The Creative Hobo
Hey there you warm gooey hobo, full of unanswered dreams, potentiality and gusto. Tapping away on your overheating keyboard, trying to nab the best deal for South Africa, New Jersey, Hawaii and beyond. What capital city will you hit next? What Getaway package deal inspires you? Didn’t Jane say she had a sweet time in Sao Paulo?
The path of least resistance is an appealing one, but as you navigate, following the deeply embedded footprints trodden by the masses, does the destination become your own or remain someone else’s? Rather than going on a misanthropic rant denouncing Contiki tours or squirting my travelling ego all over the Caribbean cruise you just thoroughly enjoyed, this is a passive appeal.
“To what?” you may ask, or “Fuck this!” you may exclaim. You may even be thinking about apple juice, and in all these responses and many more lays the key: individuality, creativity and originality.
Do your own thing. Don’t scurry around every capital city in Europe. Don’t go to Paris, tick the Louvre and Eiffel tower from your list, then move on without shrinking yourself into the size of an olive and starting a conga line between the folds of lettuce in a baguette. Buy a boat, sell banana bread on the street, kick a soccer ball with a mum pushing a pram, do anything you want, because you are you and you are fucking awesome and original and can do amazing things (which is pretty fucking sweet).
In Amsterdam I witnessed the very opposite to this.
To put this trite faux pas in context, the red light district is a veritable puss-topia with a range of ethnicities, shapes, sizes, busts, hair colors and even genders that swells the imagination to bursting point.
I watched a friend get led upstairs by a petite blonde in a power suit and glasses – the “office fetish” – in the bustling alley ways of the red light district, to cum of age. After his 20-minute suck and fuck, he emerged, sheepish and embarrassed, followed by the smoking prostitute. Before she was able to finish her first drag, another friend interrupted, made a proposal and ventured up the very same stairs. He pushed his barely-erect penis into a vagina still gaping from its last fuck, a vagina still attempting with futility to rejuvenate into a form less like torn meat. My friend’s dick rushed at it, penetrating half-way through its transformation, tearing it wide open again, without creativity, without originality, without individuality. He sunk his semi-erect penis into her while she lay still and uninterested, offering a few tired moans and lazy thrusts while he jack hammered in the one position of her choice – doggy. No touching for fear of extra costs, no kissing, no eye contact, just pumping and pumping, reminding him of when he used to sit at home in puberty and wank all day, refusing to go out and play with friends, just thrashing over that scratched old porno that his buddy burnt for him, not knowing why or what for, just tugging his limp meat for lack of a more appealing alternative.
Going to capital cities, reading travel blogs or Lonely Planet, and following someone else’s path is no different from following a friend into a whore’s drooping vagina whilst in the red-lit, fanny-firmament of Amsterdam. The churches around Europe, the temples in Thailand, the fucking Eiffel Tower, are all tired, bored hookers who have been fucked for decades by unimaginative tourists and backpackers ticking off their lists before getting drunk and fucking and then bragging about it to an unlistening stranger waiting for his turn to brag about the time that he got drunk and fucked, and saw the Eiffel tower. So instead of fucking the tired prostitute that is capital cities, large monuments and package deals, hunt for the fresh, the new, the succulent, the individual, the creative, the original; because when you are all old and worn, sitting around “your” table at the RSL every Tuesday with four other men you have known since high-school, you are going to run out of stories pretty fucking fast if you don’t start making them interesting now.