Whether they are born that way or they practice, I don't know. I'd be surprised if anyone did. Some people are just easier to talk to, to get along with. Maybe it's in their upbringing. I met Jules in April. I'm not one of those people but from what I can tell, it doesn't take both, just the one. We talked about dogs and some cult that masters the transferal and harnessing of human energy. She told me that it was what Jesus used to attract a following. It was all explained in a book she read one time. I don't read much. It was mainly a one way conversation, that one was, except for when I would make some dumb, witty comment. She would laugh afterward.
She had blue eyes and great tits, at least from what I could tell, being on the wrong side of her blouse. We made love a few times in my mind. I never called her back.
The city is windy and loud. From my apartment, I can hear the clatter of knives and forks against dinner plates reverberating off the wing across from mine. I live alone. The building in which I live is U shaped, only the curves of the U are forged into sharp corners. If someone scrawled a character in the shape of this building, anyone would know that it was intended to be a U but it might spark wonder about the malformation afflicting the scribe's hand. On the open end, the city sprawls outward until it crashes with some violence like ocean waves into the steep rock of the mountain. In my head, shards of white picket fencing and dining room furniture spray up and out under the pressure of the city and the mountain. I wonder if the noises of dinner twist and contort their way all the way out there.
I go out sometimes. In the clubs, I sip my drinks, picking out the girls that I would or wouldn't take home. Then I catch a taxi to the Red Light District. I've always thought that would be a good name for a band. the Red Light District. I think I've had this driver before. Last time I asked him about his work, if he liked it. When I'm out, I usually fake an accent. If they think you're local they tend to not rip you off as much. This time I ask him about his home. I'm not certain that he speaks English.
One girl I see reminds me of a girl I used to know back home. Only this version of her has a bulge in her skirt that looks a lot like a penis from over here. Her eyes penetrate mine, offering a vacancy that longs to be filled, comforted, loved, rented for the evening. I lost my sense of pity long ago. It's an evil feeling anyway. I don't come here for any one in particular, but for all of them. I feed on their energy, their desperation, and their anguish. I heard one time that they formed a union. I bet that they lobby for workman's comp and dental. They all have something that none of the girls in the club can offer. They don't judge for fear of being judged. Their unspoken contract goes beyond the obvious to the comfort that there is someone worse off than their client.
People like to know they are better. They savor it like a tender sirloin and they express pity to flaunt their superiority. It makes me sick. I went home and dreamt of falling.
I saw Jules once more before I returned home several months later. We were both in line in a coffee shop. She didn't say hello - or give any salutation at all, come to think of it. And once I was home, I saw a girl that I used to know. She said "hey" and we exchanged pleasantries. I couldn't remember for the life of me if she had a penis or not - it had been so long since we saw eachother without clothing. But in my mind, she did have a penis and she demanded dental and I went home and dreamt of falling.
- by ktwofreeskier
The preceding message contained scenes not suitable for chidren. Parental discression was