The Intolerable Heights of Human Desire, A Florilegium of Fetishisms, Solitude and Concupiscence
Continuation of: False Achievements Of Lust In Relation To The Petty Heartaches Rooting From The Slightly Depressive Past And Present Countenances And The Overall Appreciation Of Beauty And Burlesque
Now as the guilt consumes the gullible, so too will the conscience. Some people are not made to survive harsh environments where shame and sexualities merge. When the hour strikes that the man already is under the illusion of the woman's grasp, then it becomes a solid victory for the nudist in stage. The neophyte can no longer blame anyone but himself. His actions mark his indiscretions, his flaws and his newfound shamelessness. The ink that haunts him from the back of the succubus' spine is now instilled into his thoughts, haunting him for days before he finally realises the error that was the shame.
He begins to scour for the memories hoping to bring back the ecstasy, browsing through his personal files of that night that does not seem to forget him, or he forget it. Through media and every possible way, he searches, and searches some more, until his body and mind perceives the inadequacies of a still photograph. What would suffice to him would be the actual, solid thing, and now there lies the addiction. The slithering start for a dark metamorphosis of a man in need. His penile machinations fluctuate at every masturbation, his appetite for food driven by his sexual desires to achieve the lust that he once lost. He searches for any possible clue, including a name, a venue, and a date, that he would never have any use for. He suffers and will suffer more. Once time cures the taunting by his mind, he begins to care lesser and lesser, but his soul would always be somewhat incomplete.
The music, the makeup, the cloth she tore apart willingly, the tattoos, whips and cream, those are the things that are negligible at best. But not to this man. A man who has just realised his fetishes considers this sacred and untouchable, and not just by the breasts and the asses that he oh so craved. He dreams of an archetypal hero with a maiden similar to that of his memories. He, of course, is the hero, a compensation for his inability to adjust to the reality. His own personal revenge against himself and against those that inflicted him pleasurable hardships. He traps himself inside his room, a hikikomori, and plans his next move that he doubtfully would comply. He dwells on the guilt of his actions without blaming himself; he considers himself innocent. It was his actions that contributed to his demise. That is the broken man's often-claimed rationale, his defensive manoeuvre. He dwells in wait beneath the shadows with pangs of sorrow. He mysteriously writes, often times poetry about the mistreatments of life in general, and then throws himself into the fray. When the time comes when he steps out that door, he becomes a placeboed man, thinking that he has been cured of all the wrong desires. The man speaks to friends normally and without any cause for attention, but his heart still aches for that moment. Why fool himself? One should ask. Because it is the general consensus of a human to conform to norms, and to stray away from that would be disastrous, doubling up the shame. Man is most individualistic as he is selfish.
When the neophyte finally meets a woman worthy of love, it finally blooms into something else. He sets aside his ghoulish thoughts for the sake of their survival. And he goes on living as living could be, full of warmth, joy and butterflies.But twilight skies give him a reason to reconsider, the bedroom floor cringes at his shaky breath, his teeth gnashes, his hands roll to a fist. The hour of sex that he once deemed so worthy comes to him as a surprise instigator of pain, and he relives the assertive sorrows all over again.