It’s hard to write when the sun is shining.  It’s hard to write when you can throw on paper denims and a t-shirt, stumble down 14^th street, and rub yourself all over underage women.  There was a girl born in October 1989.  There was a penthouse in Chinatown.  An apartment roof deck in Adam’s Morgan.  A shittier roof deck on U Street.  A fat one and her best friend from a New Jersey “Jewish camp”.  A pair of English broads that were slightly too big for their britches.  Frequent tables and the caliber of hoes that frequent them.

That was my summer… dozens of disgustingly drunk debaucheries. 

I’m not proud of it, not this time, not like this.  Every escapade ended in a shamble of shallow sensations, every hole of every hoe felt more hallow than the last.  I’m not troubled by guilt or a biting conscience; It’s the absence of any emotion at all that worries me.  Where is the exhilarating rush of victory?  Where is the sly smile on my face the following day at work?  Why do I no longer feel entertained by the female fragrance on my fingers? Until recently, the warmth of a melting woman seemed to temporarily simmer my boiling discontentment.  I suppose there comes a time when even labias lose their luster.

All I really ever wanted was excitement.  The modern male American lifestyle is a very unnatural condition.  We no longer engage in a thrilling scrap for survival and dominance; “hunting women” is the only remaining fundamental struggle.  So, I hunted to satiate my adrenaline addiction.  Have I now overdosed on vaginal vitamins as a mental therapy?  Or perhaps this just isn’t the life I envisioned and at some past juncture I made a critical miscalculation.  I’ve never had to work for anything in life; school, money, and women all presented little more than frivolous challenges.  But, I’ve also never possessed the bravery to abandon the well-lit path laid before me.  Is that my tragic flaw?  The inability to leave behind what’s easy and step headlong into the abyss?

After the torrent of tits this summer, I’m finally sufficiently settled to start writing.  Last weekend, after reading “Annabel Lee” 30 times, I whipped up the cautionary tale below.  I haven’t named it yet and this might not be its final incantation. I actually concentrated on meter for once and I found the experience highly enjoyable.  I’m currently illustrating this demented story with equally demented pictures and I’ll post the completed project sometime soon:

The bachelor king in his elegant clothes,
Playing eloquent games with his roster of hoes

May sound like a dream to dull men that don’t know
The dark twisted tall tale that I’ve set out to show…

Despite lacking the tools to make sluts sloppy wet,
In my youth tame existence was nothing to fret.

‘twas corolla, no card, personality lame,
Instead of fast car and fat visa and game.

In those days I would struggle to conjure some laughs,
Though I was quite adept at gargantuan gaffes.

I longed for a lass that was longing for me,
Someone locked up and closed needing me as her key.

A partner to cuddle and snuggle away,
Skipping school for the beach when we wanted to play.

I’d squeeze a small pillow to sleep through the night,
And pretend she enjoyed when my arms held her tight.

Other men, other men, and the girls they would pull…
Their techniques, what were they?  I would grasp them in full!

So I watched and I learned till I figured it out,
My own art of seduction then started to sprout:

Dancing, tequila, hypnotic delight,
Mixed together just right for her thong to ignite!

As my tactics improved and my confidence grew,
Many women I banged wished for more than a screw.

These hoes held high hopes for my hours and days,
But I wouldn’t yet yield this new power and praise.

They gazed upon me in submission so pure,
Unprepared for the pain I’d insist they endure.

I’d break hearts to appease newfound vanity’s greed,
Thus began my decent to humanity’s weeds.

I fell in love; Not just once, not just twice,
But I quelled my emotions to stay cold as ice.

With every tear and with every groan,
My poor heart further mutated into a stone.

I still hear their soft whispers, sad voices of dread,
And my dreams are all haunted with words left unsaid.

These memories menace me, stealing my breath,
In drab shadows they lurk while they eat me toward death.

This curse can’t be slowed once already begun,
In the chase of a myth my whole world came undone.

Any week, any night, any time I so please,
I can fill my bed’s sheets with a frightening ease.

But I can’t fill the gap where my soul used to sit -
Not with friends, or success, none of it seems to fit.

I’ve lost all that mattered for meaningless goals,
I’m the ultimate man and a hideous troll.

Pay attention young sir to the words on this page…
I’m a bachelor king not too far from your age.