The Decadence Chronicle. Episode 114: Abuse

I sat back, closed my laptop lid and stared at the wall. “Wow… Fuck… Wow…” Couldn’t say more than those two words for the next ten minutes. I was shocked, with too many emotions trying to escape through my eyes and too many thoughts, slamming the doors of my mind. “Fuck… Wow…”

Meeting Anna left me wanting more than just one last sleepover with her. I craved more blasts of the past. More closure. More healing. And, among all those women and above all those stories, there was one to rule them all. The One. The root of all my regret, the very source of the deepest, darkest void within.


I crossed a bridge made of ashes into the unknown, carefully crafting a message meant to serve as both amend and reconnection. I knew that reaching out again, after all what’s been said and done, wouldn’t be well received. But the odd chance of there being a good conversation, or even a friendship, comforted me. Until I got the answer, of course. That fucked me over. Completely.


I told The Moroccan, as I ended our relationship a few days after getting L’s message, that my ex described me as an abuser. “So I can’t be with you. I can’t be with anyone,” I said. And I cried, feeling weak and devastated. For I had failed. “I just wanted to be good. All I’ve ever wanted is to be good, but I can’t. I keep hurting everyone,” I sobbed, feeling more than ever as that lonely, broken boy inside. She held me in her arms until my tears went dry. “You are a good man, Eduardo,” she said, caressing me softly. I didn’t know if I could believe her. I didn’t know what to believe anymore.

The years feel so fucking useless. I was psychologically, emotionally and physically abused by my parents and the school bullies, just to grow up and experience more of that abuse by friends, lovers, bosses, colleagues and so on. For fucking what? To learn what? Fuck all.

I feel like a puppet of destiny, curse to repeat the “Like father, like son” story. I’m nothing but a younger, shittier version of my fucking crap of a father. No wonder I’m an alcoholic, anxious and depressed sex addict, on the highway to self-destruction. Fucking myself up to kill every trace of him in me. Poetic bullshit right there.

Reading the resentful words of my ex was a painful eye-opener. Unintentionally, I became her emotional abuser. Whatever the reasons or the madness that drove me to become that beast don’t matter. Excuses can’t change the outcome of our toxic relationship nor wash her suffering away. And even though I have decided to change for the better and stay away from women, nothing I do will make a difference for her. It’s so fucking helpless. How powerless can a man be?

The Decadence Chronicle. Episode 113: Capitulation

I’m in pain, dealing with a loss I didn’t expect having to deal with. As the doors to the future open wide before my eyes, I can’t help but looking back and suspire with sadness at the sight of what’s gone. An end is always a beginning, yet giving birth to the new hurts like fucking hell.

It was meant to happen, and when it happened, it went by fast. The random message over Facebook. The subsequent conversation. Agreeing to meet. And meeting in Christianshavn. And realizing that what I wished (and feared) for over a year was finally occurring. It was her, right there and then. Though, somehow, it wasn’t. We were changed. Different. Outside and within.

The sole idea of seeing her again would make my heart skip a beat. Now, she wasn’t so terrifying, not anymore. She was just Anna. Seeing her from the eyes of my cynical mind, rather the infatuated eyes of the connection we used to had, was… underwhelming. The primal, wild beauty of the Anna I shared the bed with had been diminished by the distance of time and past emotions. As all the remaining feelings were shut down by the sheer hardness of the impenetrable wall between us. The wall of impossibility, of inconvenience, of a future that wouldn’t nor couldn’t be.

We hugged, sat by the canal and opened the gates of our inner forts just enough to let our truths see the light. It was hurtful for the ego, but great for the the heart. Nor she or I were on the best place for any type of relationship when we met last year. We were just a broken boy and a hurt little girl wearing the skin of two adults, fucking each other to scare the pain away. There was a connection in the midst of our pain, but for her those times were a blur trapped inside a bigger blur of years of escapism from the hurtful days of her past. For me, well, I was too closed up -and still am- to really tell. Or maybe it’s too late to dig deeper. And pointless.

Anna is leaving Copenhagen in a month to, maybe, never coming back. But she had moved on way before making that decision. Even when a while ago she started contacting all of her exes, to make peace with them and herself, she didn’t even think about me. I belonged in the blur and was just buried there. And it fucking hurt hearing that. Still hurts now. But the bluntness of this truth erased all hope of a romantic future with her. That made those two hours, talking by the canal, freeing. Enough to being mutually honest, vulnerable and open. No trace of sexual tension, mixed emotions nor “what ifs.”

It wouldn’t have been genuine if things didn’t end on a bad note, though. So I did what I am best at and fucked things up. In the spirit of honesty from yesterday’s reunion, I wrote her this morning to tell her that, on the split second our eyes locked after the last embrace, I felt like kissing her, “Like no time have gone by from the old days.” She feels betrayed, lied to and pissed at me, of course. She can’t understand that, no matter what reason, facts or dignity dictates, I long for those endless days and nights in bed. The sex, the cuddling, the conversations. “That warmth. That quiet acceptance. That familiarity.” Even if that time is no more. Even if those feelings are gone. Even if that Anna and that Eduardo ceased to exist a while ago.

