It's all about the journey, man…

y momma used to say that a lot, usually on a spur of the moment, drop of the dime occasion. I would simply chuckle to humor her, dear woman that she was. She was a sixties' brat, after all, and that was the slogan of her generation. I could hardly relate, being a part of the decadent eighties myself (our defining slogan would probably be Jeff Spicoli's less eloquent "Hey, bud, let's party!"), but her whimsical little catch phrase has certainly found its merit with me these days. Oh yeah. It's most definitely all about the journey.

I'm the kind of rude guy who parades around my apartment bare-assed with little regard for open windows. Screw you if you're voyeuristic. Don't complain, just enjoy the show. Come on up and see me sometime if it makes you horny; we'll have a hell of a time. I'll even open the door with nary a stitch on. My neighbors know me by now and leave well enough alone. See, there is a shrewd method to my madness; I like being left alone when I'm home, and answering the door in the raw is one sure way to keep snooping interlopers or borrow-crazies out of my hair. If you've dropped by for sex, then by all means, come on in. I hope you brought some booze-Guinness stout is my lager of choice.

It was one of those boring Friday evenings, boring when you have no steady significant other to take out to dinner or the movies or, even better, a secluded, sweaty rendezvous in the back seat of a convertible. Even more boring when you're flat-out broke, even on payday. Between rent, groceries and these goddamned gasoline price hikes, there is very little entertainment cashola left.

Okay, I'm lying. I bought the new System of a Down CD and a four pack of those Guinness stouts I love so much. Afterwards, I had a little leftover coin to rent a couple of pornos for the weekend, a pair of triple X beauties called "Sado Mania 4" and "Busty Bondage Babes." It's all about prioritizing. Alright, I'm lying again. I still have a fifty spot to play with, but what should you care? I spend my money the way I see fit.

After a half-assed attempt at dinner-I'd nuked a few corn dogs and wolfed them down, chased by a Guinness and half a Mr. Goodbar that I'd saved in the refrigerator for tonight-I stripped down to nothing, as usual, leaving my work clothes strewn on the unmade bed. I went to the living room, put in one of the pornos and threw the curtains open so my neighbors could glimpse me in all of my splendid glory. Hey, I can't help but boast that my endowment is a booty call all unto itself. Ladies, take note…

I released my pet tarantula, Spike, out of his plexiglass prison, letting him nestle in my hand as I prepared for my near-nightly ritual. Grabbing a hand towel out of the kitchen for the mess that would soon need to be cleaned up, I laid out on the living room floor, propping my neck against a sofa cushion I'd plopped down. On the tube was a hot redhead with generous, flopping breasts who was getting drilled by some muscular stud who had her tied to a weight bench. My t.v. is positioned so that it faces the open patio window, giving the folks at home a real big treat, as Ed Sullivan might say. I was instantly aroused knowing that I was pissing someone off. Their damn fault for looking.

I placed Spike on my ankle and then settled back, enjoying the show. I had trained Spike to slowly crawl his way up my leg while I gratified myself. His prickly, spindly legs tickled and tingled my skin, intensifying my gradually building pleasure. Try imaging an Asian hottie gliding elongated fingernails down your leg, and you can get a picture of what joy I feel by having Spike crawl on me while masturbating. The savoriest part is that Spike still has his venom glands. At any given day, he could get cheezed with my antics and sink his teeth into my skin, thus poisoning me. I've trained him rather well, but nevertheless, the risk is always a constant. The chancy gamble has its own autoeroticism that escalates my climax to indescribable heights. As Spike reached my inner thigh, the couple on the tube moaned and howled phony orgasms at one another, and my belly was suddenly coated with my own release.

hat out of the way, I placed Spike back into his cage and shut the television off. It was only 7:32 and the night was far too young to call it quits. I showered and dressed into my favorite dark attire-black Henley and tapered pants, as well as patent leather shoes. I fastened my favorite silver hoop into my left lobe, then slung a Gothic cross around my neck. You might call it an homage to Andrew Eldritch of the Sisters of Mercy. I checked my goatee and mustache circle scrub, ensuring that it was trimmed to my satisfaction, afterwhich slapping a handful of Brut Actif Sport on my cheeks. Considering I am a nudist at heart, I felt completely attractive in my sensually tenebrous wardrobe. There was something missing, however. Ah yes, that.

