Know Thyself

The saying "Know thyself" may refer by extension to the ideal of understanding human behavior, morals, and thought, because ultimately to understand oneself is to understand other humans as well. However, the ancient Greek philosophers thought that no man can ever comprehend the human spirit and thought thoroughly, so it would have been almost inconceivable to know oneself fully. Therefore, the saying may refer to a less ambitious ideal, such as knowing one's own habits, morals, temperament, ability to control anger, and other aspects of human behavior that we struggle with on a daily basis. – Quoted from Wikipedia

I love the place. I love the seedy stale semen smell of it. I love the ugly brute guarding the front door like it was the Temple of Delphi, like it was full of noble, nubile virgins ripe and waiting for Apollo to come down and fill them with his godly seed. I love the way the brute beats me up with a glance every time I come to ‘do business’. I love the way he bunches his arms and shows off his biceps to remind me, again, he could clearly rip me limb from limb. I love the look in his eyes that says he would enjoy every second of such an activity.

I love the greasy-haired, tattooed and pierced punk working behind the counter with his ‘oh, no, not you again’ looks and his abject ignorance. I love the way he slaps down the sticky brass coins with the name of some defunct games arcade on them, having first been handed a note from my wallet (the sign above his head said ‘Minimum $10 purchase’, which guarantees the punters will be in a booth long enough to at least see naked tits). I love the way he never says anything, but speaks judgemental volumes from his kohl-rimmed eyes.

I love every single one of the girls working there; the washed out blonde who performs like a robot; the cute-as-a-button brunette who smiles through clenched teeth but never opens her mouth; the lovely redhead who looks as though she enjoys herself as much as the I do; the Asian pixie-girl who always presses herself up against the glass so I can pretend I’m touching her; the hard-faced Slavic beauty who constantly watches my hands.

I love their pouting, petulant lips; their trembling, tight, tanned thighs; their muscled back, dimpled bums, be-jewelled navels, slender necks and delicate wrists. I would love their souls as well if they let me look long enough into their eyes. These elusively dart away every time I try to catch them. I don’t mind though. I know the girls aren’t behind the glass for love. They are there for the other great aphrodisiac: money.

Most of all, I love to watch. I love to watch as they strip out of their sexy, sleazy, sequined skins to their true selves beneath. I love watching out for any new needle marks or bruises where there should be love bites and passion scratches. I love watching them touch themselves; I love watching them masturbate with fingers and hands and dildos and vibrators. I love watching them pretend to come over and over. The pretence doesn’t matter to me. I just love to watch, wanking into free tissues with one hand while slowly feeding coins into the slot with the other so I won’t miss a second of action.

I always try to time my orgasm so that it occurs as I feed the last few coins into the slot. The girls all know me better than any lover I’ve ever had and moan loudly and grind appropriately when they see me nearing my climax. This only serves to bring me even closer, no matter how much I try to hold off. I absolutely love the look of sheer delight on the girl’s faces as I grunt and groan and bring forth la petite mort.

Once I complete finish wringing the last of my death out, my mood quickly changes. I despise the way the shutter bangs down with unrequited finality. I loathe the sound of the girls behind the glass getting redressed and primping for the next customer. I detest the smell of my fresh juices in the tiny room. I can’t wait to get out of this hellhole, this snug of sordid salaciousness and home to where I can fully indulge my shame and disgust.

As I walk back to the exit, I catch the punk’s putrid, shit-coloured eyes. He knows not to mess with me now. Although I can see a hidden smirk behind his lips, he also knows better to not bring it out in front of me. I abhor the knowledge of that smirk and knowing he’ll be sharing it over a cigarette with one of the girls once I’m gone.

I deplore the way the ugly brute holds the door open for me and gives me a little wave as I pass by. I want to stab him in the neck with a look and let he fall to the ground where I can kick him in the face. I want to beat him handsome, tear the biceps off his arms and jump all over his muscled frame.

I hate the way the world seems dulled, washed out and lonesome. I detest the noise of life around me and just want it all to end. But what I hate more than anything, with more passion than I’ve ever loved anything or anyone, are the girls themselves. Every one of those girls is just the sort who wouldn’t look at me twice on the street. They make me feel degraded and bitter and envious of their vigour, vitality and voraciousness. The only way I’d ever get the chance to fuck them is with a wad of cash and no kissing on the lips.

My hate forms around me, knowing and comfortable. I walk the seedy streets, avoiding the scum junkies, the loud-mouthed touts, the drunken school boys and the gaggles of giggling girls gathered around sex shop windows. I slip underground into the hard unforgiving fluorescent light of the train station, sit by myself and count off the time as it ticks over on the digital clock above the platform number. I shiver as I wait, not because I’m cold or fevered or coming down. I shiver because of the delicious irony I am feeling. I love and I hate everything equally. But like everything, it is all in the timing.