Amsterdam Fifty-Five: The Pleasures of Cruelty

I biked south to De Pijp under gray skies in the morning, riding wherever my whim took me. I passed streets I did not know. I didn’t know where I was half the time and I somehow would up in Amsterdamse Bos through the most bizarre trek I had ever made in Amsetrdam. This excusrions was my longest by far. I had only ever ventured further south by train, but this was different because I saw so much more on side streets from the twentieth century and even a few places that were under construction, twenty-first century building in a timeless city.

Still, there were bike paths everywhere, though it took some doing to figure out where and how to cross major expressways. Doing so required ventures into other previously unknown neighborhoods, each far more residential that the city to the north. There were pockets of shops here and there, much more conducive to motorized traffic and parking. A disappointment for me, but even so these areas were more bicycle and pedestrian friendly than most places in the U.S. I crossed a few roads that provided train stops; public transportation was available. 

After a couple months in the older areas of the city these newer developments seemed exotic. They weren’t as architecturally interesting and the street layouts didn’t have the intoxicating urban designs of the city center, but taken together the diversity added something to the city. Had there not been bike lanes everywhere my perceptions would have differed. I probably would not have even discovered these places without them.

While some hills would have been nice to exercise different muscles while biking it was easier to cover long distances in a relatively short time due to the flatness. Even this far south there were some architectural wonders, often office buildings, some shaped like large eight- or twelve-story spacecrafts. Occasionally, I would come across one and the style matched none of the buildings around at all. In a less dramatic way, it reminded me of the Pompidou in Paris, a Borg cube that had landed in the midst of seventeenth or eighteenth century architecture. Some called the monstrosity ugly, but I found the stark contrasts of style, technology, and architecturally identifiable timeframes mind-boggling. I couldn’t wrap my head around such phenomena because the effects were so unlike anything else I could reference from any other part of the world. The effects in Amsterdam had less of an impact, but they still excited me.

Amsterdamse Bos was a massive urban park. I biked all over and occasionally parked to walk hiking trails. This was a taste of nature I hadn’t had since being in the Northwestern United States. This was different, of course, being so flat, having such easy-to-ride trails, and completely different trees and fauna. Still, it was a break from the city in sight, sound, and smell. I left the park after an hour of roaming then gradually made my way back to the canal ring, stopping on the way at a café for a broodje, coffee, and plenty of water.

I wound up around Leidseplein and continued on to Kerkstraat, turning toward my apartment. Not far down the street I saw the smart shop and remembered the comic book store was near. I parked my bike, locked it, and walked inside. I wandered around the stacks and found a section that was essentially horror-related. I flipped through several zines and comics. The art was cool. I never fully understood why, but I liked darker art, particularly in sketches. With paintings it was usually the opposite. I liked explosions of bright colors. I had yet to visit the Van Gogh Museum this visit and knew I needed to end my neglect. During my time in the store, I focused on the artwork displayed in books, zines, and comics.

I stumbled on a book called 100 Artists See Satan. The cover art wasn’t disturbing in the least, just a black pentagram against a red background. The title, though, intrigued me. I flipped through the pages. Most of the images were disappointing, but there were some that bordered on gruesome. The book, overall, would have been a failure, but one image stuck out. It was a photograph, possibly photo-shopped but it was hard to tell, of the Golden Gate Bridge taken from a hillside high to the north and west. There was an image of a demon or devil, red-bodied and naked, with a single horn coming out of its head. The body looked human. It was possible that a person used body paint and some type of home-made horn on the shaved skull, but the eyes were so dead, so wicked, that I was disturbed—and excited. It took a lot to disturb me so this was, in many ways, a pleasure. It looked so damn real and I could easily imagine evil making itself known in such a form in any environment that suggested wickedness was present. After all, what could me more disturbing than a human being other than a whole slew of them?

In Richmond, Chevron had a refinery and it pumped out toxins day and night like a devil exhaling sulfur. There were steel mills and refineries along the flats of the East Bay—when I lived in Berkeley I passed by them and I left the bathroom window open every night for the cool night air. In the mornings I would wipe the thick black film that had settled overnight from the white windowsill. Nothing can create grime and toxins like humans. So a devil on a Marin County hillside overlooking the bridge and the bay made sense to me. The realism of the image struck me most, though. I could feel its presence even more starkly than I saw it.

I felt disoriented being so enraptured by that image. I was disturbed, but in a way that made me feel energized. To an extent, I think I felt that way because someone else got it, they understood that the world was filled with cruel intentions. The devil as an image, even one created so well, was less frightening than oil refineries or massive cattle concentration camps. California’s central valley was more disturbing on those fronts than any other place I had seen. Add the maximum security prisons as well as the poverty and the central valley was just a foot or two from hell. Inland California smog was sometimes so thick I had to pull over on the side of the road because I couldn’t see. Once, a crop duster spraying poisonous pesticides buzzed over the top of my car only fifty feet above and I put the car in gear even though I couldn't see. I didn't want to take the risk of breathing the poison dust into my lungs. I couldn’t open the vents, couldn’t open the windows … I saw Satan right there, and Satan was a white haze of smog, dust, and pesticides. The smell of twenty-thousand head of cattle mashed together in a square mile gave off an odor that made me wish for sulfur. Being in that environment for more than a half hour caused headaches, blurred vision, nausea, and difficulty breathing. Yet, people lived there their whole lives, farming there and working in refineries. If the place kept going like that I expected a new humanoid species to evolve that thrived in poison.

I took the book to the man sitting behind the counter. He was reading the day’s newspaper and looked bored. I put the book on the counter and pulled out my wallet. The man closed his paper and looked at the book. “So, you’re a Satanist, huh?” I had an impulse to laugh, but I said with a straight face, “Yes, I am.” His eyebrows went up. “Hmmm …” He stood up and shook a finger at me. I watched his face come to life. “I have something that might interest you, something that is not so … pedestrian.” The glint in his eye was almost sadistic yet, again, I was excited. He walked around the counter and opened a curtain to an area of the store not for customers. He motioned for me to follow him.

“Hold on one minute.” He walked toward another curtain, pulled it back, walked through, and the curtain fell back into place. I heard his voice. “I don’t keep this book in the store for general sale, but I believe you will find it interesting.” There was another man in the back area; whether he worked there or not, I didn’t know. He was strange looking, disheveled, creepy. He looked like he had performed many roles throughout life: manning glory holes at smut shops, wearing gags and black leather-faced masks while being led around on a leash by strangers at rape clubs, and conversing with ten-year-old children on Internet chat sites. He was fiercely disgusting, wore an unbuttoned short-sleeve shirt exposing his protruding belly, the type of bloated belly seen on malnourished children in Ethiopia, and sagging skin over xylophone ribs. His shirt was stained and there were marks and sores on his skin. When he straightened his arms I saw puffy redness and dark purple spots in the pits of his elbows, hallmarks of needle usage. Heroin, meth, speedballs?

