Descártate solito

I get into his house and everything goes as planned. I probably want things to end fast. I want the security of repeated actions, the tricks that always work, the words that turn people on. So, he helps me. He helps me get rid of my clothes and I complete the task without grace. I even order my clothes since I don't like putting them on after picking them from the floor. No. There's no such hunger for lust this time. This is proper and neat sex. Old school. Adopting traditional postures, a must.

Afterwards, I reflect on the memories that are puked by my brain. I know it loves ruminating about one-night stands. Funnily enough, my neurons make connections among my way of getting naked and onions and choices we make in life and children and spontaneity. And I know, (oh, God!) I do know that I could play this game endlessly. I could make a trademark of repeated behaviour and laugh with Pavlov about stimuli and responses. But. Craving for more is what pushes me forward and drawing conclusions about the fact of trying and trying again makes a habit of itself. Learning about life implies dancing within a spiral. For... what else can you do? What would I do if I didn't try again? What would I do if I didn't trust yet another man after listening to whatever he has to say? That is your story, boy. And mine is one of repetition.

Repetition will explode itself in a twist of novelty and upper levels of consciousness.