Put Out

Put Out

Who knows why I did? I'm asking. Who knows why I do the things I do?

Who knows why I just sometimes lose my mindframe and just do the things that put me out like this? The things that I hate to reveal.

But I love it, really. To tell these secrets. I'm put out to tell them; they're so salisous- so tantalizing, like pills on the counter waiting to be taken, waiting to fix everything, fix everything permanently- or at least that's how it felt.

Which brings back the question: Why did I do it? Why did I take such chances and just let things slide? They call it the slippery slope in criminal psychology. That one, bad thing leads to another because we realize that perhaps the first bad thing wasn't so bad. Like taking a pencil from the office leads to taking some paper, which in turn leads to taking the stapler, which in turn leads to you taking the cash office money that early january day to fly across to France. Perhaps too strong, and perhaps a few crucial steps missing, but you get the point. Most don't know how to respond when confronted. "Why'd you do it?"

For me it was simple, or perhaps not as such since I continue to roam around the subject. But to put it simple is: I wanted to. I didn't steal, if you think of it in the pysical sense, and I didn't steal if I suddenly devulge to you that I stole from myself, but in metaphor who really cares. All that can now be said is the video camera is gone.

I bought it back when I still needed it: in school and many independant projects- enough to keep me out of trouble. A video for one class, a taped hockey game for a brother. It was simple enough. And after school the camera remained hidden, in plain view- sitting like an unwanted dead hamster rocking in the excercise wheel. And that's where it stayed.

But it's not the camera's fault. It only views. It doesn't do the things that humans do. Sure, perhaps it ages, and perhaps it malfunctions, and perhaps it falls apart, but it never lies- maybe that's its saving grace, perhaps that is its terrible virtue. But no, it's not like humans. It does not have needs. And perhaps that's where it did all start. Not as simple as just a simple video camera.

We people get lonely. It's perhaps simple when put as such, but it's the simple truth: we want others. I don't know why I wanted others. I still don't know why I did it. But let me tell you: I wanted.

I wanted: videos, pictures, sound, colour (moving and still). It started off harmless. A funny video downloaded here and there. And perhaps that's the most innocent of all slippery slopes: humour. Mix in the humour with sexuality: you get the perfect misogynist joke. Get the perfect sex joke and perhaps a case of the wood. Get a case of the wood and it seems like every need intesifies (I have an erection now as I write this and I know it's a need to finish). Then from that you search for more. Simple and pretty- lusty and raw- sick and erotic.

And soon the images aren't enough. Their simple plots and simple characters and simple wants become nothing to you as you watch with your limp dick in your hand wondering if your libido has an expiry date on it. Shaking and shaking till you sit in gasps, unsatisfied in chairs, your groin asleep and numb from the lack of movement. There is more, you know it. They- those people in the films: they have it. They have this lusty, carnal love that you know can only be shared between two people.

And soon you go searching- but again, not moving, you sit and you search. Search the sites, search the ads, search the lust websites that advertize wonderful people who would love to cyber and roleplay with you over a pure, white keyboard. They don't want to be themselves anymore than you do, and create themselves as you do. Elaborate women with firm breasts and high asses. Cheekbones with rosey hues. Men with horse cocks and ripped muscles. You start to lose touch of who you are and take pleasure in just not caring.

And soon they ask you, after all the flirting and casual comments: can I see you?

Again: not physical, only an image across the vast plain of knowledge.

And then there is hesitation, the thoughts that pass your mind:
1) Why do you want to see me? (Obvious)
2) Who are you?
3) Are you just like me?

And the last one scares you, because it would mean that you aren't alone in your needs and that there are others who do want you, and that you didn't have to be on this virtual plane. But even the fear is inticing just as the final result you want so badly. The result of you being spent and false emotions being thrust from you, so you turn it on.

You can feel them smile on the other end, and they tell you they like what they see, even though it's evident now that you should be sued for your elaborate misrepresentation. But do they care? No, they have what they want now.

You ask them if you can see them, and they respond that they're having difficulties on their end- liars, God damn fucking liars. You feel cheated. You feel used. You feel like there is no turning back, though the off switch is right there, only inches from you hand, and then they say them. They roll out the compliments that have fiction ruffling the edges but they feel better than your hand, that has slowly slipped below your waist in their appriciation. They like that even more.

