The Deflowering

Welcome.

You are witness to my foray into floundering in my stream of consciousness; I'm ensnared in the world-wide-web.

I've been talking about it for some time, writing, sometimes sincerely, but often as an empty promise - or an idle threat depending on when and with whom I'm speaking. My intention here is to hone and sharpen an atrophied skill, to become absorbed in deliberate thought, to set time aside for emptying my mind - a kind of emotional-intellectual purging - like a colon to ex-lax: blogging as an artistic diarrhetic. As I typed that I realized I have a cut, the thickness of a paper-cut, but a few dermal levels deeper - as deep as one could get cut without drawing blood - spanning my middle and pointer fingers of my right hand.  Not sure where the wound came from but the slight bending in my fingers as I press the tips to the keys is unpleasant; blood sweat and tears.

Back to my intention, which has no intention of maintaining focus apparently. I want to write. I want to have some type of documentation of my passage through time - whether it be as meaningless as random scribblings on a wall, or as organized and compelling as a complex labyrinth drawn in the sand, situated in dangerous proximity to the gains of the encroaching shore.

Back to the stream of consciousness thing, my mind isn't used to floating on that current, and it continues to pull and try to break away and think of other things. Not even fun things.  Not even dirty things. What kind of shit is that? Where the fuck is my libido? Speaking of...

I was on the phone with a friend from New York earlier in the day, catching up and comparing our gregarious grievances and warring troubles, when I told her that I was in need of something that served as a distraction but also afforded a kind of continued and sustained focus; something engaging. Having just gotten out of a serious relationship, I find my mind constantly crumbling and succumbing to the gravity of thoughts of her. She looms behind my skull, floating like an invisible magnet, pulling my iron thoughts toward the back of my mind where I hid her; crafty, she is.

After getting over the initial separation, which I inspired one month ago, I find myself gripped with lecherous and libidinous desire - as though my cock were in a vice, tightening ever so slowly...or perhaps an invisible hand is a better analogy; anal; Adam Smith would be proud (for the invisible hand part, not so much the anal part, but maybe) - and while I advocated a laissez faire approach, she, my friend, suggested abstaining from contact. While I agree with her advice, my tumescent testes seemed to see it differently, and suggested I seek her out and pillage and plunder her pussy with impunity - with my imperious penis - like a good imperialist; Cecil Rhodes would be proud. Knowing how unwilling to listen my stolid and ghastly gonads would be, I implored her to give me some sort of advice that would help appease and assuage this dicktator. She suggested masturbation.

Masturbation. I guess this is only a bit unlike masturbation. I detest masturbation. My dick doesn't like it, and neither does my hand. It is perhaps one of the most boring and unfulfilling forms of self-gratification. There is no surprise, no sense of mystery or impropriety, just the familiar jerking motion, meaninglessness and emptiness. I imagine I'd have more fun with the wrinkled fingers of an elderly woman with Parkinson's, frailly wrapped around my man-meat twitching erratically and spastically as she whips those huevos into a fiendish fervor - a more modern twist on the whirling dervish - than I would tugging at my own member. It's fucking boring. It's an act each man has repeated innumerable times by his late 20's. Literally innumerable. Name another act - that you can do alone - that you've done that many times that you still enjoy. Sleeping? Drinking?  Eating? Last time I checked, when I want to do any of those three things, I do them. I don't involve myself in a grand delusion where I stand cooking paper-machè mashed potatoes over the oven for half an hour and try to convince myself the paper potatoes I'm eating are real and taste delicious. I mean, maybe if I had ingested 1/8 of psychedelic mushrooms, but even then I'm sure I'd entertain myself with a more original use of my imagination.

I may have communicated this too powerfully to my friend, because she replied with silence and soon after told me she had to go. She hurriedly recommended I try to engage in a healthy activity like writing or painting. I jokingly told her I would write a blog about how I would attempt to seduce myself tonight in the hopes of tricking myself into having sex with myself. I mean, c'mon, if I don't want to fuck me, why would anyone else? So in the interest of giving credence to that age old adage 'if you can't love yourself, you can't love someone else,' here is a brief dramatization of my self-seduction in the hopes of masturbation and eminent ejaculation:

After hanging up the phone, walking along Haight Street, I catch a glimpse of him in the reflective glass of a trippy hippy headshop storefront, all bearded and beanied - I lean in for a closer look and bang my face off of the glass - rugged. I quickly strike conversation and tell him about how I can really see myself in him. We talk about how uncanny it is that we have so much in common "it's so crazy, it's like we have the same eyes!" Boldly, I suggest we grab dinner. Walking along further down the street, I realize we're near the Whole Foods, and an idea most foul fires across my synapses, "how about instead of grabbing something somewhere, I cook you dinner at my place, it's just down the block; I'm sure you'll feel right at home." Surprisingly, he agrees, I'm impressed with his spontaneity and how confident and trusting he is. We walk in perfect synchronization, we complete each other's sentences as we grab groceries, he smiles and tells says "it's almost like we're the same person." We get from Whole Foods to my place in less than 10 minutes, and upon entering I tell him to make himself comfortable; mi casa es su casa.

I light a shaved vanilla and vetiver candle and put on some Sam Cooke as I ready the stove. "I love Sam Cooke," he says. "I knew you would," I reply, as I pour some extra-virgin olive oil into the pan on the oven. I question the concept of 'extra-virgin' from a philosophical perspective to convey that I'm somewhat of an intellectual - I tell him I'm from New York; he is too! - and we have a scintillating conversation about the merits of always having an extra virgin in your harem. I open a bottle of Pinot Noir from the Sonoma Coast, and though he doesn't say it, I can tell he's impressed. We continue to drink and wax poetic on music and literature and life and love, and I can feel my eyes getting that glimmery penetrating quality that eyes get when love is in the air. We eat and he eats enough for two. As we finish eating, I get up and while walking to the counter, I say "I hope you have room for dessert, because I have this amazing artisan chocolate, locally made here in the city, and it pairs phenomenally with this wine," and interrupting me he exclaims "you just read my mind!"

I tell him I want to show him something in my room, and we go with the chocolate and wine in hand to my room. As we walk into the room, I realize that I had turned my comforter around the wrong way when I had made my bed, and the side stained by passion is showing - I haven't yet had a chance to wash the residue from my last love from the sheets - and I am mortified. I quickly try to draw his attention away toward my guitar as I tell him I am an artist, but he sees right through me and perceives uneasiness in my disposition.  His eyes go straight to the stain and trying to be funny I ashamedly say "Out....damned...spot," and he laughs whole-heartedly, and so do I. He tells me it's okay "my sheets are stained too," and momentarily I feel better, and say "yeah, I haven't had a chance to wash them since me and my girlfriend broke up, she stained my sheets and stained my heart," then he continued "I know exactly what you're going through," and looking toward my guitar asks me to play a song. I pick up the guitar and perform a brilliant rendition of Sexual Healing by Marvin Gaye.

Amazed and weakened by my performance, he took my hand, and in utter bewilderment he looked down at my fingers, and extended his pointer and middle fingers, "Oh my god, I have the same cut on my fingers..."

"I don't have to tell you what happens at this point, because I think we both know." I'm not sure which one of us said that, but I don't think I need to tell you what happened next.

Let's just say by the time I was done with that cock, I knew it like the palm of my hand.