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I’m sick. Gravely ill, actually. And it’s not due to alcohol withdrawal after my recent 40-day bender overseas……. recovered from that debauchery in one week…… or a sexual disease I may (hopefully not) have picked up in Asia. The travel bug has bit. Real bad. Not unusual, I know. Most travellers return home, weary and lusting for the excitement travel offers in all its weird and wonderful forms. The soulless office work routine has even the chirpy shuddering with a grimace.
Holiday Blues, it’s called.
But for me, after a series of misguided adventures traversing the Baltic woods through to the Oriental tropics, it is so much more than the aforementioned “holiday blues”.
I’ve been thinking long and hard recently. What is the meaning of life? Work 40 hours a week chained to your desk, save for a ridiculous mortgage, buy a flash car, get hitched and if luck follows have some spare change for grog, smokes or vices that take your fancy?
Or is there scope to flush normality down the gurgler? Can one become a nomad? An adventurer abandoning life’s convention and scrutiny to experience the world’s richness and wonders. Sounds easy, doesn’t it? Quit work, travel overseas and let the good times roll.
Not so easily, in fact.
To be continued……
Part five: Sydney mystique
People are everywhere. It’s a sure sign of a thriving metropolis, something I’m slightly unaccustomed to living in twilight zone Perth. Energy is abounding in all directions, folk seem to have a purpose, rolling with the punches. While Perthites meander, Sydneysiders arrogantly bustle with a strut befitting inhabitants of a global city.
Sydney has an unenviable reputation in the West. I can’t quite put my finger on exactly why but I think it can be traced to small man syndrome. Just like the little man’s inferiority complex, Perth has a small abundance of self confidence and feels overwhelmed by Sydney.
Perthites, however have embraced Melbourne, probably because of its cultural diversity, a way of life severely lacking in Perth. Opposites attract. But Sydney is reminiscent of Perth. The beaches, sprawling suburbs and picturesque views. Just on a MUCH larger scale. And without the conservatism of the wild West.
A popular criticism in the rebuttal of Sydney is the snobbery of its inhabitants. I fail to see it. Worldwide, there is a viewpoint that larger cities breed arrogance. Nope. I didn’t experience it in New York, London or Sydney.
I’ve never lived in Sydney but have fallen in love with the place. Not the aesthetics so much, although it is one of the most beautiful cities I’ve visited, but it probably stems down to losing a sense of morality. It’s the same old drill – get really pissed, eventually kicked out of a sleazy club by a Kings Cross bouncer, and end up on an episode of Underbelly. Just like old times!
And tonight would be no different. Guaranteed craziness. The type I could only dream about in Perth. Even at the start of a night out back home there was always the inevitable prospect of defeat. It is like a crummy sports team biding time, going through the emotions destined to lose
But being a tourist amid a bustling city brought out the best in my inner demons. No longer did the dark specter of defeat hang over me. I was free to run wild. No-one knows me in this city. Actually, no-one gives two shits about me. No cold looks or odd glances. It was time to run amok in Sydney. One….two….three….game time
What is it about hoes?
Tiger……Hugh Grant…….Charlie Sheen………Me. It’s our common vice. We’re flawed beings with an unhealthy penchant for skanks. We can’t get enough of that grubby filth despite the sleazy surrounds, forbidden connotations and let’s be honest – the crummy sex.
Maybe it’s different for Tiger and Tiger Blood forking out $10,000 an escort. Money talks. But for humble ol’ me, I’m not even allowed the pleasure of kissing, licking and unprotected sex. Ok, maybe it’s for the best but you get my drift. Sex sucks. It is watered down and unless you luck out with a sex fiend, the prostitute is simply doing it for the money.
Fair enough. The typical worker gives a half arse effort in their job, why should prostitutes be any different. But $$ex is passionless and after the initial tender thrust (the period of vulnerability when you are scared shitless of premature ejaculation) feels like banging air.
Jacking off is more effective. I’m not trying to sound crass but their flaps are loose. Because it’s their job. It’s no different to a mechanic’s permanent charcoal hands.
I’ve done six in as many weeks. Only comed twiced. Not a good ratio. Admittedly I’ve been off my head for each instance but I’m not aware of alcohol causing lack of libido.
So you must think I’m insane. Why do it? I know, I know…..what you are thinking. No I can get action without paying for it. I’m no Brad Pitt but I’ve had my fair share of scores cost free.
But there’s something about the sleazy side of smut. There’s an allure. I’ve been tempted by prostitutes in the past. Orchard Towers in Singapore was one hell of a place seeking sexual desires. But I still couldn’t consign myself to relieving hard earned dosh for sex. I wouldn’t let my dick do all the talking.
But I finally cracked last year. I visited a brothel for work purposes (it’s true, darn it). I didn’t go through with the business but the temptation tipped me over the edge. A few months of resisting the urge failed. It is liberating living on the edge.
Venturing to the whorehouse is like hopping on a rollercoaster. The lead up is masked by anxiety and fear but the aftermath follows unbridled ecstasy kick-started by adrenalin rivalling any drug high.
It is a scary thing going to an unknown brothel. Is this place safe? Is it owned by gangsters? Will it be raided by police while I’m in the midst of cracking? Will I be setup? Will someone recognise me? These are the questions that wreck the brain.
The heart pounds and the body quivers with trepidation every time I approach the compound. Yet I love that feeling. I was never destined to be an athlete but I can imagine the emotion similar on match day. A deadly combination of adrenaline and anxiety. It’s no wonder sport stars can’t retire on top (no pun intended).
Why do people love Vegas? Because it’s Sin City. Remember when mum said don’t touch the hot stove? What did you do? Touched the damn stove.
That is the fundamental reason I believe these mega stars engage in this trash. Of course they can tap action. They can have the hottest and most desirable women fantasies are made of it. But there is no danger. Prostitutes fill in the gap. It is give and take. Bad sex but adrenalin kick.
But every vice has its limits. And breaking point.
I just hope I don’t spiral into addiction……
I have a question. Name an Australian sports writer you follow religiously? Someone to hang off every word, who provides you with an almost unhealthy dose of anticipation and excitement in waiting for their next musings. A long lost soul mate you never knew existed
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Part Two: Who would have thought?
Ebden had no qualities that I could see that would have taken him off the scrap yard. He sure better have a back up plan in life because he was not destined to be a professional player. He was 19 when he won the tournament, ancient by tennis standards where it is not uncommon for players to have won multiple grand slams by that age. He did not have an imposing physique – modest height and slightly emaciated. Even his demeanour did not smack of look at me
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Comment by Anonymous
on NBA Jam Tuesday - 1
sportsgonzo