I didn’t know and didn’t want to know. Hell, I didn’t want to look at him, but I couldn’t turn away. He was looking at me the whole time I was looking at him, his hair sticking up all over the place, greasy and seemingly hardened, like it had been weeks since he had showered. It smelled like he hadn’t either, but I couldn’t tell if it was just the smell of the musty room. Something approximating a smile was stuck on his face. His teeth were crud-caked and a couple were missing. His eyes had the largest black circles under them I had ever seen and that made his bugged out eyes look even creepier. A photo of this guy in 100 Artists See Satan would have blown away every other image, including the Golden Gate Bridge devil. I wasn’t disturbed by him; I was nauseated. There was no thrill in seeing him and for the first time in eons I was frightened while being completely sober. I could have snapped him like a twig, but that wasn’t the point. I was in physical proximity to a guy who presumably worked as a cum-cleaner at a smut shop by day and by night shot heroin while being brutally raped as he molested a child. Chills went up my spine.

Had he done any of those things? Maybe, maybe not. But I could see the creep in him when the shopkeeper came back into the room with the book. He said something in Dutch to “freakshow” and the freak cackled like a madman, his eyes bugging out even more. He walked over to me as the shopkeeper approached. Fuck. The shopkeeper had an intelligence about him and I was concerned by his association with the other man. Maybe freakshow was his Pulp Fiction “Gimp.” With a gleam in his eye, the shopkeeper handed me a book that had a plastic sleeve around it. He said, “Prepare yourself.” The title was in French, translated as The History of Cruelty. The cover was a collage of sepia and black-and-white images cobbled together to form the most horrifying image I had ever seen.

I was transfixed. I forgot the other two were in the room until I heard them laugh. The shopkeeper said to me, “I think you like this, huh?” I looked at him, shocked, and merely nodded. How could I like this? Images of men in gas masks and hazmat suits connecting tubes to the orifices of an infant whose intestines were being removed by a doctor who had a gun pointed at his head by a Nazi soldier whose penis was penetrating the eye socket of a screaming woman who was being urinated on by a Klansman with a white hood. Other women with disfigured faces and limbs were being clubbed bloody by an assembly line of automated hammering devices until they plummeted into a meat grinder, the meat flowing out in strands into a child’s mouth being held open with sharp metal hooks on chains attached to a bulldozer pushing corpses into a mass grave. All of these images were cobbled together, real photos from newspapers, magazines, historical books, government documents (official seals of various governments were evident).

That was just the cover. The image itself gave me goose bumps, but the images were obviously real and the artist had truly put together a collage of the history of cruelty. Amazingly creative and, discomfiting as it was, it was not the artist who was malignant, but the human beings who had done these things. Yes, the artist was creative in linking up images, but each separate image was fucked up in its own right. Pasted together they were a condemnation of humanity. Yet, I couldn’t look away.

I asked the shopkeeper if the book was for sale. He threw his head back and laughed. When he looked back at me, his mouth agape, he said, “You really are a Satanist, aren’t you?” He chuckled then said, “Yes, it is for sale. I carry very few copies because it is, let’s say, not for the squeamish. That is why I keep it back here.” The Gimp said to me, “You like it, right?” I didn’t know what to say. “Yes” was not true, but neither was “no.” I said, “I think it’s the most accurate depiction of history I've ever seen.” The Gimp practically salivated. The company I was keeping now.

I asked the shopkeeper if I could leaf through the book. Page after page of images of sexual brutality, mass murder, medical experimentation, radiation poisoning, racism, slavery, torture, and more. Astounding. I couldn’t get over it. When I handed it back to the shopkeeper I was quivering, whether from horror or delight I couldn’t tell. I was freaked out by my reaction to the book even more than the book itself. One thing I desperately wanted to do was get away from the Gimp so I walked through to the main area of the shop. The shopkeeper followed behind me after saying something in Dutch to the Gimp. The Gimp cackled again and a noise followed that made me think he had cum while shitting his pants.

The shopkeeper walked around the counter and rang up both books, looking me over quizzically. He said, “100 Artists See Satan isn’t in the same class. Are you sure you want it?” I picked up the book and flipped it to the page with the devil on the hill overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge. He nodded and said, “Ah, okay. Yes, that is quite a picture.” He put the books in a sack and seemed to be waiting for me to say something. I realized how absurd the situation was and said, “I was really just looking for a couple of good coffee table books today.” The shopkeeper laughed. “Oh, I'm sure they'll be a big hit with your friends.” I smiled and turned to leave. I heard him snickering, “Coffee table books,” as I walked out the door.

I unlocked my bike and as I got underway toward my apartment, I wondered about the experience. “That was fucking bizarre!” A haphazard interest in a book somehow turned into a scene from a Quentin Tarantino movie. What freaked me more was how electrified I was by violent and cruel images. It was a split—no, more than a split, a multitude of fragmented reactions. Abhorrent while being exultant, divine while being nauseating. I thought of my own history of violence, everything I had witnessed and the mix of emotions I had always had in violent and malicious situations. I had to entertain the possibility that within me was something that craved that which frightened and terrorized others. Perhaps Paulette had been right in some way when she commented on my sketches.

The rush of cruelty may exist within each human or, perhaps, just in those of us who had been exposed to terror and torture early and often. I had been a victim, a witness, and a perpetrator. Most often I was observer. Being a victim seemed to lead to becoming a perpetrator. I thought, to some extent, that turning the tables might be a means to recover a sense of self, confidence, to avoid remaining a victim. But that was early in life; I had found healthier ways to climb out of victimhood into helpful participatory activities and even leadership roles for the benefit of others. I benefited as well because those actions healed wounds.

Still, this latent passion for hatred and cruelty puzzled me. Why should it exist? I had read Nietzsche’s Genealogy of Morals long ago, at least parts of it, and I remembered how distressed I became reading about his comments on cruelty. I rejected the case he made not on any critical grounds, but because I found it personally distasteful and it went against my belief system. However, there was little denying that so-called “primitive” cultures celebrated cruelty as a sublime pleasure. And Nietzsche had illustrated that princely weddings and public festivals inevitably included executions and torture. His idea that seeing others suffer takes a backseat only to making others suffer was hard to take, but if I really examined my past there was truth in that perspective. I had witnessed so many different types of violence, from verbal to physical, and in the right settings it was like watching a spectacle being performed for my benefit.

There were specific incidents that had engendered pleasure. Watching a friend of mine repeatedly bash another’s face with a garbage can lid created something akin to ecstasy within me. All of my senses were heightened: the sounds, the sight of the vicious and aggressive movement, the cheering of the enthusiastic crowd, watching fellow high school students, both boys and girls, interlocking arms to prevent security guards from getting through to break up the fight, the crackle of fists striking faces, the groans of pain, and the roars of domination, victory, all of these combined to send surges of energy through my body. For hours after that event I was in a state of raw energy, unable to concentrate because of my emotional intensity. Sitting in a classroom after that was … excruciating. Nothing happened, a droning nothing, studies of others who had lived moments fully.

