Let’s just get one thing straight…I’m not a pig. All this time I’ve spent dwelling on the seamier side of temptation might have some of you confused about where my loyalties lie. Just so you don’t go thinking I’m some sort of misogynistic sexist gigolo, let me set the record straight…
I am a man. But I am not proud of it. Yes, I have this penis because that’s what I was born with. It is my plight in life. The cross that I must bear. However, as much as I like to use it (when the time is appropriate, of course), the penis has been the cause of much confliction for the male sex, and a detestable offense for God’s chosen people…women.
*As a side note, I am well aware of the fact that the Jews are considered to be God’s chosen people - I will not argue that point. I will instead be an obstinate ass and disagree. However, if you happen to be a Jewish woman…you are definitely special.
What I’m really trying to say is that I have a real soft spot in my heart for women - and this has nothing at all to do with sex. I am appalled by the way this world has treated women. The abuse, the violence, the enslavement. It makes me sick to my stomach. And I wont even get into the atrocities that women in other countries have to deal with. Let’s just stick to the good old United States…Why is it that women weren’t allowed to vote in federal elections until 1920? Now I realize I just jumped from indicting victimization to highlighting more of a socio-political allowance, but these are all symptoms of the same root of evil. Men and women were created equal, right? Well, somewhere between the time that Eve AND ADAM shared an apple and now, there has been a gross misconception born: The PENIS is more powerful and more important and more potent than the VAGINA. THIS IS JUST SIMPLY NOT TRUE! And out of this lie has been born all the violence, maligning and injustice males have wrought on females.
While traipsing the streets of Chicago at night, I am apt to cross to the other side if I find myself coming in too close behind a woman who is walking alone. Why? Because, unfortunately, the state of things in this country has deemed me a predator unless proven otherwise. I hate feeling that I might make a female fear me - just because she is alone. Things should not be this way. But what do I do, yell out an unsolicited, “it’s okay, I won’t hurt you, I’m only a man”? Yeah, that’s a great idea. Though she might take comfort in the fact that I’ve seen “The Vagina Monologues” 3 times and, in fact, prefer it over say…The Super Bowl, a dark alley is probably not the proper place to try and justify myself.
During the summertime, it becomes especially difficult. For with the heat comes a lax approach to clothing. And when the ladies start dressing “down”, the men in this town stoop to all new lower levels. The ogling, the suggestive remarks, the threatening encroachments. It’s just too much for a male feminist. Personally, I feel like women should be able to dress however the hell they want, without the fear of overt and unwanted attention.
Just a few weeks ago, in the middle of a blizzard, mind you, a middle aged Polish guy *(nothing against Polish people - all races of men are equally pigs) lingered at a stop sign to eye the backside of a girl who was probably only 14 or 15 years old. You know, his daughter’s age. I immediately wanted to hurt him. But all I could think to do was yell, “What are you looking at!” When the girl turned and saw what was going on - the Polish guy cut his gaze to me, and spun off into a bank of snow. It wasn’t the swift kick in the balls and lesson in exploitation I wanted to give him, but it was good for a quick fix.
This is a challenge to all of you. If you are a woman, I apologize on behalf of sleazy men everywhere. There is no excuse. But don’t let us get away with this type of behavior. Fight back. A good “fuck off” works sometimes, but you have to make them believe it. Otherwise, the big apes are liable to take it for some kind of sick advance. Help support people like: http://hollabackchicago.com Call those bastards out.
And if you are a man, well then, you’re probably guilty of acting like a sexist asshole. And you probably let your looks linger too long on suspecting and unsuspecting females - cut that shit out! However, if you are like me and are tempted to take the high road for a change. If you are tempted to recognize women for who they are: as smart, as talented, as important and as capable as any man. If you are tempted to respect women for the first time in you life. Then…I have a little advice for you…give in.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Method Acting
It was around the moment she put my fingers in her mouth that I began to realize we weren’t acting anymore. Do you know about this stuff? The secret lives of actors? The only citizens on God’s green earth blessed with the birthright of overindulgence? Let me rephrase…overindulgence without the consequences…ah, there’s the rub.
German theatre director Max Reinhardt delivered the mandate for actors when he made them responsible for the revelation of truth. But we all know truth is not relegated to chastity, nobility and responsibility. In fact, wouldn’t say…the 7 deadly sins (and all their deadly sub-sins) fall under the same heading. They’re all manifestations of the self same truth - let’s be honest here.