So, this is it, Anna. I know you told me that you feel relieved I didn’t write about you anymore, but I needed to vent this out. The last mourning session of what we once had. And, although I would love the possibility of being with you and having a glance of that connection one last time, before you leave my existence for good; I’m glad that, at least, you took the time for that last goodbye. I’ve got the closure I needed to turn the page and continue my march towards brighter times. I wish you all the best, kiddo. Have a wonderful life.

The Decadence Chronicle. Episode 112: Fulfilled

I’m a writer who doesn’t write and a lover who doesn’t love. What could go wrong? Besides everything.

I force myself to spit out the words on the keyboard. Staring out the window at a summer full of promises never to be fulfilled, of a sun stranger in this frigid land. I’m too sober for this. Maybe. Or I simply don’t want to be bothered coping with the blurry future painted by my anxiety. A hopeless path leading to absolute loneliness and utmost failure.

Anna read my blog on the days I was wondering if I was a sex addict. She was drawn to me because of that. Partly, I hope. There must have been more to it. There was something in those deep blue eyes. No words could describe it. You had to be there. Lose yourself in them. To never come back. To understand every secret of the universe and not give a fuck about any of them.

Six months down the line, The Moroccan still is a mystery to me. “I don’t eat pork,” she said to me the other day; “I’m a Muslim, remember?” And I was shocked, somehow. How could I forget such a fundamental side of her? What else have I missed?

The end with Anna was the beginning of this angsty nightmare. Driving myself in autopilot, just barely steering not to crash. I parked my last drop of feelings in her, and threw the keys away on the park where I dumped her ass. And handbrake down and all, I still crashed. Have been injured since. Wondering the same: What else have I missed?

The Decadence Chronicle. Episode 111: Rinse and repeat

I fucked and I fucked and, guess what: I fucked. I spiraled out of control, blinded by a mission nobody assigned to me, trying to prove a point no one asked me to prove. Women became a means to an end, my own end, “The End.” And I lost them all, and lost myself in them. Into them. Aimless and hurt, I wouldn’t see them. Couldn’t feel beyond the obvious. They were there, but I wasn’t. And I became numb. Senseless. Digging inside dehumanized body parts. Soulless shells of the female form. For I was nothingness. A drunk, depressed, anxious fucking sack of skin and bones and existential gore.

I quit writing. The “write.” tattoo on my left wrist stared at me with a cynical smile. As if it was saying “You fucking loser” to my face. But I had cryptocurrencies, the sense of a purpose and some “happy pills” to keep me going. And The Moroccan, an unexpected source of emotional and sexual contention in the midst of a disappointing, rough and deadening 2018.

There’s always a woman, isn’t it? As if everything I did was because I wanted to get, fuck or dump one. Or altogether. A never-ending cycle of rinse and repeat. But I don’t think I can (nor want) to have it any other way. I’m straight, unfortunately. I like women, and they seem to like me. What’s not to like? I mean, except for the obvious.

I tried to end this whole fucking decadent creative spree on a sunny rooftop in Marrakesh; drinking mint tea with a hot African woman in a bikini, smiling back at me with her messy black curly mane in the wind. “This is it,” I thought; “The perfect end for The Decadence Chronicle has come to me.” But I never laid down the word. And life kept going. And decadence never left. It just waited until the time came to strike again and devastate any sanity left in me.

Saturday. June 9th, 2018. It’s hot outside in Frederiksberg, as I sit on the sofa with my laptop slow-cooking my balls. I feel like writing. “The sum up of the last 6 months: I fucked somebody I shouldn’t have fucked, I fucked some randoms, I fucked an older woman and I landed a good African lover to keep me -somewhat- lucid.” Sloppy writing. The muse flies over The Writer, but she doesn’t land on his lap. What a shame. Maybe I’m just too sober. Maybe I’m not a writer at all.

The many faces of my lovers melt into an amorphous blob in my memory. “The past.” What a useless concept. Where are they now? Where am I?


Consumed by consumerism, starving to death while drinking your last Coke. The world is going to the gutter and we celebrate it like there is no tomorrow. For there’s none. Zero. ¿Comprendes?

Enter the end of the day. Listen to some generic, watered down folk indie songs on Spotify, as you hide from the sun you sought-after all winter. That bloody, fucking endless winter.

How much must a man fuck up til the tipping point? Open question, no rush to answer it. Let it sink in. Have a drink. Make it double. One for you, one for the sober me. But don’t stop the wondering. Ponder away. Existentially. Spiritually. Sexually. Unethically.

Birds chirping, out in the street. I sit in front of the window, only in my yellow undies. Playing with the million hairs on my arm. Letting things roll down the engines of my mind. One too many questions going around.