Well, I took a few days off from work. I was a wreck. I could feel something inside of me rising, a sound in the distance drawing near, and it wasn't the election. It felt as if it had fewer and fewer places to go, nowhere to escape, boiling water in a covered pot. It wasn't anything at work, though the job can be difficult, but rather all of the externals combined with lots of working. I won't list them here, but rather only mention that being a single parent is not often an easy task. The main advantage that I can see to it are the windows of open independence.
Most parents must never feel as if they have very much freedom. It is the nature of marriage and family. I get about half the joy of having a family and suffer none of the daily nonsense, or very little. There is a new and unexpected balance to my life. I have learned how to appreciate my time more, and also that it is not all mine, the time that I spend with my son is richer because I am more rested for it, under the best of conditions.
Time, it is all about time. One must have some of it to adequately feel and appreciate its passing.
Perhaps this is only me telling myself that my current situation is the preferable one. I just don't know. It is difficult to gain perspective once the gaze turns inward. At other times in my life I've been errant in believing that no matter what my situation should be better, that I deserved better, even though I had it made at the time. It even made me bitter at times. I look back at those years now and am shocked at what a spoiled little drug-addled brat I was, but I would go back and live another ten years like that, my head filled with delusions of being a little rock star. Those years when women were interested in me for the wrongest of reasons.
I'm about to offer a woman money for sex, I think. I know exactly how much I'm going to offer, though I understand that these things require some finesses in negotiation. How much for your ass? is my favorite question in all social circumstances. It cuts through the nonsense and lets the listeners know that you mean business.
No means no, maybe means maybe, and yes means anal. That's is a deductive logical progression. I suppose that opening sentence should end in a question mark? Many might insist that without the question mark then it is flatly wrong to assume such things. Only 40% of recently polled college students could accurately define the word consent, but they probably forgot to poll the young women, or even ask if they could. So, college campuses are apparently the place to be.
I don't yet know who it is that I'll offer money for sex. Perhaps a friend that may need it. I have not given much advance thought into what their reaction to such a suggestion might be, though once they understand the nature of my generosity and how they can become complicit in this most biblical of submissive acts, then I'll gracefully let fly the only question that has ever really mattered in this scenario: And so, how much for your asshole?
It is best to ask the question even if you have no real intention of renting some time inside of another person's rectum. It lets them know that the customer is always the customer and is usually wrong about everything.
Assholes are a real buyer's market right now. It's important to find the one that's right for you. Be warned though: the broker is also the bank, the agent, the landowner, the underwriter, and the seller.
Even with a limited understanding of how these things work anyone that hears that question knows right away, almost instinctually, that the speaker of the question is well versed in the more nuanced aspects of male-on-female prostitution. Anal love costs. It is neither cheap to maintain nor repair, though bleaching has become very reasonable these last few seasons. Upkeep is paramount.
Every prostitute knows what their lowest figure is, then how much lower they'll even go than that on a slow night or if the buyer has a small enough penis for it not to be too much of a bother. That is what you, the consumer, must find out. That invisible numeric line drawn in dollars that is keeping you away from somebody else's lower intestines.
The question is how to let them know that you respect the age old dynamic of attraction that naturally occurs between a woman and a man's money. They are inexorably drawn to one another, pulled together through the vast darkness of space by the invisible force of gravity that surrounds and pulls them together. A wealthy man can have more satellites orbiting him than Jupiter has moons. It is how truly good men gauge their self worth. I'm not sure how women assess such a thing, though I hope it's not likewise through money or orbiting moons. That would be awful. That might mean that women are not any more spiritually enlightened than men.
There is a troubling spirit-gap in our culture. Men are losing 78 cents for every dollar taken from them.
It could be argued that the unwitting male in this scenario only acts as an arbitrary impediment to the natural flow of resources from the universe into a prostitute's hands. You see, the female in this situation is able to utilize and exploit the man's finer genetic impulses, siphoning off resources in bulk from the host in a way that the male has very few natural defenses for. It is to the overall species' advantage that men are born with advanced sensibilities around the inguinal nerve clusters. It is almost as if the male of the species has a leak in their savings nest in the shape of an erect lower waist proboscis. This tender release valve is where the man's hours of labor are peacefully transferred over to the female of the species in an attempt to achieve gender-fiscal equilibrium.
