Sex Life Of A Man Without One #18

0101050115040116062008022768007b157cfb3263d6005f52.jpg She called herself the “Divine Back Scratcher.” A whore with this kind of vernacular struck an immediate interest in me. Despite the fact that I had pledged to stay away from prostitutes for a time, the itch was returning. For a man this itch is the equivalent to a nuisance which never seems to go away. For a time there will be some quiet, a respite but like all biological imperatives- it returns with a vengeance. I have learned to accept this eternal return, with the calm acceptance of the Buddhist I feel I may be becoming. I realize that everything is as it should be in life. I try not to get in the way.

Once again I began my day by doing a little meditation and then immediately going on the internet to see who was on the Craig’s List Erotic Adds page. I searched trough numerous pictures with an erection that felt like kundalini rising in my lower spine. I was delighted by various adds that mentioned daily head specials or lunch time hand specials. The photographs were mostly unappealing but the few that struck some interest in my eyes were like shots of ecstasy to my brain. I had been too long without my girls.

I have been meaning to talk to my wife about my sexual expeditions and obsessions. My therapist decided that if I had not done it within the month that she was going to call my wife and tell her. I knew my therapist was only innocently threatening me with her pledge (since it violates patient privacy rights)- but now I fear that she may do it. So I have an allotted time left to indulge my fantasies before I have to face the music (which may turn out to be a rehabilitation center for sex addicts). This morning the sun was out, I had money in my bank account and could foresee no reason why (other than guilt and shame) I should not investigate my curiosity with regards to the Back Scratcher. Cumm Let me Scratch your back and make you purr, the add said and the photograph I could hardly resist.

She was only seeing clients at a hot tub establishment that was not far from my abode. I quickly dressed and decided not to put on underwear since I assumed I would be going into the tub nude. Over the phone she sounded rather unfriendly and belabored. I tried not to take this personally by telling myself that I was not trying to make friends. I just wanted an erotic hand job in a hot tub. My appointment was for 1:15 p.m and when I arrived at the establishment it seemed as if it could be closed. A homeless man stood outside and there were no cars upon the vacated industrial street. Other than a few famished alley cats and a sign that said Health Spa I seemed to be in the middle of nowhere.

I rang the buzzer and was greeted by an older Asian man who had a cigar in his mouth. “You here for girl, yes?” I did not know how to answer. What if this was a sting, a trap to catch perverts like myself? This has been going on a lot lately. “You here for girl?” he said again with a frenetic energy that made me feel pressured. I threw caution to the wind and nodded yes. “You sit, she almost through with nother client.” I sat in a yellow chair that smelled like a thrift shop. I looked at desperate fish floating around in a neglected fish tank. One orange fish watched me watch it. I wondered if he understood. There was a picture of the Buddha on the wall and a few oranges and a banana were placed in front of the picture. Food for the Gods.

A very fat man walked down the hallway. His step was heavy enough to rattle the chair in which I sat. He was breathing hard and seemed to be perspiring a great deal. His face was beet red and when he said good bye to the Asain man, I thought I heard him say “what a back scratch!” I was nervous and hesitant when the Asain man said to me, “Okay you go,” and directed me to walk on down the hall to the open door with white light shining out of it. The hallway was dark and lined with straw mats that made me feel like I was visiting a whore house in a third world. If it was not for the smell of chlorine and tobacco, I would of thought I was walking away from the living and towards the light.

The room was dark, and I was greeted by a long legged women dressed in a black corsage. Her hair was long and ruffled and she seemed to be developing dark bags under her eyes. None the less I found her very attractive. She reminded me of a fallen angel. “Welcome,” she told me after she mentioned that I should get undressed and lie on my stomach on the mattress upon the floor. I noticed that in the room there was no hot tub. “Have you had your back scratched lately?” she asked me. “I have not,” I said like a shy school boy. “Well this one you will enjoy,” she said as she ran her long pink nails down the front of my bare chest while making a sexy sound. “Oh look,” she said surprised as I stood naked in front of her, “your cock is ready to go!” I looked down and noticed a pulsating erection hanging off my shaking groin. “This is what happens when I’m nervous,” I said.

I gave her the agreed upon sixty dollars and lied down on my stomach. The mattress smelled like a mixture of semen and perfume. I buried my face deep into the pillow and tried with all my might not to think about how I would tell my wife about this. She would never believe these degenerate journey’s I go out on. Her life is clean, composed, starched and blessed. This kind of experience is not upon her radar screen nor does she think it’s upon mine. While she is hard at work I am at home looking for work, is what she thinks. As I was thinking about what not to think about I felt the Back Scratcher sit upon my bare butt like she was straddling a horse. I took a deep breath as she gently began to run her nails down my spine. She made strange chanting sounds which had the effect of really turning me on. She then ran her nails over my head and into my ears. My anxiety fell away and turned into a relaxation I had never felt before. Even though I wanted to see her naked (and was willing to pay more) I was completely resigned to the moment. I surrendered and turned into a floating cloud. Her fingers ran up and down my spine and shoulders with a motion that felt like the wind. I was hypnotized by her scratches until she placed one of her hands upon my testicles.

I am easily surprised. I live my life trying to avoid surprises because it makes me feel like I have little control in my life ( I am having difficulty accepting the laws of chaos). When she placed her warm and tingling hand upon my testicles, I made what sounded like a pre-pubescent chirp. My body vibrated and she asked me if I was okay. I was more than fine I told her, “I had just had an orgasm.” She laughed and said, “you came already, I did not even do anything!!” “It takes so little,” I said. All she could do was laugh and ask me if I wanted a cookie.

Ever since I was a young man I have suffered from premature ejaculation. Many a women have left me because of it. I have done what I can to develop my locking abilities but the older I get the more I have just learned to live with my disability. I have read books, taken a seminar (“The Multi-Orgasmic Male”) and even saw a counselor for this ailment. To no avail. I have been told that the problem is the result of years spent frequently masturbating, neurological and genetic. I just think I am a very horny man who can not hold back all the intense pressure I keep blocked up during the course of a typical day. When I explained this to the Back Scratcher she told me she understood. “My last boyfriend was like this so I can relate,” she said. “He usually came before he even stuck it in.” This made me feel better, understood. Once I was fully dressed I told her that during the back scratch I had reached a state of relaxation I had never achieved before. “See….. whores are good for some things,” she said as she counted her money and then looked at the clock. I could not have agreed more.

Electromagnetic Freek (EMF).

