I am not sure how I feel about the way I behaved this weekend.
A part of me knew, knew before my dazed and drowsy head touched the pillow Saturday morning, that the way I had conducted myself was wrong, but that alone was not cause for great moral trepidation.
People make poor choices all the time, and then, deriving fresh reason from their sullied courses of action, resolve to do better. They don't dwell on misdeeds already done.
What caused me such disquiet was the pleasure I took in committing my offenses and the startling realization that, though I was aware what I had done was immoral, I had every intention of repeating it at the next possible opportunity.
I still do.
In fact, I'm eager to go further.
This streak, emerging seemingly out of nowhere, has left me disturbed and a little afraid, but has simultaneously tickled a dark sensuousness to which I long to surrender. These mere thoughts unsettle my conscience and make me wonder if something of my essence is in peril.
When I was younger I always prided myself on being a good person, but wonder if that was ever true. As a boy I stood in resolute denial of my sexuality, and between being unattracted to girls and denying myself attraction to boys, I had no options.
Now, I suddenly find myself in a situation wherein I am considered quite desirable, and with the wide availability of partners such a status affords all of the past's moral objections have fallen away like a gauze curtain torn from a window.
Were those remonstrances always a function of practicality, or was there ever more to them?
I'm doing things I never would have considered before, with a brazenness that borders on reckless.
Friday night in the club, I approached a cute man I'd been eyeing for some time, stood before his tall form, and looked up into his face dolefully.
He appeared to be between twenty-three and twenty-five, and he laughed at me in the dismissive way that older men sometimes do.
I narrowed my eyes and opened my hands in challenge.
"Do you really not want me?" I asked.
The smile dropped from his face and his eyes widened. He approached me to dance.
I loved the look of fright on his visage, loved how gazes shifted my way from across the dance floor, loved seeing the display of delicious flesh arrayed before me and knowing I could have my pick from its stock, that I could have as many samples as I wished, for prettiness comes in many forms and to taste only one is to abdicate from life. I deplored and adored this at once.
I've not actually had sex yet, but find myself fantasizing about how I might plunge into its depths for the first time. Beside this pounding urge is an inner spirit that decries my depravity, but even as I absorb that criticism I am overcome with pleasure at the notion of being depraved.
This doesn't feel right, but I enjoy it so much.
I don't think I'm a bad person. I don't know what to do.