The Decadence Chronicle. Episode 21: A fucking reflection

I stand in the middle of my living room, eating an apple while my anxiety eats my insides. I take a deep breath and look around. My pants and socks lie on the exact same place I threw them two nights ago. And, on the coffee table next to the sofabed, the necklace she forgot that same night lies among all my shit: my wallet, a bottle with stale water, Ham on Rye by Charles Bukowski and the remote control. There’s music playing. The Acoustic Chill playlist on Spotify, jamming on my brand new 999 Danish Kroner portable speaker. And I feel like shit.

Fucking around fucks me over. This shit is not fit for me, nor I’m fit for it. But, even though swiping away on Tinder or scrolling up and down on Happn bores me profoundly, I simply can’t stop. I’m bound to fucking like flies are bound to shit.

Having sex is not the best thing in the world. A nice meal, drinks with friends, a lazy morning in bed, a long warm shower; that’s life. Sex is just sex. And, for some reason, I’m -if not just decent- fairly good at it. Although it’s not as cool as it sounds. In order to achieve those “results,” you gotta work your ass off. And your dick.

Two weeks ago, I was in Santiago, walking back to my accommodation in Barrio Brasil. It was past midnight and I had had another hardcore fucking session. I was exhausted. “I’m such a good fuck,” I thought, “I’m such a fucking good fuck.” I wasn’t proud of it. I was sad. Demotivated. Drained.

Is this all I am?

Something breaks in me every time I fuck someone new. The hope vanishes. The expectation of finding that one special person turns quickly into disappointment. Perhaps I put too much pressure on it and on myself. Perhaps the chemistry I felt with my ex is not meant to be repeated. Perhaps, when the time finally comes, it will be even better than any memory my brain and my skin hold. Too many perhaps’.

As I type, my anxiety goes back to the hell-hole it came from. I knew that writing would bring me release. It’s raining outside and I will soon go out for a night walk. As soon as I send one or two last messages on Tinder.

Fuck.

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