I live deep in the city, a few blocks north of the inner harbor and five blocks east of the red light district, where I rent my pornos. In Baltimore, it's called The Block, and over the years, it has dwindled from a major stretch of three blocks down to just one. You can use your imagination what lingers there-nudie bars, sex toy emporiums and peep shows. I personally find peepshows a real drag; the video monitors are too small and last maybe thirty seconds per quarter. You end up blowing ten dollars for what is a typical three-dollar video rental. Besides, those cramped little booths just aren't for me. I'm somewhat claustrophobic, okay?

Don't bother looking for hookers and call girls standing around on the corners of The Block. This is because the city police precinct is just around the corner. Most of the dancers, however, will take care of your needs-for a nominal fee, of course. Just don't fall for the buying the dancer a drink scam; you'll shell out twenty bucks for a watered-down Long Island Iced Tea. The strategy, of course, is for the dancer to determine whether or not you have enough loot to be a player. Believe me, I learned all of these lessons the hard way.

I left my apartment building into the night, right where I belonged. Like Batman, I am always at one with the night. Odd, given my claustrophobia. Oh well, some things are just unexplainable. I just ride the vibe, you know? That was something else my hippie mom used to say.

Fall had set in on the old city, and I had my black overcoat on, the tail swishing behind my legs, the belt straps flapping in the autumn breeze like thin schooner flags. There were less homeless folk on the streets than usual; most of them had retreated from the dipping temperatures to find refuge in shelters, parking garages or heating ducts. That, or they retired to their toasty homes with their loving families, enjoying a piping hot meal from the spoils of their street bounty acquired under false pretenses. If you ask me, such loathsome scam artists deserve to rot in the hot desert sun with buzzards chewing out their eyeballs and maggots feasting on their innards; they deserve to die so gruesomely because they have more chutzpah than I to pull off such a deliciously wicked ploy. If life was only so easy for everyone…

Football season was well under way, while baseball was making its quiet exodus; quiet in the fact that the Orioles were second to last in the standings with no prayer of making the playoffs. The working class of this city had basically blown them off in the standard manner they usually do; fair-weather fans, they be. Since the Ravens lost their opening two gridiron battles, a cloud of pessimism hung over Baltimore like a thick, gaseous plague, infecting the majority of the populace. Funny thing about this town is that folks ride their very hopes and ambitions on the shoulders of its sports teams. When they're winning, people are in a chipper mood; when they lose, you get the adverse effect. Given the fact that I could give a shit less about sports, I thoroughly enjoyed the mopey malism that was prevalent.

Such a gloomy atmosphere makes my work that much easier.

I was strolling nonchalantly through the business sector, a four-block radius filled with corporate towers and skyscrapers that were the lifeline of the city. Some of the country's leading banks own the majority of the buildings, though you will find more law firms leasing space than anyone else. With the city courthouse only a block away, lawyers were centered around it like bees vying for a shot at the queen.

It was only a quarter past eight as I approached the central hub of the business area. A few suits were laggardly shlumping out of their offices and aiming towards the metro. Their fatigued expressions made them easy prey, a little too easy for my tastes. It was as lame and unchallenging as hunting a crippled tiger. Not worth the effort. All of the fast food joints had locked their doors at six; graffiti decorated the iron partitions covering them. The stink of diesel fumes choked the air as buses and small rigs ran rampant through Baltimore and Light Streets, while a foul putrescence belched from between the holes of the manhole covers in the streets.

ey, slick," someone greeted me. It was a gangly black guy, in his early twenties, assuming my guess was correct. He had a spaced-out expression that was more pitiable than amusing, the type of expression that fingerpointed a hardcore junkie. This guy was barely a step above those exhausted suits, but still not exactly worth my time. "My man, I am stuck down here without a ride, not a penny to my name. Do you have a little spread to spare so I can get home?"