In all of this, Nietzsche had been right. I had ignored my past even when I first read what Nietzsche had written. How blinded I had been to my own reality, moralities that had been ingrained prevented me from seeing my reactions as pleasure. And yet, there was not only pleasure. I was also awed in some conscious way, especially by the interlocking of arms to keep the security guards from stopping the brutality. I saw humanity in its most visceral form. I didn’t make judgments, I just marveled at the viciousness of these people I had seen day after day in classes, seemingly harmless, typical students who, at what I thought was their worst, gossiped way too much about him or her. But in those moments, the prom queen was interlocking arms with a stoner who was interlocking arms with a nerdy math whiz. Every class and clique of individuals had within them the same hunger to not just witness violence, but to maintain the conditions in which it unfolded.

Judging by how pumped up I was and many of those in the class that followed who had also witnessed the event, it was clear that each of us had, in some way, landed the crushing blow ourselves. I talked with a few who were so jacked up they wanted to start something with someone, anyone. They wanted to fight—no, they wanted to hurt someone and stand over them as the person screamed in pain, to feel the rush of total power over another. The more I thought about this, the more convinced I became that every person, under the right circumstances, could become a lover of cruelty.

I locked my bike outside the apartment and went inside. It was mid-afternoon. I made a snack and continued thinking about cruelty, about Nietzsche. He described humanity as prey to religious thinking even in secular and economic practices, a morality of putting off living for the sake of tomorrow as just another version of waiting until after death to live in God’s glory. To love the moment as an artist, a creator, was a Dionysian delight, a conscious act of will, a coming alive to commune with the sublime, a realization of living, the transcendence of the traps of morality. A hunger for cruelty was but one pleasure of humanity; to deny the evidence of “natural” pleasures that conflicted with morality was to live in the dark. The ugly truths needed to be viewed with eyes wide open or risk becoming a slave to that which lurked beneath awareness; better to confront reality and believe in the power of one’s will, however discomforting it might be to look into the abyss. According to Nietzsche, freedom was an act of courage because it meant becoming responsible for oneself rather than allowing the dictates of society or any other external body to rule one’s life, one’s thoughts and beliefs, one’s will.

As I ate, I realized that the living process I was practicing was an act of putting Nietzsche’s ideas into practice. I was liberating myself from the moralities I had internalized as “mine.” My suffering was created mostly by failing to live up to ideals which were never my own. I found joy in self-direction, play, creativity, spontaneity, reflection, meditation, adventurousness, exploration, friendship, inebriation, and sex. A Dionysian life, maybe, or perhaps Epicurean. No matter the label, I was exercising my will and creating my own path. By examining my fascination with images of cruelty, the emotions they provoked, I “looked into the abyss.” What I found was not a lurking evil, but a connection with my own humanity and insight into how I was living my life. None of this required me to act violently or to celebrate violence as an end in itself; instead, I took another step toward liberation on this winding path I was forming.

I took a couple puffs of hash and as I put down my dugout I saw my notepad. “Che, De Peper, 7:00.” Fuck! I was seeing Che in the evening. If I hadn't smoked the hash I wouldn't have seen the note. Che. I hadn't thought about her for a while. I needed to clear my head and get ready to see her. I saw an image of her in my head, the odd mixture of colorful clothing. Whatever was within me that was jacked up from the pleasures of cruelty were calming in my daydreams of Che crossing the bridge. 

Amsterdam Fifty-Four: Meditations

Drinking while shrooming provided an interesting effect. The alcohol mitigated the psychedelic effects tremendously while still allowing the mind to be wildly creative, emotions to be more intense, and sensory experiences heightened. Energy levels were lower, but still pronounced, enough to allow a person to imbibe more alcohol than one normally would without having the effects of being drunk. In a way, it was similar to how cocaine worked with alcohol. A person could drink a shitload of alcohol and still remain socially and otherwise functional; in fact, the alcohol tempered the shrooms enough to be more easily social while still having “out there” experiences.

The real problem with this arose the following day. Even foo-foo drinks, if you consume enough of them, created a hellacious hangover. That was the case when I began waking the next morning. I felt like I had been buried alive under ten thousand pounds of grimy sludge. I didn’t want to open my eyes. Even with my eyes closed the light in the room was brutal. I pulled a pillow over my head to darken everything. This helped the sharp pain of the blinding light, but not the bed spins I was still experiencing. I threw a leg over the side of the bed, a trick my dad taught me the first time I came home drunk as a teenager.

I caught hell the next day, but at least he waited until the hangover mostly passed. He had been there so he was incredibly cool about it all. Gotta love a dad who helps you through your first drunk with affection and care before being somberly straight about the dangers inherent with getting drunk at fourteen years old. Made an impression and I respected how he handled the situation. A nice surprise to gain greater respect for a parent in a situation in which I had fucked up. Love like that, the allowance for me to self-correct, to be respected and guided gently but effectively after such an incident, changed my perspective on many things in life. Fucking up can be good for a kid, but it depends on how parents handle the situation. I was more open and honest with him about things after that and we became closer as a result.

On this morning two decades later I simply felt like shit. I wanted to get up and drink water, use the bathroom, take half a bottle of migraine medicine, and smoke a bowl of pot, but doing any of those things would require movement and staying as still as possible was the only thing keeping me from experiencing even greater pain. After a few minutes, though, I remembered Sabina. Fuck! I made myself remove the pillow, open my eyes just a sliver, and turn to where she had been sleeping. The bed was empty.

Well, shit. I didn’t know if she was still in the apartment or if she had left. Now I had to get up. Oh, the pain, like screws being drilled into my skull with a power drill, and nausea that felt as bad as being on a life raft in a stormy sea. I managed to stand and walk into the living room. I was naked, too fucked up to care. She wasn’t in the bathroom nor the living room. I walked to the kitchen and she wasn’t there, either. She had left. I grabbed a glass and downed a few glasses of water, a few acetaminophen tablets, and went back to the bedroom to put on some shorts and a t-shirt. As I returned to the living room, I saw a note on the dining table. “Michael, tried to wake you, but you wouldn’t budge. Have to leave because of my flight. Last night was … wow. You are so sexy—and sexual! Here’s my number in case you’re ever in New York: … Kisses, Sabina.”

Reading that temporarily took away some of the sting of the hangover. I thought about the night before and remembered all of it … except for how I fell asleep. I went to the bathroom and splashed water on my face then to the bedroom again. I saw two used condoms that I had apparently tossed onto my pants on the floor. I disposed of them, using a paper towel to pick them up. Ah, day-after-sex fun. My headache was roaring again, all that movement, all that thinking. I went to the couch and loaded a bowl. I finished off a bud and loaded another, knowing I would eventually need it. Thank you, Mother Nature, for the weed of wonder, the hangover helper. I had just enough energy to have a cigarette, but halfway through I realized that was a bad idea. I took another puff from the pipe then lied down. I slowly drifted off to sleep, a hangover pot nap.

