Monday, August 26, 2013

Dignity oh dignity, where for art thou my dignity?

While having nearly anonymous sex in my hotel room, I remembered reading a Brett Easton Ellis novel, Imperial Bedrooms, and reflected that it was appropriate for the kind of day I had, was having, and how it would surely end.

The story is about a jaded, disillusioned screenwriter with a terrible personality with a penchant for terrible behavior: booze, booze and more booze, using and abusing his ‘power’ as a screenwriter to dangle the prospect of acting jobs over the newly rhinoplastied noses of hot, young wannabes, using sex as a means of power, divulging in shit-sticky fantasies with bursts of violence.

But what struck me the most was the final paragraph: in so much, the character was reflecting that he’s a ghost of a person, a mere shell, that felt nothing despite acting to the contrary, that he was alone with his rotten desires and heavy conscience and there was no exit. The final line went something like, ‘I’ve never liked anyone and I’m afraid of people.’ Holy groundbreaking shit.

Despite the novel sounding like an extension of Patrick/ Sean Bateman’s story, I felt it ring true.

How jaded I’d become with marriage, my wife, my middle-aged life at the end of my twenties, and felt I couldn’t stay in her house any longer (what with the noise, the terrible, prison-like nonstop sounds of sharp dog barks and rooster crows) and checked myself into a hotel to spend the time in peace, in quiet, away from all the noise, and to allow myself an opportunity to fuck a young girl.

The previous day, I was walking around the mall, and on my way to get a taxi, a hot young thing with her hair-lipped friend started chatting me up. I gave her my email, and hoped to god we’d be able to hook up though I didn’t want to really get my hopes up.

While my wife did her homework, I chatted with the girl online, lying that I was staying at such and such hotel, and that I would only be in town a few more days.

The next night, we were together. We met in the hotel lobby, me: drinking white Russians, her: something with vodka in it, I don’t really know. Conversation was limited: her texting on her phone, me: waiting to proposition her for a fuck. And then it happened: me never being so smooth or suave, was suddenly smooth and suave, and didn’t trip over my words, and suggested it outright and she agreed and we went upstairs the whole while I’m looking at her tight ass in those purple jeans and her low cut shirt and me feeling a little let down because it looked like she didn’t have any tits. But her face was amazing. A slightly flat, but upturned nose, deliciously shaped feminine eyes and the smoothest, unblemished skin. And dark, dark, long hair. Truth be told, when we met outside while waiting for a taxi, I got an instant erection.

I spent a lot of time eating her out. It was so tight, tasted so fresh, so clean I just wanted to tongue fuck her for days. The happiness of her taste added to my delight that when she took off her shirt, her bra, her tits were gigantic for a little girl. Gigantic, and real. And this made me wish I hadn’t wasted a good fuck on a prostitute the hours before. Did I forget to mention that? Well, she was really unmentionable, but it took the energy out of me.

When I could finally raise up and fuck her, she gripped my head and stared deeply and intensely into my eyes like we were going to be newfound lovers. What did it matter? I was leaving the next day.

So we slept afterwards. She wearing my tshirt. And I kept waking up every few hours, would turn over towards her, and she would turn away to the other side. Had I been snoring? Had she woken me up because I was disturbing her sleep?

I didn’t order breakfast in the morning; I made up some story how I was going to visit a friend after I went to the gym. She got the hint, took a shower, brushed her teeth (the hotel supplied an extra one) got her sweet little self all fresh as a daisy despite wearing the same clothes as the night before. I gave her some money for a cab ride home.

And that was that. I exercised, ate a nice breakfast and had a massage and got drunk and took a nap before my wife came over later that night. We ate at a restaurant and she was talking to me about relationships (in general) and how it was best that couples should miss each other, it kept everything fresh and exciting. And I remembered agreeing with her, but thinking of that day before, how it started and what I’d done. And how cool I was with lying and acting and feeling somewhat disturbed but not to the point of being driven to confession. How simple it was, really, to have two different lives.

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