Asses and shit

I look out the window and I see a middle-aged man wiping his little dog’s ass, as it looks back at him, probably wondering how pathetic human life is. My dad has a take on that: “A man has to stomach a lot of shit before kicking the bucket.” He also wipes his dogs’ asses, like it’s no big deal. He has probably endured plenty of shit in his life already; enough to make him comfortable removing it from some beast’s hairy asshole.

On the asshole note, I lost my adult anal virginity to a 70-year-old man, a couple of days ago. I went to the doctor because my gut has been acting up, all swollen and bloated again. “I have to check your anus, get some samples,” he said, smiling. I laid on my side, facing the wall, my naked ass sticking out towards him. The man got the job done with three different anal swabs. I sighed. Life just keeps getting better and better. My guts, worse and worse.

Going cold turkey on my pills might not have been the best idea. Anxiety came back and settled in, feeling all nice and comfortable, at home in my fucked up head. I haven’t been a good boy, though. Maybe it’s the universe’s way of saying “Fuck you. This is what you get.” Or something.

At least my writing drive is slowly returning. Angst squeezes more words out of me than the sense of happiness, that’s for sure. Writers, you know, are such clichés. But I’m not drinking. Haven’t done it in seven months. We could agree that I’m a cliché with an edge.

The Muse haven’t sit on my lap yet. She stares at me from the other end of the bar, as I sip a lemonade with mint and a touch of ginger. “Faggot,” she thinks, as she downs her third whisky, neat. But I’m okay with it. I have a 5-year plan to fulfill. A gut to cure. Anxiety to deal with. And an ass to wipe. Luckily, my own. There’s still some dignity left in me.

The comeback

And it stopped, just like that. The words didn’t flow anymore and the blog became silent. My head wasn’t quiet, though. Nor my dick was inactive. Those last days in Chile weren’t shy on the wet and warm visits of a female companion, as my stay back home was coming to an end and the winter approached from the Far North.

I was on drugs, to keep my anxiety down, and high on life. Cryptocurrencies were my new addiction. Didn’t need alcohol nor women when I could spend my cold and dark winter evenings in Copenhagen, diving head first into imaginary money and fictional gains.

I didn’t need women. I had a few, anyway. And the problems came along.

35 years. It sounds like a long time. Long enough to polish and craft myself into a decent human being. But no. I needed more time. Dropping the looney pills didn’t help. Anxiety came back with full force, like a tsunami of self-destruction. And I became a hurricane, ravaging everyone on my path.

But I stayed sober. 6 months and counting now. Not all is lost.

Gave up on my ex. But, somehow, I haven’t given up on love. “Love.” “Amor.” “Kærlighed.” However you wanna call it. The expectations of it, lingering under all that depression and existential angst. That subtle light amidst the darkest, longest night.

My family got closer together. My stay in Santiago wasn’t in vane, and I left happy. Somewhat happy. Content, at least. “My work here is done,” I might have thought. Yet, there was a job far from completion. The final achievement: myself.

Work in progress, I guess.

I survived an exhausting, endless winter. Been kicked on the floor by waves of failures and anxiety, that keep on coming as the spring slowly shows her face, caressing my bleeding wounds with rays of sun and a certain sense of hope.

Is there hope, though?

A book of Bukowski stares at me from a not so distant table. I’m afraid of the word. Writing. Reading. Sometimes even talking. “Words create reality,” my ex once said. She was naked. I was naked. In that instant, nothing else existed. The gray winter and the future were outside in Santiago, in Norway, in Denmark. Rotting beforehand; the carcass of what wasn’t meant to be.

“What now?” you must be wondering. That makes two of us.

