, you'll discover bloody fast that every schlong you approach will immediately go bang in your face. And not in fab raunchy facial-spooge-ways. Horrible ways. They're like unexploded ordinance. Wherever you attempt to sate your verboten lust for delish prick, each will instantly burst a putrid salvo of random bullshit between your eyes and ruin your entire day. Powders, gunks, biotoxins, those Amazon fish that allegedly swim up explorers' pee-streams, even entire steel harpoons. Urethras are surprisingly capacious. A mate of mine once concealed three Rottweilers up his. Not puppies. Fully grown bastard-dogs. His missus had the birthday-buttsex surprise of her life. She's a renowned dog breeder, so his hilarious prank all worked out in the end and wasn't even slightly horrible, or so he assured me.
So yeah. Do that. You'll be off the cock and weaned onto pussy in no time.