Life is a no-win situation,
at least when, wrapped in a blanket, wearing two cardigans, I fight
the cold and my own words.
At first, I didn’t mean the inevitability of death
(mortality is actually a silver lining so few can appreciate),
but our innate, boredom-inducing insatiability—the mother of all vices,
or at least many of them.
But then the Irishman said, ‘Something will be mine wherever I am,’
and it struck me that after all these years and places,
one thing has never left me—my guilt.
He who has learned to die has unlearned slavery
The Good Book. Consolations. 27:29. Made by A. C. Grayling (2016)
I’ve never been fifty before, so this should be interesting,
like the day I finally decided to be happy—as if becoming a merry chap
greeting fellow carousers with a pint in his hand could assuage the guilt
I’d accumulated over the years—by taking dying classes
on a maternity ward.
I had my first orgasm on the couch in my parents’ bedroom under a shoddy reproduction of the Black Madonna of Czestochowa. I was about twelve and reading a book as usual when I felt this strange tingling sensation in my crotch. Intrigued by an unknown feeling, I reached there with my hand, and when I touched my willy, it started to grow, and each subsequent touch was more pleasant, so I started stroking it until it finally became as stiff as a stick, so I grabbed it in my hand and started rhythmically—well, you know the mechanics of that. I don’t know how, but I instinctively knew what to do. While I was doing this, I kept staring at the face of the Black Madonna, sad as if she were upset because of me and what I was doing. It didn’t take long before an unexpected spasm hit my body, and something unknown gushed forth from the organ that had previously only been used for peeing. And just like that, I discovered that there is more to life than books and grandma’s cream puffs, and that pleasure is laced with guilt.
hidden pilcrow 