The Decadence Chronicle. Episode 107: Friendly

I hear my neighbors fucking, almost every night. Some afternoons, too. I remember when that was me. Ah, those glorious days! They seem like fiction now; stories made up in the haze of depression and aloneness, to cope with the alienation of cold and gray Copenhagen.

“I don’t understand how you do it,” my friend Elyssa said, eating her eggs Benedict in Wonderland, this hippie coffee shop we were at. “How can you be with so many women? I couldn’t do the same. If I really like somebody, it’s really hard for me to let go. I can’t move on so easily.”
“Neither can I,” I replied, feeling a lump in my throat that I couldn’t wash down with my overpriced cappuccino. “But I do it because I always wanna meet the next one, and the next one after that. But I never move on, really. I fall in love a bit with each of them, and they take a piece of me when they leave. And they always leave.”
“That must be tough.”
“It’s okay. As long as there is a new girl to help me forget the last one, it’s fine. Kind of. It haven’t really helped me get over my ex. Not yet.”

Sent a picture of the dentist’s waiting room to S, killing time before my appointment. “At the dentist, waiting to get 300 lucas worth of work in my beautiful mouth,” I wrote, afraid of her answer. It felt too mundane, like entering a sort of “relationship territory.” I didn’t want to develop any feelings for her. I did not want to be vulnerable, nor being turned down once more. Yet there I was, texting away, tempting fate. “Good luck!” she wrote back, after a few minutes. I sighed in relieve.

I came over to her apartment on Friday. We hadn’t met since the time we kissed, so I assumed this was it; the night where we were finally going to close the deal. I packed four condoms in my jacket, showered and put on some perfume. Brought some snacks and a couple of non-alcoholic beers with me, ready for it to happen. Months and months of no sex were coming to an end with a blast. I was gonna sleep with a smart, independent and empowered African-American woman. Things couldn’t get better than that.

There was something odd in the air. Her body language, the tone of her voice, the whole situation were different. I have been there before, enough times to know when something was wrong. “What’s going on?” I asked, uncomfortably sitting across the table from her. “What do you mean?” she said, dipping a tortilla chip in her homemade guacamole. “Between us,” I said. “I’m feeling more like a friendly vibe, you know?” she replied. And our dialog was followed by some confusing and awkward couple of hours, and a defeated, fuck-less walk of shame at 2 AM.

Fuck. Me.

Today is my last day of holiday. During this last three weeks I was supposed to write a lot, get a literary agent to help me publish my first serious novel, and fuck a lot of Chilean girls. Did not do any of that. Went to the dentist, retook therapy with my old psychologist, started taking anti-anxiety pills, quit drinking and spent a lot of time with my mum. None of that is better than fucking, nor it helps me calm down and tame the beast in my pants. But, why the fuck do I have to screw around so much? Why, if not to fill a deep hole of existential angst and loneliness in me? Not that pills and sobriety are the answer, either. Though, maybe, it’s worth trying a different approach. Just to see.

The Decadence Chronicle. Episode 106: Envy

I had made it. All the way to Chile, back to that goddamn bar, to reunite -among others- with my best friend. “I envy you, man,” he said, after a mildly awkward silence. I smiled, politely. And as I sipped my beer and tried to ignore the anxious pain in my gut, I wondered what the fuck he -or anyone- could be envious of. My excruciating 24/7 anxiety? My fucked up colon? My sleepless nights and exhausted days? My never ending existential crisis? The lack of purpose of anything I am and do? My current sexual drought? The absence of affection, of human touch? My pathologic disconnection from the world and people, in general? My angst? Is that something to envy?

“You’ve never had it easy,” my friend continued. Now he was making more sense. I nodded. “No, I haven’t,” I said, with some sort of bitchy entitled tone. Somehow, rather than fighting it, I was owning my past; the pain and the thesaurus of motherfucking traumas imprinted in my timeline, in my brain. As if this time that these big buckets of suffering were being brought up with a positive undertone, they were suddenly okay. Because they made me who I am. And being me was, apparently, enviable.

Home. Here I was, again. Culture shocked. Disgusted by seeing the worst of me in everyone around me. Once more. The last drop in a cup full of shame and a profound disbelief. “Chileans… Are these people even real? How low can the human race go?” At least I found some comfort in knowing there were a few worth saving: my mum, a selected few among my family, my friends. And my -maybe- newest lover-to-be. (Fingers crossed.)

“So you are mulatto,” I said, trying to break the ice in our first date.
“You can’t say that,” she replied, clearly upset. “It’s offensive.”
I gulped my beer. “It’s not offensive here,” I said. As if using Chilean culture was a valid excuse for being blatantly racist.
“It’s almost as bad as saying the N word.
“Oh… I actually have a story with that.”

Once, this Dane told me that he was amazed of how I can get away with saying the most horrible things, because “You have a certain charm to it.” He proved to be right. On our second date, looking down into the street and the Santa Lucía hill from her terrace, S said that, even though half the things I say are awful, my charm makes it okay. So, at the end of the evening, I kissed her and playfully grabbed her butt on my way out her flat. Maybe my friend was right about being envious of me. In a very twisted way, he was right.

