/             i've stopped playing the game...
  never knew, what,
                  the "game" was to begin
                with...
but... as der oll europäisch
that i am...
      american *** culture always
fascinated me...
what i encountered?
was illegal...
   but what i did? wasn't...
   the pristine monetary transparency
of consensus between
adults...
         usher in the snarling...
but... to replace prostitution -
with a striptease,
   and a pornographic **** industry?
that's like replacing psychiatry
with catholic confession booths!
how can you confine
a man's desire...
   to psychiatric, pithy,
    tongue waggling?
or ****-tease within the confines
of a striptease...
  or expect... jerking off to
a pornographic movie...
     anything short...
  of the equivalent of
   the prohibition era stipend
on curbing drunks?
bad, ******* combo...
      no one is going to visit
Amsterdam to smoke the ****...
esp. not the men...
they'll travel to Amsterdam to
****... and not bother feeling
ashamed... when a Puerto Rican
bubbly beauty says:
   i don't mind...
           well... **** me...
    so why am i expected to mind,
to reach some, "respectable"
             public consensus?
whatever is, "bad" about prostitution,
consent...
   is what has been rotting,
      imploding the thespian art...
acting...
                 and some that...
authentically take pleasure in it...
can't exactly act, or rather: fake...
an ******...
   and i've seen one example
where there is genuine pain,
translated into a hushed howling...
an ouw - that ******* version
of ouch...
                 but America can't explain
to me...
       why there's an Amsterdam...
and there is consent...
   and... even if she has a ***** stashed
in her boudoir...
you don't want to use it...
sometimes taking more lips and
tongue to meet her's...
        than actual genitals...
but...
   substituting prostitution...
with ******* and ****-tease
clubs?
   this, very American:
   mind my personal space...
no touching... mentality?
    talk to a Picasso not being able
to play with a canvas...
what will you say?
          paint me a mental picture?!
- and if you don't have
a girlfriend, as a bulgarian *******
might ask,
and you reply:
- no...
                    there is no emotional
depth to the scenario...
there is only, the supreme carnal
act...
     there is no:
let's have coffee tomorrow,
while eating croissants, talking about
the type of music we both like...
i abhor emotional puppetree -
       i'm here for the butcher's bite...
i'm here to tenderize the meat...
draw a tattoo on the soul...
to deviate from the space-temporal
constraints of relationships
and their obvious, ship, and anchor...
               money, not power,
is the only pivot
            for ****** transparency...
what she will "earn", i would have
never spent...
                  i buy time,
i don't buy a body,
  that will, remain, non-binding
        to my other "engagements"...
so yes... i'm "perverted" over details...
the scent of hair...
the eye contact...
   the antithesis of a leather belt
or leather shoes when caressing
an embodiment of in vivo...
   the naked torso,
  the lost obsession with *******...
the leg, the bulging thigh,
wrapped around my stomach...
    the interludes of silence
and absolute curiosity,
   sharing a taste in contradictory
musical tastes...
washing her body in the shower...
saying to not wanting to shower
after the hour: to retain the perfume
of her body on mine:
   like a second, or third encounter,
with a ghost...
      but... the American deviation
from prostitution...
   superseded by *******
and striptease clubs?
     bad combo...
     'look, but don't touch.
touch, but don't taste;
taste, but don't swallow',
you already know it's about
as toxic as masculinity
could be, deprived, as it was,
in the prohibition era...
     yet men who never
entertained services of
prostitutes... will never tell you...
what's lying belly up...
moaning and groaning
on the sediment of civilization.