— A lovely new toast by yours truly.
One of my vanilla flavored colleagues just pulled me aside and asked me to recommend a place where she could buy some kinky sex gear.
“Oh,” I said, “are you planning a halloween outfit?”
She got very serious. As if she were trying to score some street corner smack, she leaned in and whispered, “No. This is for real. I want the good stuff.”
Now I’m mildly concerned, because I have no idea how she would know to ask me about that kind of shit.
I’m standing there in work hair and a blazer, and suddenly I feel like everybody knows that I’m wearing La Perla.
Admittedly, I could have given her three phone numbers to various specialty and high-end custom shops and told her to drop my name if she wanted a discount, but this is the kind of woman who leaves lipstick on her diet coke can.
While I have nothing against her, she’s never seen anything other than my fake smile, and I want to keep it that way.
I told her to go to the Hustler Store on Sunset, and she thanked me like a fucking tourist.
In hindsight, it may have been a mistake.
Sure, the Hustler Store may be the Disneyland teacup ride for me, but now I’m worried that it’s enough to confirm all that bitch’s suspicions.
Everyone has three lives: a public life, a private life, and a secret life.
Updating your resume reflects your public life. The stories you tell about your co-workers over dinner reflect your private life, and the fact that you’re fucking your boss or embezzling money from the company reflects your secret life.
Certain professions get more face time with folks in their secret life. If you’re a lawyer, priest, or prostitute you probably already know what I’m talking about.
I much prefer the secret life, and for whatever reason, people are very comfortable letting me be a part of theirs. Ask anyone who’s watched a sunrise with me, and they’ll admit that I’m pretty much a lawyer, priest, and prostitute all rolled into one.
The secret life is a much more raw and visceral way to experience the human condition. Loyalties run deeper. Friendships are more intimate. People are more honest, even when they’re lying.
The flip side is that betrayals are dangerous. They aren’t just mildly embarrassing. They cause legitimate harm.
In fact, the whole notion of honor among thieves is really just a way of describing the higher standard of integrity required of those who operate in the realm of the secret life.
It’s because of this higher standard that I choose to remain anonymous.
Social media is doing a hell of a job blurring the lines between public and private, but we can all agree that blogging is inherently public.
Personal blogs — when they’re at their very best — share moments that are intensely private, but unless they are anonymous, they can never delve into the secret without causing harm.
I want to cram as much brutal truth into my writing as possible, and I can only do that when I’m free to share experiences from my secret life. Names are omitted to protect the guilty, including mine.
For those of you who’ve been asking, this is why I won’t reveal who I am.
I really like this shot. You can just tell she’s dripping with charisma.
You see a girl like that, and her magic hurts your soul. You know damn well you’re a thoroughbred, but still — she’s a fucking unicorn.
Effortless style. Accessorized perfection. She’s somehow greater than the sum of all those flawless parts, and no doubt she probably shits glitter with a French accent.
You take note of each piece. You take note of each brand. You do the math and stand in front of that dressing room mirror in your mind’s eye only to realize that her outfit wouldn’t make you a unicorn. It’d make you a horse with a designer stick on her head.
My usual move is to bum a smoke from her. That way, I get a closer look at her bag and a little eye contact that tells me whether I can ask her where she shops.
I want this hourglass next to my bed for when I hook up. I’d flip it over, cackle like the wicked witch and say, “this is how long you have to go down on me before I’ll cum!”
Let it roll past your lips — ennui.
Doesn’t it feel good? The word itself is like a tiny cure for the very mood it defines.
Ennui — like Daft Punk, Coco Chanel, and the croissant — is one of those things that the French really nailed. It’s as though mere boredom were too pedestrian, so they defined an existential state that encompasses philosophical apathy and poised detachment.
Ennui is reserved for those with either stunning beauty, exceptional intelligence, or obscene wealth. Literature professors suffer ennui. Runway models suffer ennui. The single mom working the drive-thru window? Well, that bitch is just depressed.
Since I’m about halfway between runway model and fast-food employee, I can go either way. Sometimes I’m just bored and depressed, but sometimes that shit grows hairy armpits and starts smoking clove cigarettes.
Like now, for instance. I’ve got some serious ennui goin’ on.
Bored with sex. Bored with drugs. Bored with friends. I still love all three, but I just don’t feel like getting out of (or into) bed for any of them.
Nothing gives me a thrill at the moment.
It’s a bizarre thing, because I know intellectually that I lead a charmed life. Even emotionally I feel like things are fine. Still, I’m completely numb, as if the knife edge of my pain and pleasure is dull from repeated use.
No orgasms. No head rush. No laughter — and the odd thing is that I’m not upset about it. There are no tears either.
Oh well, it’ll pass soon enough. The fact that I can sit down and write anything at all means I’m coming out of it. I’ll just ride out the holiday weekend with a fake smile, and by this time next week I’ll back on the front lines of all the glitter and madness.
I am wild. I am not crazy. There is a difference.
The stupid can’t see the difference, the inhibited deny the difference, and the authorities just don’t give a fuck about the difference — but the difference is everything.
Wild or crazy. At the extremes of sex, drugs, and rock and roll — anything worth doing, really — you’ll find only these two flavors. They are the chocolate and vanilla of passion. The yin and yang of sin.
Wild explores. Crazy escapes.
Wild is beautiful. Crazy is broken.
Wild seeks enlightenment. Crazy seeks annihilation.
Know the difference. Be aware of the difference. Embrace wild, and send crazy packing.
Savor a savage fuck. Sample a heroic dose. Enjoy any raw and filthy moment of human vulnerability your heart desires, but always ask yourself: are you consciously seeking enlightenment or are you seeking to annihilate your consciousness?
If you don’t know the answer, get the fuck out of the room.
If you’re trying to escape, stop what you’re doing. Get help.
If you’re trying to explore, smile with your soul and take every inch of the experience as deeply as you possibly can.
And no matter what, don’t fucking judge — blowing a fat line of cocaine off a rock hard cock in a Vegas bathroom can be just as valid an exploration of consciousness as dropping acid in the desert with a tantric drum circle of naked hippies.
You don’t need to be burning incense for it to qualify as a religious experience.
You don’t even need a god.
All you need is a brain and a battle-cry:
Bitch, be wild. Don’t be crazy.
“Police have distributed ten “cocaine torches” to neighborhood policing teams and drug squads in the west of the county. Shone on noses and mouths, they show minute traces of cocaine which might be invisible to the naked eye. Anyone suspected of using the drug will be searched by officers and prosecuted if necessary.“
Oh, great. The cops in Britain finally saw that episode of CSI from, like, ten years ago. You know what else shows up under UV light? Semen. How about we shine that little narc lamp on your Freddie Mercury mustache, officer? I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.
This isn’t decadent. This is stupid.
Never dump your whole stash on the mirror all at once. That’s how a coke-whore feeding frenzy becomes a trip to the emergency room before the pool closes.
And what’s with all the costume jewelry and that cell phone? Did somebody rob Vanilla Ice? Seriously, check the voicemail on that cracker-jack prize, I’ll bet there’s a threatening message from Suge Knight.
And what have I told you bitches about setting your drinks near the blow? Actually, get that fur out of there too. I once watched a porn star spill an eight ball all over her chihuahua. You haven’t partied until you’ve watched a gaggle of sex workers lick cocaine out of dog fur.