I love my laptop but it is making me sick! It has turned into a constant struggle. Let me explain before you jump to judgment: I am immensely sensitive to EMF radiation from cell phones, laptops- all wireless technology. I have learned about this new advent in my life lately. Upon moving into the new home in which I live- I developed all kinds of physical symptoms. Besides the regular palpitations, and constant worry, I have developed what feels like a perpetual tingling erection, brain surges and vivid dreams which shock me awake with a racing heartbeat. I have also begun to slur my words on certain heavy electromagnetic days and feel pins and needles tap dancing around in my microwaved brain. The house in which I currently reside is surrounded by a plethora of electromagnetic activity (city buildings, citizens talking on cell phones and endless wireless waves). The women who lives upstairs has several television monitors, which are on all day- along with her very strong wireless internet connection. Some times as I am falling off to sleep I am zapped awake by what feels like an electrical discharge from my brain to the rest of my body. I am not sure if this is the result of electromagnetic radiation or the disturbing sounds of my neighbor doing Yoga for hours past midnight. It is one of the most unpleasant experiences I have felt.

I have seen several Doctors all of whom have not a clue what is going on. Certain holistic practitioners have told me that I may be suffering from Multiple Sensitivity Syndrome or some kind of toxic poisoning. A healer whom I visited the other day convinced me to believe that what I am suffering from is EMF poisoning. “This is a modern syndrome,” he said- “we are all canaries in the coal mine, lab rats being used to test the short term and long term affects of all this new wireless technology.” I must stay away from wireless technology as much as possible, he told me. Each night before bed I am to wrap tin foil around my head and sleep with it on. A modern day wreath of thorns to celebrate my electromagnetic crucifixion.

The perpetual erection which has a nagging tingling component to it has remained unexplained. Neither Doctors nor esoteric healers know what to make of it. Most just see it as a flaw in the machine, but I believe otherwise. It is my belief that the radiation or electric activity is stimulating something in my nervous system which in return is causing the over-stimulation of my penis. It is becoming more than a discomfort in my life- it is now like living with an antenna stuck to my groin. Trying to sleep with a tingling erection verges upon the very difficult. Going through my life with it is a nag. It is affecting my marriage and creating some difficulties for me when I go out on a job search. Masturbation is of no help, nor is over-thinking about my mother in the nude. The only solution that I can come up with is tin foil and to remain as removed from wireless technology as I can, for a time.

The End.

An Introduction To The Complete And Edible Works Of Shmear

kleinzahler-75.jpg Every word I write you can eat. The point of my published works has always been to appease my readers appetites. Ever since I was young, I have wanted to create books that could be eaten. As a child I could always be found snacking upon the covers of books from my fathers collection. I would chew on Shakespeare, Milton and Emily Dickinson until I was found and given a terrible scolding for doing so. I longed to eat books up until my sixteenth birthday when I finally decided to create and edible work of my own. When I told others of my idea, I was thought of as a fool. “Oh Smear,” people would say, “such a foolish young dreamer.” Despite the antagonizing criticisms- I continued to pursue my invention with the dedication of a fiend. I wrote for hours a day, sometimes skipping out on meals until I finally had in my hand the finished manuscript of what was the first edible book ever created.

I ate my first book. This was the problem. When my parents had asked me about the book that I had spent years and years writing all I could tell them that it was gone. When I had told them that I ate it they looked upon me as a young man who had lost his mind. I was twenty two at the time and was subjected to all forms of psychological examination. I was even subjugated to the confines of a hospital for many weeks for telling a psychiatrist about my invention. “So what was this edible book about,” the psychiatrist asked me. “It is about all the desires of a young man wrapped up into edible pages of a book. The story is told through a narrator who is a young runaway who has left the confines of his comfortable home to seek out authentic experiences. He falls into all forms of disreputable vice and at the end after returning home, in a fit of furry he kills his father and has sex with his mother.” “Ah I see, so we are suffering from a demented form of the Oedipal complex are we not?” All I could do was look into the eyes of the man who wanted to convict me and say, ” I only wanted to eat the story of youth.”

After weeks secluded away in a psychiatric hospital and months spent examined by various forms of analyst and therapist I was deemed to be suffering from a form of hyper-intelligence. The prescription for my cure was that I should be kept away from all books and writing. I was kept for months in my bed with my hands and feet bound to my bed. “It is for your own good Shmear,” my mother would remind me each day as she brought me food. I could see the tears welling up in hear eyes as she untied one of my hands from the bedpost. “If we do not keep you bound we know that you will read, write and eventually loose your mind. This is for your own good,” she constantly tried to remind me.

After months of being bound to my bed I was able to break free from the shackles that not only enslaved my body but also my mind. I packed a bag and left for good the home that I had been brought up in. With little money and no destination in mind I set out on foot as far as my feet would allow me to wander. Through rural villages and small towns I made my way until I found myself in a large city called Vice. There I stayed for many years, working as a dish washer by day and writing my edible works at night. When I was done with my writing for the night I would wonder the streets of Vice, committing thousands of sins in my mind until sleep would overwhelm me and I would be forced to wonder home to my small studio on Transgression Street.

I completed my second book when I had just turned twenty six. It was a longer book that had taken me years to create, but the words were sweet and the story filling. I found a Baker in town who told me that for a cut of the eventual profit he could recreate my edible book one hundred times. This would allow me enough baked copies of my edible works to take around to various publishers for them to try. The Baker and I decided to entitle my second book A Symposium of Edible Words, so that the reader immediately understood that this book was indeed to be eaten.

After dropping “the Symposium” off to dozens of publishers, all of whom worked in the city of Vice- all I could do was wait in anticipation. I drank away the time and spent hours sitting in silent meditation. I thought of numerous ideas for forthcoming books and since I was low on cash I ate the remaining stock of my edible books. Weeks passed without notice and then the letters started pouring in. “Dear Shmear, this is the best book I have ever eaten,” “your words were so satisfying to my mind and gut,” “I have yet to experience such a delight like reading your book and then eating it!!” were some of the comments that came pouring in through my small rusty mailbox. I struck a deal with a publisher who wanted ten edible books in ten years for a price that I could never have imagined earning. That evening the Baker and I celebrated in a den of iniquity- debasing ourselves in every drunken way imaginable.

It gives me great pleasure to be writing this introduction fifty years later. I would have never imagined in my wildest dreams that I would be writing the introduction to the Complete and Edible Works Of Shmear. My intention was never for fame and riches but rather to write words that could be of some significant nutritional value to my readers. I wanted my readers to be able to eat words that would expand their imaginations and support them in a life of creativity and wonderment. Upon completing my first book there was no greater pleasure that I had experienced than eating it. I wanted readers to experience this same pleasure when they were done reading my books. To be able to eat the words and pages that had been stuck in their minds. To be able to eat a text with the greatest pleasure- this was my only goal. After fifty some years of writing and eating edible books, it is my greatest feeling of accomplishment to know that I have filled the hungry stomachs of readers around the world with my delectable words.