I spent the rest of the day in and out of naps, smoking pot and an occasional cigarette, drinking lots of water and juice, eating a couple frozen meals and a little fruit. It was a miserable day except for the moments of reflection on the previous night. Those memories made me feel dreamy and I wished like hell that Sabina hadn’t flown back to New York. Would have been nice to have had a fling rather than a one-night stand. Nevertheless, at least I’d had a connection with a passionate, fun, and intelligent woman—without paying for it. I realized it had been about a year. It also dawned on me that I had gone longer without sex even before meeting Vanessa than I had since I was in high school. I had completely forgotten what it was like to meet a woman on equal terms with a genuinely mutual attraction building naturally. There were many ways to experience fulfillment, but none compared to connecting with a person intellectually, emotionally, and physically. Relationships, at their best, provided just such complex and fulfilling intimacy daily. The creativity involved in those connections were more fulfilling, for me, than drawing, performing, friendship connections (because of the comparable absence physical intimacy), hard-earned achievements such as writing a novel, achieving a degree, or entrepreneurial feats. Even helping others who were suffering or saving another person’s life—which I had done on a few occasions—were not as fulfilling.

Shrooms, though, were simply different. Fulfilling in an entirely different way—when doing them as I had done them. They provided a fulfillment within that was intellectual, emotional, and physical, a personal synthesis that created an intraconnectedness that rivaled connections with others. The beautiful thing about creating a synthesis while alone was that it seemed to fill the same needs as a synthesis with another person. The real beauty of it was that nothing within needed to be sacrificed to accommodate another’s needs in a long-term relationship.

I had achieved states like this only a few times in life previously, most notably for a few months after college when I was mostly on my own and without any social life at all. I found something within through long hours of prayer and meditation day after day. I’d had no guidance. One night I had simply wept, uncontrollably, for several hours. I had felt empty, lonely, utterly alone, and filled with despair. My college life was nearly over, I had only three credits to finish for an undergraduate thesis offered in the spring, several months ahead, and I had no plan for the future, I didn’t know where I fit in society at all, and I really didn’t know what to do next. Nothing possible within the work world appealed to me and all I saw was a long life of droning nothingness until death. Wasting eight to ten or more hours per day doing something like sales, public relations, industrial design, or any other possibility filled me with dread. I longed for social connection and there were no jobs that provided that; jobs were about productivity and profitability, not making meaningful connections with other people based on the commonality of being human with all the joys and sufferings entailed. The world looked ugly to me and I had no place in it.

After sobbing for so long, though, I seemed to let out something that had been blocking me from within, disconnecting me from myself. It was not just emotional; it was also physical. I gagged and heaved and a yellowish goo hacked out of my mouth, oozed and dangled. Looking back, I could possibly say that I had released vile toxins within me. The effect emotionally and intellectually was a clearing of the fog, a disappearance of loneliness and aloneness, a tender but powerful love … for myself. I forgave myself for feeling miserable and for beating myself up for somehow failing in life in some way. I had internalized messages of success, what it meant to be happy in a society that valued work, status, looks, and money above all else. There had been nothing substantive on a human level related to those things and the emptiness I had felt was due to my pursuit or failure to achieve in those realms to the degree I thought I should or needed. If I was not the best then I was … a failure. How that had become ingrained in me I couldn’t pinpoint, but it was there.

I had the luxury of not having to work for a few months as I stayed with my parents waiting for the next semester to begin. They went off to work every day and, after that night of release, I spent anywhere for four to eight hours every day kneeling or sitting in prayer and meditation, clearing my mind of all verbal thought, of all distractions, focused only on silencing everything externally and internally. It took some time to get used to the practice, but even from the beginning I was incredibly disciplined and dedicated. I might sit for an hour without successfully attaining silence and even though there was frustration I continued to sit or kneel. Eventually the world and I would disappear and experiences of peace, total relaxation, an absence of desires and needs, and often a quiet feeling of love composed of kindness, care, and humility arose to replace individuality and identity. In these moments, I loved not just who I was but the suffering being I had been. The aftereffects of my meditations gradually led to a deeper love of my parents, my brother, my friends (who were not present), and all of humanity in a nonspecific way. My love of humanity stemmed from an acknowledgment and understanding that even the most successful and the most vile suffered in some ways (or possibly even constantly at some level).

As the time neared to return to college to finish my degree I had serious reservations about going back. I was concerned that I would not be able to maintain this newfound way of living. I had lived a wild lifestyle in college and had a hell of a lot of friends who partied a lot, lived adventurously, and I wondered how I would maintain the seclusion I needed to meditate for hours each day while living in a big house with five other guys who liked to throw giant parties three or four nights a week, the house filled with hundreds of other students and who knows who else. That was partially how we paid rent and, really, one of the ways we had fun and hooked up with women. If I fell back into that lifestyle I wondered if I would ever regain the way of living that had proved so beautiful and fulfilling. I didn't have other living arrangements available so I was going to have to try to make the best of the situation while living there.

Naturally, I fell back into the lifestyle. Not completely, but enough that I got out of the routines I had established. The wildness of activity and euphoric emotional thrills replaced the calm and peace. It wasn’t unfulfilling to live adventurously with roadtrips to strange places doing strange things, including dropping copious amounts of LSD, getting high, doing coke, and hooking up with women; however, I noticed the emptiness within during the few times I had time alone. Having only three credits, one course of study, gave me ample free time to live as wildly as possible. I justified living that way because it was my last semester of college--when would I ever be able to live that way again?

Eventually that semester, though, I met the woman I would marry years later. My relationship with her changed things and pretty much assured I would never fully return to that life of silent meditation and self-directed inner fulfillment as long as I was with her. There were other benefits to the relationship, of course, fulfilling in their own ways, but an integral discovery of how to live well and build a powerful and secure inner core was lost.

I discovered Amsterdam through that relationship, though. Our honeymoon to Europe opened my eyes to how different cultures lived and I saw how much more balanced and fulfilling life was there compared to the United States. Perhaps it wouldn’t be for everyone, but the cultures within France and Holland, in particular, stuck out to me as far better ways of living, a way to find a home within myself while also being at home in the world.

Now in Amsterdam, the shrooms were waking long lost ways of living, introducing me to a more balanced way of living where I could work, connect with friends, contemplate, reflect, find inner sanctuary, create and play, and dynamically change who I was into the person I was becoming. It still wasn’t clear where these changes were leading and I didn’t want to direct my life toward a specific outcome. Living the process was the way. That was evident because I was satisfying needs and desires. Once again, as it primarily had been the whole of my life, I had to find my own way, to guide myself through the unknown and figure out how to live. But Amsterdam, the shrooms, and my new friendships were providing guidance in indirect ways. I was attentively observing even as I participated and what I was learning gave me clues about how to incorporate new perspectives and ways of living into my daily life.

