Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Too Good to Be For Me

God never wanted me to have anything this good. If he had found out, he would have taken her away. I felt like I’d done something dishonest to have her. I felt like I was undeserving. She was bright traffic lights reflecting off the pavement on our way home, drunk in the backseat, enjoying the night. Her legs were tied around my head like a blindfold, and I drank in the night. She was a good buzz and a wispy brown mohawk wrapped around her pubic bone, leading down in between her legs. Hot and salty, she tasted like the meaning of it all, and I was her puzzle. I was 1,000 tiny interlocking pieces, all looking the same, but subtly different. I was a casual toy, a frustrating novelty that gradually revealed itself through sustained effort. Miles of complexity to recreate a simple image. I was (and still am) a colossal waste of time, disguised as an intellectual exercise.

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Wife Swapping in State College

The night ran long and dirty. It was a hedonist marathon in a generic hotel in the middle of Pennsylvania. We had all just met in person for the first time about two hours earlier. The first order of business had been to get some dinner and booze in our bellies. The night was freezing fucking cold, and the four of us walked in tight proximity to try to conserve heat on our way between the hotel and the restaurant and back to the hotel again. Conversation was great. We all had a lot in common, similar convictions and values. The meal was wonderful too.

After all that we found ourselves back at the room. They had had the foresight to bring a CD player. We had the foresight to bring a few bottles of something. I can’t recall exactly what. David Bowie was playing, stories were exchanged, and things got moving pretty quickly. This woman loved to dance. She flitted all around the room in various states of undress. While removing the last bits of her clothes with my big clumsy hands I accidentally broke her belly-chain. She was a small, light woman, and I could flip and toss her around like a pizza. After the first round, we left my wife with her husband so they could be alone in the room. We walked out to the stairwell where we could talk alone and she could smoke. It was beautiful.

We returned and left the room at intervals a great deal that night. At one point we all just did it in one big pile. There were so many cigarettes, so much alcohol, and so much sex, in lots of combinations. We were running amok around the hotel. She was an irrepressible, mischievous, little nymph of a woman with a camera, innocently provoking and photo-documenting everything. I can still taste her strawberry-flavored Chap Stick.

The night was a hazy, golden thing. It was food for the soul. It revealed all of the magnificent potential for honest joy that life holds. She took the chip off my shoulder. Sometimes you can’t grasp just how miserable you have been until you see how happy you can be. There is no shame in happiness. It needs no moral justification, reason or explanation.

Monday, September 28, 2009

Walking With the Devil

The devil’s not a bad guy. He just gets bad publicity. He’s a great travel companion and good drinking buddy. Ironically, he’s got soul, much more so than God. He knows what it means to be betrayed, and he knows what it means to suffer, and what humiliation feels like. He’s been judged from an ivory tower by a zealous despot, and made his own kingdom with other misfits and rejects. God resonates with all of the sincerity and soul of a spoiled rich kid having a temper tantrum.

Sunday, September 27, 2009

God Is Not My Co-pilot

God is not my co-pilot. That son-of-a-bitch isn’t even on the plane. He’s had his throat cut and his corpse dismembered and stuffed into a dumpster back at the airport. I’ve stolen his passport. I’ve got places to go!

Saturday, September 26, 2009


So often our confusion over the big ontological questions can be reduced to simple semantic problems. Quite simply, human reason has reached its current position by the use of, and cultivation of, language. The interface of word, utterance, and symbol has made possible every achievement in human history. Without language, we have no coherent thought. Without language, we’re feral. Hence, images, syntax, linguistics, and semantics are our only tools for mapping existence.

