Women Make Me Hate Myself

"I see the girls walk by, dressed in their summer clothes. I have to turn my head until my darkness goes."

- The Rolling Stones, "Paint It Black"

I was in the grocery store today, and I saw Amber again. She is an achingly beautiful young woman - about 20 or so - who is a cashier at the store I usually shop at. She's friendly, too, and sometimes I can make her laugh. I want her so bad that the desire just crushes my heart and rends my soul open like a meat cleaver.

Of course, she's not the only young woman I want. There are several different places I frequent - the LCBO, the Beer Store - and there are other equally attractive young women that fill me with aching desire and painful, unfulfilled lust. When I see women like Amber, I go off the rails and into the Canyon of Depression.

On the surface, the pain is just the pain of wanting what I cannot have. I feel that pain as soon as I set eyes on Amber (or any other unattainable woman, of which there are plenty). But the real pain begins later, when I realize that I don't even desire their companionship or a relationship or what's in their heads or their hearts. I just want their bodies. I just want to fuck them, and that makes me hate myself.

I hate myself for being so shallow, for lusting pointlessly after women I cannot have, for thinking about sex every waking hour, but most of all, for believing the illusion that having one of those pretty young things will make me happy. Sex cannot make me happy for more than an hour or two. Yet I want it, and nothing more. I am a monster, a fiend in the night, and I despise myself.

I know how vampires feel about mirrors. They avoid mirrors because they can't stand to look at what they'll see in the glass. Neither can I.