Ask about them. Ask them a smiple question and it comes out vague. You're revealing your flesh, the skin you sleep in, and all they can give is that they live in an apartment, or they work in an office, or that they'd have to kill you if you ever found out their real identity. Fucking spies.

Those things don't matter though, because your shirt is above your head, and you're nude from the waist up, either undoing your bra or massaging your pecs, moving your free hand across your stomach, which is warm from the beating in your chest.

Think of who it is, that finds you attractive. Think it is someone you'd lay next to at night You holding them in your arms, their heat keeping you warm under the already suffocating sheets. They like having your arm around them, your palm resting cupped on their breast or groin, you go to move your pressed hand away, but they move it back. It's that warmth you imagine across all the wires of the world as you strip your pants, that bunch around you ankles in a futile attempt to stay on. But we know that material things can be removed or passified, not like ourselves. We need things now.

I asked them what they looked like.

They said perfect.

That was all.

And all of sudden I could only imagine family and friends and aquatainces and strangers all molding together into some kinds of fleshy being of perfection. Shifting, changing at all times, and you, touching yourself to this confused organism that could never keep itself straight. All of its qualities fixed and fluid, morphing and concrete. It was all I could do to force my way away from thinking about the other person watching me through my own lens, and watching myself do what I wanted to do.

That is the other thing that comes to your mind: yourself. You are in plain view besided your own conversation. You are in plain view of watching yourself take your last garments off and laying yourself down upon the inspection table. You flex, you suck in, you postion yourself so that you make the best visual impression of your body. You look beautiful on the screen but your position is uncomfortable, and grotesque. Even by simple contortionism, you still can't help find the awkward and ugly parts of yourself. Those things you promised you'd save for those who truely loved you: that birthmark, that beauty mark you find unattractive, and that scar they gave you from their teeth in your shoulder. It was for them, but now for another; not even in view.

These pangs in mid ecstasy only slow your smooth motions a bit as you tug or slide. This invisable monster tells you everyting you want to hear; everything you believe you need, and you press on. Losing yourself faster and faster in your fingers and in their words. Faster and faster till you can feel how alone you truly are without someone else's breath on you, without your's on them and you release and relish in the moment of true, pathetic alone- ejaculating to the calming feeling that you have no expectations afterward, and the tensing feeling of not being truly alone.

And it's over.

For them perhaps, but not for you as you excuse yourself and clean your debries, wondering if they have their own destruction to clear as well. And you wipe yourself, tossing out the tissue and the toilet paper you hid beneath the monitor knowing this was your fate all along. Flushing all evidence down the toilet. Pulling on the tombstones of dead and wrinkled undergarments and shirts, covering what dignity you have left infront of the faceless lens you can't even blame.

You sit back down on the moist seat, and smile a weak smile into the camera as your benifactor tells you what a great show you put on. The show you put out and with your head in your hand trying to look as put out as possible, trying to find sympathy from the other side, but all they continue to say is how pretty you look when you pout like that and if your ready to go again. You tell them you have to go. You expect the worst: expecting they'll demand more, they'll demand a sequel. But you expectations are wrong. They leave- liars, God damn fucking liars. Moving on to the next screening, knowing all it costs is a few compliments and only a half hour commitment.

And after that half hour, here I am with the bottle full of pills. The label desciption: sleeping. After you've cleared your head of lofty ideas of love and lust the other ideas come. The other ideas of misrepresentation and your increased trust come to haunt you. What if this person was more than just one person? What if this was recorded? What if it was someone you knew? Someone you live with? It is these questions that are the spectors cluttering your head besides the other ones of their intentions, or gender.

You mix the first pill with you tea, it'll make it work faster so you don't wake up and want to puke the others you're about to swallow. This has ruined a future, my own- your own. Why do you do the things you do? Who knows why you did?

You thought they loved you. They told me I was beautiful. They said that you were unique. I trusted them. Just like there were others that trusted me. I never said you were a saint. All I ever said was, "who knows why you did?" You still don't know. All I know is that I need.

-Matthew Koutzun