In the voice of David Attenborough:
The act of sex has long ago ceased to have meaning for either. The male's presence during this transfer is merely incidental, though he has no way of knowing this until many years later when the money has established its one-way flow, no longer requiring the unpleasant complications of coitus. Blinded by the fury of his once vigorous set of hormones, the male may submerge himself in the pernicious rote dissatisfaction of labor and toil, or perhaps with weekend hobby projects conducted in places like the garage, where they can be kept safely out of site of the local domestic queen.
For the male worker, now falsely believing that an increase in resources will bring about a return of the pleasurable state of anal intercourse, the lone act that caused him to commit to a life of servitude and subservience, he is destined to live out his days with the vague but clenched memory of anal abandon.
The female is capable of growing a fresh, new, untouched anus from which she can then also attract other suitors. By keeping this behind-button hidden beneath an elaborate veil of mystery the previous male will continue to work away, dreaming perhaps of a one-day return to the fountain of paradisal love.
Well no, I am only half kidding here. A woman can not just grow a fresh asshole. It only seems that way sometimes in retrospect.
Women are not entirely to blame for what they do, men are. This post is just a little unhindered use of the male mind. To attempt to silence or criticize the blossoming beauty of maleness here is just ugly and abject sexism. Everybody knows and respects this basic principle of equality. It's the type talk that might be employed in the women's locker room.
Don't act as if I was asking to be criticized because of what I chose to write here. That's blaming the victim. I can wear any voice that I choose. I have nothing to be ashamed of. It's the uninvited and aggressive female criticism of maleness that must stop. Nope means probably not.
I should delete all of this, but a giggling and pubescent perversity of inner spirit prevents me from doing so. It is my espirit-animal: a masturbatory boy of about 13 with the fledgling mind of a one-day hopeful arsonist.
Let's escape the morass of anal sex for now, even when it is accomplished through the beautiful mechanism of capitalism, the free finger of the market. Let's move on to the personal section of today's post.
I had my dreams crushed yesterday. Experience forced me to shuffle my ideals around a bit; enforced external conformity. I went for a test ride on the bike that I have been obsessing over - the Trek Domane 4.5 Disc. I took my usual daily ride, up to the Lovall Valley Loop.
Once seated and pedaling all of the memories of riding a road bike came back to me. The rider is much more precariously balanced than they are on an off-road bike, like mounting a little metallic horse. The bike moves in almost unexpected ways. The handle bars are awkward by comparison, like steering with two corkscrews. The twitch response of my muscle groups were not conditioned at all to that type riding. I was forced to focus much more on what I was doing. I suppose this is the point - you sacrifice ease of riding for speed. Speed being perhaps the only, or at least the main, advantage.
I envisioned myself becoming one of those piteous deplorables that will ride along in groups on the weekend, jockeying for a spot towards the front of their imaginary "wolfpack," all dressed in the same brightly colored lycra as if they are actually out training for Team Twat.
Hell is other people. -Sartre
Halfway into the ride I told myself that I was being foolish, that I did not need to purchase this tremendous carbon triumph of industry. I reminded myself how much I enjoy riding my current bike, and how the purchase of a new bike risks hurting the feelings of the only object that I truly love.
On roads that were less than preferable it felt like I was riding a torture device. Once the roads smoothed out and I could get into the higher gears then things really changed for the better. I had nearly forgotten how great it feels to demand more of my legs and lungs, that the demanding itself and its results provide the needed energy to force the frame into flight. There were sections of road in which I felt freer than I have felt in months. It might still be worth purchasing the bike for that aspect alone. There is something tremendous about the feeling of being strong, of feeling your own strength become kinetic, defeating for the moment the dormancy that lingers.
Then, of course there was the downhill portion of the ride, where the struggle of the uphill portion turns and bows before you. I was able to focus on enjoying doing nothing at all but effortlessly gaining speed in accordance with my riding abilities, the road's gradient and curves, the downward tug of gravity, and the dynamic mitigation of my own fears.
Yesterday, that I didn't care for the ride very much has made me question myself more than the bike. I rode a 54" frame and tomorrow I'll ride the 56" to see how I feel about it. I'll likely buy the rim brake version of the bike, if I buy at all. It'll sit in my apartment most of the winter but will be waiting there for me in the spring, the way love used to.