Two perfect examples of common confusions, with far-reaching consequences are: 1.Trust and 2. Faith. So recklessly are the two words used that they have become almost interchangeable. They are, however, quite different. Trust is used in relation to reasonable belief substantiated by evidence. Faith is used in relation to unreasonable belief without evidence. Without demonizing the word “unreasonable,” which I honestly have no desire to do, we can immediately see a very clear distinction. Certainly we all have the right to our own irrationalities. It is important, however, to understand when something is rational, irrational, or unintelligible altogether. For example, I trust that when I finish writing and close this book, my written words will still inhabit these pages. I cannot prove that they will, but certainly that is the way that it has happened every time in the past. Hence, I have reason to believe that it will continue to happen that way. I also trust that the words will be readable by others. I trust these two phenomena, because past events have given me cause to believe that these two events will transpire as anticipated. Concrete evidence constitutes trust. Faith, though irrational, is not always erroneous. I have faith that I do not have high cholesterol. I do not have access to test results that would prove to me that I do not have high cholesterol, though I certainly have no reason to believe the contrary. I am young and in good health. This is faith, the phenomenon is concrete, but our knowledge of that phenomenon is incomplete. Faith is belief without a safety net.

The reason that faith is simply not applicable or relevant as a reason to believe in the existence of a monotheist God is that the word “God” is not intelligently definable. It is not possible to reasonably debate an idea for which we have no definition. One cannot have faith in “God” unless one knows what “God” is. If we have no concrete notion of God, it is a meaningless utterance. "God” is an incoherent, unintelligible word. “God” is a signifier with no signified. This is why nobody can actually believe in God, either rationally or irrationally. The claim to faith is simply inaccurate, inapplicable, and out of reach. Everybody is, by definition, without belief in God. When somebody claims to believe in God, they really don’t understand what they’re saying.

Friday, September 25, 2009

Adult Supervision

Everything is scarier without adult supervision. With no safety net in place, everything feels a little heavier, like it counts a little more. There’s no help available when you are without adult supervision. Mistakes are permanent, and your problems belong only to you. They are perhaps your only exclusive possessions. Anything can be taken away from you except your problems, and nobody’s going to try to steal those. There’s no sense in pretending that anybody’s watching or coming to help.

Thursday, September 24, 2009

Empty Sky

During my excommunication, I’ve been combing the sky, looking for god, and all I’ve found are clouds. The sky is a unique thing, insofar as the emptier it gets, the heavier it gets. The burden of all of that loneliness increases exponentially the more it is understood. As you further grasp the nature of your involuntary solitude, the notion of anything metaphysical will begin to offend your palate. The concept of god(s) will turn your stomach. There are sickly intellectuals who will convolute logic around itself to baffle away the loneliness. They would have you believe that god is a mathematician and heaven is an algorithm. In my estimation, god is a cruel joke and an insult to our human dignity.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

What’s Left

What’s left is abused, burnt, and broken. It is a network of scars. What’s left exhibits the tempering effects of violence and neglect. It has been paying attention, listening, learning and enduring. It’s a forgotten friend who commiserates and damns. It limps and accuses. It loves and hates. What’s left breathes the same air that we do. Indifferently, it reflects our unflattering traits, but reveals their subtle, humanizing beauty. What’s left is the filter and an empty bottle.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

Need Is a Value Judgment

Need is a value judgment. “What is” simply is. It harbors no lack of being, no necessity. “What is” has no need. It is. It just is. Need is a projection of nothing onto something. Need is your attitude towards something. It is a perceived lack, not an existent lack. It is a byproduct of your existence. Need is your vision of the world, and what you believe it should be.

Monday, September 21, 2009

The Philosopher

The thought-junkie slid the needle in with confidence, like it was supposed to be there. Smooth and practiced, it dove under the skin, squarely into the vein, and began leaking sophisticated, abstract information into his blood. The high was stunning and abrupt. It was vertigo and a tidal wave of hard logic. He knew so much about nothing at all. There was never enough. There was always more to know, more to vivisect. There were always holes to be knocked out, patched, and knocked out again. His mind was a dead nerve, killed by over-stimulation. As his tolerance and dosages increased, he became less a beast, and more feeble and useless. All that was magical became logical. Solid answers backpedaled, not breaking eye contact but stepping further away. The more you take, the more you need. There is no end to the hunger for fact. Almost everything made sense.

