Thinking of years labelled in numeric ashes that I thought passed me by. Would pass me by. Will. Thinking of them, of sheets, of walls stripped bare. Smoke from the pistol blowing wind to the night as the memories vibrate the dormant hairs on my skin. The slaves to erotica that would become beacons, homing. The whispers that travelled, talking of what I could be doing, all covering what they each are doing. I didn't know what bothered me more; the acts seen devilish that I felt absent of heart or the ridiculous hushed lies told through social exploitations. The thing about sex isn't that it's a boutique of eighteen plus. It isn't that it's angel wings burning to lust-crazed-dust. It isn't the fuel that songwriters bleed for. No, you see the thing about sex is that everybody does it, it's just people keep it locked behind fingers on lips, for who would dare choke the air in Eden? Who would be so...'foolish'...to unravel their secrets? Who would? More should.
The very thrill of it all was as enticing as each burn around corners speeding. I remember the chase, the hunt. The touch, the kill. The power, the paper, the pill. Don't get me wrong, sex is such an adjective every single heart defines differently. Sex should always be consensual, it should always be loved, it should always be, sex. For some, it comes in stages of eight hour shifts, in overtime drive-thrus, in poles paralleled phones. I never thought that I would turn what was once excitingly shared between two partners new would become the very core that kept me living, that kept me at the top. I never thought that what should be loved, became nothing but lust wrapped in numbers coloured. What kept me interested the most of all, was that I kept going back to it. That I found the secrecy and the act itself, thrilling. What kept my hooks sunk deep, was no matter what was felt, I liked it.
I thought about getting a 'normal' job; being a bartender and meeting drunken strangers that turn into plastered friends. I didn't think I ever could. I think a part of me didn't think that I was good at anything, but this. I looked at the years in high school, how I had near every hormonal crazed creature wanting to know what was truly under television screens they statically viewed from afar. I knew that I was good at this. At making men crazy. At making men moan, howl, want. I knew how to ride every wave until their legs buckled and the only reason I hadn't? Because it was wrong. Funny that that which makes it wrong makes you feel nothing but right doing it. I was good at this. I knew how to make men feel, how to be free, how to be. I could spend hours being someone who thought with their heart because strangers' eyes spoke of loneliness. I could spend minutes being someone who touched so gently the shell that had ached for so long in mourning. I could spend days being the one behind the television in technocoloured beats, and after every shift was over, after all paperwork was written and goodnight's had been said, the characters slipped away in nothing but a second. One left thinking of potential love, of achieved manhood, of primal ecstacy. I always remained knowing what each and every second always was. Sex. Lust. Dust. Nothing else, nothing more. I always had the control.
A man could tell me each and every detail of his fantasy so forbidden in the garden, and we would harvest the trees until no apples were seen. He would tell me how to wear this, how to do that, what to do here, what to do there. How I could fulfill each and every itch he had been cast off itching. He felt powerful. He drenched himself in Eau de Homme. He left feeling that he would always be the one on top, the one in grasp of true control. How wrong they all were. It was never them. It was always me. Despite every single lust spiralling wildly in sweat I knew what I was doing. I knew how I felt in the subtext hiding under character. I knew when to end, how to end, what to say, what to do before the demands were laid open as legs. I had the control. Always. That only added to the craving of nicotine. I had the money, the power. The life of secrecy, of normality. Of Eden, of nought. I had a life that I didn't think twice about, that I didn't feel twice about. I thought if I had become heartless, or if I had learned to use my heart less. It mattered none. I felt no love towards it. There was no hate towards it, no pain. That's how I knew I needed to get out. I didn't care.
I could sit here and glorify each position I found only suit the title CEO to you. I could tell you of how wild I felt, how alive each touch made me scream. I could tell you of the life that I thought was perfect for me, but it is not the life that should be for any. We could play this as an interview, where celebrity sheds their single tear of a past that was their 'dark place' and that they're all better now, that it made them who they were today. I could tell you each and every highlight to glorify each beat felt between sheet, but...I can't. Do not read and think that this sounds exciting, that this sounds like something you could do, like something you could own. That there's nothing you're good at so why not try this. Do not sit there and think that this is the life for you, for this is just a life. This is not living.
For me to convince you that this life though exciting, though free, though stars turned smoke, we'll have to go much, much deeper. Strap in for the ride, or don't. Lord knows I've done both. If you're ready, take a step out of Eden. I'll show you what can lie outside the gate.