I’m having a recent spate of urges to peer into the local sexy boutique retail outlet, where they offer XXX DVDs for sale. I know I keep repeating this familiar line over and over across the months and maybe years that I’ve been here spilling my guts out, but I guess I am still feeling the force of their potency still, even after all this time of struggling to defeat these addictive thoughts. I thought I would write about it, rather than investigate the ‘wall of filth’ which lurks none-too-innocently beyond the threshold of its open door.
Once I step foot in there and make eye contact with that ‘wall of filth’, I’m without a weapon in the Lion’s Den, unclothed and vulnerable. I’m aware that all the actresses are lining up in the jacket sleeve artworks to ensnare me in with a particular expression of lip-sticked seduction. What I’m currently & fondly reminiscing over are hairstyles. I’m quite fascinated by female barnets at the moment, it may be a bit of a lame fetish trait coming through. I feel like I’m in just the mood for staring at ladies hair all day, while they are having sex with men of course. Seriously! Does that sound weird to you? I can’t believe the amount of gravitas a steamy woman’s hairstyle can exert over a submissive gentleman. To me, it’s like staring at a treasure from a distant planet. I know a friend who’s attracted to feet. To each their own I suppose. It’s apples and pears isn’t it?
It wouldn’t be so bad if it were just a dose of legal slap ‘n’ tickle purchased from the boutique, but my dealer’s on the phone as well, a phone I’d be quite wise to throw away, if I had any sense about me. He wants to sell me a bag of poisonous white powder which will shut off my cognitive functions for several days and turn me into a fapping monkey for just the small princely sum of £240. And I, in my incomparable buffoonery, might just indulge in two of them to make sure the job gets done. It’s hard to accept the overwhelming reality that I may be addicted to poison.
He could be selling me anything. Sometimes it feels like there might be a smidgen of cocaine involved. Hopefully not ketamine or anything that might make me ‘soft’. Sorry to talk dirty here on the hotspot. Forgive me. Other names its goes by are ‘killer’ and ‘wipe out’. It has to be said, there’s something about attempting to self-terminate your own life while engaging in risqué behaviours which I find rather comfortable. It’s like watching the end of the world burn away to cinders, embers and smithereens while rutting in an orgy safe on the other side of the moon, until the flames reach you the next day and ensure that you meet your demise too, as well as everyone else, who’ve you’ve decided to atomise for pleasure along the ill-fated one-way journey.
I think that I mentally opt out of the rat race and the war and simply give up with ‘la femme’ because it’s easier. I choose to ‘end myself.’
Finally. Hedonistically. Unceremoniously.
It’s delightful in a way, when the substances first begin to take hold. You place your life in the care of the woman in charge and hope for the best, enjoying her version of bossy sexuality or whichever of her fancies takes your pick. The problems arise when the toxins run out and you return to being sober, knowing that a world of loveless, joyless abject misery awaits you. This is the reason that, unlike any other time, when I usually rush headlong into the madness, I am deliberating it for a change.
It’s bonkers I know. That’s why I’m stepping back and trying to explain the chaos. My favourite bible quote says it all really: I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do. There are no truer words spoken to sum up my life. I always burn down the dance floor and all the revellers on it which represent real human beings and retire to the garden for a fondle with just me and the Devil in blood-drenched moonlight. Then he steals my night club and kidnaps me in a white Transit van to laugh at my solitary woe for weeks to come, until I develop the strength from somewhere to lift myself up for another rebuild. And what’s the first thing I want to do, as soon as I am able to again? You got it. Blowout once more. It’s a tormenting cycle. Try to die. Live trying to die. Repeat. Where does it end?
Hopefully it ends with Brittany. Or Romany. I’m not sure of her name. She hasn’t chose it yet. I’m not sure of her whereabouts. I just know she’s a girl who embodies hope and joy. She’s new to my life, but she’s like a key to unlock the mysteries of the kosmos. She can allow me to stand in the face of all those slutty hairstyles in the boutique and not relinquish my position of abstinence and cleanliness and righteousness. She can be leaned upon in such times as these so that I don’t rush in there like a madman who is afraid his wallet is going to suddenly disappear, purchase 3 titles for £50 (that’s fifteen scenes), run to the supermarket for a disc player, dash to my mates for his spare television, and do that mad porn set up at home in a hurry while trying not to ejaculate in my underpants under immense anticipation. That’s who I am without her. That guy. He can barely wait before two minutes are up until he’s grabbing hold of his crotch and operating the remote control. ZOOM button please. LOOP button please. REPEAT MONEY SHOT button please. The plastic covers from the DVD cases lie in ribbons, torn apart with scissors or a knife, on the kitchen counter tops where they were hurriedly opened.
I find the cases to purchased DVDs quite incriminating, once I own them. Not to mention embarrassing. There’s no way I would leave them out with the regular Hollywood movies, would you? I’m not aware of anyone who does that. Most commonly, people have a hidey place for them. Mine used to be a shoebox in the attic, when I had an attic. Now I tend to bin them as soon as they are unpackaged, and just keep the silver discs. For a while I would keep the paper sleeves to look at the pictures occasionally, with half a mind to making an erotic collage with them. Why, I have no idea. Some kind of raunchy art project. I had the even stranger idea of posting them through somebody’s letterbox who I didn’t like, namely my neighbours. Because, quite frankly, that jacket artwork is offensive. It’s basically just a bunch of women with their mouths stuffed.
Well then, that’s me all talked about it. If not for Brittany/Romany, I’d be at home already, on my third or fourth line of poison, possibly snorting the last, you don’t get many in a bag for £240, the ecstasy is over in no time, chugging my junk disgustingly. As it is, in her divine presence, I’ve deleted my dealer’s number. To be honest I’m struggling, all those painted dolls are ganging up on us, and the thought of igniting the dance floor won’t leave, but I’m going to try and hold on. Thanks for listening. It’s not easy admitting that you’re a porn perv and all the rest of it online. But that’s not the worst of it. That ‘nurse’ I mentioned the other day is on the prowl with her entrancing satanic mantra, which gives me rushes of blood like something akin to injectable Viagra, and leaves me almost breathless in horny exhilaration. I hate admitting this most of all. It should be my loving appreciation of my saviour which leaves me short of oxygen, not an alluring temptress, but alas, that’s just the way it is.
I hope she doesn’t storm in during a flurry of hellfire and pour drugs into me, then eat me alive nakedly in a horror mockery of The Last Supper, separating me from my love until dark days never end. For, if that were to happen, if I were to let that happen, I would be snagged in a lusty embrace with her for the foreseeable, able only to want more sex and drugs, which obviously spell doom.
I could be spending my time in better ways than that. Like clutching Romany, or Brittany, or whatever her name is (love is like that, I heard, you forget their names in the morning). Talking to you simultaneously. Now, doesn’t that sound better?