The land of stage and screen is a truly magical place. Where else can one sleep with both his wife’s sisters, steal a trillion dollars, or kill a man just for snoring without paying a single price? There is no price. Only the price of admission - which we pay - gladly, even - to watch these “actors” behave in sexy and morally abhorrent ways, knowing good and well they are off to have pizza and beer after the shoot or after the show, and no one - I MEAN NO ONE - will have to answer to their conscience - or to God - or to country - or to anyone! It’s really just a free-for-all.
It was a Thursday evening. Mid-summer. I met Karen at her apartment to “rehearse our scene” for an upcoming class. This was a very important method acting class, taught by a very important former actor, who had, indeed, in his former life, partaken of the devil’s theatrical buffet many times, and was eager to divulge his proven methods for sucking down the turtle cheesecake of life and never, ever having to feel a tinge of guilt about it. (As long as there was a stage or a camera involved).
Karen and I had been doing this from some time, obviously. We were professionals. The supremely high caliber of our acting class was an indication of that. So I really didn’t give it a second thought when she suggested we rehearse in her home - not the most neutral place to explore the emotionally intimate world of playwright Lanford Wilson.
From the bathroom to her front door, she yelled for me to come in - I did- and have a seat on the couch - I did. She was finishing off a shower, having gone for an unexpected afternoon run. When she finally came out of the bathroom - offering me a beer on the way - I knew I was in trouble. But maybe not. After all, it was only acting.
You see, I was sort of attracted to Karen. And from every indication so far, she was attracted to me. And now she was moving into the kitchen to fetch me an intoxicating beverage - her hair tussled and wet - her tan skin still glistening from the shower - smelling like passion fruit and tucked neatly into a tiny, pink sundress - knowing damn well that the blocking (that’s stage directions for you amateurs) for this particular scene required me to take off my pants. Now I know what most of you are thinking…acting is a tough job. Well…that’s what I was thinking too. She told me all she had was Bud - as she poured 2 cans of that foul yellow horse piss into 2 clean glasses and sat on the couch next to me. That’s okay - the beer was just a prop anyway. And I was a professional.
Well, you know the rest. Somewhere in between me stripping into my boxers and Karen sucking on my digits, there was a little loss of perspective. All of Lanford Wilson’s great lines were reduced to mere sounds, and in an epic moment of vulnerability, I became a true ACTOR. Of course, right after that, her boyfriend called and said he was coming over. Rehearsal was cut short for the evening. I put my pants back on and thanked Karen for her creative hospitality.
In the short trip back home, a sweet calm came over me. I had engaged in questionable liberties with another man’s beloved, but my conscience was clear. Besides, we had to rehearse again before class next week. Maybe she could meet me at my place.
German theatre director Max Reinhardt delivered the mandate for actors when he made them responsible for the revelation of truth. But we all know truth is not relegated to chastity, nobility and responsibility. In fact, wouldn’t say…the 7 deadly sins (and all their deadly sub-sins) fall under the same heading. They’re all manifestations of the self same truth - let’s be honest here.
The land of stage and screen is a truly magical place. Where else can one sleep with both his wife’s sisters, steal a trillion dollars, or kill a man just for snoring without paying a single price? There is no price. Only the price of admission - which we pay - gladly, even - to watch these “actors” behave in sexy and morally abhorrent ways, knowing good and well they are off to have pizza and beer after the shoot or after the show, and no one - I MEAN NO ONE - will have to answer to their conscience - or to God - or to country - or to anyone! It’s really just a free-for-all.
It was a Thursday evening. Mid-summer. I met Karen at her apartment to “rehearse our scene” for an upcoming class. This was a very important method acting class, taught by a very important former actor, who had, indeed, in his former life, partaken of the devil’s theatrical buffet many times, and was eager to divulge his proven methods for sucking down the turtle cheesecake of life and never, ever having to feel a tinge of guilt about it. (As long as there was a stage or a camera involved).
Karen and I had been doing this from some time, obviously. We were professionals. The supremely high caliber of our acting class was an indication of that. So I really didn’t give it a second thought when she suggested we rehearse in her home - not the most neutral place to explore the emotionally intimate world of playwright Lanford Wilson.
