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difference whatsoever between a repeat rapist and a NAMBLA member. That is not lust. It is a sickness. These people are nothing more than monsters among us, looking for another victim to terrorize in an effort to alleviate their own pain. They can talk all they want and hopefully choke on every word. My fight is with those who would take away pleasure that the majority of us love to experience.
    And now, back to the faithful.
    In terms of lust, of all the sins on the soul radar, it is the most physical of all of them. Sure one can say that wrath makes people want to take bricks to heads, but it is way more emotional in theory. Lust can be felt, but it is the episode one chooses to get involved in that really seals the deal. Religious
folk will claim that even unfulfilled lust is a sin, but that is a copout designed to control how you think and feel. To me lust becomes “sin” in copulation. I may not be an expert, but I have definitely had sex. In healthy circumstances, sex is not a crime. So why is lust a sin?
    I was living in Denver, enjoying the fruits of bachelorhood, when I found myself in what Papa would have called “a delicate situation.” You see there were two women I was involved with. For anonymity’s sake, and to make sure I do not get sued and lose the ten bucks I make on this book, we will call them Kate and Penny. They were both very different, very strong-willed women who I enjoyed many sweaty nights with. But I do not want to spoil the ending. Let me give you some background.

    I was one of several people living in a two-bedroom flat in Lakewood, Colorado, just outside of Denver off of Sixth Avenue. I was doing time at a video distribution company, loading reels or “pancakes” of blank film onto machines. The machines would then be programmed to fill empty videocassettes with the appropriate amount of blank tape so they could be mass-duplicated for distribution. That tells you how long ago this was—the heathens were still using VHS tapes. As you can imagine, with a job this innocuous, is it any wonder I tried to find any excuse or opportunity to let loose like a coyote on meth?
    I spent a lot of nights out on the town, drinking my dirty little cares away and doing things that would make the Marquis de Sade look like Barney the Dinosaur. Word to the wise: Sex in a snowdrift is not at all worth it.
    Anyway, I ran with a fun-loving bunch of lunatics, and these two girls were part of that group, fringe players in our little
cabaret of chaos. Kate was from the South, a blond-haired, blueeyed curvy vixen with a day job and night school who could turn any little phrase into something salacious with the slightest flick of her accent-tinged tongue. She was dirty, too; we had sex on more floors than we did in beds. I do not know how women deal with carpet burn sometimes. I am a wuss when it comes to chafing.
    Penny, however, was a redhead through and through and the hottest nut job I have ever had the pleasure of bedding. Her eyes would light up before her anger got the best of her, so you knew instantly if you had pissed her off. Her body was delicious and her voice was a razorblade—it could cut across a crowded room at a party full of auctioneers. Sex at her place was a bit weird seeing as she slept on an air mattress next to an open window. Honestly, now that I think about it, I am fairly certain I only had sex in a bed like four times during my tenure in Denver. It was almost exclusively on the ground, floor, or the aforementioned snowdrift. Oh, and a handful of trysts in cars. . .goddamn those bucket seats.
    I believe I was very upfront with both women regarding my intentions. As a bachelor (read: ass), I made it very clear I was not looking for a relationship. I was very much into being my own man, whatever the hell that means. To me, it meant “I really want to sleep with you but I will not be tied down.” Now some men will lie about what they want. Others will be