I was struck by this at times, by what I was doing. I’d had no intention of living this way when I first decided to go to Amsterdam. I couldn't have even imagined a life like the one I was living was possible. Even when I first started shrooming with the idea that I was on a vision quest, I didn’t know what that meant or what I would discover. In a matter of weeks, I had radically transformed my outlook and my way of living, my willingness to play and create a result of a strengthening inner core of confidence transforming my life into a work of art, a way of fulfillment, a transcendence of the mundane into the improvement and expansion of mental, emotional, and physical health and well-being within a culture that promoted this approach far better than the America that had trapped me most of my life—although I had to acknowledge that I was taking advantage of the resources available everywhere and using them for specific purposes even if those purposes were not always consciously chosen. It was a mix of directed action and unpredictable spontaneity. Again, a balance.

These thoughts, reflections, and realizations didn’t synthesize all at once or even throughout the day. They had come slowly over time, parts of them fluttering upward from within, discoveries of puzzle pieces to be fit into a developing design, one that even with this degree of synthesis was far from complete—and was likely to be ongoing over the course of my life. For the day, though, I appreciated the insights and wondered how the beginnings of wisdom could arise on a dreary day of hangover even if it had followed a night of spontaneously playful and intimate passion.

Twas the Night before Christmas

Twas the Night before Christmas

And all across the world

Mothers were frightened

Their fingers were curled

Children were locked up

Under their beds

Because Santa was coming

To lop off their heads

Fathers were banging

Nails in the doors

Still they were worried

He'd come through the floors

A fire in the chimney

Might hold him back

But there was no knowing

What he had in his sack

Santa was a devil

They all knew for sure

An evil from which

There was no known cure

He had stolen and raped

Spread disease in his wake

He tortured and murdered

Baked a child in a cake

For mama and papa

No one was worse

What had they done

To deserve such a curse

Later in the evening

And late in the night

Parents were weeping

Overwhelmed by fright

Nothing more could be done

But to wait and wait

Yet all of them feared

That it was too late

Santa would find them

It would be no trouble

He had demons besides

Performing as his double

What had they forgotten

The windows, of course

It was time to board them

Dad hammering with force

Mom and pop became sleepy

As the the hour drew near

Into bed they went

As they had every year

That's when it happened

Santa's sleigh did arrive

Not a creature was stirring

At least none alive

Down the chimney he came

Sitting comfortably in the fire

Laughing to himself

Filling a salacious desire

Through windows came reindeer

The boards couldn't hold

Their antlers too powerful

Made from souls that'd been sold

In the living room they gathered

The elves as well

Santa gave a speech

Send them to Hell!

Through the house they scampered

Looking for a kid

It never mattered

How well they hid

They found them in cupboards

Hiding under the bed

They gathered them together

So Old Nick could be fed

Santa took the children

Eaten one by one

He made the parents watch

Until he was done

To the next house they went

With time standing still

Each child that was eaten

Gave Santa a thrill

The reindeer were provided

A few toes to munch

And for the elves

A liver for lunch

When Santa was done

And the night became morn

Christmas day began

Leaving parents forlorn

Amsterdam Fifty-Three: Sabina

“I just discovered that in my past three lives I’ve been a thistle trampled by a herd of buffalo, a dung beetle inadvertently crushed under the shoe of the philosopher Lin Yutang, and a monk who flagellated himself daily for twenty-seven years before dying of polio. I’ve put in the time, woman. This life is supposed to be the one where I really nail it. This is the big one, the one all my other lives are going to be talking about when they get together at company picnics.”

The woman sitting next to me, Sabina, nodded her head in amusement. “Is this how you normally hit on women? You buy them a drink and dish out gibberish? Don’t get me wrong, it’s original. Effective?—”

Before she finished her thought I said, “Look, I’m shrooming. Hard. I’m on my way to peaking. It’s a wonder I’m able to speak with all those bumbling bees flying around your head dripping honey all over you. It’s strange, like a music video from the 80s, somehow appropriate but unrelated to anything." I stared above her head then said, "What was I talking about?"

Sabina shook her head, took a drink, and appeared to be enthralled. That or disgusted. I couldn’t tell. There was fucking honey all over. Those damn bees! Now they were orange driblets and pink ribbons. “Wow, that’s so cool.” Sabina looked back at me, her eyes squinting. I said, “Never mind. Look, what I told you earlier about my past lives? I learned this earlier today from a very special woman who reads palms, talks with the dead, predicts the future, levitates, gyrates, and translocates. She screams, whispers, and squirms then she feasts, crawls, and sleeps. When I showed up at her apartment today she answered the door dressed in Wonder Woman Underoos. Her face was painted like a tiger and she pawed at me while roaring. I asked her if she could help me with an existential crisis. She licked my cheek.”

Sabina laughed helplessly. Others in the café looked over. “Oh my God. Okay, I believe you. You’re shrooming, I get it.”

“Well, finally! I thought it was obvious with all the lemon drops and candy corn falling from the ceiling.” I took a drink from a glass filled with a multitude of colors, finishing it off. “Do you want to know more about how my existential palm reading went?”

Sabina nodded her head, smiling. “Oh, absolutely. I love a good palm reading. You want another drink? Whatever the hell that was?” It was the drink that first got her attention. I was at De Huyschkaemer, a trendy bar on Utrechtsestraat. How I had gotten there I could barely remember. I ate shrooms intending to chill, but something made me get dressed up and head out into the wild. I think I was heading to a club, but I saw the lights from Huyschkaemer and couldn’t resist. I sat at the bar ordering a slew of colorful drinks. Imbibing colors made more sense than anything else. Who doesn’t want a rainbow in their belly?

“Is the question ‘what do I want’ related to the drink you’re buying me or are you asking a wide-open question? I’d prefer to answer the latter, but in case you’re asking the former I’ll have another Quick f-u-c-k.” Sabina’s eyes widened. “Excuse me?” Oh. “Um, that’s the drink. It’s a shot of Bailey’s, Midori, and Dooleys. But now that I think about it I want a Ditchhiker.” Sabina stared at me. “What?" I explained. "I tried to become a bartender after I got separated a couple years ago. I thought it would be a good way to meet women. I just ended up getting drunk on a lot of foo-foo drinks. They’re colorful, like drinking tubes of paint. I feel like I swallowed Jackson Pollack."

Sabina broke into a smile. “You’re out there. Funny, clever, but way out there.” She smirked and said, “I’ll buy you the drink, whatever the hell it is—” I interrupted, “A Ditchhiker.” Sabina moved to the empty seat between us and said, “Fine, whatever, I’ll get the drink, but first tell me what you really want. You wanted to answer the ‘wide-open question’ so …” Sabina leaned into me a little and put her hand on my thigh. Her eyes were wickedly sexy now and she seemed to me like a panther in heat. I breathed in the scent of her perfume and said to her, before I could stop myself, “Your perfume doesn’t mask your heat, woman.” Sabina pulled back but left her hand on my thigh. “Damn, you are … I—” She couldn’t finish her sentence. She pulled her hand away from my thigh. I saw her face was flush. Fuck. I tried to keep myself from laughing, but I couldn’t.

