The Follies of Youth

Oh please, if you honestly thought I’d go on an adventure and act irresponsible every once in a while then you’re sadly mistaken.


The memories of all my past transgressions during this trip so far are vivid, like all the fond experiences I’ve gathered and stockpiled over the course of everything. Truth be told, I haven’t actually been involved in dramatic escapades ala coming-of-age movies, but there’s been a few moments where that would’ve seem more plausible than anything. That’s reality for you.

So what’s a guy to do when he wanders, lost beneath the glamor of Las Vegas, besides kicking douche bags in the crotch from time to time? Why, get lost and see what happens, of course!

From the minute I arrived in Vegas, I had felt like a lost soul, which would later inspire me to create Operation Ulysses (which I will get into later). The place eventually began to suck the life out of me, monetary issues aside, and perhaps it was the way I started to notice the lifeless and empty fossil of humanity behind its long carpeted corridors and marble elevators, I began to sink into a mild depression.

The casinos and attractions practically screamed tourism which was the life source of Sin City. Beneath that colorful surface, conversing with the locals and the kinksters, the place was akin to Sodom and Gomorrah – full of exterior beauty that hid the two-headed beast underneath. It was a place where women would strut around with their cleavage exposed in the most self-degrading fashion imaginable.

I would not think, beyond anything, that no form of humiliation would be as terrible as it would be for a young woman to reduce their self-image to that of a cheerful scantily clad bimbo or some bikini clad dancer hovering above gamblers for the sake of a dollar. Frankly I would sooner write obscenities above the foreheads of consenting partners than pit them in that sort of position. Frankly, my stomach turned at the sight, perhaps worst of all at the rare moments – during the quiet hours – when those smiles began to fade.

In Las Vegas, money and liquor and sex were the primary attractions of the place. It is ironic that for someone who is considered perverse by societal terms could be disgusted by the extent of the hedonism and debauchery of the place. In the eyes of a male tourist, all the appeals of fine wine and cheap women would cater to them; however, peculiar tastes in sexuality aside, I wasn’t there for tourism. I was there briefly as part of a higher purpose.

I admit that the only way I’ve managed to afford this trip is both out of my own personal savings, college funds and inheritance. It would be entirely different if its purpose was to indulge in all the vices and luxuries, both in Vegas and elsewhere. Certainly it would have spoken wonders had I chosen to indulge, gambling aside, amidst the sunny outdoor swimming pools and the fruity drinks with umbrellas in them. Given the choice I wasn’t in the mood for any of it.

Vegas became less of the glamor queen to me than it was the pit of vice that it truly was. I don’t mean all the folks who reside in the casinos, the workers, but rather the people who actively indulged in it. Not the folks with their Hawaii shirts and cargo shorts, rather the folks with their expensive jewelry throwing hundreds in an instant at poker tables and free liquor. The ones that would grope without asking, exploiting that sexual predatory behavior free from consequence, and given another choice I’d put an end to it.

With that being said, vindication came in the most unexpected form one evening, passing one of the numerous open bars that featured loud miserly remixes of Top 50 tracks, the silhouettes of dancers strutting on stripper poles, at a place and time when there happened to be some kind of a wet t-shirt contest. “Show us ID and compete!” roared the man on the stage. “Come up and live Las Vegas!”

Said vindication, albeit self-righteous, came in the form of a peculiar discovery: A single microphone that had rolled against the floor.

Suffice to say, the inner sadist worked himself into a glee, all manner of reason and caution be damned.

Snatching the mic off the ground, I darted into the washroom and tapped it slightly. From outside, I heard the patting noise and began to fidget with excitement, giddy with anticipation. Once the coast was clear, free from the watchful gaze of the security cameras, I drew a deep breath then shouted.







Shit was satisfying, bro.

Shit was satisfying, bro.

I left the washroom, pulling my jacket collar up as I did to hide the grin, and in passing I describe the atmosphere – loud rumbling bass aside – to be one of total dead silence. However, gazing across the floor of the bar, from within the sea of flabbergasted patrons I took note of the embarrassed expressions of the busty waitresses, who appeared to be giggling to themselves.


You’re not meant to take food out of a buffet table. The casinos could ban you if you were caught in the attempt. As for what they do with the food, let alone the barely touched scraps left by the high-rollers and old ladies in glittery dresses, they go to waste. Some casinos donate the excess to charities, sure, but as for the rest it just goes straight to the trash.

Grade A steaks the likes few could afford, king crabs, dozens of vegetable platters, raw fish, all that goes to waste. To a bachelor such as myself, that type of food could have lasted me for an entire month or two maybe more; outside the casinos, the actual panhandlers (not the ones that fake it, of course) are passed by ignored, some not having eaten for days on end. I imagine the cause for my lack of appetite these days has something to do with that realization, the inner guilt within, which led to thoughts of allowing food to go to waste.

Against all odds, I decided to pilfer the food from the buffet tables, first having rinsed out the numerous plastic food containers from delivery services, then followed by picking the least noticeable tables at the restaurants. I wore black clothes to assist in camouflage, singled out a dimly lit corner, then moved out to begin my work.

I admit, the food was great, appetizing, but I couldn’t bring myself to eat more than a few plates. Beforehand I had to forcibly starve myself to build an appetite and even then, I was cautious enough to target the less crowded casinos, for whenever it is (though I doubt it) I decide to revisit Las Vegas.

The actual amount of food I ate.

A sample of the actual amount of food I ate.