The Sex Life Of A Man Without One #17

 I had not thought about sex all day. The act never crossed my mind nor did I feel much interest in members of the opposite sex. Last evening was a haunting night- the thought of which I would like now to forget (read Sex Life Of a Man Without One #16 to understand what it is that I am talking about). I spent the day offline far away from the temptations of the computer and Craig’s List. I dedicated myself to more virtuous pursuits like yoga, meditation, taking out the garbage and cleaning the bathroom. I wrote in my journal for a bit and listened to a Brahms symphony over and over again until my mind was relieved of past memories. My wife was working for the majority of the day but would call me ever so often to check in with how I was feeling. “I’m having some anxiety,” I told her several times and her response was always caring and concerned. Sometimes I wonder if my wife is a saint dressed in women’s clothing.

After spending the day fertilizing the seeds of virtue I moved into night with little hesitation. The sun set as planed and the darkness fell upon my bedroom windows like it consistently does night after night. I say bedroom only because I usually am napping at this time and wake in time to watch the dusk turn dark. For dinner I met my family (father, mother, sister) at a small restaurant in a quiet town not far from where I live. The food was filling and the company cordial enough to leave me feeling happy about the few hours we spent together. My father is recovering from major surgery but he was well enough to try and convince me for a futile thirty minutes that Barack Obama was a Muslim and to drink wine and eat pork. By the end of our feast I had consumed a ceasar salad, a bottle of Italian red wine, salmon with bacon sprinkled on top and what the waiter called a chocolate bomb (chocolate ice cream on top of a chocolate fudge brownie). The bill was more than my share of the monthly rent “but the money was well spent, since I have worked my whole life to be able to afford such pleasures,” my father said. I kissed my father goodbye on the lips for the first time in my life and I found it a bit strange that he squeezed my but.

She was standing directly upon a street corner not far from my house. I would not have stopped if I was not driving drunk. My intention was to continue on with the virtuous lifestyle for one more week. This meant abstaining from all activities that left me feeling as if I had compromised my integrity. However, the wine was talking in place of my rational mind. It was Italian wine so it had a tendency to be a bit crazy over the girls. The wine said, “pull over and just see how much it would cost to touch her boobs.” My rational mind said “no just continue on home and stay on the path of virtue.” The wine said, “virtue, who are you kidding. You are a good man. There is nothing wrong with using sexy prostitutes to get off since you have not had sex with your wife in over a year. It is a matter of your health!!” My rational mind retorted, “don’t listen to the wine. It is intoxicating your better sense. If you must return home and jack off to online porn, so be it- but do not pick up the whore!!” “Alright, allright…enough!!” I yelled out loud as I drove my car around the block again to get one more glance at the prostitute.

She had blond hair and was white!! This was enough to make me give in to the wine’s will. Finding a white prostitute with blond hair in Oakland is like stumbling upon a pot of gold. My heart beat with fervent anticipation. I said to myself, “what the hell, the wine was right, this is a matter of my health.” I pulled my car over to the side of the road and waited. I have a technique that I often use. It is hard to tell what the prostitute really looks like when you are at a distance and it is dark out. When I pull over I leave my passenger side door locked and the window slightly cracked. When the prostitute approaches my car and makes an attempt to get in, they have to bend down and look in through the window- at me. “This is how I can see what they look like up close, without commiting,” my mentor taught me many years ago.

Write as I was about to unlock the door and open myself up to the wonderful world of prostitution my rational mind managed to sneak back in and say, “drive, drive away- tonight is not the night.” I felt the voice as if it had come directly from my soul. I looked into her glazed eyes and said “sorry but I can’t,” and then drove away into the night. In my rear view mirror I noticed that she was watching my car pull away like someone who had just lost an important opportunity. Even the I had and erection and a head filled with wine, I was able to return home from a pleasant evening free from the pangs of guilt and shame. Such is the life of a man without a sex life.

The Resurgence Of Absurdistry

I thought about dumping this site, but once again it was saved by a reader. At times I feel as if the words that come out my fingertips go against my deepest principles. I feel ashamed of the things I write and wonder if I should really share this with the world. Then there is this tempestual voice in my head that says, “to hell with principle- this is literature you are creating and in literature there are no limitations you self righteous son of……..” So I will carry onwards, offending myself at every turn. I will continue to learn things about the demented mind that sits on top of my neck and seek out new ways to turn Absurdistry into a immorality play that may serve human kind in some incomprehensible way. The world is not rid of me yet!

“pee, pee.”

The Bullshit Guru

I will tell you a story until you believe it is true. At a certain point there will be doubt and apprehension but as you continue to listen to my words your ability to resist my bullshit will be undone. I do not know if it was a gift that I was born with or a skill that I have cultivated over many years of lying. True I come from a long lineage of bullshit guru’s but I believe my abilities surpass any genetic predisposition. I have made bullshit into such an art form that the world has become my ashram and all the little people in it my devoted disciples.

If magic could be explained, would it be magic? I do not know why my bullshit is believed by all. The stories that I tell are organically ejected out of a mind with little consideration of principle or limitation. I speak my mind and usually it is a cleverly interpreted lie. How I got this way I do not know. Sometimes I believe it stems from a deep seeded love for the fictitious and all things literary. At other times I feel as if my bullshit is nothing more than a symptom of boredom. Nonetheless my intentions are good, but what they are I am not quite sure.

If you leave me alone in a room for ten minutes with a group of a dozen strangers chances are I will have them thinking about things they had never considered. We would speak about the nature of self, the way to find inner happiness and the practice of truth. I would talk to them like a man who knows the answers and has traveled the path. I have counseled many wayward souls and steered them back upon a course that I know not how to direct. I speak about things that I can not practice. Sure there is nothing unnatural about this- but I speak like one who knows. Because of my fictitious fallacies I have followers from all around the globe who come to me with questions ranging from the simple to the profound. I council Bloggers on ways to cultivate concentration or imagination so the quality of their being will grow complete. The irony is I know not what I speak off- I simply speak and out comes the freak.