Sunday, September 20, 2009

Empty, Unemployed, and Homeless

Sometimes you won’t know what to do with your hands. Life’s full of awkward moments when you’re not perfectly what you are, and your hands will be without purpose. They’ll be empty, unemployed, and homeless. In those moments you’ll look for a place to put them, and fail. It can happen in any kind of moment, though I’ve discovered that it happens most often for me in moments of joy. It might be that I’m just not very good at joy in general. It might be that it’s an alien thing for me, but most of the occasions when I didn’t know what to do with my hands were those times. Most other times my hands know exactly who they are, where to go, and just what to do.

Saturday, September 19, 2009

Mirrors 2

We are all free. Most people simply prefer not to be, without realizing it. Obligations, responsibilities, possessions, and cages are all much easier than freedom. That is always the most difficult part of creation, the blank page, the empty canvas, the silence, all that crushing freedom. It’s madness. We constantly gripe that greater freedom is what we need to achieve happiness. Life’s hooks have snared us and are restraining us from achieving the grandeur for which we were certainly destined. Once cut loose, most people crumple like balled-up paper. If we are honest with ourselves, we will admit that we prefer the security and predictability of the restraints. There is safety in cages. They create the point of reference from which one can see the landscape of everything that they are not. Much like the giant children that we all really are, everything that we are not is everything that we want. We want to be precisely and only what our cage will not accommodate. So we push, struggle, and cavort against it to gain freedom and access to what we are not. Most of us can’t escape. Some do, and some are removed from their cages against their will. Once out, cocks fall limp, pulse rates climb, and fear and panic set in. Man is an animal no longer fit to be free. We’re like an inmate who’s been inside too long to know how to function on the outside. It’s neither good nor bad. It simply is. Outstanding individuals adapt to and excel within this new freedom, and ultimately live happily ever after, amen. It makes the rest of us writhe with jealousy, contempt, and pseudo-moral outrage. Pseudo-moral posturing abounds as we criticize and condemn those fit for what we want but cannot achieve. We trip over our pride and our own feet as we stumble, crying, screaming, and looking foolish. Ultimately failing, disappointing, and underachieving. By definition, not everybody can be exceptional. Eventually, mediocrity, complacency, and stability find you again, sobbing like a child, a little more shaken up than last time. Sometimes it leaves you better or worse than the time before. Either way, you’ll do it again. None of us are really that bright. We’ll dance like this until we drop. We’ll continue painting, writing, lifting weights, breaking mirrors, singing off-key, chasing pussy, making wars, and intellectualizing over dumb shit. It’s predictable and safe. Like a cage. It’s what we do.

Friday, September 18, 2009

Mirrors 1

People love dancing in front of mirrors in self-satisfied vanity, as if their own beauty is the highest beauty. Everything else in the world that is beautiful is only beautiful insofar as it is pleasing or subordinate to them. This is subjectivity, not simply on a personal level, but on a larger, more contextual level. Pain is pain. Joy is joy. It is what it is, and it is no lesser or greater when it is yours.

