Change is no longer an option. My whole life change has been a source of discontent. Big changes, little changes, it doesn’t matter. Example: just recently I decided to try a new style of pants – chinos --> skinny jeans. Most people would find such a change revitalising, a reaffirmation of sorts.
Well, these new pants, when I want to take a piss I gotta dig around in them to grab my dick, and it looks like I’m fighting a losing battle to anyone who happens to be standing behind me. And it fucking hurts too. I think I’m dealing my urethra some wanton destruction.
So, I’ve resolved not to change, or to change as little as possible, even if it means doing myself damage. Another example: the doctor told me there wasn’t enough fibre in my diet, that I ate too much red meat. Cut the meat, she said, and the eggs; eat more oats, psyllium husk, paprika. But I refuse to do it, and even if taking a shit leaves me whimpering, it can’t be any worse than what would happen if I plumped for change.
Just because I don’t change, doesn’t mean I’m not changing, however. It gets cold in this city, especially in the morning as I’m heading off to work. I remember ten years ago, those halcyon days, stroking my cock to erection and putting it against my thigh to warm myself up.
These days they don’t come so easily. I pretty much need to see a labia to get a hard-on. Sometimes I wonder if there’s a finite number of hard-ons a man gets in a life and whether I’ve wasted mine getting warm in the morning. But I put this out of my mind, not because I realise the idea is stupid, but because I can’t deal with the regret if it’s true. I don’t like to look into that abyss, because that abyss looks into me, too, and, deep down, I know I am where I want to be.
Written on Wednesday, 20 July 2011