The one with the new beginnings

You moved on, stepped in so far that, should you wade no more, returning is as tedious as go o’er. You bet, you Macbeth. You’ve been through some real shit, man, you’ve seen shit, you’ve done shit, you’ve lost your shit, but somehow you’ve managed to keep your shit together and now you know some shit about shit. You just needed some time, some warmth and some pussy.

It turns out that pussy is the greatest painkiller for all of your hard aches. Pussy heals it all, pussy knows, pussy listens, pussy understands, pussy will lead you through the darkest valleys of your most desperate times. Have faith in pussy.

It seems you’re cured – not that you’re totally fine and stuff, but you’re obliviously not a crybaby bitching about how hard it is. And then, a few weeks away from moving out from your glory hole town to start a new life, you helplessly fall in what seems to be love. Love again.

She’s the kind of girl that gives you a vague notion of the Unattainable. She’s your teenage fantasy from the poster. She’s the incarnation of the sluttiest innocence, of the sublime vulgarity, of the modest provocativeness, of the kindest bitchyness. She’d make you proud, she’d make you feel alive. But you know she’s totally out of your league.

Funny thing is, she feels exactly the same about you.

Yes, life has its own genuine sense of irony. It knows when to pour down some big load of shit on your head, and when you least expect it, it gives you a hug, a candy or a blowjob.

So you’re sitting there on the patio of the most popular club in town, hanging out with your best mate, having a beer or something, and she’s sitting there, right in front of you, just a few steps, accompanied by what appears to be her boyfriend. You’re watching her discretely because you like everything about her.

But she’s not so discrete – in fact, she’s not discrete at all.

And there goes the most important, the most becoming, the most exciting thing about men and women, the very essence of our sexuality – the eye contact. It’s uncompromising, it knows no retreat, it’s dense, it’s intense, it’s present and it’s tense. You two just take it to another level.

You know it’s something, your best mate knows it’s something, but the presence of the other guy makes you all confused. Everyone’s dying to see how this one ends.

Your friend proposes you a bet: he wants you to go there and just flirt the shit out of this situation. You may have some guts but you’re not mad, you can’t take such a bet, you don’t want any Faust pas.

Then you and your friend both decide to go out, have a walk, visit some other place. Then after a while you both come back again and she’s still there. But now she’s the one who’s leaving. Things just come and go, fortune’s a bitch, once you’re a king, once you’re a beggar.

And all of a sudden, after your eyes have already met for the last adieu to optically kiss the space that separates you, she approaches you carelessly and hands you over this wrinkly piece of paper that appears to be a chewing gum wrapping. You both say nothing, she leaves. At that moment you still consider it a joke, she must be having a good laugh now, for what you’re about to discover is most likely a wet chewing gum she’s just put out of her pretty mouth. But instead, inside the paper wrapping, you find her phone number.

You type the number down on your cell phone under the name that says it all: Unknown beauty. Of course you call her. You’re not as dumb as you look. So you start dating. Turns out that the guy she was with  the other night is her gay friend. Totally trustworthy. She’s got some cool friends by the way. And she’s gracious and she’s damn smart. She’s that kind of smart that you find hot as hell. She reads things and she likes your writing. And loving your writing is the sweetest love a girl can make to you.

She recommends you this novel that will change your way of thinking about literature forever. It is Nabokov’s finest and most achieved work, full of juicy passages and incredibly eloquent puns: Ada or Ardor. From the very first lines you adore Ada’s pandoric orientation towards nature and you sense the odor of her brilliant idiolect, dressed in the splendor of ardent metaphors that open the door to most devious ardor one can think of, devoutly to be punished, erotically speaking, adultery adored and devoured. You notice that Nabokov is relentlessly fucking with the reader and you start to love this game that only the one with the pen, the one with the pun, the pantheist demiurge of the fictional world, can ever win.

Thank you, my adorable Ada, ardor of my dolor.

You and your new girlfriend go along surprisingly well. She takes you quite seriously – such an honor you did not expect. So you take her seriously too. That cannot end up well, can it?

You have your big time, there are moments of a violent passion. When she first kisses you, you already end up scratched and bitten but you do not complain, you appreciate her pretty cruelty. You even like the fact that every damn time you leave her for a tiny moment alone in a bar, someone tries to pick her up. And though she’s kind to everyone, you’re the only person she gives a fuck about, so you both make fools of other guys pretending to be siblings, just like in the novel.

Such is the Summer of your loving. No wonder when she tells you she’s got to leave to Manchester for a couple of weeks, you decide to follow her without hesitation. There will you spend some of the most incredible days of your life, most of the time shifting gently from a passionate lovemaking to a deep conversation. You keep talking while falling asleep, and you wake up talking, and all of a sudden, you realize you’re making out again. Fucking and talking – this is what couples do.