Thursday, September 17, 2009

Retrograde Motion

Is it the fear of being alone? Is it the illusion of concern? Perhaps it is the cataclysmic bizarreness of one thinking mind interacting with another. How do we account for shame? Why does the presence of another person hamper our honesty? Why do we hold back? The fears of judgment and subjugation are the blinders that eliminate your peripheral vision. We are like a predatory horse, a beast of burden turned aggressive ruthless fugitive. We have escaped from the bonds of meaningless isolation, been imprisoned by stolen freedom and pursued by inescapable detriments of every persuasion. Everybody is horrible and frightening. Everybody is capable of atrocity in all degrees. We all are, because in some layer of our terrified consciousness, we harbor the belief that other people aren’t real, at least not as real as ourselves. Goodwill and charity are easy when no danger is involved. I have done nothing to deserve my comforts. Nor have you. There is no such thing as “deserve.” There is no such thing as debt or justice. There is only malice, revenge, and vested interest in the well-being of another. Everybody hurts the same way. We all want to get back home. It all feels so unnatural. It is an itch that cannot be scratched. Words like “me,” “I,” and “mine” are self-referential utterances that point at nothing but themselves. They are signs without meaning, signifiers with no signified. These absurdities allow us to fumble our way through the dark, just like when the lights go out and you are somewhere unfamiliar and must navigate by senses you aren’t used to using. Those tender, familiar crutches start to become more important when we begin to see the perfect darkness take shape into monsters. Perspiration and tightened bowels become the limits of our knowledge, and create our prejudicial attitudes towards nonexistent things. It is all sincere. It is completely natural. With what alternative are we left? We cannot move in a vacuum. Locomotion requires objects with greater mass than ourselves for reaction. Action can only be reaction. There is no groundless movement. Even more upsetting, there is no apparent causa sui at the root. There is no root. Anchors are futile, but create the necessary rigidity that allows you to find a point of reference and navigate the soup. They are the objects with greater mass than you. Nausea is what happens when you learn that you aren’t moving, but are instead simply rearranging the objects around you.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Behind the Wall

Behind the wall there is nothing. Behind the wall there’s a vacuous lack. You’re standing precipitously close, and you’re only separated by this wall. You’re somewhere on the edge of nowhere. Nowhere is on the other side of the wall, but it’s not connected to it. Nowhere cannot be connected to anywhere, or nowhere becomes somewhere via its proximity to it. Nowhere must be completely detached and entirely separate. That’s why the wall exists. It’s an epistemological condom. Once you’re nowhere, you can never again be somewhere. Travel is impossible once you’re nowhere, because you’re already nowhere, and there’s nowhere else to go. Movement within nowhere is absurd and unintelligible. Location is a purely relational concept that is only meaningful if you’re somewhere.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009


Sometimes I can still hear the trains at night. We live further up the hill now than we did then. We can’t hear them as clearly as before, or as constantly as we used to, but on a quiet night they’re still there to carry me to sleep. They’re groaning along the Ohio River, laying on the horn.

Monday, September 14, 2009

Sleeping Badly – Part 4

It’s late, and I can’t sleep. My mind races and chases sleep further away. My empty stomach rumbles, and that’s not helping. My wife’s periodic, convulsive fits of coughing exacerbate the problem, and I move to the living room to get away from the coughing, to sleep on the couch. I’m suddenly terrified by the weight of my mortality. I’m 28 years old, safe, healthy, strong, and scared of dying while lying on the couch in my living room at two in the morning. I think about what it will be like to die, and if I’ll be ready for it, if I’d be ready if I had to die right now. The absurdity of needing to be ready for something so absolutely inevitable occurs to me. I laugh at myself. I just can’t get my head around the permanent end of myself, though. I hold onto the thought, and I focus on it. I begin to panic, but I sustain it. The street lights are coming through the front windows of my house, and the plant on the windowsill is casting a shadow in the wall. The shadow is moving a little every time a car passes, and it’s actually a little bigger than life size. It looks like a massive cluster of insects, teeming on the wall, framed in moonlight and headlights. I hate insects, but I laugh again. In this solitude and comfort, I want nothing more than to sleep.

Sunday, September 13, 2009

Sleeping Badly – Part 3

In the deep hours of the night, everybody is awake. All have been shaken, and nobody remains asleep. We have all taken notice. We have all taken inventory. It’s a sad difficult state of affairs. This night will pass without another wink of sleep. This night has been kidnapped by scrutiny and unease. We sit in shitty nervous laughter, stewing in our insanity like a pair of piss-soaked pants. It feels like we’ll never sleep again. We’ll turn on all the lights, each one in the house, and each one out in the yard. We’re not celebrating. We’re not drunk. We just want to see what’s coming. Our incandescent light will penetrate as deeply out into the heart of the night as it can and still fall short. It won’t keep anything away. It will only clearly illuminate what’s coming to kill us.