From the bathroom to her front door, she yelled for me to come in - I did- and have a seat on the couch - I did. She was finishing off a shower, having gone for an unexpected afternoon run. When she finally came out of the bathroom - offering me a beer on the way - I knew I was in trouble. But maybe not. After all, it was only acting.
You see, I was sort of attracted to Karen. And from every indication so far, she was attracted to me. And now she was moving into the kitchen to fetch me an intoxicating beverage - her hair tussled and wet - her tan skin still glistening from the shower - smelling like passion fruit and tucked neatly into a tiny, pink sundress - knowing damn well that the blocking (that’s stage directions for you amateurs) for this particular scene required me to take off my pants. Now I know what most of you are thinking…acting is a tough job. Well…that’s what I was thinking too. She told me all she had was Bud - as she poured 2 cans of that foul yellow horse piss into 2 clean glasses and sat on the couch next to me. That’s okay - the beer was just a prop anyway. And I was a professional.
Well, you know the rest. Somewhere in between me stripping into my boxers and Karen sucking on my digits, there was a little loss of perspective. All of Lanford Wilson’s great lines were reduced to mere sounds, and in an epic moment of vulnerability, I became a true ACTOR. Of course, right after that, her boyfriend called and said he was coming over. Rehearsal was cut short for the evening. I put my pants back on and thanked Karen for her creative hospitality.
In the short trip back home, a sweet calm came over me. I had engaged in questionable liberties with another man’s beloved, but my conscience was clear. Besides, we had to rehearse again before class next week. Maybe she could meet me at my place.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
One of Us
Remember that Joan Osborne song? 1996 had me looking for God in some of the strangest places. Maybe God was my ex-wife. Maybe God was that guy behind my house mining for gold in the garbage can. Maybe God was that amazing flower by my doorstep or that pepperoni pizza I ate last night or Tom Cruise with all of his freaky Scientology bullshit - God help us all. Frankly, it was an exhausting process - trying to find God while the hardships of that year pounded my puny ass into fine powder. I figured the search was worth it though. How else was I going to figure out who to bitch to?
I was definitely not ready for Kimber and the transcendental tug of war that waged between the sacredness of her pure heart and the profanity of my soul. She said I looked like Lorenzo Lamas and I thought she favored Jesus - cute little hand model surfer chick blonde Jesus. Only that part - the part about Jesus - had yet to surface.
I met her on U2’s Pop Mart tour - where Bono and company closed down the former RFK stadium - having us all sing along to the Monkee’s “Daydream Believer” and making us all believe that a psychedelic lemon had the power to save the world. I would have believed anything at that point when Kimber asked me, “where’s your motorcycle?” in voice drowning in cigarettes and whiskey. That huskiness was au natural - I would later discover. In fact, Kimber was neither a smoker nor a drinker - she was too busy holding Martha Stewart themed tea parties for struggling, unwed mothers. (That and surfing, hand modeling and attending U2 concerts).
She soon asked me to join her in her seat. Not the seat on either side of her - her seat. I pulled my hair back in a pony-tail and obliged her. Just another date in a long stream of dates - and no closer to the Almighty than when I had started this inane journey. Fuck. Me. Fuck. Her. Whatever.
I hadn’t anticipated the angelic enigma about to embrace me. You’ve heard about those people who can read your mind? Who can tell you what feels good to medicate what feels bad? I stood in front of her - facing the stage - and Kimber wrapped her tan arms around my waist - her tiny, athletic body pressed against me. She made me forget the words to “With or Without You” but we sang them together - in between soft, pre-summer kisses whenever I craned my neck back to brush against her face. She whispered in my ears, “You are loved, you are loved”. I heard it again and again. It was the voice of Jesus.
She wanted me to come away with her. To forget my life - my broken life - and follow her. And I wanted to. I did. I felt safe with her. Her body was the warmest place on earth, but she plied me with her soul. It was a time and a place where I considered a life less ordinary. For that’s what it would have been. She was standing there crying on the D.C subway station platform - perfect tears like diamonds. I wanted to change, but not enough. I still don’t really understand it, but I knew that accepting her somehow meant denying me, and I was still a very selfish bastard.
