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.)

The Decadence Chronicle. Episode 103: Godsent

June 27, 2017. Mark that date, boys and girls. That’s the last time I fucked, properly. My French affair came to an end, and so did a successful roll of varied lovers. Then, an abysmal dry spell. And all the thoughts and existential angst that came with it.

I miss fucking; the tender denial of reality that comes with it. Sex is highly overrated, but you already know that, don’t you? Me too. But, while engaging in it, in the whole process of attraction, flirtation, seduction, foreplay, intercourse, completion and repetition; you don’t spend much time questioning it. Or anything. You are gone. Maybe not completely -I never am,- but enough to exfoliate the pain from the thin skin of your meaningless being.

So you seek it. Constantly. Relentlessly. The sweet release of the little death. La petite mort.

Last night I drank liters of beer to wash down some gin and tonics and a couple of shitty cocktails at the annual company party. I finally dared to tell the “most beautiful girl in the whole building” that she made my days bearable, every time I saw her in the canteen. She was drunk and overly approachable. “Aw, you are so cute,” she said, which translates to “I will never fuck you.” She, of course, has a boyfriend. Also, fun fact, she had never even noticed me before. “I’m the creepy guy who you have probably seen staring at you during lunch,” I explained. But no; she was absolutely unaware of my existence. Quite a hit in the feels. So I drank more, until the bar closed and the party was over. I was a drunkard. A cute one.

This afternoon, I walked home on the cold streets of Østerbro with my kebab menu to go in a cheap plastic bag. I was feeling lonely. Hungover and lonely. Suddenly, a puddle of vomit revealed itself in front of me, on the sidewalk. It was slowly being washed away by the rain. Was it some sort of sick sign God was sending me? Perhaps. Did I care? No. I walked around it. I was hungry. Nothing mattered.