Saturday, September 12, 2009

Sleeping Badly – Part 2

Last night was not a good night for sleeping. It was hot. There was a great deal of sweating, but not the fun kind. There were a lot of nightmares. It was like a horror movie marathon, one after another. My wife has gotten used to me waking up intermittently, yelling and/or hyperventilating. She used to ask me if I was okay. Now she just rolls over. It’s not that she’s insensitive. It’s that she’s just accepted that there’s nothing she can do to help. The only thing there is to do is endure them. I can rarely recall any details when I wake up. Rarely do I get any keepers out of my dreams. I just remember the emotionally painful, bad sleep. I’m so goddamn stupid, I can’t even sleep correctly.

Friday, September 11, 2009

Sleeping Badly – Part 1

The night is heavy, impossibly heavy, all the way up until sleep comes. As you try to gain distance from the previous day’s mess, the night won’t let you forget about tomorrow. It taunts you with the approaching morning, and all the impending struggles of the day to come. In the night you struggle to reflect, understand, and get a grip. In daylight you fail visibly and loudly. In the night you fail dimly and silently.

Thursday, September 10, 2009


I gave myself to it, like I was a debt owed. I relinquished myself and all of my weight. The exchange was decisive but gentle. It happened with the smoothness and precision of a surgeon’s scalpel. I flowed out of it like hot blood. Nobody demanded reasons from me. Nobody questioned. It was self-apparent. All was repaid. I left.

I left on my own two feet. I’d never done that before. I’d always been a casualty. There were doors open, and nothing left for me there. No good reason to stay, but lots of good reasons to feel bad about leaving. I just walked out, off to my new destination.

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

The Ride Home

The window’s down, and the miles are falling away slowly along this familiar stretch of road. It’s 37 degrees Fahrenheit outside. The air smells cold and dirty. I’m very consciously amplifying this scent with my cigarette. I’m not so much smoking it as I’m burning it like incense. It mixes perfectly with the smells of rusty industrial decay and the landscape of wooded western Pennsylvania in the autumn. I couldn’t feel more at home anywhere else. I couldn’t feel more secure. My left hand is dangling out the window. The ambient temperature, combined with the forward movement of the car, is freezing my hand and the left side of my face. It’s cold, but it’s okay. I’m enjoying it. The cold loves me, and so does the dirt. I am a part of it. Black Sabbath is throbbing through the speakers, loud, slow and fuzzy. I’m driving along the train tracks. They are to my right, and the Ohio River is to their right. I’m headed home from work, away from town.

Tuesday, September 8, 2009


The rain fell methodically. It droned so evenly and constantly that its sound nearly disappeared. The occasional drop that struck the thin plastic lid of my disposable coffee cup punctuated this wash of sound with a slightly more pronounced resonance. The rain had endurance, tenacity, and discipline. It was unaffected by its emotions. It just kept going. All was wet, both with moisture and the rain’s unwavering tone. It had no ebb or flow. It had no rise or fall. It had no dynamics. It was a long distance runner. It was punctuated by the occasional drop that struck the thin plastic lid of my disposable coffee cup. What this sort of sustain lacks in aesthetics, it compensates for with accumulation. The flooding was destructive. It seems so harmless, when you tune it out, when you forget about it. It collects like interest on a loan. Then its wealth of discontent becomes apparent, not in a sensational, cathartic, explosive moment, but as a gradual revelation of its toll. Through time, it builds, erodes and destroys. Incrementally, subtly, and painlessly, it informs you of its consequences.