I had been in the bar before she came inside and sat down. I had already had three multicolored drinks by then and had grown roots in the bar chair. The bartender was at first too cool to bother with me until he felt how big my tips were. After that, he hovered near me as much as possible, smiling a big ol' smile, actin' the whore. He sucked as a whore. I might not have known he sucked at it had I never met Vanessa. Compared to her, every other whore in every other line of work came across as pitiful. I thought she should quit her job and teach whores like this guy how to make a person swoon. He was doing it all wrong, letting me be the boss whenever I threw money around. Make me want you, brother, make me believe you can't be bought. The more I thought of it, Vanessa wasn't a whore at all. She would never sink so low as to pander for money. She knew she was the shit and if you didn't like it then see you later. Everyone needed to take lessons on how to be yourself at all times. She was a good teacher. The lessons stuck with me and now I was becoming the shit.

When Sabina first sat down I looked over at her with surprise—another human being! She removed her long black coat revealing a lavender-gray sweater that had a heerlijk design, some sort of over-under curls of fabric creating an open neck and layered coverage of her breasts before cutting in tightly around her stomach and flaring at her waist. The pants looked like any business casual woman’s pants, grayish, nicely cut, uninteresting to shrooming eyes except for the curves.

I didn’t linger on her as my drink was so colorful and had barked at me to pay attention. I obliged. But when I heard her voice speaking English, lovely, an American accent with a hint of British, I turned to ask her if she was from the U.S. “New York. I’m here for a conference. Well, was. Today was the last day.” Oh. I said, “Well, that sounds boring. Not New York, the conference.” She laughed and said as much. Then she nearly destroyed me with details about it. I cut her off finally, about to lose my mind in the minutiae of a life I never wanted to live. “You know, when I said it was boring, I meant the conference. Telling me more about the conference does not make it less boring.” Then I laughed, almost falling off my seat. “Holy fuck, that was rude! I couldn’t help myself. You seem nice, very pretty, and I like your sweater and your dark wavy hair. Your lips are liquidy, not too red, but sharper than pink. I like that. They're the same color as one of the drinks I ordered earlier.”

That began the conversation. For some reason, she didn’t just grab her drink and walk away. She remained in her seat and I introduced myself as Michael and she said her name was Sabina. After that, I led the conversation, telling her that until I said something boring she didn’t get to choose topics of conversation. “I’m not trying to be a jerk. I’m just saying you whiffed when you first stepped up to the plate. Understandable, you were at a bore-fest all week, but that’s over and now you’re here sitting next to a master storyteller. I got tales, woman. Brilliant tales that will give your ears orgasms. I’m not going to allow you to ruin your last night in Amsterdam reminiscing about the conference. You’ll have all the time in the world for that back in Toledo … or New York. Whatever.”

When I stopped laughing about Sabina's heat and looked over at her, she appeared ready to move back to her original seat. I said, “No, no, it’s the shrooms. I like your scent. It’s like lilacs and dandelions … or maybe that’s my drink. I can’t tell. I certainly didn’t want you to move your hand away, though. That I can say with the utmost certainty. My knees are still wobbly.”

I lightened my mood and dropped down to tender. I softened my eyes and smiled kindly. “I could sit here and talk with you for the rest of my life.” As I said this I realized my voice was almost childlike. “I’m having fun. With you. You’re sweet. And sexy. And you have a little bit of a British accent.” Sabina was no longer blushing. She looked radiant, her face glowing, her dark hair shrouding like the mane of a wild cat. Her eyes were chocolate and I said, “Mooi.” Sabina blinked an eye smile and said, with allure, “Oh, you think so? Well ... thank you." She paused and her twinkle disappeared. "Yes, I’m British." I was surprised. “You barely have an accent at all. Your English sounds mostly American.” She nodded, “I went to college in the U.S. and never left. So, yeah, my English is probably more American than British.” Hmmm. “Whatever you’re doing just keep doing it. An angel’s playing a harp in your throat and she flutters the strings whenever you speak.”

Sabina gestured dismissively. “Are you always like this or is this the shrooms?” I shook my head. “There’s a hardly difference any more. I’m on a vision quest.” Sabina wrinkled her nose, “A vision quest? Do you live here in Amsterdam?” I thought I had made that clear. “Yeah. Didn’t I tell you that?” She said, “No, you said you were from Chicago.” Oh. “Well, I’m not from Chicago, I lived there recently, but now I’m living here. Shrooming. Figuring out who I am in this world and whether the world is worthy of me.” Sabina laughed freely, drooping her head as she bent over slightly, and slapped her hand on my knee. She let it linger and as she raised her head her hand slid up my thigh. Damn, her eyes looked dreamy—like she was in a dream.

Sabina took a few breaths and caught the bartender’s eye. Then she looked back at me to ask what I wanted. "A Ditchhiker." The bartender raised his eyebrows quizzically. “It’s served in a highball, equal parts vodka, blue curacao, peach liqueur, and topped off with orange juice … and a lime. I think. Give that a try, anyway.” Tipping him well had been such a good idea. No way was he going to put up with me without getting paid. Fucking whore.

As I felt Sabina’s hand warm my thigh, I tried to figure out if I had been hitting on her. I didn’t think so, at least not originally. I was somewhere beyond Neptune, but I kept orbiting back around her and each time I did her atmosphere seemed more inviting, a planet conducive to my form of life. Sabina whipped her head around, her hair swishing by my face. She leaned in closer to me without my notice and asked, “Your vision questing, what does that involve? Shrooming and more shrooming.” I nodded. “Yeah. I’m peeling back the layers to rid my mind of indoctrination and open my heart to beauty, exploring ways of being in the world, creating a process for living well, optimizing my sensory experiences through attentiveness and awareness, streamlining thought, expanding my emotional range, learning how to play while discovering what I value most.” I looked into her eyes, turned my torso toward her, leaned into her so close my nose was touching hers, and said, “So that I don’t miss moments like this.” I kissed her lips, sweetly, almost no pressure, only the slightest of movement.

When I pulled back I licked my lips and said, “Strawberries. Mmm.” Sabina giggled. “You are so … different. I did not expect to meet you tonight.” Her hand was still on my thigh and I moved mine on top of hers. “Hell, no one expects to meet me. I just happen to people and they either freak out or move in closer. Why, what did you expect?” She shook her head. “Nothing, really. Just walk around the canals, stop to have a drink or two, relax and enjoy. I went to a club last night and had a great time, but I wanted a night to myself, enjoy a romantic evening with myself. The city is so beautiful at night.” I nodded. “So eloquent. Being able to be romantic with yourself is rare. Earned rather than born with. You chose a good area to walk, canal ring. As romantic as it gets.” She smiled. “Yes.” She sighed a little as I took a drink of the Ditchhiker the bartender had delivered. “Do you have an apartment here?” I nearly spit out the drink. Whoa. My heart jacked up and I tried to slow it down. “Yeah, I do. It’s down the block and around the corner. This is my neighborhood.” Sabina removed her hand from my thigh and finished her martini. She put down her glass and turned to me. “Wonderful. Forgive me for asking this, but ... do you work or are you … what I mean is, you’re on a vision quest and you’re living here in Amsterdam—”

I cut her off. “I get it. Yeah, I work. From home. Publishing. But that’s just what I do for money. This is who I am.” I reached over and curled my hands around hers. “I’m alive. So are you. We are not our work.” Sabina appeared pleased. "That’s a refreshing perspective. Not at all 'New York.'" I shivered. “Dear God, no. No, no, not at all New York. No offense, but I couldn't allow that happen to myself again. I care too much about me now. I would be unbelievably boring if I was only my work. I wouldn’t want to spend time with me at all. In fact, when I was just work, when I became my work, I despised myself. I was sickened by me, disgusted with myself, a hollowed-out shell pretending to be alive. But … that’s why I’m here, that’s why I’m exploring other ways of being. If I had the choice each day to work or spend time with you, I would never work again.”

