met a sweet georgia peach.....

a glimpse into the workings of a trip in Mexico..an escape from reality while the reality of my morals are tested.......

I’ll probably never see her again. The sweet Georgia peach whose lips I was within inches of as we grasped to hold each other tighter. For me it was a grasp of understanding, acknowledgement that she was a woman of whom I had gained an understanding. I felt a certain trust existed, and trust, as I had indicated at the pool earlier that day, was the basis of a strong foundation, a tower, the peak of which is the distribution of a family seed. I’ve not known my real father since I was four years of age. I am a child of divorce in a society that condones divorce as a “way out.” And why not? We have free speech. We have the constitutional right to do what we want when we want it, as long as it’s in the realm of civil law. Yet moral law is a free for all. It would have been against my morals to act on temptation, to have shown her that the French indeed do understand love and lust. And yet I’m not of that variety of man. That’s the fcuking struggle. I am not a player in any way shape or form. I can not live with myself knowing that I am the source of strife in another person’s relationship. Nothing good can come from cheating, from giving into temptation.

And yet it could all be bullshit. My morals could lead me to nowhere but solitude. People question whether I have faith. I have faith that I’m making the correct decisions because that’s how I was raised. If a relationship is not working, break it. Move on. Then chase lust for another.

I’m drunk and I’m a mess. I’m unlike others and it seems to have taken a quarter of a lifetime to come to this realization. I want so badly to love and be loved but I’m so afraid. I’m afraid of abandonment. I’m afraid that my love will be trivial to another. That although I work hard to obtain what I lust for in life, I don’t have the gene in my DNA which allows me to throw my brethren under the bus. And I’m always the one going home alone. And I’m always the nice guy, the complicated one who’ll listen to anything they have to say, stand for being accused of being gay, try to provide advice for as many friends I can and expect nothing in return. It’s an odd philosophy in today’s age. Maybe it’s an odd philosophy for any age. Maybe this holding out is all for naught.

How the fcuk am I supposed to figure that out? There has to be a fcuking path. There has to be a way.

I’m fcuking tired,

I want to indulge and play.

What does it feel like to be twenty five? It’s horrible. I’m alone. I work until I’m more fatigued than I could have ever imagined. I make money and yet perpetually chase happiness. I believe in true love and yet search in all the wrong places. I want to understand what it means to be holy and yet I fear cults. I fear mass gatherings of narrow minded people. I want to find the answers on my own, or with my female partner in crime.

“I’d like to give you a piece of advice,” she whispered in his ear, sweat dripping from both their bodies as about fifty gyrating teenagers danced about. His heart was racing, he was nervous, she was sending so many mixed signals that he couldn’t read. It wasn’t as if he had any intentions in meeting her out. Being greeted by the girl he’d grown to know in three short days was all he had hoped for. Seeing her out of the element in which their conversations had flourished was sure to produce some laughs, possibly even some insight into whether she was dangerous on the dancefloor.

He wiped his brow again and again with his search as she began to explain…..
“The guy always leads, a guy should be strong and confident.”

His heart was beginning to race, the anxiety medicine had long worn off. He was a victim of his own racing consciousness. There was no doubting he was strong. Although the indolence of ten days in paradise had set in, the outlines of a former fitness were still visible. Confidence was another story altogether. How could he be confident? Trusting others was the most difficult battle he had fought his entire life. From the young days of his delusional father, verbally abusive grandfather, on through his step father who attempted to help but was only driven to vice from his inability to understand why nothing would help this young boy see the light and change for the better. All his understanding of life was passed on by the women he loved and trusted. He was protective, although almost to the point of being controlled by jealousy. Women were sacred creatures. Men had a tendency to walk all over them, to think they were superior. I’ve seen a similar attitude. Racism. I’m better than you when in all actuality we’re all victims of consequence. Luck may be the residue of good design, but good design is the result of chance, of being born to a healthy family, with a strong gene profile, and enough cash to keep one from falling into poverty.

There exist so many issues in this world that chasing after a woman who’s already contemplating marriage with her boyfriend will produce nothing but frustration.

I was tempted. I’m not sure whether or not I could have made a move.

I didn’t and now I’m writing this letter to no one for no reason whatsoever.

It’s all a bunch of hot air.

It’s my mind on booze.

Timshel…time to choose.