This was the type of moocher I despised the most, a guy perfectly within his capability to get a job and support himself, but instead, opted to hide out from society behind a drug-laced curtain. I re-evaluated my thoughts. Perhaps I would be doing him a favor, and I certainly didn't mean by giving him money.

I paused and looked at him closer. His eyes were more glazed than a bakery donut. His cheekbones were sunken in like a dying cancer victim. He was sporting a retrospective afro that was more kinky and nappy than The Jackson Five in their day. His arms were thin and anemic, judging by the vericose veins that jutted out from underneath his skin. I'd wagered he was a shooter most times, a snorter others. A flavor of the day user.

"Well, I hate it when that happens," I patronized him. "So, where do you live?"

He began looking around every which way, trying to avoid my penetrating gaze. I so love it when I can unnerve someone like that. My guess is that he thought I was undercover five-o, because he was undoubtedly looking to make a hasty break for it. Obviously, I hadn't given him the answer he'd hoped for.

"Um, west side," he said, vaguely. He took a step away from me and I met his stride. This might be promising after all, thought I.

"That's not too far," I pursed my lips thoughtfully, enjoying the game I had started. "Whereabouts? Edmonson? Westview?"

"Uh, yeah, something like that," the junkie sputtered. I had really made him nervous now. I was taking a small risk here; a lot of junkies packed blades or loaded Midnight Specials. I'd seen more than my share of zip guns carried by his ilk. You'd be amazed the things I've seen. Like I said earlier, it's all about the journey, man.

"Gotcha," I told him. "Well, I don't know the bus schedule that well, but if you want, we can go down to The Gallery, grab a cup of coffee and wait. It's my treat, and I'd also be happy to sport you the bus fare."

If I could put a price tag on the horrified expression on that junkie's face, you'd think I was auctioning it at Christie's. It gave me such a raw entitlement of power, similar to that of maybe Ulysses S. Grant or even Josef Stalin. Mastering another's human condition, exploiting his fears, reducing him to a cowering ooze of shit…it's a beautiful thing, don't you think?

"Never mind," the junkie excused himself, taking a couple of long steps backwards. He was about to smack into a marquee poster for Les Miserables at the Mechanic Theatre. I loomed in closer, seeing if I could force him into the wall. Sure enough, he bumped into it and jumped a mile. You would think that damn poster had suddenly sprouted to life, threatening to wrap itself around him and smother his lifeforce. Well, he'd be right about the former, only it wouldn't be the poster snuffing his lifeforce.

Hey, bud, let's party.

"Shit!" he yelled, then eyed me with such terror it was giving me another hard-on. I'm no homosexual, so I wasn't interested in that. The obsessive power I spoke of…it was orgasmic, and my loins were being stirred up wilder than the erotic sight of that tied-up redhead in the porno. Did I mention she was a pure redhead? And I'd thought that was a tough act to follow.

What made the situation all the more appetizing was the fact that, even at eight-thirty, there were still people lingering about. Rush hour had thinned down to a routine flow of traffic. A small cluster of young girls was banded together en route towards the harbor. My guess, judging by their sunny, pretty faces, was that they were heading towards the Baja Beach Club, well known in the city as the local meat-market for twenty-somethings and those in their early thirties. If I wasn't already engaged with the junkie, I might've followed them just for the sheer hell of it. Maybe another night…

My junkie friend had quickly about-faced and was moving rapidly to get away from me. Since a patrol car was slinking by on Baltimore Street, he didn't exactly sprint away, lest he attract attention. For me, I could've cared less. Bring the cop, I say. It was making the game exciting and dangerous. For my would-be elusive friend, it was increasing his fear tenfold, making him all the more my pawn.

"Did I offend you?" I called out to the junkie with an amusing chortle afterwards as I continued to pursue him.

