The Word “Lust”

In Anglo-Saxon, the language from which English takes some vocabulary and most sentence structure rules, the word "lust" had two denotative meanings; desire, which it still possesses, and, more interestingly, it also meant "joy."

The dough feels wet as I knead the edges, and I let my mind off its tenuous leash to explore distant ports.  Taupe orb after smooth taupe orb I roll, and by the end of the fifth tray of twenty-eight dough balls I no longer feel the pliancy nor smell the corn oil.  The hair on my lip tickles my nose.  I had grown a fumanchu for the very real ridiculousness of a fumanchu, but now I keep it as a ardent and sincere "fuck you" for all the familiar people who tell me to shave it and the strangers who treat me differently because of it.  Apparently facial hair, an easily changeable aesthetic feature that takes a week to culture thickly and minutes to erase entirely, is now the end-all be-all social barometer.  I will play that game, if only to throw it.

The Hawk’s Nest doesn’t open its doors on Sunday; not out of any particular appreciation for the Sabbath (by the way, as an aside–apparently tipping well on the sabbath greatly offends the Christian Lord above.  I’m assuming it’s because of all that coin in the collection tray…right?  Yeah, right.), but because in a town like Whitewater, only the truly dedicated would show up.  Today, though, it’s unofficially open.  The owner’s brother pours me free drinks and I casually watch the comings and goings, greetings and farewells, handshakes and hugs.  A random, cookie-cutter blonde whom I don’t know casually informs me, "no self-respecting girl will ever go for you with that moustauche."  Mildly insulted, I query, "who says I want a girl who respects herself,…you bitch?"

Done with the dough, I trek across the sparse street to the restaurant warehouse.  Double-locked as a perpetual reminder of the owner’s ubiquitous paranoia, I achieve entry and open the cooler’s weighty iron door.  Against the wall, arranged in fastidious rows, forty pound boxes of mozzarella cheese caught and held the fridge’s buzzing fluorescence.  I hoist one and place it on my shoulder.  At the store, I listen to the metallic clanging of the slicer soundtrack my slideshow of thoughts.  For each discordant scrape or shake, a different image provokes impossible questions and situations–in reality, toting up the opportunity costs.  The synthesized melodies of Depeche Mode’s Enjoy the Silence interrupts the reverie: Everything I wanted/Everything I needed/Is here, in my arms/Words are very/Unnecessary/They can only do harm.  A girl…or heroin?  Both addictive, and equally bad your health.  A text message: "going dt?"

I usually attempt to avoid The Pumping Station, as the only thing more morally questionable than the establishment’s moniker is the behavior of its wanton denizens.  Today, however, my friend’s ex-girlfriend roped that night’s beer buddy into entering, and so I accompanied said people.  A young woman friend of my friend’s ex, an incredibly sexy blonde in a salacious black dress, perched next to me, and we talked away the time; I was moderately buzzed, and so I had landed happily between my sobriety’s bitterness and my drunken sadness.  In fact, and I have credible witnesses, I was positively personable…even charming.  As the playful conversation chugged along its fairly predictable tracks, I noticed a change in her body language.  She started leaning closer, touching my arm, staring at my lips.  She excused herself to the bathroom; as she was about to pass me, she pressed the length of her body against mine and kissed my neck.  "What the fuck?" I mouthed at my friend–he mouthed back, "Run."  And so I did.  Promiscuity is repellant.

I roll by rolling cornfields on my way to Lake Lorraine.  I enjoy the deliveries to the lakes, as it means a needed, lengthy break from the drudgery of food preparation, and it also means I can listen to the Brewers or music, depending upon the day and time.  Sunset has painted the world pinkish-red, and I laugh.  Not for any real reasons, really, just feeling the hysterics rise in me and escape as laughter.  An image rose in my imagination of me sitting down to use the bathroom before checking for toiletpaper.  I’ve known that all my life.

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