Monday, September 7, 2009

Unhappy Son

Sometimes my mom calls at really bad times. Often my mom calls at really bad times. It’s not her fault. She doesn’t know. Unfortunately, I have lots of bad times. So she’s always playing against bad odds. She’s not into gambling and doesn’t revel in my misery. Circumstance has dealt her that hand, though, so she has to grapple with it. I do what I can to soften it. I feel badly. She doesn’t deserve to deal with me. She deserves an emotionally well-adjusted son who shares her values. She got me. My life is my own choice. I don’t blame anybody but myself for my discontent. My discontent just occasionally makes it hard for me to be talkative and buoyant. When I’m down, I’m down. I’m an artist suffering an affluent, consumerist, suburban American hell. I’ve got a good job as a web developer that makes me want to end my life and leaves me with inadequate time to paint and write. Writing code for a living dries me out. Then I have to come home and mow the yard that I never wanted. I wanted the house but not the yard. The yard came with it. Last year the yard was dead. It was magnificent. We got it treated and I didn’t think anything of it. I didn’t expect the fertilizer to work. This year it’s green and thick and growing like mad. I long for it to be brown and flat again. Fuck grass. I only like the kind that I can smoke. So my mom calls one evening, and I’m telling her all this, omitting the smoking part. She suggests that I pay a lawn care service to come mow my lawn. I laugh so hard that I nearly drop the phone. She laughs too. I don’t know if she saw the same humor in it that I did, but at least she realized it was funny and we shared that moment.

Sunday, September 6, 2009

An Ordinary Crucifixion – No. 2

The woman working at the parking attendant’s booth looks to be about 40 years old. She’s got some very blond hair, bleached, permed, about two feet long, topped with a baseball cap. She looks like she’s had a rough life. She’s there every day and I've never once seen her smile. Quite the opposite; she does a great deal of scowling. She looks like she used to have very attractive facial features that settled into this mask through years of scowling. The baggy polo shirt that constitutes her uniform conceals what must certainly be a wraith-like frame. Underneath it, I imagine that even her breasts are angrily scowling. Her forearms are practically skeletal, and wrapped in big veins, like earthworms draped over her skin. She does not speak, ever. My guess is that she used to be a stripper and has only recently been forced to retire from that profession. That has to be humiliating. I suspect that’s where she developed her scowl. I imagine that a few long years of stripping will suffice to drain a good bit of the joyful magic out of life. I’ll bet that will leave you a little bitter and jaded. This can only be aggravated by her current situation. Consider the timeline of a stripper. Stripping is certainly a field that rewards youth. More accurately, it is a field that does not tolerate age. In her prime, she probably made quite a bit of money stripping, which is why she stuck with it so long. Inevitably, as time passed, that cash flow must have diminished to such a point that it led her to retire from stripping and start a career in professional parking lot attendance. I suppose that’s all that 20 years of stripping qualifies you for? I don’t know. Moreover, it must engender a strange cocktail of emotions. The money that she could no longer make dancing was essentially stolen by an abundant set of younger, more nubile girls. Whereas she may resent them for taking money away from her, she cannot honestly fault them for making the same decision that she made herself. They’ve done nothing different than she did. I am quite certain that a healthy and well-justified hatred of men would also run throughout all of those sentiments. Who can blame her? It’s difficult to speculate whether or not she’s had other issues or what those issues might have been. Alcohol? Drugs? Abusive relationships? Who knows?

Saturday, September 5, 2009

Beef Jerky and Black Coffee

My piss stunk of beef jerky and black coffee. The urinal cake made it smell worse. My friend entered the room, said, “Think fast, fucker!” and pushed me into the urinal as he walked down to the first available stall. I quickly braced myself on the wall with my left hand, to avoid actually making contact with the urinal, and shouted back, “Asshole!” He laughed out a big loud stinking shit.

Friday, September 4, 2009


Evil is real. It exists, not externally or absolutely, but as a projection. It is an attitude that we harbor towards things. Regardless of evil’s origin or nature, there it is. You’re wading in it up to your balls. Don’t let it get to you, though. Seeing past it is key. Ignore the mind-fuck. Evil is an underachiever. It may be everywhere. It may seem inescapable. Keep in mind, however, that evil is typically uninspired and mediocre. It’s just dirt. Everything gets dirty, but it’s just dirt. A little vigilance and turpentine wipes it away. The other side of this proverbial coin is the glory of all things beautiful and inspired. It is worth it. It is worth the pain. The beauty is worth ugliness. Strength, art, music, sex, drunkenness, friends, family, and those special moments of accomplishment, serenity, solitude, authenticity, and satisfaction are the real virtue. Victory! It can be simple and tiny, or large and complex, but bliss comes in many forms. It is always more remarkable than uninspired, mediocre negativity. What you want to see is what you will see.

