I’m sitting in a train as I write this. There’s a girl sitting right across from me. In better times her perfume would have kickstarted the old boogywoogy way down there in my loins. Now? A tiny uproar, a gladiator lifting himself up, once more, trying to muster strength for that one last blow, once more up into the breach. But no strength is coming. The impulse peters out before it really got momentum. The girl is visibly annoyed. Doesn’t know why she is annoyed. It’s the negative, desperate vibes I’m sending her. Unwillingly. Inevitably. Women are very attuned to men’s inner workings. And my latest inner workings turn them off faster than you can switch off a light-bulb.

My nervous system is unravelling. I’m not half the man I used to be. Not even a quarter. The women I drank like cocktails, I can’t lift to my lips any more. Their beauty still registers, but I can’t be bothered.

I used to be opinionated, slightly daring, looking to shock. Shock and awe. Arrogance to polarize. Polarize shifts the women you meet. You turn them on or you turn them off. No time to waste. Polarize. Escalate. Ejaculate. Even if they menstruate. By any means necessary. Even dime rhyme poetry. Maybe it was only a self-image. And now I have no more mortar to fill the cracks that pop up quicker with every beautiful woman I pass on, any opportunity to voice my opinion, any occasion to be more than just a sponge of impressions.

I’ve left a desert in my path. A desert running through me. I feel parched inside. My whole value system has come crumbling down.

I’m ready to confess.

I do not repent the sins.

I repent that the sins left me with…

so little.

So very little.

Only enough to fill one slender book.

With carnal solace.

But wait, there is hope.


Just maybe.

I can be born again.

Born in the one woman that makes any further hunting ludicrous.

Instead of spending my money on a good therapist, I’ve spent most of mine on women.

The result is the same.

They have built me up, to break me down.

And now I look for a renaissance in the arms of one of them, quite possibly the last one.

Here are some of the women that I met on my manic Icarus path.