Was it a real choice? An honest-to-God choice? Hell, I don’t know. Maybe God did send his angel that night. (It would have been appropriate). Or maybe he just came down himself. I never heard from Kimber again. And all it goes to show you is that I can be a real stupid shit sometimes.
I was definitely not ready for Kimber and the transcendental tug of war that waged between the sacredness of her pure heart and the profanity of my soul. She said I looked like Lorenzo Lamas and I thought she favored Jesus - cute little hand model surfer chick blonde Jesus. Only that part - the part about Jesus - had yet to surface.
I met her on U2’s Pop Mart tour - where Bono and company closed down the former RFK stadium - having us all sing along to the Monkee’s “Daydream Believer” and making us all believe that a psychedelic lemon had the power to save the world. I would have believed anything at that point when Kimber asked me, “where’s your motorcycle?” in voice drowning in cigarettes and whiskey. That huskiness was au natural - I would later discover. In fact, Kimber was neither a smoker nor a drinker - she was too busy holding Martha Stewart themed tea parties for struggling, unwed mothers. (That and surfing, hand modeling and attending U2 concerts).
She soon asked me to join her in her seat. Not the seat on either side of her - her seat. I pulled my hair back in a pony-tail and obliged her. Just another date in a long stream of dates - and no closer to the Almighty than when I had started this inane journey. Fuck. Me. Fuck. Her. Whatever.
I hadn’t anticipated the angelic enigma about to embrace me. You’ve heard about those people who can read your mind? Who can tell you what feels good to medicate what feels bad? I stood in front of her - facing the stage - and Kimber wrapped her tan arms around my waist - her tiny, athletic body pressed against me. She made me forget the words to “With or Without You” but we sang them together - in between soft, pre-summer kisses whenever I craned my neck back to brush against her face. She whispered in my ears, “You are loved, you are loved”. I heard it again and again. It was the voice of Jesus.
She wanted me to come away with her. To forget my life - my broken life - and follow her. And I wanted to. I did. I felt safe with her. Her body was the warmest place on earth, but she plied me with her soul. It was a time and a place where I considered a life less ordinary. For that’s what it would have been. She was standing there crying on the D.C subway station platform - perfect tears like diamonds. I wanted to change, but not enough. I still don’t really understand it, but I knew that accepting her somehow meant denying me, and I was still a very selfish bastard.
Was it a real choice? An honest-to-God choice? Hell, I don’t know. Maybe God did send his angel that night. (It would have been appropriate). Or maybe he just came down himself. I never heard from Kimber again. And all it goes to show you is that I can be a real stupid shit sometimes.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
French Lesson
You know the evening I’m talking about…blurry and boozy. Said all the things you wish you hadn’t - didn’t say all the things that…well, you kind of said those too. The checkered cab just dropped you off and your standing out in the pitch black bitter of 4:44 A.M. Chicago trying to figure out which of the 200 keys on your ring fits the front door. And then that thought slams your head with a thousand tiny fists at once: I should try and do things more in moderation…YEAH RIGHT! What you’re really thinking is: GOT TO GET MY ASS TO BED RIGHT NOW…BUT FIRST, ONWARD TO THE HARD COLD TILE OF THE BATHROOM FLOOR WHERE I CAN REST AFTER PUKING A BIT AND THEN WHEN I WAKE UP… I CAN GET MY ASS TO BED! Moderation is the most remote, far away planet from your consciousness, where it will remain - unvisited - even as you head out later on today in search of Gina - the girl whose Celtic lower back tattoo you just spent the last hour slurping tequila off of and who makes you want to be a better man.
That’s the kind of evening I’ve been having. So while I’m fumbling and faltering, trying to get into my apartment, my cell is vibrating a hole through my pant’s pocket. But no, it’s not Gina, it’s…Well, I have a little confession to make…
Paris Hilton keeps sending me text messages. She doesn’t know my cell phone company charges me $1.10 per message and she doesn’t care. It’s just as well - I’m already on the bathroom floor as I read the first one: PARTYING WITH PINK IN PARIS - CIAO.
She is not even fazed by her geographical faux pas. Nor does she find it vaguely odd to spend so much time in the city of her namesake. “Paris is for everyone” she’s fond of saying. She’s so hot. I read her next message and she gets it right this time: BON JOUR PRETTY BOY - WISH YOU WERE HERE.