I heard a snicker from behind the bar. I looked over and the bartender was wiping glasses, a huge grin on his face. I said, “Man, I am tipping you way too much for you to laugh at the beautiful moments we’re creating over here.” I shook my head and he laughed a little more. “Sorry. I couldn’t help it.” I sighed and smiled, “I have that effect on people. They become helpless in my presence. My charm overwhelms nearly everyone. I won't hold it against you.” Both Sabina and the bartender laughed. I laughed, too, then took a big drink. “The Ditchhiker is good. Not too sweet, plenty of punch.” I winked at him and turned back to Sabina. I noticed that the bar had filled up. I had forgotten we were out in public, that there were others present. Sabina consumed the whole of my attention. I looked around. All the seats at the bar were taken, all the seating downstairs was filled, and people were standing with drinks in their hands, talking and laughing. There was a loft space upstairs with couches and comfy lounge chairs. It also looked filled.

I wanted to go upstairs even though it was occupied. I said to Sabina, “Do you see that couch up there?” She looked up behind her then turned back around. “Yes.” She waited as if expecting me to say more. I said, dryly, “Oh. Okay. I was just wondering if you saw it.” She looked at me as if I were the weirdest person on the planet—a distinct possibility. “I’m kidding. No, I was looking at it, wishing we were up there. Do you think they’d mind if I asked them to move? They're not really using the couch right. A couch like that is meant for intimacy. There's a huge gap between the two of them. What the hell are they doing up there wasting space and atmosphere as if moments like these lasted forever?” Sabina said. “I dare you to ask them to leave.” I laughed then looked at her with deadly seriousness. “Double dare? Because I’d do it if it was a double dare.” I wanted to do it and if she gave me another nudge I would do it. It would be so rude, but there was a part of me that really, really, really wanted to play that game.

Instead, I sighed and took another drink. I wanted to finish it and take Sabina back to my apartment, but I was enjoying the space and the pace as well. It was fun being out while shrooming, being publicly sensual, feeling groovy. “Tell me a story. Not about work, not about your childhood, not about anything you’ve ever told anyone else. Tell me something entirely new—new to you, too.” Sabina looked at me sternly. “Sure, put me on the spot.” I said in reply, “I told you about my past lives.” Sabina blinked shyness. I found it so endearing I felt like hugging her. She looked at me, her eyes bigger than before—possibly an effect of the shrooms. Could eyes grow like that naturally? She had transformed into a Japanese anime character. “I—you’re a storyteller. You’re witty and you think a million miles per hour. Maybe it’s the shrooms—“ I cut her off, “Oh, no. I’m like this 24/7. The shrooms are slowing me down.” She laughed, a laugh like butter dripping off her tongue. I felt an urge to lick it off her chin. “You have a great smile, Michael.” Oddly, that changed my smile. I wasn’t aware I had been smiling, but now I could feel it in the muscles of my face. “Thank you. That’s the kindest thing anyone’s said to me in a long time.” I wasn’t sure that was true, but I meant it when I said it.

A silence fell between us, an enormous silence that engulfed both of us and shielded us from the rest of the bar, the noises, the sights, everything. I looked into Sabina’s eyes, now like those of a doe. She leaned into me and kissed me, a lingering kiss that moved our lips and gave me a taste of her mouth as well as the strawberry of her lipstick. The kiss ended naturally, mutually. I opened my eyes, watched hers open, and reached for my drink without looking. I took a big drink, emptying the glass. I broke the silence. “I never thanked you for the drink.” I said it with appreciation. Without blinking an eye she whispered, “You’re welcome.” I thought for a moment and I thought again.

I said, “You know what I think, Sabina?”

Sabina leaned forward sensually. “No, what do you think?”

“I think we should pay our tabs and take a stroll around this lovely, romantic neighborhood.” I smiled a relaxed smile. She returned the smile, stood up, and grabbed her coat. “That sounds wonderful.” She laughed and said, “I’m not even sure I know how to get back to my place. I just wandered without paying attention where I was going.” I said, “That is the best possible way to wander.” We paid our respective bills—going Dutch!—and I helped Sabina with her coat before I put on my jacket.

We walked out into the cold—not too bad. I asked Sabina if she wanted to walk along the canals. “Is your apartment on a canal?” Ooh la la. “No, it’s on Kerkstraat, just down the block and around the corner. But we can walk along Keizersgracht on our way there.” Sabina leaned against me and I put my arm around her waist as we walked along Utrechtsestraat. We turned onto Keizersgracht and the large canal opened up to us. Despite my arm around Sabina, she shivered at times. I held her tighter.

“I love the canals. Before this trip I’d never seen them. I’m so glad I stayed in the canal district.” I asked her where she was staying. “The Seven Bridges.” I said, “That is, without question, the most romantic area of Amsterdam.” She turned her head, affectionately smiling at me. She licked her lips, not suggestively; in fact, rather innocently, adorably. She was almost the same height as I was and as I looked down I saw she was wearing heels. She turned ahead as we slowly walked. I looked at the profile of her face. She looked young and beautiful in the soft light of the street. I hadn’t thought of her age and I didn’t care. She seemed fit and agile, even in heels. My arm was tiring so I let it drop between us. She unfolded her arms and held my hand. She was wearing gloves and I wished she wasn’t because I wanted to feel her skin against mine.

Sabina stopped and turned to me about halfway down the block. She leaned into me, closed her eyes, and kissed. She let go of my hands and put her arms around my neck. The kiss was gentle, but as it lingered it became more passionate. I tried to hold myself back because I didn’t want to be too aggressive—she wasn’t in “panther mode” and I was trying not to get there before she did. Let her lead, I thought.