I began my mission carefully. Gathering multiple layers of beef steak, bread, meats, cheeses and sandwiching salmon slices with avocado and tomatos into buns; carefully pouring hot soup into the bowls beneath the shadow of the lights, all the while eating with one hand. Afterwards came the many slices of pizza, candies and desserts; all the while half expecting the dreaded intervention by security.

My satchel played the part the entire way. Five full containers later, I was set and with the satisfaction of a job well done, I began to go eat myself. Only then, after the mild reassurance that I would have “balanced” out for my own vices would I truly permit myself to indulge.

I personally ate little, cringing at the thought of the bits I had left unfinished, then left. You pay first in Vegas for just about everything. With due caution, I began roaming the streets in search of the actual homeless.


You learn quickly to identify the false panhandlers. Most of them react with the same surprise as others, upon learning of how I walked and bussed most of the way to Vegas, but the ones that try to redirect conversation to being handed free money are the ones you want to avoid. I hate to say this but you must be selective and judgmental, though biased and unfair, if only due to the risks of dealing with the impoverished firsthand; for example, caution is advised if they appear to be talking to themselves or screaming at invisible objects, twitching or repeatedly shifting from signs of withdrawal.

However, carefully singling out the ones that are there, with an actual name and birthplace, a story, often times the only benefit is to appreciate the smile that follows and the gratitude they give.

Hey buddy, you ever ate king crab?

The vagrant looked up at me, the whole ‘Are you crazy?’ look, before he replied, “You outta your mind? Do I look like I could afford king crab?”

Well, are you allergic?

“No, sir,” He replied, curious now. “You offering?”

I pulled out the container of crab legs and shellfish. You should have seen the look on his face.

Shit was VERY satisfying, bro.

Shit was VERY satisfying, bro.

“You some kind of an angel? Oh, what have I done to deserve this?” He threw his hands up in the air. The expression he had was not unlike that of total elation. “God bless you! Thank you!”

I glanced at the woman beside him. What about you? You ever been to a buffet?

“No, but you got something for me?” She asked, her eyes lighting up with joy.

Maybe. You like beef steak?

She grinned, partially toothless. “I love beef steak.”

I handed her the container and watched as she laughed with joy. She stood up and offered me a handshake. “Would you like a hug?” She asked me.

I ignored the dirt on her parka and gave her a quick, awkward, hug.  She clapped me on the back, “We need more folks like you, young man.”

This process continued, less hugging aside, throughout the course of one evening. In total, I count perhaps having fed a good six or seven individuals, handing out luxury grade salmon-sandwiches, lukewarm soup, desserts and food to those that need it. Consider that paying my dues for my own vices.

As I left, from nearby, a croupier complimented me on the act, and I felt all warm and fuzzy inside; back at my hotel, I turned in for the night, and managed to sleep for once.

Who knows? Maybe karma would be kind to me in the future.


After having successfully fed a buffet to a handful of the homeless in Las Vegas, caving in to temptation, I decided to head to one of the more famous buffet restaurants on the New Strip. There I decided against thieving more food, rather taking the time to indulge as a bit of a self-reward.

The pictures below ought to speak for themselves.

Dessert came first.

Dessert came first.

Followed by soup and sald.

Followed by seafood and salad.

Followed by snacks and pasta.

Followed by pasta and Italian and Asiatic side dishes.

Followed last by prime rib.

Followed last by prime rib.

I felt pregnant afterwards.


This whole idea of how identifying as a dominant or submissive being a guideline to living is utterly ridiculous. I refuse to worry about how others might correlate my external behavior to how I manage things within the fetish scene. The whole concept is stereotyping in every way, it is generalization in the most infuriating degree.

Sure, there are folks out there who do actively live in certain mindsets, full of daily routines and protocols, but its entirely their choice to live as they wish. Nobody has the right to judge anyone let alone deserving to be judged the same. To each their own, as the saying goes, but shit if I’m going to be worried about fitting in because of it.

The only taboo I’ve discovered in BDSM is to be something you’re not.

A person should never lie about their limits and experiences. The same mentality applies beyond that, in being self-aware, never to compromise themselves for anyone. True, submission requires that mild compromise, but any dominant worth their salt would hold the interests of their partner to a degree that doesn’t utterly destroy their self-image. The art of dominance, in my mind, is a thorough understanding and accepting a person; the art of living, always, is to never compromise against the noise and static of the world.

The greatest flaw in today’s day and age is the constant air of conformity within modern society. The media loves to fill our heads with the images of ideal beauty, family and careers. We are led to believe that the strive for perfection comes in the latest cars and fashion designs, gradually followed by school of thought and political beliefs.

There are no barriers that exist from within. You set your own limits to living as quickly as you set your own limits within the scene. Suppose then, by that same understanding of self capacities, could it not be said that those who identify in the fetish culture are more aware of themselves and others beyond the masquerade of material values and doctrine?

I believe so, that the sole freedom to being alive is liberating oneself from the fear of being different, learning first to accept oneself, enabling room to appreciate others; the very act itself borders near open rebellion, so much that for those entering the scene it becomes more frightening than pain and humiliation.

So cut loose.

Live life. Make the most of everything. For once you discover all that you are capable of, the world will no longer be the same, and from there on the horizons become limitless. You become the masters of your own universe. You become the very antithesis of everyone else’s expectations.

You live.

This entry was posted in Journal, Personal Thoughts/Insight, Reckless Behavior and tagged , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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