"Get the fuck away from me!" he shouted, and for a minute, I thought he was going to wave down the cop. Of course, he wasn't stupid. Desperate, maybe, but even that wasn't enough to justify getting himself busted.

"Such harsh language," I needled him. "And after I'd generously offered to buy you coffee and a ride home."

"Fuck you, cracker!" the junkie bellowed, and as the cop hooked a right onto Calvert Street, he took off.

I'd decided to give him a three-second headstart. Rather sporting of me, wouldn't you say? I mean, he had no clue what he was up against. How could he know that I'd set school records in the 100-yard dash so many years ago? I still kept in shape at the gym across the street from my job; at thirty-six, I felt every bit as robust as I did during my track days. The junkie literally had no prayer in hell.

I counted off three, then began a brisk walk after him, keeping my eyes peeled for any casual strollers. I could see the junkie hightailing it though a poorly lit courtyard between two towers, his skinny legs barely sustaining his clumsy, awkward lumbering. He looked like the devil was hot on his trail. Actually, you might say he was, ha! I predicted he was going to try to cut through the water fountain, which wasn't turned on right now. I should've been a betting man. I had precisely enough time to gain on him.

With nobody in sight, I pretended the starter gun went off like it did so many times during my prep racing career. I imagined the tiny ticks of my coach's stopwatch, counting off meticulous seconds that I was expected to reduce every time I took the track. Coach was very hard on me; he expected perfection, and I gave him that. Twenty years later, I still wanted to please him. Can you imagine?

The junkie hobbled and stumbled over the concrete boundary encircling the drained fountain. He tripped and fell to the pavement, just as I'd crossed the distance between us in exactly seven seconds. I'd counted off in my head, just like I used to in high school, when Coach pressured me to shave another nagging second off of my time. Not bad for someone rapidly approaching middle age, eh? Also not bad considering I still had my long, heavy overcoat on.

The junkie tried to pick himself up, but his own trepidation had backfired against him. While my legs were finely tuned pistons, his were broken cogs, capsizing beneath him. I knew he could hear my quick-timed footsteps, but he didn't see me pull the straight razor from the inner pocket of my coat.

I could feel my testicles tingling with immense pleasure and my erection was so painful it was like an inexperienced prostitute was blowing me. Still, I could feel my gorge about to erupt again. I hoisted the razor above my head as the junkie tried to scream. I forever silenced him, slashing his throat cleanly across the esophagus. As his blood spurted, so too did my orgasm. God, what a rush.

"Goodbye," I told him, as he gagged his last breath and slumped against the fountain. His sanguinary fluid dribbled onto the concrete like a puddle of spilled red paint. Just as fast as I'd captured and killed him, so too did I hastily disappear into the murky shadows, feeling dribbles of come sliding down my quivering leg. I stashed my razor back into my coat, then stopped inside an alley as dark as the bottom of a seldom-washed coffeepot. Luckily, it wasn't too narrow, lest my claustrophobia kick in. That's not a pretty sight, I guarantee you.

I heaved a sigh and patted down my slowing deflating member. The gunk was growing chilly and sticky against my thigh and pubic hairs. I needed to duck inside somewhere to clean up. I took another second to get my bearings and think about where I was. I could hear the loud, vibrating bass of techno music nearby, followed by lusty howls and catcalls. At first, I thought I'd reached The Block, but I knew I was still a good distance away from it. Besides, the presiding collective voices were decidedly female. There weren't too many women who frequented pussy palaces like The Tick Tock Club or The Big Top. Like everything else, I knew this by experience. No, I hadn't run away that far.

It dawned on me that I was half a block from the Baja Beach Club. I smirked to myself, contemplating the scrumptious possibilities. I would be able to meet those bright, smiling girls tonight after all. I was dressed for the occasion, why the hell not? I would toss back a pint or two of Guinness and get cozy, scoping for those cute honeys. If I played my cards right, I might even score with one of them. The night was still young, and I wasn't quite shagged yet.

I regained my composure, and headed for the Baja, knowing that this would be one of the better Fridays I'd spent in quite some time. As I said, it all about the journey…