Clayton's mind had been preoccupied with sex since time immemorial - the passing of a boy through puberty and into manhood no longer celebrated with any sort of formal ritual - and while not significantly intensifying through his early twenties' preoccupation with bourbon and weed, he certainly was not suffering from its (the booze and pot's) narcotizing apathy, libido-wise, as he had hoped. His daily life generally would put him into contact with a significant number of attractive, young, nubile women of all sorts of fashons and races, of creeds and cliques. As an educated man of his day, steeped in Political Correctness and other such emasculating nonsense(1), he occasionally felt a twinge of guilt when his first thought upon glancing at a girl tended more toward imagining, in details hastily and frighteningly quick in their appearance, how she would look performing oral service on him than noticing the sad, distant look in her eyes and wondering what hurt her so, rather than summoning a modicum of human decency and speaking to her, asking her if she was ok and did she need a hug or could he buy her a cup of coffee so she could vent.
Of course, soon enough, the guilt passed, and he was back to summoning new sordid details of their imagined tryst. How long, how hard, how pink or purple her nipples, the ariolas of the same or different shade, wide in their berth around or barely encircling them, textured with bumps or smooth and thin like tissue paper sealing the center of a breast whose dimensions should be easily enough deduced, although brasierre technology is quite advanced in this day and age. Wondering how they would sit on her chest in various positions: below him, with her knees pressed against; riding him in the manner of a cowboy riding a horse, heaving and falling in tempos from molto grave to prestissimo; from the rear, swinging like a pendulum, shuddering and quaking, ripples radiating outward in the pond of her flesh with the pebble fall of the impact of pelvises.
Due to circumstances mostly beyond his own control, and despite desperate clawing attempts to disavow himself of the idea, he was also preoccupied with his own mortality, and how best to expidite the process. He wasn't any longer contemplating suicide on any serious level, and his death wish didn't take the form of a persistent and omnipresent obsession bordering on the pathological. He didn't ponder whether shotgun or belt in the way he pondered shaved or unshaved. Instead, it took the form of a sort of weak nihilism, or maybe an overindulgence: driving too fast, running stop signs and lights, drinking until blacking out, smoking cigarettes, taking any pill offered to him. It was rather like being in a large room with but one candle illuminating; the darkness eveloping you even when the candle burns its brightest, and consuming you when a draft would scatter the flame, but most of all it makes one feel very alone, and very aware of how alone you are.
Mostly despite these feelings [although in moments of weakness he would readily admit that it was perhaps because of them, the author's opinion is that these are basically two sides of the same coin, and so what is important is that the feelings of aloneness are tied to his relationship troubles, and not whether it is to satiate or to spite the feelings], he had of late rabidly pursued committed(2), monogamous(3) relationships in hope of finding a love, and not merely a lover. Of course, the desperation with which he pursued this assured him of thinking every bit of tail he was able to somehow connive into becoming a notch on his bedpost and was still willing to talk to him the next day was his one true love that he had been seeking, so desperately. None were, of course. Even while searching out the next one that would surely fuck him over, he began to wonder: Is love just another way to slowly kill yourself? Perhaps those most desperate for love and to be loved are doomed to remain always desperate for it.
NOTES AND ERRATA
(1)emasculating used here not as a literal removal of testes of a man, but for the removal of the essence of Man(kind), esp. the free communication thereof.
(2)at least he usually was.
(3)well, he tried.