The Bad Flasher

The Meatpacking District, Then

I’ll write more about the Meatpacking District, and the two sex clubs I used to frequent there, later in this journal. I’m posting this because I am feeling a renewed interest in my past activities.

I’m wondering if this interest is a false positive; a reaction to my recollections last night and today of time spent in the Meatpacking District. Is it only because I began this journal that I feel the way I do, and so, accordingly, am aware of my past activities after several years of inactivity, and months of new anti-social undertakings?

I sit here wondering if I have the capability to do the anti-social things I once did again? Do I want to do them again? If I answer affirmatively to both questions, I wonder, will I go out? I also wonder why I would go, and why, after so long of not “going”, I’d even wish to again.

Going Out

That expression – “go out” – is what I used to call my nightly excursions. I haven’t used it for at least two years in this context, and there it is. It just slipped out of me naturally, like my semen. That’s interesting, ’cause the term “going out,” to me, means going out into public to commit crimes of perverted sexual natures.

I’d ask out loud inside my apartment in the old days, “So, are you gonna go out tonight?’ And then, I’d answer out loud back: “Well, let’s check the…” and with a conscious flex to my brain’s darker regions, I’d begin an accounting of my requirements for a night out roaming.

Did I have enough time to eat dinner, bathe, relax, plan and get high? Did I have enough money, or would I need to go to an ATM? What was the weather forecast? Did I have cigarettes, or would I need to buy some? Did I have to work in the morning? What night of the week was it? What was the date? Did I have pantyhose? Where did I want to go? What did I want to do? Did I feel ‘the need’? How did I feel physically? What had I promised myself about tonight? What had I promised any number of prostitutes, Dominatrix or phone sex girls I was in relation with?

What a Mess

I used to really make a night of it back then. Now, if I go out, I know it’s more for a cigarette or a walk around my block for fresh air before bed than those nights in the old days when I’d go out for hours at a time to stalk women.  Then, in those ‘old days’, it was four hours of at-home prep, on average, a night, followed by four to six hours on the streets and subways of Manhattan trying to get women, and only women, to see me dressed in girls underwear, or, in nothing at all.

What a mess.