The other day one of my sweet devotes deemed me the bullshit guru. She told me that I was full of it- when she caught me in a tale that she knew to be untrue. She knew that I had yet to attain the level of enlightenment that I was speaking about since just the other day she had to lend me a xanax because of an anxiety attack that rendered me helpless. “Even though it is bullshit,” she said “I still like your stories. So I will continue to speak, to council and to blog until my bullshit has grown so constipated that nothing no longer is willing to come out. Feel free to seek me out for words of wisdom in your time of need.

Namaste.

Sex Life Of A Man Without One #16 (Dark Night of The Soul)

      Last night I found my self alone on a dark city street. The rain was pouring down in bucket loads and the cold ravaged my bones. I walked through the Tenderloin like a man victimized by a heavy guilt with both hands tucked deeps inside my jacket pockets. What brought me out upon these dark city streets was a longing for relief, a momentary sensation of pleasure. My life has been pressured by all the many ways a man can fail. Without a job and the motivation to find one, a man is left for dead in this wild wild west. So I came out of my home past the hour of midnight and searched for a way out from the dark thoughts that projected my bleak future upon the lense of my mind. I would just walk, I told myself. Despite the demons and goblins dressed in black, searching for blood- I would walk like a man who appears to be free from the ravages of fear. I would stand tall and make my way through the desolate city streets.

I walked up and down rain covered streets. I followed my feet over cracks and used condoms. Between the sounds of alarms and sirens was a space filled with screams and shouts that emanated from deep within the cities belly. I heard the wind wrap it self around brick buildings and run head on into various street signs. The rapid pulsations in my chest spoke of a deep suffering and my feet walked at a fast pace with hope of leaving some of my suffering far behind. Mucos fell from my enlarged nose that felt infected by the damp wind. Rain fell upon my long body and heavy mind like a Baptism from the dark sky above. How had I come so far into my isolation? How had I ended up here?

After miles and miles of endless walking my legs grew weak. I stopped in at one of the only bars that I could find which was still decorated with a neon open sign. Inside sat desolate souls seeking shelter from the cold rain through the medicinal promises of booze. I sat next to a lonely soul who smelled like sadness and worried away his thoughts into a cup filled with brown wine. An older Asian lady who spoke little English served me a warm whiskey and I listened to the sounds of suffering souls like a wayward cultural anthropologist. Everything that was spoken in this bar made little sense to me. The language was incoherent and somehow seemed to be eluding to ruined dreams and better days. All the voices were raspy and filled with a guilt that was disguised by laughter so contrived that not even I was fooled. The man next to me asked me a question that I could not hear and I just sat back in my chair and looked up at God.

Had I become so helpless that my search for pleasure has lead me to this forsaken bar? Had I lost my own sense of virtue and integrity because of an irrational need to feel relief through various forms of sexual debauchery? Was the suffering that I was feeling worth the moments of pleasure that I so secretly searched for? The answer was obvious to me as I thought about my sweet wife who was sound asleep in our warm bed at home. The rose bush that grew outside our bedroom window came into my mind and all I could think was why was this not enough? What was it that my soul seemed to be so restless for? So restless that it was willing to sacrifice the only things that mattered to me my rose bush and wife)? So this is where addiction ends up. In an incoherent bar with lonely souls who are trying to laugh away their forsaken dreams. I finished my whiskey and walked back out into the cold.

As I walked through the wind and the rain I remembered something that William Shakespeare had once said. “Strong reasons make strong actions.” As I looked into the eyes of beggars who asked me for change I wondered about my own reasoning process. Did I have one, or was I merely lead by the animal instincts of my cock. Was I set on fire by an idea without any reasoning agency that could come in between the idea and the following action? This seemed to be the case. I am a man out of control and this may be the cause of every pang and curdle of anxiety and feeling of impending doom that I carry around with me through out the day. A man who lives without a feeling of control is a man who lives in fear.

I found may way back to my one legged and age-ing car which was hesitant about starting up. It was as if it was saying to me for the last time, “are you sure you want to leave behind this nightmare?” I was only to certain of the degree to which I wanted to solve my affliction and return home to the rosey comforts of domesticity. As I struggled to get my car to start I heard the cold angry rain pounding down upon my windshield as if it was trying to wash away all my sins. The rain offered itself to me at that moment, and just as I considered getting out of my car and surrendering, the car started- allowing me away away out from this dark night of my soul.

Beam Me UP!!

I am not of this world, nor do I belong in it. I am a stranger in paradise, an outcast marginalized by the rules and norms that I seem to have trouble accepting. The standardized modes of operation make me feel standardized so I always find myself running away. Humans do things in particular ways. I suppose the desired result is order and control. Through my many meetings with Heidegger, Kant, Nietzsche, Hegel and Schopenhauer I know that order and control are mere fictions of the mind which deny the individual the full experience of life. So I run. I detest. I quit. I lament and for thirty six years of my human life on earth I have stood alone in doubt of all systems which seem to deny me my soul. I am not of this world, nor do I belong in it.

For the past few weeks I have been teaching at an inner city high school. They recently asked me if I would not mind sending them my profile (degrees, experience, interests) and then they would link this to a personal web page for Teachers that they are in the process of creating. I told them that I was uncomfortable with this idea. I told them that I was not interested in the arrogant art of listing my credential after my name (which seems to me to be a modern phenomena. Example Jon Kabat-Zinn, Ph.D. or Betsy Small, M.A). I prefer to remain one with the people, incognito, not displaying my credentials or experience upon my sleeve. Now my job is in jeopardy, I have offended several Educators who take pride in their graduate degrees and I have separated myself further from the crowd. All the things that one most do to fit into this modern world make me feel as if their is not some sort of ploy at hand to kill our dreams and marginalize each human into a submission in which we can never climb out from. So I run. I lament. I quit and I am always saying in the back of my mind “beam me up.”

If there was life on other planets do you think they would be sensitive to my situation? I consider myself to be a rather unique humanoid who would be a prime subject for some kind of abduction (they could study my brain and all the multifarious form of rebellious and unsatisfied neural transmission that cause anxiety, fear and aberrant thoughts). I am not offering myself up to this sort of experimentation- but sometimes I wonder if it would not be a better option than the fate of a human living on earth. Maybe alien abduction would offer me away out from the rules and norms that keep me stapled to way of life that feels tormented by Sartre’s concept of “No Exit.” So I run. I lament. I quit. And I write. I am not of this world nor do I belong in it.

