In the pursuit of ending pain
It has been a rough few weeks. It is as if, women have fallen off the earth. There hasn't been time, let alone an opportunity, to even give a second glance. Toppled by the sometimes bitter weather that burns my cheeks rosy-red, the bright sun setting in the distance, and the time that has quickly flown over the nest--the pains of the road overwhelmed me. I succumbed to the horrors of online dating
With weeks out at a time, no set-in-stone home, and the deprivation of sleep, fortitude is broken easily. With not even a smile from the other side of the gates, we fall prey to our simple devices. For me, it was the impulse decision to waste easy cash on hard chance.
The pains of vice are that, the hope is always greater than the high; the disease that ensnares is always slightly greater than the character striving to overcome. Daily I searched for my match, sought someone that could accept me and my circumstances. Nightly, I pondered the little blurb that might catch their attention. And as time wore on, I found that the internet is not as magical as one might suppose-our avatar is an easily worn, and easily analyzed, mask.
So, with a night off, after several days of belittling my body, some colleagues and I decided to break in one of our own to the world of "outside the edge of town." It was a chance effort that initially landed us in an empty field with mod-homes just a block away--and effort which had been misplaced by the internet by five miles. But a Lukinboch-call and we were on our way further down the road.
Being in the field so long, you forget about the stench. You forget the condi, the stale mag-road dirt, the sour-egg water, and the persistent smell of men. You forget how terrible you smell. Its hard to notice when you have adapted, when you have learned to ignore it. The few guys that sport cologne and aftershave to lessen the filth may put on a splash but, it smells as if they are soaked--its a foreign taste that becomes bitter to the tongue. You also forget the soft whispers after being whipped around at forty feet up; you forget the soft smiles after demeaning stares and belligerent orders; you are lost in a world outside of the pad. And you forget how desperate your face becomes when you see a woman.
So the sweet smell, the soft breath, and the graceful waltz of a woman on a stage is a holy endeavor. It was salvation and quest, grace and torment. A lap dance, in a slightly private location, is a safe intimacy. A wink becomes a kiss and a thank you becomes an I love you.
And as the night ends, we go home: to our thoughts, our wives, our lives we have set aside for the moment. This one night out is merely to stave the pain until we return. This moment is cherished simply because, it is what keeps the scum that turns the world, alive.
With weeks out at a time, no set-in-stone home, and the deprivation of sleep, fortitude is broken easily. With not even a smile from the other side of the gates, we fall prey to our simple devices. For me, it was the impulse decision to waste easy cash on hard chance.
The pains of vice are that, the hope is always greater than the high; the disease that ensnares is always slightly greater than the character striving to overcome. Daily I searched for my match, sought someone that could accept me and my circumstances. Nightly, I pondered the little blurb that might catch their attention. And as time wore on, I found that the internet is not as magical as one might suppose-our avatar is an easily worn, and easily analyzed, mask.
So, with a night off, after several days of belittling my body, some colleagues and I decided to break in one of our own to the world of "outside the edge of town." It was a chance effort that initially landed us in an empty field with mod-homes just a block away--and effort which had been misplaced by the internet by five miles. But a Lukinboch-call and we were on our way further down the road.
Being in the field so long, you forget about the stench. You forget the condi, the stale mag-road dirt, the sour-egg water, and the persistent smell of men. You forget how terrible you smell. Its hard to notice when you have adapted, when you have learned to ignore it. The few guys that sport cologne and aftershave to lessen the filth may put on a splash but, it smells as if they are soaked--its a foreign taste that becomes bitter to the tongue. You also forget the soft whispers after being whipped around at forty feet up; you forget the soft smiles after demeaning stares and belligerent orders; you are lost in a world outside of the pad. And you forget how desperate your face becomes when you see a woman.
So the sweet smell, the soft breath, and the graceful waltz of a woman on a stage is a holy endeavor. It was salvation and quest, grace and torment. A lap dance, in a slightly private location, is a safe intimacy. A wink becomes a kiss and a thank you becomes an I love you.
And as the night ends, we go home: to our thoughts, our wives, our lives we have set aside for the moment. This one night out is merely to stave the pain until we return. This moment is cherished simply because, it is what keeps the scum that turns the world, alive.