“Hell is empty and all the devils are here.” ~William Shakespeare, “The Tempest”
At least we’re not alone. It’s party time, sinners.
Lust. Definitely the sweetest, most deliciously passion fruit flavored sin. It’s as tasty as a dripping barrel of pomegranate juice, and more fun than a clown on fire. As sinning goes, it’s right up there with the biggies.
If there were a “Best of…” list for moral failings, this one would blow ’em all the way to Purgatory and back. Take sloth, for example. Who wants to sit around all day, be lazy and get fat?
Wanting. Longing. All-consuming infatuation for another human being. These are the randy passions of the “self-indulgent” variety, and what the Romans called Cupido. It’s in our blood, our booze, the air, the darkness, the scent of your skin… Boom, chicka, wah wah…
Lust, on a stick. B-movie style.
To be clear, we’re not talking about love here. Love is the little bitch that gets teased by lust worse than a Jersey girl’s hair. Lust could easily kick its ass, and drink it under the table. Lust wouldn’t be caught dead watching a chick flick, enjoying the scent of fresh cut roses or dressing appropriately. It stays out past curfew and reads dirty magazines.
Love is all about a deep connection; lust prefers Deep Throat. Love is a lady. Lust is a tramp. We’re talking about fornicatio, baby. You get the picture.
But wait, kitten, there’s a catch. According to the ancients, and many deep thinking uptight people since, these animal feelings of want and fervor can only lead to suffering. The German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer, an atheist and one-time whore chaser, believed that humans were motivated by only their own basic, animal desires, or Wille zum Leben (“Will to Live”), which was responsible for everything we humans do. He said we are miserable, thanks to sex and relationships, because in the end, we can never be truly satisfied. This explains the shame and sadness which tend to follow the wanton act of casual boning.
In other words, when a guy sees an attractive little honey, a little bell goes off in his head (the one above his shoulders) and he thinks: I’m quite sure that woman will give me the most beautiful, intelligent children in history. A louder, deeper voice can he heard in his head (the one down below): Go get some of that, stud.
Her heart might go all aflutter because he’s on his best behavior, trying to get into her pants, cooking dinners and making mixed tapes. They fuck, they wed and before you know it little Mikey has to be picked up from soccer practice for the third time that week and they’re spending every morning looking at each other over their boring morning oatmeal with acute indifference.
This is the truth, the tragedy, the ghastliness of it all; these depressing moments will almost certainly follow the dirty deed. But don’t worry, said Schopenhauer, this bleak scenario is quite normal. And it’s why we cling to lust, because we just can’t seem to evolve past wanting to feel the hunger.
Schopenhauer, known as “The Great Pessimist'” said love is an illusion. Did I mention the guy had major mother issues?
Silly mortals, we’re all such fuck-ups.
At least we can amuse ourselves while we’re here, muck things up and embrace our fate. Film siren Tallulah Bankhead said, “If I had to live my life again, I’d make the same mistakes, only sooner.” Bravo, sister.
Again, don’t get too excited. In the end, Hell awaits, according to Dante’s Inferno, with a foreboding sign that reads “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.” Tempests. Hurricanes. Furious winds beating you down, all because you thought Mario Rubitch was hot in the fifth grade. Fire and brimstone.
You have come to a place mute of all light, where the wind bellows as the sea does in a tempest. This is the realm where the lustful spend eternity. Here, sinners are blown around endlessly by the unforgiving winds of unquenchable desire as punishment for their transgressions. The infernal hurricane that never rests hurtles the spirits onward in its rapine, whirling them round, and smiting, it molests them. You have betrayed reason at the behest of your appetite for pleasure, and so here you are doomed to remain. Cleopatra and Helen of Troy are two that share in your fate.
So what’s a girl to to? Most of us hate having windblown hair, and for that reason I could never drive a convertible, even though it’s the middle of August, and L.A. is in the middle of a heat wave. No wonder hell is so empty. It’s so fucking hot here, they probably don’t know any better.
And if you think it’s hot now, wait ’til you’re dead, baby.
Here’s my homie, the demon of lust, Asmodeus, also known as the demon of wrath, prince of demons, and the father of monsters. His claim to dirty fame is twisting people’s sexual desires, and inspiring gambling, deceit, lust and revenge according to the German bishop and theologian Peter Binsfeld. People who fall to Asmodeus’ ways get sentenced to an eternity in the second circle of hell.
Um, whatever. He looks like porn troll Ron Jeremy.
As for me, I’m not too worried about being banished to the middle of earth with the likes of Satan. My life is hardly what you would call corrupt. I have a semi-decent job, I’ve never stolen anything and I don’t plan on doing anything illegal in the near future. But there was a time a little charcoal eyeliner and a whiskey sour was all it took for things to get a little scandalous in Los Angeles.
But this isn’t some lame “After School Special” about good girls gone bad, or some kind of rant about the inherent evils of the female persuasion. We all know chicks can be ruthlesss. And you don’t need to read about another plain Jane who blossoms into a leather clad, cigarette smoking little stripper. We all know who did it best.
Tell me about it, stud.
