For some of us, the darkness of night falls and we get lost. We become terrified of the things in which we cannot see, the things we must see within ourselves, and especially the things we hear that we'd otherwise be too distracted to notice any other time.
This is what it is like when we first begin to research ourselves. You know that fear of the doctor the very first time you get tested for sexually transmitted infections? That's what it feels like every day you decide to introspectively look into yourself, as if what you will find out is something you never wanted to know.
I suppose, then, that is why so few people ever actually take the time in doing so. It is far easier to go the rest of your life without that dreaded doctor's visit, but the only way to know for certain that you're not contaminating someone else is to either not have sex at all or go for the check up.
Sure, having that cotton swab shoved down your dick hole hurts the first couple times, but you probably thought that it was just going to be a matter of shooting your piss into a cup anyway. And yeah, while you're looking back on all those slutty fun times you had you are probably sweating bullets - that one time the condom ripped, the girl's name you forgot to get because you were too drunk to care and the headache you had upon waking up to her naked body didn't invoke the kind of emotions that rendered those words upon the tongue. Maybe she had already escaped out the door before you awake to the blade of the sun in your eyes.
Coming out of the other side to find out that you're clean, though, proves that those experiences are stories worthy of the scar from where that one girl stabbed you in the side because she thought you were kinkier than you really were, and of course you went with it all because she was climaxing a great deal more than you thought she was capable of, just like how the knife went a bit deeper than she anticipated. Still, the scar is a permanent visual tell of a tale worth telling - at least to those worth telling it to.
Realizing that it all interlinks is the first step, of course. It could happen at your favorite restaurant. Maybe it is your favorite restaurant because it became your escape from the passing of a family member that particularly struck a deep and sensitive kind of pain, and it was the first experience with such things. One minute you're tasting the delights of some oriental food, the next your sifting through the darkness of your mind to remember, oh yes, the whole reason you stepped foot into this place is because your sister passed away from a car accident. You had no taste for Chinese food before that, but it was different, looked quiet, and was secluded away from everyone you knew who would be talking to you about it to look like the perfect place. Without a care of the wasted money spent, you ordered a random menu item and now, years later, you've come to love the place as a kind of extra appendage that has become more functional than the originals.
It is terrifying to see those connections, though. They can paint the ugliest of pictures. Perhaps they paint the most beautiful, but we seldom know until we roll up our sleeves and trudge through the dark, scary, mucky swamp of why we are the way we are. It can, for some pretty obvious reasons, lead to a craze, but to put it into perspective, how is it any crazier than spending a hundred dollars on a pair of pants simply because a law states that we need clothes in order to be decent and you've decided that spending extra money on something to cover your legs, ass and genitals makes you somehow different than a person who spends twenty on something that, inherently, does the same thing.
-Dustin S. Stover
Kindle: Happiness in a Void of Darkness
Nook: Happiness in a Void of Darkness
This is what it is like when we first begin to research ourselves. You know that fear of the doctor the very first time you get tested for sexually transmitted infections? That's what it feels like every day you decide to introspectively look into yourself, as if what you will find out is something you never wanted to know.
I suppose, then, that is why so few people ever actually take the time in doing so. It is far easier to go the rest of your life without that dreaded doctor's visit, but the only way to know for certain that you're not contaminating someone else is to either not have sex at all or go for the check up.
Sure, having that cotton swab shoved down your dick hole hurts the first couple times, but you probably thought that it was just going to be a matter of shooting your piss into a cup anyway. And yeah, while you're looking back on all those slutty fun times you had you are probably sweating bullets - that one time the condom ripped, the girl's name you forgot to get because you were too drunk to care and the headache you had upon waking up to her naked body didn't invoke the kind of emotions that rendered those words upon the tongue. Maybe she had already escaped out the door before you awake to the blade of the sun in your eyes.
Coming out of the other side to find out that you're clean, though, proves that those experiences are stories worthy of the scar from where that one girl stabbed you in the side because she thought you were kinkier than you really were, and of course you went with it all because she was climaxing a great deal more than you thought she was capable of, just like how the knife went a bit deeper than she anticipated. Still, the scar is a permanent visual tell of a tale worth telling - at least to those worth telling it to.
Realizing that it all interlinks is the first step, of course. It could happen at your favorite restaurant. Maybe it is your favorite restaurant because it became your escape from the passing of a family member that particularly struck a deep and sensitive kind of pain, and it was the first experience with such things. One minute you're tasting the delights of some oriental food, the next your sifting through the darkness of your mind to remember, oh yes, the whole reason you stepped foot into this place is because your sister passed away from a car accident. You had no taste for Chinese food before that, but it was different, looked quiet, and was secluded away from everyone you knew who would be talking to you about it to look like the perfect place. Without a care of the wasted money spent, you ordered a random menu item and now, years later, you've come to love the place as a kind of extra appendage that has become more functional than the originals.
It is terrifying to see those connections, though. They can paint the ugliest of pictures. Perhaps they paint the most beautiful, but we seldom know until we roll up our sleeves and trudge through the dark, scary, mucky swamp of why we are the way we are. It can, for some pretty obvious reasons, lead to a craze, but to put it into perspective, how is it any crazier than spending a hundred dollars on a pair of pants simply because a law states that we need clothes in order to be decent and you've decided that spending extra money on something to cover your legs, ass and genitals makes you somehow different than a person who spends twenty on something that, inherently, does the same thing.
-Dustin S. Stover
Kindle: Happiness in a Void of Darkness
Nook: Happiness in a Void of Darkness
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