For Love of Vice
By P.T. McNiff
I met her barely a week ago, but I feel as if she has been a part of me forever. She quickly took up permanent residence in my house. During the day, she stays in my room, silently beckoning. When I finally return, she is waiting for me, begging for attention. I cannot refuse.
When I'm with her, I explore my deepest and darkest fantasies. I find desires I never knew I had. Some of them she gave me; some were always there. She keeps me up late into the night, so full of puzzles to thrill and frustrate me. I accept every challenge, and cannot rest until my mission is complete and she is satisfied.
All my friends talk about her. They admire her retro-style, her impeccable looks, her graceful and fluid movements. When she speaks, she can sound like a Hollywood celebrity, a familiar song, or the dirtiest porn star. They are all infatuated, or at least intrigued.
Sometimes I think they all have been with her. But even if that were so, it wouldn't matter. She and I have something special that no one else can understand, let alone hope to duplicate. I am not threatened by what she does for others, only by what she does for me.
Her complexity challenges me, draws me in. It's deceptively easy to get her going, to push her buttons and crack her codes. But there's no denying that as much as I control her, she controls me as well. She is an open-ended, blank canvas on which I paint my self-portrait. A portrait that is more accurate than I could ever be comfortable admitting.
Deep down, I know this is wrong. Even if I didn't, enough people raise their eyebrows, silently posing the questions I try to avoid asking myself. Haven't I matured past this sort of out-of-control relationship? Should I not have settled down to more substantial pursuits? Are not my wanton actions evidence of our society's moral decay?
Yes, there are those who defend what I do. They speak of breakthroughs and advances, declaring such actions mature, revolutionary even. Instead of morals and sin, they see beauty and art. But still the questions remain. Isn't it wrong to be with her? I know it is, deep down in my heart. So why do I take such pleasure in something that I know is so very, very wrong?
Each night, afterwards, with our escapades locked in memory, I look at her. I wonder what I am doing. I reflect on our repeated, violent slaughter of innocence, and feel the accompanying guilt. I am awash with shame. I tell myself that tomorrow will be different, that I will control myself and ignore temptation. But every night I am back with her. I cannot say no.
She is in my life now. She is in me. And she will never leave. At least not until her next sequel comes out.
P.T. McNiff has lived in the Boston, Philadelphia, and New York areas, and currently resides exclusively in Vice City. email@example.com
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