What could possibly go wrong? She even forgave you when your ex ended up again in your bed, she appreciated the fact that you told her, that you’d resisted the almost uncontrollable temptation of the body you knew so well and loved so much. She forgave you this. And she forgave you, God, she really did, this one time when you told her in the bed that she’s not this other one, she’s not your ex. Such a brilliant ontological statement. And you told her that, you bitch. This one thing no-one should ever hear from a lover: “You’re not her”, “You’re not him”. One day you will hear that too. In fact, you will hear that many times. Take it as your redemption. Far too many times you were him to the others and you didn’t give a damn.

Anyway, when you’re involved, shit goes wrong incredibly well.

You’ve been accepted to the studies you’ve been dreaming of. You’re about to move to some real city and enter the path that will enable you to read the French novels for a living. How cool is that? You’re going to learn some shit too. Oh, you can’t even imagine the things you’re about to learn.

Now you leave, she stays. But you both don’t worry much. For the first few weeks you visit each other regularly and you keep talking and making sweet love all the way au bout de souffle. It’s just that at some point, and heaven knows why, you stop caring. Maybe it’s because you too sure of her being yours, or maybe you’re too excited with the new city thing. Either way, you fuck it up once again. All the missed calls, all the long, sensitive and pretty brilliant letters she sends – you leave it all without much of a response. She’s damn right to dump you, she’s too much of a woman for you.

Now you’re all alone with your novels. In a city that doesn’t give a fuck about you.
Watch out for the shit is yet to come.

The one with moving on

First you jerk off. You don’t think before you do. If God wanted you to think first, you’d still most likely be jerking things out rather than working off. Be it a matter of one consonant. Besides, you’re eighteen, you can handle things by yourself. It’s been a while, that’s true. For few years you’ve been in the right hands but the right hands have left you. You’re on your own, remember?

In fact, you’re the loneliest creature in town. Everybody else is doing it, but not after having what you had. Most of them boys haven’t even seen the bra yet, while you’ve been unhooking it for some time with your left eye and your hands closed. This makes things even harder. You’re unable to concentrate. You should be preparing for your biology exams, for until now you’ve been doing quite well. Now you look at all those molecular structures and you’re simply unable to give a damn. You are no scientist, you are no House MD either.

The girl who completed you, who understood you, who knew you inside out, has recently found someone. Though you still make out occasionally. But the last blowjob you got was rather a tearjerker: a swansong, if you will, a handy adieu. Now it’s the other boy who seems to get lucky. By the way, the guy’s a friend of yours. Punching him in the face did not help, even though some intuition had told you it would. It may have something to do with your silly boyish notion of honor and pride. Sleeping with her best friend didn’t help either. Jealousy is devouring you. You’ve never experienced such a powerful negative feeling. You come to nail the Othello part. So here you are, full of regrets, wandering through all the crappy holes of your holly town, your city of angels, and you dive into every rotten assomoir, every damn pub in which you’re likely to run into them. You search under every stone, on every bench in every park you expect to see them kissing. Then you wait all night in front of his house knowing that she’s there. You sit there trembling from anxiety. From such a grief, there is no relief: ‘tis bitter cold and you’re sick at heart. So you’re chain-smoking, burning inside with desperation, only to find out that they went messing around somewhere else. Turns out you’re no good at stalking.

The only thing that keeps you going is writing. You’ve done it before. You’re naturally familiar with words, you possess this peculiar capacity of amusing yourself and others by simply scribbling some dirty thoughts, pathetically ironic, disguised into series of ridiculous puns and nasty metaphors. You don’t know exactly what you’re doing. So far it’s been kind of intuitive, you just feel this overwhelming urge to outcry, to unshadow the bewildered areas, the darkest, the most unexplored districts of your soul overflowed with poison. You learn that the linear narration lets you keep your mind busy, you’re thoughts in a relative order. You find that the life is to be told, or, as your Columbian master would state, that you must vivir para contarla.

Then you come to find some pleasure in listening to those dark, romantic Scandinavian death metal bands, for these are the only sounds that ease the pain and let you go on with the terminal spirit disease. Then again there’s the guitar. So you shred the shit of her in an unconscious flow of compulsive creativity. That’s all you do. Thus you have found your sublimation. Thank goodness, you’ve already given up on your scientific career. Or at least so it seems.

Such is the Autumn of your loving. You Fall from heaven, for you have formed your fault. So now you have to find a solution that is just, lucid and fair – or maybe just Lucifer. For deep down in the darkest caves of your enchanted city, among those realms of decadence drown in the liquid despair straight from the Devil’s distillery, you come across the most bizarre and wicked, most peculiar creatures that no fantasy author would even dare to depict. For the ease of use, you call them bitches.