She is so vapid. It’s oddly attractive. I remember when we first met - knee deep in sadness and guilt and all touch-feely like new lovers. It was right after her “private encounter” went public and was vying for all the internet attention previously reserved for Pamela and Tommy Lee. Guess I was right on time.
Paris is the kind of girl you don’t take home to mother. However, last time we were in New York, mother was desperate for a brunch and Paris was happy to oblige. Paris is all about brunch. Of course we met at the Hilton, and after exchanging pleasantries with mother and a brisk round of Perrier and O.J., Paris requested a small plate of dirt, which she rubbed on her lips. She felt bloated shortly after and left for the bathroom without excusing herself. Mother was appalled, but I found it quite cute. Oh, so Paris. She’s hot.
I think enough of the poison is out of my body now. I fall onto the bed as the sun begins to stream through the curtains. It’s 6:32 and Paris is texting me again. Last time. I read it before my body is completely obliterated: LILO IS HERE AND SHE’S EATING A CHEESEBURGER - IT’S HOT
Yes it is, my love. Au Revoir, Paris. You exhaust me. And Gina…wherever you are…I’ll catch you later.
That’s the kind of evening I’ve been having. So while I’m fumbling and faltering, trying to get into my apartment, my cell is vibrating a hole through my pant’s pocket. But no, it’s not Gina, it’s…Well, I have a little confession to make…
Paris Hilton keeps sending me text messages. She doesn’t know my cell phone company charges me $1.10 per message and she doesn’t care. It’s just as well - I’m already on the bathroom floor as I read the first one: PARTYING WITH PINK IN PARIS - CIAO.
She is not even fazed by her geographical faux pas. Nor does she find it vaguely odd to spend so much time in the city of her namesake. “Paris is for everyone” she’s fond of saying. She’s so hot. I read her next message and she gets it right this time: BON JOUR PRETTY BOY - WISH YOU WERE HERE.
She is so vapid. It’s oddly attractive. I remember when we first met - knee deep in sadness and guilt and all touch-feely like new lovers. It was right after her “private encounter” went public and was vying for all the internet attention previously reserved for Pamela and Tommy Lee. Guess I was right on time.
Paris is the kind of girl you don’t take home to mother. However, last time we were in New York, mother was desperate for a brunch and Paris was happy to oblige. Paris is all about brunch. Of course we met at the Hilton, and after exchanging pleasantries with mother and a brisk round of Perrier and O.J., Paris requested a small plate of dirt, which she rubbed on her lips. She felt bloated shortly after and left for the bathroom without excusing herself. Mother was appalled, but I found it quite cute. Oh, so Paris. She’s hot.
I think enough of the poison is out of my body now. I fall onto the bed as the sun begins to stream through the curtains. It’s 6:32 and Paris is texting me again. Last time. I read it before my body is completely obliterated: LILO IS HERE AND SHE’S EATING A CHEESEBURGER - IT’S HOT
Yes it is, my love. Au Revoir, Paris. You exhaust me. And Gina…wherever you are…I’ll catch you later.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
A Prayer for Junior High
Someone I trust once said that our temptations come with a cap. That no matter how warm and slippery the notion that curls up beside us and whispers in our ear, we should have the substance to deal with it. What ever that means. It grants me no comfort whatsoever, cowering in the endless wave of brunettes washing over my negligence.
Am I to believe all the road signs? All the ones with gigantic red arrows pointed at my ass? That my God and my self consumption are one in the same?
Boundaries are something I’ve never been good at. Growing up I heard the same tirade from everyone: DON’T HAVE SEX! IT’S BAD AND IT’S DIRTY AND YOU’RE NOT OLD ENOUGH AND YOU’RE NOT MARRIED ENOUGH! Although initiated by mommy and daddy, this sentiment was reinforced by everyone from crazy old Aunt Edna to my school principal, Mr. Bapp. (Which, by the way, was a very conservative, very Christian private school run by uneducated half-wits where homosexuals languished in the closet, smoking weed was something hippies did in the 70’s and war was a great and noble thing under the banner of the all American red, white and blue. And, oh yeah, don’t kill your unwanted babies because Jesus wants them for a sunbeam.)