Look at the very first sin ever on record, in the most famous story ever told. Sweet, innocent Eve was minding her own business in The Garden of Eden, not eating the ripe, forbidden fruit on the Tree of Knowledge. A snake came along, used his sexy voice and talked her into it, telling her it would get her closer to God.
First, only an idiot would believe that. Second, so cheesy. All I can think about is one of those Showtime soft core porns. Here’s why:
1. In most depictions, Eve sports only a leaf to cover her lady bits, or she’s just naked, in a garden. No wonder she ends up with over 50 kids.
2. She was deceived by a sweet-talking snake. Ladies, do I really have to explain the metaphor? I’m guessing we’ve all been there.
3. Eve eats the forbidden fruit, and gets banished. Adam ate it too, by the way, but you never hear about that, do you? it’s always the blonde babe that always gets the consequences. Thanks. Just look at Alfred Hitchcock’s films.
So the first woman to ever get a chance screws it up for everyone. They must have been having a heat wave. A girl can get pretty evil.Go for it, Pussycat.
Think about this: girls tend to like summer time, warmer climates and super hot showers. For this reason, I’ve been told (by a guy) this is proof women are from hell, to which I replied, “so, let me guess, you just got dumped.” Jeez, guys can be so easy.
What do you do when it’s this hot?
Get wet. Duh.
Eat fruit. I recently went to a restaurant that served warm grapefruit and oranges with spiced ginger and golden brown sugar for breakfast. Sticky stuff is erotic.
Play on a Slip n’ Slide. (Nothing perverted here, unless you’re naked.)
Suck on things, like Popsicles and lollipops.
Walk around naked.
I’m not suggesting whoring out on Craigslist or anything—you don’t want to end up sliced to ribbons. I’m talking about owning that little kitty inside who wants to be a lioness, releasing her and listening for the soft purr to turn into a fierce, resounding roar.
Good girls are a myth, anyway. Even sweet little Dorothy from Kansas went to that mirthful Emerald City in the sky, thanks to a few too many barbituates in her system. By the way, did you really think Molly Ringwald was all that innocent in “The Breakfast Club?” Claire is a virginal little bitch who gets high, hates on her parents and throws herself at the sexy, dangerous stoner dude after cornering him in the closet. Never trust a redhead.
Let me tell you a story about a friend, who we’ll call Friend.
Friend appears pretty normal in her real life, but like most people, particularly women, she’s complicated. She’s got more sides than a dodecahedran (a shape with a ton of sides, I guess), an impossible creature to figure out unless you’re a mathematical scientist by trade. She’s maybe a little schizophrenic.
Friend’s mom liked to scare her with watered-down cautionary tales. She told her Buffy from “Family Affair” died by getting closed in a refrigerator by accident. (In real life she actually OD’d on booze and quaaludes, a drug so out of date the spell check doesn’t recognize it.) Mom also told her Marilyn Monroe passed away from “old age.” Lies.
Mom didn’t exactly have the “Scared Straight” style. She also led Friend to believe in saving one’s virginity until marriage, having been married to the same man her whole life. Friend was sent to Catholic school and raised to be a nice girl.
Friend was bored.
Friend had a dream when she was 11 years old. In the dream, Peter Frampton sang “I’m in You” to her, a love song so overtly sexy she can’t even say the title without blushing. Her hormones had kicked in, and boys and music became her life.
She got drunk, many times, crashed the car, got put on disciplinary probation at school for being such a wench and basically became a total hellion before she even turned 18 years old.
No one knows where they went wrong. Our friend, she just wanted to have some good old-fashioned flirty fun.
Time passed. And friend, she grew up. She’s no saint, but she’s not afraid of what lies ahead. She doesn’t believe in regret, ever strives to be a free spirit and finds the warmth of the summer wind oddly comforting. She lives with her boyfriend who, after three years, still wants to grab her ass every time she walks by.
So go ahead, babe, eat the fruit. Apples are good for you.
What’s the worst that can happen? Maybe I’ll see you in the second realm, with all the other unforgiven souls, the ones who sacrificed it all for libido, and lechery, and love. ♥
“You are beautiful like demolition. Just the thought of you draws my knuckles white. I don’t need a god. I have you and your beautiful mouth, your hands holding onto me, the nails leaving unfelt wounds, your hot breath on my neck. The taste of your saliva. The darkness is ours. The nights belong to us. Everything we do is secret. Nothing we do will ever be understood; we will be feared and kept well away from. It will be the stuff of legend, endless discussion and limitless inspiration for the brave of heart. It’s you and me in this room, on this floor. Beyond life, beyond morality. We are gleaming animals painted in moonlit sweat glow. Our eyes turn to jewels and everything we do is an example of spontaneous perfection. I have been waiting all my life to be with you. My heart slams against my ribs when I think of the slaughtered nights I spent all over the world waiting to feel your touch. The time I annihilated while I waited like a man doing a life sentence. Now you’re here and everything we touch explodes, bursts into bloom or burns to ash. History atomizes and negates itself with our every shared breath. I need you like life needs life. I want you bad like a natural disaster. You are all I see. You are the only one I want to know.” ~Henry Rollins
This is the second piece in a series of seven delicious sins and wicked fun. The first post is Envy & the Blonde Behind the Bar.
Editor: Kate Bartolotta