Don’t get too excited – they come from the same background as you do. They’re lonely and heartbroken, dazed and confused, desperately in need of some stranger’s hand. Hardly ever do you find a princess among those. But then again what sort of prince are you?

In each and every one of them you find the elements of what you hold dear: sensibility, comprehension, empathy, acceptation, concern. It is no longer the body thing – thereby you discover the Personality. It is true what Proust once said, that a lonely being desperate for intimacy would throw itself into the arms of the first creature it encounters that shows at least but a shadow of willingness towards it. Such is the saddest law of self-preservation in the shallow gutter of our depressed society. You could be bounded in a nutshell and count yourself a king of infinite space, was it that anyone would take you the way you are.

So you could spend nights and days talking to them, holding their hands, caressing them, listening to whatever they want to say. You kiss like there’s no tomorrow. You inhale their breaths and exhale the smoke. At the moment you don’t need much banging. But they do. And you come to ask yourself: what if everything is about banging? What if nobody cares about your useless sensibility, your taste for novels, your neurotic writing, your guitar-raping skills – all these things you cherish the most? What if all you are is a grotesque amalgam of pointless inclinations towards art and some monkey-tricks no-one gives a shit about? You are not the male they’re looking for – you’re but a playful curiosity, a temporary distraction.

So be it. You find it harder and harder to trust and to care. The ones you’re attracted to do not even notice you. So you take the others as a substitute. It comes easy, it goes easy, it comes around and goes around. You hurt because you’ve been hurt. The less you care, the easier it gets, so you take it for granted. But then again once you really care, you become a prey.

It’s gonna take some time to master the art of not giving a fuck. But you’re on the right track, for once you cared too much – and that appeared to be far from enough.

The one with first love

So you happen to be this total badass when it comes to screwing things up. You simply own the game. You may suck as long as all works out but as soon as the things go south, you just nail it like a real pro. Indeed, Joe Rogan could make a ten hours podcast about your unequaled ability to ruin everything. You could be the subject matter for some weepy song by Taylor Swift. When a guy wants to break up with a girl, he should just call you asking for some advice: dude, will you please screw that up for me? Because you know it all, you’ve been there, you’ve seen the shit go down, you’re a veteran, you’re a Navy Seal in the field of rotten relationships, for you’ve been in a fucking Vietnam of dying love. Hell yeah, mum and dad have taught you well.

But things were not always like this.

There is no such thing as a beginner level in love. You don’t just show up at the gym as some clumsy rookie looking up to those shredded guys with some real experience. Though it may seem like it because of your undeveloped mental warfare (which doesn’t improve much with time anyway). But generally, the less you know, the harder you love. For knowledge kills all the beauty and grace. Each and every one of us has some basic inner set of skills when it comes to love, those love skills we develop until one day we learn that love kills.

It all starts with the guts. Don’t be delusional. All the bees and flowers, all the singing birds from Disney’s atelier, all the squirrels and hedgehogs messing around in the enchanted forest, all the horny rabbits, every damn living creature, from a tiny grasshopper to a big old tree, all them lesbian fairies and gay little hobbits, all the nasty Santa’s helpers, they all know it’s about chemistry, it takes some hormones to do the love thing. Physiology, not philosophy. Such is the right of Spring: guts come first.

Remember those days when your guts were about to explode every damn time you merely thought of a female’s body? You were so unprepared. One might say: you didn’t see that  coming. At that time it didn’t take much to turn you on: a young girl’s face, neck, collarbone, wrists, forearms, knees, calves or ankles, exposed for a short glance, were to your imagination like a real life soft porn. Tight dress or miniskirt, sleeveless or t-shirt, even jeans and grandma’s sweater, it all used to set fire to your brain, boil the blood in your veins, make you helplessly shiver from lust.

And then one day she enters your life and you know that this is it, you’re done for good, there is no going back. She is your destiny, your doom, a heaven-sent angel of perdition, the cutest thing you’re about to see in this peculiar circus of dust and sorrow.

Now, stay tuned, you’re in for a big show.

The beast within you has awaken. You’re fourteen or so and you don’t know shit about life. All you have is your instinct telling you to have your sting in. No strategies, no tricks. Which makes it all real, sincere, authentic. You’re crazy about her both physically and intellectually. You could listen to her talking all day. And you both love Led Zeppelin. Then again you say stupid things and you act like a stoned monkey with a permanent boner. But it works. So you wrap your arm around the waist of your innocent prey, you hold her hand, you caress her, you cherish her hair, you scan her girly moves, you inhale her every breath, you worship the funny smell of her sweat. And you want things to stay that way forever.

What some stubborn adversaries of Schopenhauer, their empty skulls contaminated with common sense, tend to call the “external world” does not concern you, it’s out of question, it’s simply out of joint. They say that what you experience is an illusion, that it will pass, that there’ll be others. They are right, but they’re wrong.