Blah 16: Not minding

Walking around the Copenhagen airport, killing time before my flight to Paris, I check out the girls in the area. I say to myself “I wouldn’t mind,” every other time I see one passing by. It basically means that I wouldn’t mind fucking them, though they don’t arise any special interest in me rather than just a meaningless, good old fashioned fuck. Not that I would invest any effort, time or energy to achieve that goal. Not that I would go talk to them to dig in their minds and souls, to find a significant and fulfilling connection. No, nothing like that. It’s more like, if they happened to land, legs spread open and pussy first, right onto my erect penis, I wouldn’t mind fucking them to completion. My completion, that is. Because, in my egoistic, misogynist male mind, I don’t care about them. These are all hypothetical fucks that will never happen. But they are good for a laugh. And for self-deprecation and those annoying deep existential questions. “What am I doing with my life?”

The Decadence Chronicle. Episode 105: Sobriety

Being single isn’t as glamorous as I thought I would be. It’s 6:12 PM and I’m on the couch, playing with my balls; my jeans unbuttoned and my belt loose. Have just washed a homemade Angus burger with cheddar cheese down my gut. I’m full. Could sleep. Could watch some piece of shit series on Netflix or a few forgettable videos on YouTube. But no. Here I am, fondling my balls and staring at some distant neighbor doing the dishes by her kitchen window. A genuinely responsible adult with grown up responsibilities, doing her shit. What a life. What a motherfucking life. While my balls continue to be grabbed.

I ran into my hot neighbor on Sunday afternoon and it was as awkward as you would expect. She was sober, unlike the time we met by our doorsteps. So, yes, I don’t think the “fucking the girl next door scenario” is gonna happen anytime soon. Or ever. You see? No glamour. No nothing.

I’m lonely. An undertow of desperation is building up in my insides. When is this dry spell going to end? When will I find somebody? Or, is there anybody out there, at all? It feels hopeless. Maybe I should give up and do as many Danes and Norwegians do. Just pack my bags and go to Thailand to buy the unconditional love of a younger woman in need. A pathetic, yet practical business transaction.

There’s still some pride in me, though. I am sober now, for example. Sixteen days and counting. I feel better, actually. My gut is almost not bothering me anymore. And waking up without a hangover is priceless. Or is it? I don’t know. It does take a toll on me. I’m isolated in the confined space of my ugly-ass overpriced studio apartment in Østerbro. Can’t cope with my drinking buddies without alcohol rushing through my veins. Can’t pretend I give a fuck about meaningless bullshit. And can’t seem to shake the fear of -finally- becoming a full-blown alcoholic once I break this self-imposed sobriety period.

I obviously stopped playing with my balls now. Couldn’t write if I didn’t. But, mentally, it’s like I’m still sitting on the couch, joggling with my testicles. Contemplating the boring lives of the people around me. Thinking of the life I chose. Disappointed of the outcome of the decisions I made to just end up… here.

The Decadence Chronicle. Episode 104: Father figure

Too many things happening, nothing really developing into something worth telling. My hands tremble with the underlying burning desire of laying down the word. Yet, what about? The constant rejection of my romantic/sexual interests? My insomnia? The food poisoning that incapacitated me for a whole week? The discomfort of being the only non-white person in fucking Østerbro? My general exhaustion and distaste for life?

Maybe I’m just afraid of what’s to come. The clock is ticking and the calendar is shortening. My imminent trip to Chile is around the corner; the face of a home that is not really my home anymore, staring into my eyes. The weight of its gaze, awkward and unnecessarily long. Reminding me of my past. Giving me a dark outlook of the present and the future.

My dad shat the bed, figuratively. And, lately, literally. My sister says he’s showing the first signs of dementia. It runs in his family, which means it runs in my blood too. He’s fucked. I’m fucked. We are all fucked. But I can’t fuck anymore. Fuck to forget that my dad is dying. That my mom is also aging. That I am aging too, and someday will be, as well, shitting the bed. Alone, most likely.

I fear what I will have to confront when I land back in the motherland. A sagging, fading living memory of my partially deceased father. “Perhaps it’s not as bad in person,” I’m wishfully thinking. Hoping that the image of my dad is not a mirror reflecting my own future disgrace.

My father is not a good person. He’s a violent man, abandoned by his mother and abused by poverty and his alcoholic and -surprise!- also violent father. Yeah, that’s Eduardo Hernández Sr. for you, people. That’s the man who raised me and shaped me into the absurd guy I am today; full of conflicting ideas and values that are nothing but skewed and obscure concepts like homophobia, misogyny, racism, nationalist self-deprecation and blatant-yet-weird antisemitism. A work of art in the vulnerable mindset of a shy kid who grew up to be a writer. Or something like that.

I barely slept last night and the words come harder with each key I hit. I have said enough shit about my dad, haven’t I? Job well done, then. I vented that shit and now I can go back to talk about less complex matters. Like “Hey, I met my next door neighbor on Thursday. She’s hot, single and she clearly likes me. Maybe I’m gonna fuck after all!” Because that’s what you all motherfuckers wanna read, right? Eduardo’s fucking adventures. (To be honest, I prefer that too. The skeletons in my closet are not as good looking as the girls I fuck, and not nearly as fun.)