Capetonification

So here we are. I'm sitting two thousand kilometers away from home and I thinking about my sex life.
I am alone. I'm horny. I already whacked off in the shower before going to supper tonight.
It was sad, but necessary.
But now what? No woman available here. I've never been with a hooker before. Although the thought crosses my mind often.
I suppose I'm worried about quality. I want a decent lay. Not some forty-year-old, toothless hag, with a pussy that smells as bad as it looks.

What have I started here? The words are just flowing. The pure truth of an impure thought, a twisted jumble of memories, desires and necessities. Must be the whiskey.
It's cheap shit: VAT 69. Bottle's been knocked down by a third. I'm drinking easy, and writing even easier.
I think I am going to treat this article as my confessional. I think too much, say too little. So I'll say it here. To you. Nameless, faceless, reader.

So how did I get to this point? Why do I wanna fuck anything that moves? I suppose a lot of shrinks would tell me i'm a pervert. But you got to ask yourself: who's crazier? the one telling the story, or the one reading it?
So let's get this show on the road. It's the age-old opener. Bereishit. In the beginning.

I suppose it started for me when my age was still in single digits. You don't ever really forget the defining moments in your life.

The year is a blur, the colors of the memory faded to grey. The house I remember well, because it's still standing there, in great old Parow.
It's Grand ma's house.
My brother and I are watching TV in our Grand-ma's bedroom. Grand-dad had two video machines. And he was taping something. We never knew. Until I started flicking through the channels. It was still one of those old T.V's. No remote. big plastic buttons. And low and behold we stumble upon this footage of what looks a larger version of my then-hairless cock ramming repeatedly into some moist squash of pink and purple skin.
He's panting, she's moaning. They're sweaty. Americans, if I recall.
This was epic.
A revelation.
I don't remember that initial opening scene so well. I think they were all dancers in a studio and then the guy and the chick started fucking.
But I remember the following scene: An American Football ball player is stretchered off the pitch with a concussion. Two little cheerleaders sneak into the locker room and start playing with his cock, rubbing their pussys in his face, fucking his limp dick.
Jesus, I'm getting a boner just remembering this.
In the end the guy wakes up, brushes them off, zips up his shorts and runs out to return to the game. The cheerleaders are left alone and unsatisfied.
Man, I'd dig to watch that shit again.
Prior to this, me and my brother had never been subjected to age-restriction when watching television, so we had seen our fare share of soft-core b-grade movie love scenes.
Call it liberal. Call it bad parenting. Call it cutting edge. Whatever.
In that instant we realised what the panting, the rolling eyes, the rough thrusts were all about.
Grand-ma was in the kitchen preparing supper, or doing dishes or something.
Grand-dad was in the garage, tinkering with shit. He liked to build stuff. He's a hands-on kind of guy.

So me and my bro continued watching. I stood next to the T.V and when I heard the creaking approach of foot-steps (Real or imagined) I flicked over the channel. I have no idea how much we watched. But it was enough.
My shit was galvanised.
In the end, we were caught red-handed.
I think we maybe got a beating, first from Grand-ma, and then the parents when they were told.
But they soon forgot about the incedent.
But not me.
I never forgot.
A seed had been sown, and from it a freak has grown.