Journal of a Plague Dog
Photo courtesy of Wikipedia
A man, a man true to his appetites, is a slut.
Put down any soiled adjectives you may throw at a woman for her appetites, for the mind of man is more filthy than a spilled septic tank. In every man’s sexual portfolio, there are unspeakable, hidden tales not spoken of, left like an aborted litter of kittens to die in an alley reeking of gin and urine.
I know, because I am one of these things called man.
In my earlier days, I avoided the trappings of sex, perceiving it as a corruption of the mind. I sought to elevate myself beyond my nature, to become a creature that hid beyond the game of hunting which is man. I though it would do me good to resist the smut that swam through my unbedded mind. This resistance–as with all resistance–was futile. The gates were flooded with hot water, and my own denial led me into a time of dubious sexual mishaps, and turned me into a monster for years.
The first of these mishaps was with an older, well-worn harlot, who saw my 21-year-old virginity as a rare delicacy to be savored and devoured. She took her time, and left me with warts on my cock. At the time, I saw these warts as punishment from the gods of chastity, whom I had forsaken. I grieved over my lost innocence and wrote dainty little poems in my tiny black book. I went through a period of alcoholic mourning for my lost purity and tainted cock.
This, however, did not stop me.
As with most of mankind, one taste only encourages more. Even though I made myself hideously drunk and abusive, girls began to gravitate towards me. Not classy girls, mind you, but ugly, wretched girls. I proceeded to bed all manner of strange beasts, in dirty beds and back alleyways, sharing with each of them the gift that that had been given to me by that mysterious older woman: warts.
I became a plague carrier, and was not ashamed. The more I bedded these women, these constructs, the more I became enraged with them. I shared the gift with many women, all beneath my station: the obese, the hideous, the simple-minded. Never seeking out love, only revenge. The only things I did to limit my capacity as a weapon were to stop bathing and working, and drink more. I became a filthy, angry beast, and nothing mattered. It was time of bitterness; I was a very unhappy, sick boy in these dark times.
When the warts were finally burned off and treated, I was left with a clear head and a deep, profound regret for what had happened. I moved to a new city and engaged once again in forced chastity, even though it was this form of self-denial that sank me into cold water in the first place. It lasted for six months until, in a rage of suppressed hormones, I bedded a former friend and current heroine addict, without rubber.
I was furious with myself, and although the tests came in clean, I decided to never engage in chastity again. It is despicable, and contrary to the nature of man. It was this chastity and self-imposed morality that made me into a foolish, evil person. Before you ever consider abstinence for yourself, consider my tale, and consider the possible reaction that denying yourself the fruits of your species may cause. That which is pure one day is corrupt the next.
Henry Foe is a writer of cautionary tales. He has been around a London block or two, and tries his best to steer clear of the dark alleys where madness lies.