A month ago I was working a few days a week in a very busy restaurant. My duty was that of a Waiter and I did my best to please the upper class families who dined in the establishment. One of the duties that all Waiters had to perform was making milkshakes (chocolate and vanilla) for the numerous children of the rich (and occasionally a few adults). When the restaurant was busy, which it frequently was, making milkshakes was a task equivalent to a trip the dentists office. It was painful and extremely messy. Here I was- stuck in a job where I was running around like a chicken with his head cut off making milkshakes while I had screaming customers waiting for water or food and the kitchen yelling out my name because the food which was waiting for me to take was getting cold. It was a no win situation which gave me chest pains and palpitations. But I did not care about this. The only thought that seemed to pass through my aggravated mind other than this sucks, was I can not believe that I am 36 years old making milkshakes. After two weeks on the job I quit and told the owner that I found the milkshake making duty an insult to my pride and well being. He just looked at me with a frown that seemed to say “you ain’t gonna have an easy time in this life.” Beam me up!!!

Sometimes I wonder if my dedication to being a writer and painter is not self sabotaging me into a life of poverty and making milkshakes. Of-course, I am aware that contentment and happiness all come from within. Of-course I know that if one is content with their life within, then making milkshakes or representing myself as a high school Teacher with a Master’s degree should not matter. Whatever I do should be a reflection of my inner-well being, despite the job. This seems to be the equation that is accepted by most spiritual practitioners- and I do not disagree. But I have a sensitive soul that feels easily compromised if put in certain situations. My soul shouts out at me that I am not representing it well enough and my body reacts to this revolt. I live in a particular era that seems to be based on the concept of compromising one’s soul in order to have inner and outer peace. Maybe what this life is all about is compromise….and this seems to be a lesson I am having difficulty learning. So I keep running, writing, lamenting and dreaming of a day that I will be either abducted by aliens or I will write the great American novel and move to Spain.

Living In A Police State?

photo.jpg Lately I am feeling surrounded by the police. Every place I go there they appear. Like looming premonitions or predictions, they hang around awaiting the citizen who falls out of line. Some of these officers wave at me with a cynical smile as I pass by them wide eyed and with one hand on my internal eject button. There are other officers who stare at me or point with a look upon their face that seems to say, “just one false move, and your ass is mine.” The older I get the more I notice these strange exchanges between myself and officers of the law. Even though these exchanges may not be taking place in reality but rather are projections of my paranoid mind, I can not help but wonder- am I living in a police state?

As I was walking my invisible dog through downtown Oakland the other day I noticed a sign that was hanging over the entrance to the police station. It read “Join The Police Force, Officer’s Starting Pay, $67,000 a year.” This recognition stopped me dead in my tracks and caused me to stand still in a state of muted anxiety for over ten minutes. My invisible dog was restless to walk on but my feet refused to move. “They pay these men in blue studded uniforms with weapons of mass destruction hanging around their waist and brains filled with citations, violations and obstructions close to $67,000 a year while a high school Teacher who teaches restless and abused souls how to find the way to personal liberation through education is paid a starting salary of $35,000 a year????” I was perplexed. A good amount of my life I have dedicated to education and my bank account is empty as proof of this. The contradiction in what I call society was staring me straight in the face- I live in a country that values imprisoning minds more so than educating them.

I often refer to police officers as disturbers of the peace. Some people laugh and agree when they hear this while others take offense (because they still believe that an officers purpose is to protect and serve). My perspective is shaped by the fact that I am yet to have an interaction with a police officer that has left me feeling protected or served. Rather I am left feeling a form of personal violation and nervous system over-excitation. Usually I am either handcuffed, given citations that I could never afford or questioned about driving drunk (which I never do), kidnapping(also something I have not done) or suspected of being a possible pervert (something I am guilty of). Ever since high school when I was first arrested for driving without a license (simply because I was yet to reach my twelfth birthday) my relationship with the police has been built upon a bedrock of suspicion, the end of which seems to always turn in their favor.

Maybe it is representational of my neurosis, but I swear that I am living in a police state. I ask others if they believe this to be true and the typical response is “yeah sure,” as if we have all been entrained as citizens to think a constant police presence is normal. Now when I head out into the video taped world I feel as if my breathing is restricted and my chest constricted by the freedom that seems to be slowly dissipating with each passing day. Police officers seem to be duplicating themselves faster than any stem cell could conceive (nature or science can not compete with $67,000 a year). A perpetuation of the species of police (police officers are indeed a separate species of humanoid) seems to suggest that America is under siege. However, it is my belief that the threat is not external as seems to be the popular belief but rather the threat is individual freedom or what is more commonly known as Democracy. The more police on the street, the less Democracy you have to enjoy….and this is the way those in power need it to be.

Maybe I am neurotic and reading into this police boom to heavily. Yes, I believe that Fascism has entered the American arena but I try not to think about it much. Sure if I detract my attention from the police presence I may think about this situation less. I will not be as disturbed by these disruptions of my peace, because I will simply accept the situation as “the way it is.”. But it is difficult to do so when these very police officers taunt me with their loud sirens, scream out my name as I am riding my bike or point at me and make strange faces as I am walking my invisible dog (which ironically I have named Democracy). The police presence is like lice in my hair which creates a perpetual itch. How is one to leave a burning scalp alone? Possibly in time the mist will settle and more controlled citizens will realize the abduction of their freedom that seems to be the case. Maybe some will revolt by painting peace signs on police cars or by sticking Kafka novels in police mufflers. Others may take to writing blogs and standing in front of police stations with protest signs. Who knows when this non-violent revolution will arise. In the mean time I will continue to ask one simple question to my invisible dog- Democracy, “say, are we living in a police state?”

No More Awards….please!

This blog has been nominated for and given numerous awards. Every other day seems to bring a new nomination or award. I am the only Blogger that has been nominated for so many awards but yet maintains the least amount of interested readers and an all-time low number of comments. Some of the nominations have been for terrible writing style or offensive content but most of the awards I have received have been for worst blog. I am constantly asked by other Bloggers why I write the things I write, what purpose does it serve? I am inept of answers other than the simple response “because it is fun.” But all this fun is bringing me down as the awards keep pouring in. Just this morning I found out that I was nominated for two more awards, all of which have done nothing for my self-esteem. Please, no more awards.

Who would of ever thought that expressing the deep penetralias of my imagination would provoke an onrush of so many awards. I began this blog in the same way that someone would begin therapy. I recognized that I was in need of help and thought that I could either attempt to put my life down in words spoken through the vernacular of stories, or I could continue to suffer in my own private cerebral membrane. I new that I needed to come out of my shell and had remembered the therapeutic effects of writing that a short story teacher I once took a class from- often talked about (even though he had fallen into the rut of alcoholism and animal fetish). I took to blogging like a infant takes to a mothers breast. Stories of perversion and psychosomatic breakdown came poring out of me like lava from the mouth of a crater. Now I am hardly able to control the flow. Bloging has become for me like any other excretory process- I have to do it and if not my health will fail.