The kiss shifted to a softer, slower locking of lips. I felt like we’d kissed for hours, that we might never stop kissing—I wished for that—but Sabina leisurely lifted her lips from mine and pulled her head back. Her eyes sparkled. It may have been thelights along the street or perhaps an effect of the shrooms. A sly smile spread across her face and I saw then that the sparkle came from her. I felt like I should say something, but instead I leaned in and kissed her tenderly. As the kiss broke, I grabbed her hand gently, looking down at it as I did so. Then I looked up and turned us toward the Amstel. She leaned in against me, her head on my shoulder, as we walked

We turned the corner at the Amstel and walked to Kerkstraat. We turned right and as we did Sabina slid her arm underneath mine and around my waist. We casually crossed the street and in no time we stood in front of the entrance of my apartment building. As I pulled my keys out of my pocket, Sabina put her gloved hand against my face. I turned to look at her. She opened her mouth as if to say something but nothing came out. She closed her mouth. She was trembling, not from the cold.

I put my hands on her cheeks. She reacted to the cold, but laughed. I laughed, too, and apologized. “I forgot how cold my hands are.” She smiled and I did, too. Then her eyes grew soft, almost sad. "Sabina, what's wrong?" She shook her head. "It's nothing. I just." She stopped herself and took a deep breath. She looked down and then back up. "I'm ... nervous. I can't believe I'm going to say this, but ... it's been awhile. I'm not used to being this open and vulnerable, sexual." Oh, dear. The sweet woman. I sighed and said with care, “I understand. Just to let you know, it's been awhile for me, too, to meet someone while out and be so open. I mean, I’ve been vulnerable with you all night, shrooms or not.” She nodded her head, seemingly more at ease, and said, “Kiss me again.” I looked in her eyes and I saw her, I saw her, and her soul was beautiful. I took her in my arms and I moved my lips into hers. The kiss was intimate, full of each of us. 

The kiss went on and changed shapes and colors before ending in a perfect rainbow. She drifted back with her eyes closed, her lips parted. When she opened her eyes she looked awash in a dream. She staggered to the side and put her hand against her forehead as if to balance herself. I reached and held her arm. She looked up at me with eyes that said, I was sure of it, “You just made me fall in love with you.” Sabina, punch drunk, eyes giggling, a look of drunken awe. She let out an almost inaudible gasp and slurred “I love the way you kiss.” I felt like my whole body was expanding and contracting with each breath. I thought of Neo at the end of the Matrix.

She let drip her buttery laugh then let it all out in one burst: “Wow!” I said to her, “You know what?” She answered with silliness, her body loose and slinky, moving delightfully. “What?” I answered, “I feel like we just made love.” She bent over laughing, “Oh my God! I know!” She rose up and threw her arms around my neck. How many drinks did she have? I said, “I thought I was the one who was shrooming.” She laughed harder. “Well, I might be a little tipsy.” I laughed. “It just started to hit me a little more while we were kissing. I knew I was going home with you before, anyway. Well, I had to drop you more obvious hints since you were shrooming, but, well, you were so free and sexy and romantic and crazy.” Sabina's eyes pulsed love bursts at me as she said. “You are hot and I really want to kiss you again.”

I unlocked the door, opened it, grabbed Sabina by the waist, and pulled her inside and up the stairs with my lips. I somehow managed to put the key in the slot while completely abandoning all restraint. We were panthers in heat, roaring from the inside out into each others mouths, clawing each other with our paws. Sabina dug a hole in my back and grabbed the ribs of my chest to push me into her body so tightly that I became her. We fell inside the apartment and I kicked the door shut. We were a frenzy of devouring lips, a rabid ripping of clothes, then a stumbling embrace to bed where a long, blistering fire slowly melted each of us into the other.

A Christmas Tale

Santa paced up and down the aisles of the toy factory, watching the elves busily making toys for Santa to deliver to the children on Christmas morning. "Oh dear, oh dear," he mumbled to himself. Mrs. Claus stood in Santa's office, looking out the window at him. She closed the blinds and walked out onto the factory floor to talk with him. She saw his distress. "What is it, Santa? Why are you anxious?"

Santa looked down at his short, stocky wife, she of rosy cheeks, kind eyes, and white hair. He said, "Oh, Mrs. Claus, you know what it is." Mrs. Claus shook her head. "Oh, Santa, it's like this every year. You think the elves won't finish on time, but they always do." Santa sighed while looking about the room, "Yes, I know, that has happened every year since I've been delivering toys to the children, but ... what if this year is different?" Mrs. Claus shook her head and chuckled. "You say that every year, dear." Santa harrumphed. "Damnit, woman, the past cannot predict the future!" Mrs. Claus looked down at the ground, tears in her eyes. She said, sheepishly, "I'm sorry, Santa. I shouldn't have questioned you."

Santa softened and let out a "Ho ho ho!" He gently grabbed Mrs. Claus by the shoulders and bent down to lower his face to hers. She looked up as Santa said, "I'm sorry, Mrs. Claus. You know how I get this time of year." She nodded solemnly and said, "Why don't you just wait until January this year? There's no rule saying you have to deliver toys on Christmas morning." Santa considered this, but said, "I understand your point, sweetheart, but it's a tradition, one of the few traditions left in the Western world. The people have given up on so much of what they had once believed was true. If I stop delivering toys on Christmas morning, well, I'm afraid to think of what the people might do."

Mrs. Claus scoffed. "What could they do that is so much worse than what they've already done. There hasn't been a year without war since civilization began. Oppression continues unabated, repression never ends, suffering never ceases. Let Apple and Xbox take care of them this year. That's all they really want, anyway." Santa sternly replied. "No! I refuse to believe children no longer like hand-made wooden choo-choo trains, jack-in-the-boxes, and a warm pair of socks. We will continue as we have done every year we have been delivering toys."

Mrs. Claus shook her head. "Santa, the times have changed. They changed long ago. No one cares any more." Santa erupted, "They care one day each year! Maybe not the whole day, but for an hour or so. That's something, at least. When they stop caring at all, well, then I'll stop." Mrs. Claus pulled Santa into the office to talk with him privately. "Santa, the elves believe in you. They work their hind ends off for 364 days a year believing that what you do is meaningful. Without that, they'd have nothing and if they had nothing what do you think they'd do?" Santa shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. What?" Mrs. Claus pulled Santa's beard, "They'd walk out, you nincompoop! We don't pay them a thing. They don't just build toys, you know. They built our glorious house, they built the factory, they do all the maintenance in the buildings and on the grounds, they care for the reindeer, they provide us food, they do everything. The only thing I do is cook your meals and the only thing you do is work on Christmas morning. You work once a year! One day--not even a full day! Do not mess with a good thing, understand? I don't give a crap whether we deliver toys in July or if you just fly off with the reindeer and dump the presents in the North Sea before coming back to say 'Ho ho ho! Another successful Christmas.' Am I getting through to you?"

Santa turned to look out the office window. The elves were busily working away, smiling and singing while making toys children didn't want or need. Santa looked back at Mrs. Claus. He nodded his head, "You're right. Thank you, Mrs. Claus. I don't know what I'd do without you." Mrs. Claus laughed, "You'd be fine without me. It's the elves you can't do without!" Santa and Mrs. Claus hugged and laughed. Santa kissed his wife's forehead then said, "Sometimes I believe my own bullshit, you know? I forget it's not the children that need to believe; it's the fucking elves!"