My Failed Saturday Night

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Nothing in this based on an actual person. I do not endorse any kind of harm or violence done to anyone. I am discussing subversive ideas through fiction.


Saturday night was a failure. But was it really?

It was and it wasn’t. It was because I failed to get my hands on the object of my desire. I wasn’t able to scratch my itch- not even with pornography.

The goal of most people on a Saturday night is to scratch their itch so it is not still here on Sunday morning. This makes Sunday more relaxing and the work week ahead less dreadful. A Saturday night where that scratch is not itched,  is a failed night. I am still itchy.

What is the itch for me? It is the desire to have a perverted, sexual experience with a stranger. Few highs are better than the high of a sexual experience with a stranger. Some have talked about this experience as being just as transcendental as an LSD experience can be.

So I am wanting and wanting and wanting and wanting to have this experience. Last night I came close.

My wife was out and I had my house to myself. How wonderful this was. I celebrated my temporary bachelorhood by making myself a steak and potatoes dinner. I played records loud. I smoked a lot of pot. I walked around my house and garden and listened to various sounds.

When I was finished with my dinner and the dishes it was 10pm. Normally by 10pm I am in bed (or close to it) but my desire was keeping me awake. I figured it was Saturday night and I was a bachelor. I should shower, get dressed nicely and have a sexual experience. Why not? It is only one or two nights a week where I feel this free.

I didn’t want to go to a bar and meet a woman. What was the chance I would actually meet someone? Also, I do not want to meet a woman and have to go through all that song and dance in order to get her naked and in my bed doing perverted things. I want to fall in love with a slutty woman and when you are a married man it is always better (and easier) to pay the woman you want to make into your beloved whore.

I also lack the energy or interest in bullshit. When I meet a woman I am direct in saying what I want. I’m not looking for a relationship. I mean we can hang out once or twice a week and talk and get high but I am wanting sexual experiences. Even if you just sit there nude and let me stare and touch you.  Most women these days are terrified of or offended by this. They are looking for a life of banality.

So I went on my computer searching for escorts. I found a few very attractive ones. I sent them texts letting them know how hot I thought they were. We worked out prices. I sent verification pictures of my genitals. Then they asked me for my address and I would panic.

I wanted to do it but what if the escort came to my home and robbed me? What if she killed me? What if she was affiliated with some gang and was getting the low down on my house so someone could later rob me? I have very nice things in my home. I need to be cautious. I didn’t need these potential hassles in my life right now so I told all the escorts I texted with maybe another time.

On-line I found a brothel, a seedy hispanic brothel, 12 miles from my home. I decided to go give it a try. I smoked more pot, finished my craft beer and stuck $150 in my pocket. I wanted to stay home, get in bed and read a book. But I told myself it was Saturday night. I needed to go out in search of a degenerate experience or suburban living was going to turn me into a complete bore.

I got in my 1982 Westfalia camper van, which was freezing cold. It lacks heat so I smoked more pot. I was very stoned and worried effusively about getting pulled over. My white Volkswagen van sticks out. Especially in lesser parts of town. I stick out. Especially in lesser parts of town. I told myself what happens will happen, just try to be cool.

I took my old but still strong and hearty camper van on the freeway. I got it up to 70 miles an hour and felt like I was flying through space. The stove and closets rattled in the back, reminding me that I was driving an old and unstable house on wheels and should slow down. I was too stoned to be driving that fast.

As paranoid as I was, I had the greatest time of my night driving that van at high speeds on the freeway, while stoned. GoogleMaps led me to the location of the brothel and I stopped out front. I turned off my van and sat there in the dark. I wanted to see if anyone else would go in or come out. A few gunshot sounds reminded me I was in the Ontario ghetto. I smoked more pot and wondered if all the girls would be thick and large. I prefer skinny and petite ones.

Do I really want to spend the money? Do I really want to do this? I debated with myself. I smoked more pot and thought about too many things at once. I felt some nerves about walking up to the blue lit door but I realized I had been there before. The women were all heavy-set. Did I really want to take the chance? I could spend that money on records and books.

I always go through this rationalization process before paying for sex. I normally talk myself out of it because I don’t want to spend the money. I tell myself to go masturbate. But I do want to spend the money. I want to have a wild sexual experience with a whore, but each time I talk myself out of it. I am a writer. Not a rich man. I can’t spend that kind of money on sex. It is either books and records or sex for me. I always chose books and records unfortunately.

I decided to drive back home. When I turned my camper van on I received a text from one of the escorts I had texted earlier. She was very cute and young. She agreed to come to my house and spend a half hour with me for $120. I told her I was a writer. That was a deal.

She asked me to send a verification picture of my genitals. She sent me one of hers. I was under stimulated. I am not a fan of female genitals. I am making an effort to get more into them because this is what I am told a man does. Being a man who does not like female genitals is like being old and having an aversion to flowers. It doesn’t make sense.

I told her she would have to give me 15 minutes to get home and then I would send her a picture. She said ok.

I raced home. I drove so fast I missed the freeway entrance. I was spacing out. I was high. I was having a blast driving that van at a moderately high speeds. I was looking forward to having a whore over to my house.

When I got home I did what I needed to do. I took a picture with my pinky in it (as she requested). She said thanks. Then she asked me for my address. I freaked out. She was so hot. I wanted her to come over. I wanted to have a cute little whore in my marital bed. I had the money. The price was right. It was 12am and I was very high. It was the perfect time.

I smoked more pot.

But what if she came over and robbed me? What if she was a police officer and I was to get caught up in a sting operation? It would be terrible to get arrested and have a clan of cops in my house. My house is a sacred space and I didn’t want to invite that kind of trouble in. What if she shot me or poisoned me? I wanted to do it so bad but chickened out. I told her that I was very sorry but maybe another night. She told me to save her number in my phone. I did.

I then felt relieved of everything I feared but had that itch still eating away at me. I opened up my laptop and put some pornography on. I watched very cute girls doing really attractive things. I wished I was there and I orgasmed. This experience was not nearly as exciting as a sexual interaction with a human would have been.

I still itched

My night was a failure. I got in bed and read Brion Gysin’s novel “The Process.” I pulled my small dog up against my side. I read. I smoked more pot. I was happy to be alone. I tried not to think about how I had failed once again. But then I told myself that it was not at all a failure. At least you have a good story to tell. Then I fell into a deep sleep.

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