So here I am again clearing my body and brain of various thoughts and condemnations I have been feeling this morning. Receiving all the awards that I have has been surprising since I set out not for accolades. The other day I received an award for Least Commented Upon Blog. I never knew that such awards existed but once I received the award for Most Degenerate Content (the award was given because the judges felt that my blog lacked any moral integrity), I realized that any kind of award is possible. There are people in the blogging world with nothing to do but give out ridiculous awards to Bloggers like my self who have nothing to gain from these awards but a lowered sense of confidence to continue writing (and a feeling of isolation because I can not share these awards with my mother, father, sister or wife because it is to embarrassing). To all such award creators who seem to lack a life of meaning- please, NO MORE AWARDS!!

My last entry, The Great Leg Trap, just received two awards, this morning!! I awoke and found in my email the awards which come in the form of a brief letter explaining why I have been chosen and a widget that is offered to me so I can post my victory upon my blog. I have no desire to show off my accolades (like a general does upon his sleeve or a business man does with the quality of his tie). I rather write humbly without any disturbing widgets mentioning that I have won awards for things like “Offensive and Godless Content,” “False Tagger,” “Blogger Most In Need Of Psychological Treatment,” “Defiantly, Worst Blog,” and this morning “Most Ridiculous Entry,” and “Most Failed Attempt To Be Funny Entry.” There is no economic compensation for these awards other than the recognition that comes from humiliation.

So please, I would like to ask all of you who create these absurd award contests for Bloggers like myself to be victimized by…NO MORE AWARDS. It is really starting to affect my self esteem and I am questioning the things I write more and more. I am wondering if there is any point to continue on writing since the majority of my efforts are derided by your ridiculous awards. I have noticed that each time I receive an award I become more depressed and unwilling to write. The corner stone of good writing is in the authors ability to be absolutely honest in whatever he or she writes, and my ability to do so is being compromised by an insecurity that is beginning to form. Each entry that I write I have trepidation about publishing because I am afraid to see what kind of award it will receive. I have even started to delete certain blog entries because I feel they are certain to receive an award that will only increase my despair. Life is hard enough. This blog is only an exercise in cultivating mental health for myself, nothing else!! I do not want your recognition and I certainly do not need these ridiculous widgets!!. So please, I beg you from the bottom of my heart….NO MORE AWARDS!!!!

THE GREAT LEG TRAP.

I wonder about women wearing short skirts? Women wear short skirts, with bare legs and then condemn me with sinister glances when I stare. I wonder if on the unconscious level the short skirt is a device that woman use to find out who among them maybe filled with lust or inflicted with perversions. They can then stay clear of those men or women who may be hazardous to their sense of respectable self. Maybe this is to auspicious of a generalization but tonight while I was staring at a women’s legs that were long and wild like a river, I received a scolding that I am still unable to look up from. Granted I was salivating over the clarity of her skin and the subtler tones which shaped her thighs. I was worried for a moment that she may be unreal, man made- but when I saw the various tattoos, that decorated her ankles, I was almost certain she was human. The skirt that she was wearing barely made it beneath her butt and I was surprised to notice that she carried herself with a certain unpretentious confidence. Everywhere her legs walked my awe struck eyes seemed to follow.

Maybe I was being too intrusive. Or maybe I was simply inspired by the legs. I will admit that I had not noticed anything more about her until she approached me and I had to calmly look into her eyes. I denied any kind of disrespect that she was determined to staple to my forehead. Her claim that I was looking for lust in all the wrong places was one that I found equally disrespectful. I pointed out to her the perfection of her legs but her frustration only grew as I refused to apologize for swallowing up her legs with my lustful eyes. The public which had gathered around us began to listen to the scolding which was developing like a well formed plot. I was a man in love with her legs and her refusal to give them to me would cause my exile and eventual declined. I wanted to remain the gentleman who was unapologetic for his love of women, but when her lover joined her side, I began to understand the degree of my offense.

Maybe it is only gay women who wear skirts to detect the threat of a lingering male pervert? I had never encountered this kind of indignation before. Legs were there to be seen, absorbed and sometimes carried home. Enough legs had been offered to me that I felt I was privy to such long stares. Legs had caused me little problems in my life, until these superior legs which snatched all sense of composure from me. Her girlfriend told me that men were animals always lusting after the objective fantasy of the female- all I could do was reach out and attempt to calm her waving hands. When I told the lover that her girlfriend’s legs were the most beautiful appendages I had ever seen- I received a loud defamation and an invitation to step outside. I had never fought an angry lesbian lover before and I did not want to do so now. I thought about asking for the legs to be mine (she could keep the rest of the body) if I won the fight but instead I excused myself from the tense space I was in and felt the heat of vengeful words landing up on my embarrassed back. Outside, in the cold night air- I put on my winter gloves and walked into the city without any idea that I had just fallen into the great leg trap.

A Writing Disorder.

photo.jpg I once wanted to be a Writer. I thought about writing every minute of every day. I exhausted my thoughts with words and dreamed of epic stories that I would one day tell. In my sleep I could smell stories and while awake I carried a pen with me every place I went. I purchased empty notebooks which stacked up on my bookshelves. I read all the classics, fell in love with the beats and drove myself crazy trying to live like a bohemian. I dressed as I thought a writer should dress and shaped my words with the pretension of a man with something to say. I had epic vision of numerous novels that I would one day write. I drank in bars and argued about Joyce’s prose style and the validity of Borges. After the sun set I rummaged my way through book stores and strip clubs searching for inspiration. I smoked cigarettes and talked with a drawl while watching ordinary mortals waste their lives away at day jobs. I never wrote a single word.

Now in my middle years I could give two shits about being a writer. I drink less than I did years ago and am never awake to see the sun rise. Meditation is my daily practice and I seldom set foot in a bookstore or strip club. The prose style of Joyce is as uninteresting to me as the sex life of a squirell and I have a tendency to wear the same jeans and t-shirt for a few days in a row with no concern for how I look. Smoking is a habit I no longer abide by and hanging out in bars is as exciting to me as playing golf. I read some fiction but most of my time is spent thinking about anything but books. I am completely unconcerned with the act of writing or becoming a writer- yet I am unable to stop writing. I write almost every day and there is no sign of a word or story shortage in sight. Strange how things resolve themselves with time?

Confessions Of A Red Wine Drinker.