The first time is clumsy and unofficial. You had seen people do that in movies but no further details have been revealed to you. And then there’s this whole machinery, the finest, the most achieved of Nature’s work, her magnum opus: a woman. You look at all those switches and buttons, all those valves and engines, all that complex gear with no manual attached, and you try to work things out. There is not any unique procedure to be applied. Though they are all alike, no two of them girls are the same.

And then, all of a sudden, you just both know what to do. And you keep doing it. You do that anytime and anywhere. You do that in her fancy schoolgirl’s room, you do that in yours, with  Kurt Cobain, Queen and Metallica watching you from your posters. You do that in the park or on the boulevard. You do that on the railway bridge. You do that under the bridge. You do that before and after school. You do that during concerts. You skip classes to do that. You make out at school. You do that in the toilets of the only pubs that sell beer to underage kids. You do that on the windy hill near the train station. You do that on the telephone. You do that to the extreme point of becoming two little virtuosos of the sacred art.

You love the hell out of each other. You drink every drop of your vital juices. You do it in every possible way. You do it until the earth shakes, until the rivers overrun, until heaven and earth find reconciliation in a thunderstorm of ecstasy. And you know you’re doing it right.

But into each life some shit must fall. South is where things go – it is the natural law of entropy. The empires go down, the stars rise and die, the galaxies collapse. After four years of ups and downs, of heated arguments smothered with an even more heated sex, after getting the shit regularly beaten out of your face by this innocent little lady whom you would never dare to hurt, after countless threats, lies and betrayals, after breaking up and getting back together, it is all over. Never will you feel the same again. The whole world, as you knew it, is falling apart. The paradise is lost.

And then, once again, it all comes to guts. Your guts tell you that you are not going to make it. For your guts are still with her. No matter how hard you try, you just cannot feel a thing with other girls. Thus the beginning ends. It will take years to recover but the wounds you have will never heal. They were right, there’ll be others. What they didn’t tell you is that you’re about to enter the path of thorns and splinters.

Now you’ve learned your lesson. And now you’re on your own. There is no cure for that disease in the Ovid’s Remedia amoris. Against that force there is no remedy in our gardens. So you do the only thing that’s left: from now on you’re gonna swim in bitches.

21st century schizoid male

So you suffer from this modern disease of being an average privileged white male. Heir of the western civilization. And you are chronically attracted to women. Well, you’re not so average, you say. Not so privileged as it may seem. And though you’re as white as Columbian coke, you’re certainly not as masculine as some of them cowboys you’ve seen in the movies. As for the civilization thing, you find yourself on the very frontier of the Wild East. But damn sure you’re attracted to women. You like them, you love them, you care about them, and you treat them with respect. As long as they don’t fuck with you. Metaphorically. In fact, you like them both physically and intellectually. You like them rough, you like them soft, you like them red, blond and brown, you like them tall, you like them short, you prefer them slim, but not as much, because fluffy is healthy, and you like them shaved, and you like them hairy, you like them tight, you like them deep, you like them smart but you accept them silly, you like them bitchy and you like them subtle.  You love them at your place, sometimes at theirs, you love them on the couch and in the church, in the kitchen, in the dressing room, in the closet, in the toilet, on the stairs when everyone stares, in rain and on the train, all in vain, over the hills and far away, in the park, why not, damn it, even on the desert. You like their sense and sensibility, their pride and prejudice, their jane ass teen.

You pervert.

Either this is what Mother Nature made you or you just grew up watching too much of James Bond. Nature vs. Culture. But then again it doesn’t really matter for this is what you are. And what you are is not necessarily what women want. You may consider yourself quite male-efficient, however, most of the times, it turns out you’re just maleficent. Now, that’s a killer pun to hit you in the face. You try so hard to fulfill that unattainable ideal of manhood, the knightly phantasm you thought was desirable for it seemed to work out quite well for the special agent 007 so aptly castrating all those impotent mad scientists from the Soviet Union.

So you learn to speak five languages, you play the guitar, you ride a motorbike, you quote Shakespeare, you lift, you practise muay thai, you know how to box, you grapple a bit and, don’t be too modest, you are quite handsome, you dress well, you are one smartass and dude, admit it, you know how to kiss. Besides, you are quite good at hyperbolizing your own qualities.

And you keep saying that sex, as one subversive Victorian dandy would state, is only an excuse for kissing. But it is not. It may be the very essence. This is yet to be explored. So you end up knowing shit. You question your own identity, your blown masculinity. And anything you say – always apologizing, explaining yourself, for you’re an honest man, you say what you think – is offensive, sexist, dirty, childish, foolish, insensitive, evil, and barbaric.

To Whom It May Concern, let us speak up. Let us explain the shit out of manliness.

Let us speak aloud for what we are men-to-be.