So sex was a no-no - as it was explained to me. Or should I say, as it WASN’T explained to me. I mean, what was sex anyway? For all I knew, you could get it down the street at the 7-11. The subject was so taboo - so off limits - so unspeakable, that Song of Solomon was left off our yearly bible reading schedule. Did we really need to hear about how her breasts were like clusters of grapes? Well, sure we did. I know I did. I was getting ready to face my first real temptation. (Which, by the way, was thrust upon me like birthday cake at a children’s party…Not that I didn’t want it though. I did. I wanted to eat that cake - every bite - even lick the porcelain plate clean of all excess icing.)
But per our discussion, I just want to make something clear. This temptation was not something I had the substance to deal with. This was not a choice I had to make. I had none in the matter. You see, I was only 14 years old, and I didn’t even really know how my own parts worked - much less that of any female. What I did know was this: Laurie Lloyd had the largest breasts I had ever seen in my entire young life, and when I did see them - when I thought about them as clusters of grapes, my body started acting up in ways I could never have anticipated. It was then I knew that Solomon wasn’t called the wisest man in the world for no reason.
Laurie was legally blind and about 4 inches, 2 grades and 1 shoe size bigger than me. Her left eye wrenched northward while her right eye pulled south, and her breasts seemed to mirror this strange cockeyed ness. But underneath her coke-bottle glasses from Pearl Vision, an orange fuzzy sweater and a Jordache support bra, there was something beautiful, and none was the wiser...except maybe for Solomon.
As for me…I was about to enter that promised land. That Holy of Holies. Where temptations are not a trial to separate the wheat from the chaff; but instead, a gift from God, accompanied with the well wishes of :
“Oh taste and see. The fruit is sweet. Have your fill”.
Amen.
Am I to believe all the road signs? All the ones with gigantic red arrows pointed at my ass? That my God and my self consumption are one in the same?
Boundaries are something I’ve never been good at. Growing up I heard the same tirade from everyone: DON’T HAVE SEX! IT’S BAD AND IT’S DIRTY AND YOU’RE NOT OLD ENOUGH AND YOU’RE NOT MARRIED ENOUGH! Although initiated by mommy and daddy, this sentiment was reinforced by everyone from crazy old Aunt Edna to my school principal, Mr. Bapp. (Which, by the way, was a very conservative, very Christian private school run by uneducated half-wits where homosexuals languished in the closet, smoking weed was something hippies did in the 70’s and war was a great and noble thing under the banner of the all American red, white and blue. And, oh yeah, don’t kill your unwanted babies because Jesus wants them for a sunbeam.)
So sex was a no-no - as it was explained to me. Or should I say, as it WASN’T explained to me. I mean, what was sex anyway? For all I knew, you could get it down the street at the 7-11. The subject was so taboo - so off limits - so unspeakable, that Song of Solomon was left off our yearly bible reading schedule. Did we really need to hear about how her breasts were like clusters of grapes? Well, sure we did. I know I did. I was getting ready to face my first real temptation. (Which, by the way, was thrust upon me like birthday cake at a children’s party…Not that I didn’t want it though. I did. I wanted to eat that cake - every bite - even lick the porcelain plate clean of all excess icing.)
But per our discussion, I just want to make something clear. This temptation was not something I had the substance to deal with. This was not a choice I had to make. I had none in the matter. You see, I was only 14 years old, and I didn’t even really know how my own parts worked - much less that of any female. What I did know was this: Laurie Lloyd had the largest breasts I had ever seen in my entire young life, and when I did see them - when I thought about them as clusters of grapes, my body started acting up in ways I could never have anticipated. It was then I knew that Solomon wasn’t called the wisest man in the world for no reason.
Laurie was legally blind and about 4 inches, 2 grades and 1 shoe size bigger than me. Her left eye wrenched northward while her right eye pulled south, and her breasts seemed to mirror this strange cockeyed ness. But underneath her coke-bottle glasses from Pearl Vision, an orange fuzzy sweater and a Jordache support bra, there was something beautiful, and none was the wiser...except maybe for Solomon.
As for me…I was about to enter that promised land. That Holy of Holies. Where temptations are not a trial to separate the wheat from the chaff; but instead, a gift from God, accompanied with the well wishes of :
“Oh taste and see. The fruit is sweet. Have your fill”.
Amen.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
That Feeling Begins
Do you remember that last urge? That recent impulse that arrested your body and left you helpless, witless and cowering in the wake of your will? The potency of that moment is a bitch.