 I want to write to you about things more personal than your own thoughts. My deepest fear swallowed by confessions that would make even the most honest man feel deceptive. I want to speak to you of the things I see while sitting still and fearing for my life. What you will think is of no concern to me since I have nothing to loose. When a person understands the inevitability of their mortality- artifice is of no concern. What matters most are those things left unsaid, and it is my intention to say it all even though it may be in the form of metaphor or fiction. There is no greater satisfaction that I feel than in the wide open spaces of coming clean. Whether it be stories about lust or confessions of grief and self-deprecation, the purpose of these words is to paint a picture of my soul struggles to see.

I could tell you about the setting sun, the streets of San Fransisco that are filled with frenetic energy and the sounds of a coming spring. I could describe the faces of passengers on passing cable cars as I sit here in this small wine bar drinking red wine and observing this strange reality before me. I could tell you how somnolent or natural it all seems even though I am slightly drunk and filled with fear because my heart beat refuses to slow. External observations could occupy my entire life but the intensity of my inner sensitivities and proclivities has drawn me inwards like a fish stuck to a sharp hook. There is no where else for me to go. I suffocate when I try to run from my lies and am disabled by my greed when I try only to think of my life in terms of material achievement. Sure the sky is ablaze with an orange hue given off by the setting sun and the sound of a saxophone sings out all its jazz in the cafe basement- but what does any of this got to do with with what really sets my soul afire?

There is noise- always noise. Possibly my heart has been weakened by all this noise but I seek to strenghten my heart by coming clean about all I think and feel. Even though I am short of breath- my eyes follow the breasts and butts of babes when my mind shouts words of condemnation towards the man I have become. The words are heavy and hit hard but then I remember that I am also filled with a love that no force could undermine. I accept these words echoed by my mind as a passing fancy in time and realize there is so much more to this life than meets the mind. Noise is every where, but if one is listening with an open mind all the sudden noise becomes a multi-layered ballad of sound.

These may be the ramblings of a drunken man who has survived the tempestual struggles of yet another anxiety attack. I saw my end as clear as the face that appears in the mirror, but somehow I am still here being stared at by many in this cafe who are puzzled by my frenetic fingers typing away like a man in love with words. They watch me and listen thinking that maybe I have something important to say but then go back to the work that so preoccupies their passing hours on this earth. Maybe I am mad, but my struggle to come to terms with my own end has brought me closer to a truth I could never re-arrange. With death always looming over my shoulder the colors of life seems to stand out so brightly that I am blinded by their beauty. I want it all- the women, the love the wine, the fear, the sky and the air!! While I am here I want to say yes!! to everything that comes my way despite the fear that at times forces me to say no and stay stuck in my room. It is always and forever that I am learning to set free. Once death teaches us that there is nothing to posses we are left to roam freely without any desire to get to the next place.

The sun has set and I am only beginning my confession. If the light was warmer I may be inclined to stay and write but I am feeling to preoccupied by these endless words. This poem could go on for years and years but then I will miss the setting sun. I would miss spending time with my fears and getting lost in my thoughts which tend to think about things that never seem to be. I will order yet another glass of wine and watch the sun fully rest into the sea until the city becomes dark and I am left to loiter in my mind which is an endless narrative about nothing at all.

The Sex Life Of A Man Without One #15

Human beings are remarkably resilient to stress. One way or another we manage to persevere, to survive, and to have our moments of pleasure, peace and fulfillment. We are expert copers of internal and external problems. We cope through prayer and religious beliefs, through involvements, denial and diversions that feed our need for joy and belonging. We cope and are buoyed up by sharing love and receiving encouragement from others. Writing has been one way that I have been able to cope with my compulsions and diversions and receive support and encouragement from those who understand the predicament in which I find myself. Maybe my way of coping with the stressors in my life could be referred to as maladaptive, but at this point in my life I will do almost anything for those rare moments of peace, fulfillment and pleasure.

My wife and I have not spoken for over a week. We have not had any sexual encounters with one another for over a year. Our lips have not met for months and my hand occasionally sympathizes with her by rubbing her back. My love for her in ingrained all the way into the root of my soul but a wall has been slowly erected between us that is forcing each of us to cope with a good amount of stress in relation to the other. We both have our means of coping. She works, makes video art on her computer, dances, does grief rituals and smokes and drinks red wine. I on the other hand spend hours looking at Craig’s List Erotic Adds and seek out the company of prostitutes and psychologists. I have been going to therapy at least once a week and I joined a meditation group that is based in teaching the methods of mindfulness. I spend casual time in the company of prostitutes for at least fifteen minutes a week and hours upon hours driving around in my automobile seeking them out. Lately I have taken to purchasing a bottle of red wine and driving around while drinking and listening to jazz. I search for prostitutes in the darkest corners of the Oakland ghetto but nine out of ten time I return home hours later drunk and without having seen a single attractive hooker. My therapist thinks that my way of coping with my stress is not only destructive but maladaptive.

What psychologists mean when they use the term maladaptive to label a person such as myself is that the individual has found ways of coping with stress in ways that are actually self destructive. These attempts at control are labeled “maladaptive coping” because although they do help us tolerate stress and give us some sense of control, in the long run they wind up compounding the stress that we experience. “You can think of maladaptive as meaning unhealthy, causing more stress,” my therapist told me.

One favorite maladaptive coping strategy is to deny that there is any problem at all. When I am high on red wine driving around in my automobile searching out the handy company of prostitutes, spending my days on Craig’s List looking at erotic adds such as Cumm 2 Me Daddy or Two HOLES For The $ Of One, with my hand down my pants, or hanging out in derelict strip clubs or massage parlors- I am not worried about any of the problems facing me in my life. My unemployment, pysiological maladies, marital torments and financial crisis are as far away from me as the moon. My unpaid bills, lack of motivation or aspiration, and anxiety problems are all but gone. It is as if pornography, prostitution and red wine are a kind of medicine for all the stressors that haunt me during the majority of my waking hours.

The other day I went to visit the hooker in the tree and we had a conversation about human beings and our amazing capacity to deal with stress. I paid her forty dollars to undress and provide me with a hand job as we spoke. I told her about how I felt as if I was existing in a state of chronic hyperarousal. She giggled when I told her this but I quickly reminded her that it was not the kind of arousal that she was thinking. “It is my sympathetic nervous system,” I began to explain. “I feel like I am suffering from all the symptoms of long term physiological disregulation.” The hooker in the tree continued to gently rub my penis with some kind of soothing lotion and asked me what I meant. I looked around at the branches, and squirrels that ate what looked like pine nuts while curiously trying to figure out what these two strange humans were doing. It was mid afternoon and in the distance I had a beautiful view of San Fransisco and The Golden Gate Bridge. “I feel like I am suffering from problems like increased blood pressure, cardiac arrhythmias, digestive problems, chronic headaches and chronic anxiety,” I told her as I watched her hand which seemed to be hypnotizing me with its slow and graceful movements. I don’t think that she understood what I was talking about but I know she sympathized with me because after I had an orgasm she gave me back the forty dollars I gave her and told me that “this visit is a gift.”