The Decadence Chronicle. Episode 110: Suck it, Kerouac

It’s 01:02 AM in Copenhagen. Cold. Dark. Luckily, I’m not there. “Pilar is a fancy neighborhood surrounded by slums,” the cab driver said, pointing out the window, into the weak lights by the side of the road. Argentina is a rough place. I’m walking in a mall. The sun is setting and I’m bored. Anxious. I need a drink. Fucking business trip. Fucking sobriety. “Got the lonely traveler blues,” I write my friend. Back in the hotel. I go on Tinder. Play Candy Crush. Tinder again. Candy Crush now. Instagram. Happn. Tinder. Hit the hotel gym. I exhaust myself. A skinny milf works out. Looks at me with disdain. I’m not wearing workout clothes. I’m hungry. In my room again. Naked on the bed. Tinder. “December 1st,” I think. As if it never happened. As if I didn’t stalk my ex on Facebook and didn’t find her and didn’t stare at her newest picture for far too long and felt the weight of the truth. As if I didn’t care about her 30th birthday. But the urge to write that obnoxious Whatsapp message wasn’t there. Can’t stop hurting, but I can stop hurting her. I hope. Though I haven’t eaten and still sit naked on my king-size bed at the Sheraton Pilar. Writing what I thought would be my response to Kerouac and his stream of consciousness crap. Can’t do that. I like paragraphs and the sense of style. Yet, I can’t seem to break these words into smaller chunks of digestible text. Or anything readable nor worth spending a few minutes on. Jumping back and forth in time, in my head. You can’t… No: you won’t even begin to understand what it feels to be stuck in this head of mine. Ask my therapist. She’s confused. She can’t find Eduardo in me. Hell, I can’t find Eduardo in here, either. Who is that guy? All these turns and twists and life changes and women and fucking emotions. It doesn’t stop. I will not make it stop. I fuck up and repeat. The names change. The locations. The backstories. The smells and flavors and traits. They always change. But they are the same: black. Big black holes to be. Just a matter of time. And the emptiness within grows. And I grow into it, to become nothing. So I’m not better than him. I can’t kill him. Cannot kill my father and his legacy in me. Eduardo Hernández, II. The heir of a long lineage of fuck-ups. Me, the recovering alcoholic. The regretful brokenhearted mess. Oddly optimistic at times. Rarely. Not very good at ending stories. Or telling them. Not freezing in Denmark, though. Silver linings.

The Decadence Chronicle. Episode 109: Overpriced blowjob

Life’s an overpriced blowjob. Or meal. Or any kind of prize or reward. How much work do we have to put into achieving whatever we want? And how many of us accomplish anything at all? Because for every fancy meal some rich motherfucker will have in the course of any given day, effortlessly, thousands will starve to death. How is that fair?

The collective consciousness is bullshit. How many of us have to pay for someone else’s joy? For some other shithead to collect the fruits of our labor? We, average Joes and Janes of the world, are damned to fail. We are taught to feel entitled, yet this entitlement is based in false pretenses. Meritocracy? Blah. There, in the time you’ll take to finish this paragraph, a few slaves will have died somewhere, not before having worked their asses off until their last breath. Talk about their anonymous merits, the rewards awaiting for them in the dust.

I’m among the lucky ones. Boys and men worldwide have and will pay with their hard earned money for billions of expensive dinners and drinks and club tickets to get a lousy handjob in return. Maybe. Probably not even that. Me? Nah. I have and will get all the blowjobs and intercourse they won’t, with less than half the effort and none of the expenses. Where’s the fairness in that? I don’t see it. (Although I don’t agree with the sexist idea of getting sex in return of treats. But I’m a feminist. Or relatively smart.)

Perhaps my current dry spell is the Universe’s way of leveling things out. Maybe some poor bastard is going to cash in some return on his investment and get a blowjob for cheap. Or free! Imagine that? And, in the odd chance of that happening, my existential angst will give in and fuck off. Angels will come down from the skies and sing a marvelous symphony in the ear of that guy getting head. And my spell will be broken. And I’ll come back to keep making the world one unjust shithole, to restore the unbalance of it all. One fuck at a time.

The Decadence Chronicle. Episode 108: Tan

The bus was packed and warm. My back was stuck to the window, the sun hitting me from behind. Hard. A middle age woman stood in front of me, staring at her phone, with her expressionless face looking down, tired. It then came to me. A certain perfume of a certain past. Tiphaine, my French affair, my last lover. I could smell her in the damp air of the bus, and the humidity and the heat and sweat reminded me of her, of us. Her petite body, rhythmically grinding on top of me, as I licked on her small nipples and caressed all of her body, gently and rough, and gently again. I should have gone down on her. I never did. Now I crave the fragrance of an aroused vagina, the texture and wetness of it on my lips, its flavor inebriating me better than some fancy spirit.

Women. So many many women. I have entered their lives and bodies quickly. But they, also quickly, exited my bed and my path. And, just as fast, they left me empty. Completely empty, but full of words. And then, there’s no Eduardo anymore. This man who calls himself “The Writer” takes his place. Rejoicing in the erotic flashbacks of his alter ego. His lustful fingers toying with the keyboard, as if it were a clit, split in a hundred pieces.

It’s all over, though. I knew it would be at some point. I’m even surprised I could get away with it for so long. Sooner or later, they were gonna find out. Women would unmask me, finding the last layer of me; going beyond the nude, under the skin. Why would they sleep with me? Why would anyone? Can’t help but feeling fascinated by the mystery of it. Or of why I’m good at it. Another enigma. “Eduardo, the good fuck.” A joke without a punchline, that abruptly ends and leaves everyone confused and wondering “Was that it?”

I have 37 days left to go here, in the concrete jungle down south. The cars are loud on the streets and the smog poisons you and your dreams. The sun in Santiago feels heavy on your skin, whether there’s something under it or not. I’m tan already. And as horny as I could get.