On Living Well

Posted by Lex Konrad in Advice | Aug 06, 2005

Chingobling writes:

Throughout this whole blogosheric odyssey I keep wondering ‘what the hell does this guy do for a living?’ y’know what makes this apparently hip and freewheeling lifestyle possible. Maybe I missed the part where you talked about that (I’ve read about 3/4’s) or maybe you have a purpose in not talking about your mundane life, but eventually you start to give the impression that you live off a trust fund. I’m pretty sure that a lot of the comments about how your blog lacks a certain believablity come from the fact that your sexploits aren’t contextualized regarding other aspects of your life. Sorry to say this but in some ways you come off as a silk shirt with a dick.

Aside from those folks who are lucky enough to have public sex-related careers, some degree of anonymity is de rigueur among people participating in the no-holes-barred world of sex blogging. For example, I’ve been corresponding with Girl for a little while now and may, if my luck holds, get to meet her soon, but I still don’t know her first name and I’ve only the vaguest concept of who she is in the small-talk sense.

Being in a relationship, I don’t have the luxury of writing in a vacuum. Though my parents know certain things and I might not mind them stumbling upon NLP, Leslie’s family is another matter altogether. Similarly, though I may no longer be suckling at the corporate teat (at least not directly), Leslie has not yet liberated herself from the Matrix. Blogging about pretty much anything, even in your private time, is considered an actionable offense throughout cubicle-land.

While we’re on the subject of liberation, freedom is what you make of it and success is doing what you want to do on your own fucking terms. For me, the end game has never been about a big ole house in the suburbs and two SUVs in the garage and two-point-five children with two-point-five nannies and eighty hours a week on some sort of Masters of the Universe job that fills me, simultaneously, with self-importance and self-loathing. Plus, shaving every day irritates my skin. So my first few steps down that path were my last. I occasionally still do work for the Man, but I’m weaning myself off work in the traditional sense and becoming master of my own universe. That’s really all I feel like sharing for now—I don’t want to be held responsible for mass defections from the corporate salt mines.

I’m not quite sure how people get the idea that our lifestyle requires enormous amounts of cash. Time for leisure and creativity? You have to make it a priority in life. A nice apartment with Central Park views? Hello craigslist. And don’t forget to pick up some paint and spend money on decent furniture that’ll last for years. Designer clothes? Hello Century 21. ‘Hip’ clothes? I still get compliments on my faux fur pimp coat, acquired years ago at Domsey’s for a grand total of fifteen bucks. A chauffeur-driven automobile? Walk to the curb on pretty much any street and raise your hand. Expensive martinis? Spend a few minutes chatting with the bartender; you’ll never pay list price again. Cover charges at parties and clubs? Get to know people and covers will become a thing of the past. Expensive dinners? Uh, sorry, no getting around that. But then again there’s Restaurant Week. Drugs? Kick the fucking habit already.

Hot babes? Well, they’re free of charge.

No, seriously.

It’s common folklore among men that money and pussy are inextricably linked—even I, in my youth, once believed this. But it’s all bullshit, a conspiracy of, among others, the restaurant, automotive and clothing industries. Don’t get me wrong: I enjoy treating our friends and lovers, but that sort of generosity should be enjoyed for its own sake. A lawyer friend of mine used to blow hundreds of bucks on first dates and then complain, two weeks later, that his date hadn’t called him back. “Well, first, no more elaborate first dates,” I finally told him one night. “Meet over coffee or drinks and take it from there. Spend your money on people who mean something to you, not random strangers. Second, take all that money you’ll be saving and invest it in a nice, babe-ready apartment, preferably sans-roommates.” I can’t tell you how many times we’ve gone home with a lovely young woman after some fool attempted to impress her with his bling and ply her with gratis beverages all night. Silly wabbits, sex is free—a gift of pleasure exchanged among willing partners. The rush comes from getting her to crave you, not your money.

So what’s the moral of the story here kids? Living well is a matter of attitude. All those big plans you had for your life, for becoming the person you always wanted to become? What are you waiting for? Your deathbed? Ain’t no time like the present.

And for the record, I don’t wear silk: you wear it out once and it languishes in the closet for weeks because you’re too lazy to take it to the dry cleaner and by then you’ve forgotten you even own it. But I do, however, have a nice dick.

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