At my meditation class last week the teacher talked about how a healthy alternative to being caught up in self destructive patterns is to stop reacting to stress and to start responding to it. “This is the path of mindfulness in daily life,” the teacher said. I am not ready to give up my rare moments of sex induced pleasure and peace but I am beginning to see ways that I can cope with my stressors that may be more productive than a hand job or drinking a bottle of red wine (on a daily basis). I am learning to simply acknowledge how I am feeling (without judgement), feel what the sensations are in my body and sit with them without reacting. I inhale and exhale many times in a row and before I know it I have found my moments of peace, fulfillment and pleasure without needing the comforts of Craig’s List Erotic Adds, pornography or hand jobs from prostitutes. We will see how long this lasts.

Sex Life Of A Man Without One #14

Even hookers have to work when it’s raining. I have spent the past three days desperately searching for employment. My dedication to the search surprisingly took my mind off things of a sexual nature. My lust went into remission and I experienced a calm that always follows a terrible storm. This morning I awoke to the tapping sounds of a torrential downpour which seemed to also awken my lust. Once my wife left for work, I went to my computer and started reading the sensual and x-rated erotic adds on Craig’s List and by mid afternoon I had and erection which refused to leave me alone. Outside my small window rain was coming down without apology. It was creating a small flood in my mind which made it hard to breathe. My mood was melancholic and I knew of two remedies for this. I could either masturbate or seek out the professional help of a whore. I decided the I would spend the rest of the afternoon looking for a different kind of job.

Despite the fact that the rain was relentless I knew that hookers still had to make money even when it rained. I was privy to certain information that some hookers preferred working in the rain because they were less visible to cops. They could stand in bus stops for long periods of time without being cited for lingering. All they had to say is that they were sheltering themselves from the rain. With this information in mind I dressed without putting on underwear and ventured out into day. Three inches of rain made my car appear to be swimming. The whole street that I lived on was flooded. I would not of been surprised if Noah’s Ark came speeding around the corner. It had been raining for days. For a brief moment I thought that I best not venture out because my tires had no tread and my windshield whippers had long ago ceased to work. I was taking many risks if I drove my car, but as usual my lust spoke louder than my pragmatic mind.

I listened to John Coltrane on the stereo and drove slowly through the puddles and torrential downpour which made the city seem like the sea. As I smoked a cigarette I used a towel as a make shift windshield whipper. Rain blew into my car causing a chill to run through my spine. However, I was determined to find a whore. I drove around the areas of Oakland that hookers were normally stationed. Because Oakland is a city that is going through large amounts of gentrification, the police force has strengthened their commitment to remove prostitutes from the city so that they can make Oakland more respectable to incoming residents. Despite the purging of prostitutes there were still specific locations where they popped up. Whores are like flees- just when you think their gone, they appear some place knew.

I drove around and around the ghetto, with the inharmonious sounds of a saxophone encouraging me to go deeper into my desire. I whipped water and grime from my windshield as I drove around back alley ways and across barren train tracks. Rain covered my windshield quicker than I could wipe it away. And then as I turned a corner with the belief that I had spotted a whore with a black umbrella and tight white skirt, I was disappointed to find that it was only a phone booth. Hours passed and the inside information that I was privy to seemed to be rendering me no results. Gas on my car was going low and in America gas is no cheap commodity. I passed a few crack whores that desperately stuck out their dark tongues at me and screamed “hey baby, save me from the flood!!” but there were no hookers wondering around that looked as if they could step inside my fantasy.

Just as I was about to surrender my search- I noticed a Hispanic looking lady standing on a corner wearing a tragically sexy tight black dress and black boots. Her hair was long and dyed red and her eyes were shaped like sex. She was holding no umbrella and allowed the rain to cover her body without any offense. As I passed her a second time she smiled at me and made a gesture that I pull over. I stopped my car around the corner and with my heart rapidly beating in anticipation I unlocked the passenger side door so sex could come in. She climbed in my car wet with rain- and asked me if I was a cop. When I said no she told me to show her my penis. I was a bit apprehensive but when she insisted on me showing her my penis again, I decided to do so. I did not want to let sex get away. There was something strangely exhilarating about showing my penis to a stranger. “Stroke it twice,” she said. I was stupefied and excited. “What?” I said acting like I was uncertain about her demand but in truth, I wanted her to repeat herself. “Do it, quick,” she said looking out the back window to see if there were any cops. “Do what?” I pretended. “Stroke your cock!” Ah, that was all I needed to hear. I did what she said and immediately got an erection. “You are horny?” she said. I assumed that her question was rhetorical. Why else would I be driving around in circles through a crazy downpour looking for a whore? Yes, I was the horniest married man with no sex life, living!

“My name is Ladina,” she said. I asked if I could see her tits to make sure she was not a cop. “How bout I lick your cock, to show you?” she asked. “No, no I am not interested in that,” I said. “What you interested in then,” she asked as she pulled down her top and showed me perfectly shaped breasts with small areolas and hardened nipples. As I was about to reply “a hand job,” I had to use all of my strength to not have an orgasm while looking at her breasts. I clenched my jaw and squeezed my anus to prevent the squirt but I had not developed the muscle control needed to refrain. As I released sperm into my pants, I cupped her breast in my hands like it was the last thing I would ever touch. I utilized all my reserve to act as normal as possible so as not to reveal the biological process that was taking place in my pants.

It is amazing to me how quickly lust vanishes after an orgasm. Like rain after a storm. What was once so desirable and rapturous becomes flat and an annoyance. It is as if with the release of sperm- desire, lust and awe are also released. What is left is a space for guilt and shame to sneak in and fill the heart. I told Ladina that I was feeling a bit nervous and needed more time to think. “Ah, come on man lets have some fun,” she replied, inept to the fact that I had already had my fun. When I told her I needed more time to think, she gave me a strange look and then dismissed me with the slam of my car door. Relieved that she was gone from my life, but feeling the guilt of just having left a fellow human being stranded in the rain- I drove my ark back to the confines of my home where I would spend the rest of the evening looking for a reputable job.