Thursday, September 3, 2009


We’ll go about the business of going about business. We have no battles. No defining struggles, no virtue, no honor, no ideals, no cause. We live at the high water mark. We’ve never wanted or suffered. We’re oversexed, overpaid, soft and complacent. We’ve got nice homes, attractive wives with perky tits and no wrinkles or stretch marks, good jobs, conservative values, good educations, 401ks and nice cars. We’re bratty, spoiled, infantile, fat, mediocre, comfortable, and lazy. Are we what our forefathers were fighting for? Are we the end?

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

Absent Characteristics

Some people are remarkable for what they are. Other people are remarkable for what they’re not. They’re remarkable for their absent characteristics. A man without an ego is a far more unusual creature than a man with giant intellect. Somebody without preconceived notions or assumptions is a more potentially creative individual than somebody possessed of a strong vision. All things being important, the right mix of having and lack is the key.

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

A Night in Montreal

Montreal is and was beautiful. It was night, chilly, and raining. We had been enjoying our vacation a great deal. We had lived on expensive food, art, and strip clubs for almost a week. We were just beginning to get good at it, though our vacation was almost over. Since it was going to be our last late night in Montreal, we decided to hit a strip club. It was a dive. Most of the strip clubs I’ve seen in Canada are dives. It must have something to do with the free price of admission. The girls weren’t very good. They weren’t in especially good shape and they really didn’t dance with much conviction. I didn’t believe them.

As a rule, the alcohol in strip clubs is terrible and expensive. There is always a two-drink minimum. That’s how they make their money. This place was no different. Still, I was getting buzzed and enjoying it. Just as I was resigning myself to the fact that our vacation was almost over and a buzz in a dive strip club was going to be the last breath of it…some drinks showed up. We hadn’t ordered them. They were screwdrivers. The girl delivering the drinks said, “The couple over there sent them.” My stomach dropped and I was afraid to turn around for fear of what I would see. We were definitely in the mood to pick up, but not sure what these people looked like. We’re both pessimists by nature, so we were apprehensive. We turned around to look. To our astonishment, they both looked good. They were both about 30, and smiled back at us with a wave. We went over to sit with them. They were Americans from New Hampshire. We thanked them for the drinks and talked for a bit. He was a photographer and I don’t recall what her profession was. We decided to hit another bar. The coolest bar in Montreal is Foufounes Electriques. If it’s not the coolest bar I’ve ever seen, it’s at least in the top five. We went there. It’s a great place to sit, talk, and drink. Magnificent ambiance.

The hour got late as we drank and retold stories about drinking and screwing. I don’t know when the bars close in Montreal, but sometime within an hour or two of midnight we followed them back to their hotel room on the other side of town. They didn’t have any more alcohol handy but none was necessary. Everybody was sufficiently lubricated. Things got moving pretty quickly. She was a beautiful woman, and looked very natural undressed. I don’t have any special preference for shaved or unshaved pussy. It seems like in recent times the trend towards very tightly groomed, if not completely shaven, pussy fur is the standard. I was shocked and thrilled to find this woman completely unshaven. I don’t necessarily have a fetish for that type of thing, but it was a welcome change of pace. I don’t think that I had seen one unshaven like that since I was in high school and I don’t think that I have since. It was very exciting, smelled incredible, and left me concerned that I might turn into a werewolf and tear her apart. They weren’t nervous or uncomfortable at all. That fact was surprising because this was their first time swinging or having any type of group sex. While I ate and fucked this woman, my wife sat astride her husband and rode him for quite a while beside us on the bed. We all behaved like dogs until about four am. We said goodbye and walked back to our hotel as the inebriation cleared.

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