What did I do Birthday Night? Oh yes -- we ate early enough that I decided that I was depressed and deserved to go to go to the gym and then the strip club. I made sure to wear my porno pants so that when I was done exercising I could take off my underwear and go to the SC au naturale.
Think another person was there using some of the equipment, so I had time to drink some coffee. Then I went to the stripclub and got a dance from one of my All-Time Favorites, who just happened to be there. For some reason she was a hell of a lot friskier than before, letting me take her non-pierced nipple into her mouth and grabbing my hard dick through my pants. I hope she could tell I was naked underneath me pants. Maybe this will lead to something more, something better. I had to tell her the truth and come out as a birthday boy, and she kissed me, gently, on the cheek and slapped my ass on her way to her dressing room.
That was my birthday gift to myself: a lapdance from a stripper. For a long time that's been the only thing that has made me truly happy, paying beautiful women to get naked in front of me and, maybe, do naughty things to me. For that to continue I need money, and I am rapidly running out of that. But I still think work is beneath me. What to do?
Maybe I should be having better problems to worry about than that, or at least different ones. I'm square in the middle of middle age and the questions bedeviling me around this time are, when can I show my dick to a stripper again, and who's going to win the tournament? Sometimes I feel that those are the best questions to face; other times I feel so pathetic that my world has come down to that.
I understand that things have to change, but I really, really don't want them to. Yet with each single passing birthday I have to continue to think about it. It's like My Fucking Father asking me, "What's your planning? What are you going to do your whole life? You won job mei?" Except that he no longer has to ask those questions (although he does). Every March 17 amounts to a yearly performance review. And every single time I come up short in the categories of growth, direction, confidence and achievement. I fail, therefore I cannot be promoted.
Do I want to grow up? I'll have to, like it or not. And I don't. But I won't, not as long as I can stay safe, secure, and uncompromising in my belief that this life sucks and is unfair, and that work will be nothing except a daily ritual in degradation and humiliation, and that living by yourself in the Real World is a crapshoot where there is little to gain for your supposed independence.
No. I think I'm doing the right thing. Just looking for the next small score, looking for the next handjob fix. That's how I'll live. And it's just as good as any other way of living.
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