Ghost of Id Deceased

Is it so bad, after drinking Wild Turkey in my spacious hotel room, to see on the wall the bust of Hunter Thompson? What awfulness have I done to be accosted by this ghost...the Ghost of Id Deceased?

A dissociative kind of day spurred this terrible vision.  

I love/ hate this place. Something torques my lust past the depraved into a strange new territory: I cannot call it ‘depraved’ as it is more than. I am afraid to categorize it specifically, or else it will give me a new line, a new boundary of a new territory, that I might transgress and fall deeper into a stranger state.

Something makes me want to consume all that can be coerced. Perhaps I have that same desire elsewhere, in other cities, but most prevalent here, and other cities much like it. A Sodom and Gomorrah, though, without the drugs.

Shameless hussies abound. All it takes is a little smile, a little warmth, a little massage of ego (for her, not for me) and they’re in your pocket. Though, what kind of prize is that to have won? It's like a single ticket bought, a single shot sunk, and you've got ur fuzzy little teddy bear.

When the surface is completely appealing: teeny-tiny with a nice pair of tits, one wouldn’t think would be humanly possible with the absence of fat on her tiny frame. I’d thought they were implants. Thankfully, not so. A nymphet-type-of-face with curly-curly eyelashes, pert nose with a wonderful curve that mimicked her breasts, beautiful, unblemished skin I wanted to kiss for days. How my eyes lusted after this girl, but found the physical act fell short, very, very short.

Perhaps there’s something to be said about a girl who’s not ready to give her body willy-nilly full-tilt to a stranger. I don’t know what that could be? Though if I could guess, it would be she’s shy (we are strangers) probably her pussy smells and tastes funny (what pussy doesn’t?) she’s out-of-tune to my body’s rhythm, and is not ready to let me lead her through the dance (age will do that to a girl.)

And when we kissed with lips, soft little pecks that felt defensive, like she was delaying mingling her tongue with mine.

‘Give me that tongue,’ I said.

She did. But protruded it like a finger: rigid, but curved at the end. There was no wiggle. There was no undulation. There was no dance with mine.

A tongue is only for penetrating asses or pussies. When it is encountered by another tongue, well then, the passion’s got to come through: softness, eveness, aggression may thrive but a different type of aggression than one reserved for a strap-on. No – the tongue should be a lovely instrument. ‘Lick’ can only be applied to that beautifully moist appendage. And she fucking failed.

‘You don’t know how to kiss, darling,’ I told her. ‘Nobody taught you how?’

She admitted, ‘No.’

A short lesson followed; unresponsive, unwilling or just too goddamned shy at her sexlessness being exposed, she was not a fast learner.

Desire seeped out of me. Diddling was all that was left. Mechanically, we rocketed back and forth, her gripping my head and staring intensely into my eyes (no smile from her) like she was really hanging onto a rocket speeding toward the moon.

I was shocked by this girl. Beautiful girls can get by without having a personality by their look. They don’t have to make meaningful small-talk. They don’t need to know what the variables mean in E=mc^2; all that’s necessary is a few grunts (at best a few questions and nod of her head, appearing interested) and a bat of her lovely eyes, a smile – an allknowing smile that betrayed the reality.

Cumming was not absent, but for me, emotion was not there. After we cleaned up, I kicked her out, saying I had some kind of bizarre appointment, talking fast and mumbling so she wouldn’t be able to understand (her being too shy to really press me for explanation).

The madness had started: I broke out the Wild Turkey and chugged it from the bottle while I trashed the hotel room. I ripped the bedsheets off and wrapped them around my body, purposely looking like a perverted version of a muslim pilgrim on his way to Mecca. With bottle in hand, making sure to display the label of the drink, sunglasses on and my dick poking out of a separation of the sheets took my picture. I then proceeded to post the picture on craigslist with my hotel room number: no responses...yet. And so getting drunker, and bored with self-pics, I turned the pages of the phone book and prank called every single Osmena surname asking if they had any daughters over 18 and wanted to marry a white American. Sadly, only ‘nos’ or they just hungup the phone. My fantasy of getting in with the Osmena clan would have to be achieved in a different manner, though, I could not achieve a foot in the door in that moment.

I admired the skyline, grew horny (also from the fantasy of fucking an all powerful Osmena), and masturbated standing up framed in the window, my strokes visible for all to see.

I felt more passion for myself and the view given then for that sweet, sassy, sexually uneducated tart: how dare I be so selfish? Maybe this emotion shouldn’t be analyzed too heavily.

So I collapsed on the naked bed and continued to drink. I looked at the wall, and there he was, The Ghost of Id Past, wearing his t-shades and green Vegas visor, cigarette holder holding a smoldering cigarette. He spoke, but his voice was vocalized inside my head.

I won’t repeat what he told me, it’s all too personal. The words so beautiful, they will be a poem taken to my grave. Instead, I will have to paraphrase: he explained weirdness as a virtue, being the black sheep of a family is really colored dark grey or brown, however you look at it, Id should be let out of its cage frequently if not allowed to control the reins permanently.

The Ghost of Id Deceased faded. I felt terribly uplifted, because I know what kind of price unleashing the beast from its cage and attempting to round it up again exacts. Letting it loose and knowing it’s locked up inside you is just as detrimental – there is no escape.