Life for lust (Part 1)

Part One

I’m going to do it. Otherwise, I will jump on every human being who looks me in the eyes and smiles or better laughs at me, while I’ll give my whole soul and it would be sucked dry only to be extinguished like a cigarette butt afterwards. I don’t want to enter a relationship like that. Not with the first person who just wants to dive into bed with me, if there would be one.

I want a woman who will suit me, who will understand me, hold me and love me as I will love her. Anyway, that could take a long time before this really happens. The woman I encountered where so far out of reach or troubled by their past, that my good looks only wouldn’t have a chance to change their mind. So, in the meantime, I am going to indulge not my romantic ideals but my lust in the city’s many galleries.

This kind of bullshit haunted throughout my thoughts, because that drive, lust for life or better the life for lust didn’t let go and demanded all my attention. My neanderthal brain of a highly aged adolescent has been thinking only about … that. Yes, I just want that touch, that contact and to go just a little further than, a sweet smile and a “you’re a good listener.” I want to hold, love, and have sex!

‘Roses by dEUS’ screamed loudly throughout my room as I tried to grasp my desires and explain to myself why paying for sexual contact doesn’t hurt.

Meanwhile, my fifteen-year-younger autistic brother, Eugene, was stuck like a gum to my sister, Christine, who did get bored to the bone. They can neither with nor without each other. Two wonderfully complex beings, perhaps more complex than terrible me.

I am their adopted brother, half, my mother remarried. My real dad left us when I was five and my new dad adopted me. And then twelve years later, welcome sister and after her, welcome brother. But neither of them tolerates anything from each other, cat and dog is still too light a phrase to use. So, I sent Eugene to his room, with muted aggression, for it’s always the same. It made me sometimes half mad, and then I hoped the weekend was over soon, so I could flee to my room in Brussels.

dEUS was now screaming even louder through the domestic corridors, if one is allowed to scream, so may I, and I turned up the volume some more.

Silence.

I had solved it. She polished my bike for a fee and he sat down in his favorite chair complaining into my old handheld voice recorder, record after record.

Finally, back to town.

My father drove me to my room at the campus. It is one of the few times my father and I really talk or rather complain about social problems, trying to make comments about people around us in the most cynical way, call it our way of putting social pressures into perspective or just intellectually bullshitting. This kind of “car bound” quietly grew, it felt like two peers, me in a pre-midlife and my father in a similar real midlife crisis. 

But now it was time to have a real father-son conversation about the delicate subject: is it okay to go to a sex worker?