Maybe it was right before that second pint of Hagen Daaz Mayan Chocolate. Or the second before the movement of a tiny, digital decimal point. Maybe it was that lingering moment - nose poised between the collar of her silken blouse and the curve of her ear - when you were expected home 45 minutes ago.
That crumbling aftermath known as hindsight and the crushing rockslide of consequences that follows exists somewhere on the other side of the world. Until it doesn’t. Why does giving in to these raw and utterly honest desires of our heart always make us feel like shit afterwards? And for that matter, why are the desires of our heart made up of things that - apart from that amoral alternate universe known as the dark recesses of our soul - are generally bad for us?
For once, I’d love to face the temptation of abstinence. How great would that be? My wife’s still hot after 10 years of marriage, but she’s very supportive of extra-marital affairs. Meanwhile this even hotter blonde, at the office Christmas party, smells just like strawberries and cream and has got one hand clutching a Passion fruit martini, another hand all over me and keeps talking about going to the copy room. Just say no to abstinence? Hell yeah! Nailed that one! I will resist! No more NOT having sex!
But that’s not how this whole thing works, now is it? Instead we are lured, prompted and cajoled every second of every day by what feels good, what looks good, what tastes good, what sounds good and what smells good. Not a single body part is immune to the sensory decadence that takes us captive and wraps us around its painted burgundy fingertip.
As I languish here in my bad decisions, I can feel the eyes of the upright citizen’s brigade burning a hole through my dirty body. You mockers. You chastise the majority of us - the victims of temptation. Maybe you believe that the will can be controlled. That temptations are mere tests where only the strong survive. That choosing to do the ‘right thing’ is just that…a choice. Well, I guess you’re just a bigger person than me, and I salute you. I pray you enjoy your sublime life of ordered perfection.
As for the rest of you out there - you daily denizens of vice and moral inconsistency - for whom the world becomes gray in moments of pure passion - let me be your champion. For though we might fuck up, we get off the mat and are not afraid to fuck up once more. Take great comfort in the fact that in this supreme boxing match of unruly appetites, we’re not really battling flesh and blood anyway. Now are we?
Maybe it was right before that second pint of Hagen Daaz Mayan Chocolate. Or the second before the movement of a tiny, digital decimal point. Maybe it was that lingering moment - nose poised between the collar of her silken blouse and the curve of her ear - when you were expected home 45 minutes ago.
That crumbling aftermath known as hindsight and the crushing rockslide of consequences that follows exists somewhere on the other side of the world. Until it doesn’t. Why does giving in to these raw and utterly honest desires of our heart always make us feel like shit afterwards? And for that matter, why are the desires of our heart made up of things that - apart from that amoral alternate universe known as the dark recesses of our soul - are generally bad for us?
For once, I’d love to face the temptation of abstinence. How great would that be? My wife’s still hot after 10 years of marriage, but she’s very supportive of extra-marital affairs. Meanwhile this even hotter blonde, at the office Christmas party, smells just like strawberries and cream and has got one hand clutching a Passion fruit martini, another hand all over me and keeps talking about going to the copy room. Just say no to abstinence? Hell yeah! Nailed that one! I will resist! No more NOT having sex!
But that’s not how this whole thing works, now is it? Instead we are lured, prompted and cajoled every second of every day by what feels good, what looks good, what tastes good, what sounds good and what smells good. Not a single body part is immune to the sensory decadence that takes us captive and wraps us around its painted burgundy fingertip.
As I languish here in my bad decisions, I can feel the eyes of the upright citizen’s brigade burning a hole through my dirty body. You mockers. You chastise the majority of us - the victims of temptation. Maybe you believe that the will can be controlled. That temptations are mere tests where only the strong survive. That choosing to do the ‘right thing’ is just that…a choice. Well, I guess you’re just a bigger person than me, and I salute you. I pray you enjoy your sublime life of ordered perfection.
As for the rest of you out there - you daily denizens of vice and moral inconsistency - for whom the world becomes gray in moments of pure passion - let me be your champion. For though we might fuck up, we get off the mat and are not afraid to fuck up once more. Take great comfort in the fact that in this supreme boxing match of unruly appetites, we’re not really battling flesh and blood anyway. Now are we?
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