Lessons Learned
- 3 years ago
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Lessons Learned. free porn video
Jerome’s mind often toyed with him like a cat with its prey/food. He was powerless to stop it, so he just let it happen. He’d become a passenger in his own head; someone else was at the wheel. In a way, it was less exhausting this way, even if he wasn’t in control of the journey. Sometimes they were speeding down a bumpy road on the way to places they shouldn’t be, and his stomach began to summersault like when on a rollercoaster with lots of loops. Other times the ride was smoother and the destination more promising, but it was never his own choice.
This powerlessness reminded him of his youth for many different reasons. The idea of freedom is one that is challenged in our younger days. The socialisation processes of our pre adult days are like lessons for our future, when we truly are free. Free to choose what to do or to choose what not to. For Satre, freedom was not in what happened to us, but rather in how we should respond to it. And we consciously and u*********sly make choices, in our everyday performances in our roles as ourselves, Erving Goffman might add. c***dhood, or everything before adulthood, seems rather constraining by comparison but is a necessary learning process before getting your licence and taking the wheel for yourself.
Jerome was frequents told what to do and what not to do, growing up, usually because of his commitment to rule breaking. It excited him for complex yet simple reasons; - Jerome enjoyed the thrill of getting away with things he knew were wrong and would be punished if seen. His crimes were like exhibitionism in a way. But perhaps more interestingly, he also loved being punished for doing things he knew better than to do. Jerome enjoyed being told what to do, he saw it generally as guidance for improvement but in some contexts, he enjoyed watching the different emotions his actions could lead the scolder to express. - sometimes it was a raised voice, and it made him feel as though his crime had frustrated. Other times it was the exhaustion in the tone having had to repeatedly scold for the same thing that let Jerome know that he’d defeated them, even if the punishment or scolding let them think that they’d won, he knew that he had.
Importantly, Jerome knew right from wrong. And when he didn’t, he did use scolding and punishments as an opportunity to learn the ways in which people wanted him to perform in specific settings, and this allowed him the freedom to choose whether to consciously comply or not comply. The control excited him. Ironically, he faced the same fight with his mind at times except he was the scolder. He was the defeated one that had given in trying to exercise control. Like a supply teacher in a lesson from hell, Jerome just sat there behind his desk, not even telling the k**s to stop breaking the rules, for they knew by now it was a rule break and didn’t care, and what power did he have, really to stop them?
Running helped empty Jerome’s head by forcing him to challenge himself physically and focus good mental energy on supporting his body. One Saturday, after a run around Camden/Islington, he stopped off at a coffee shop but only to grab a banana. He stood rather than sat on a stool because after running and sweating, he thought it best not to subject others to his arse sweat on a seat. He stood in front of the high tables they have in coffee shops by the windows staring out at the rest of the world as it went by at different paces for different people. It was the epitome of different strokes for different folks. Most coffee shops played music throughout the day, in fact an annoying feature of shops across our globalised world is that they had mistaken our love of music and our love of whatever physical product they were forcing down our throats in store, for an excuse to merge those things together. Jerome hated pop music and shops always played pop music. But this coffee shop was different, it was music free. Jerome turned off the music playing through his headphones before rolling them around his phone and placing it in the pocket of his bum bag. The weather outside was wet. It had been raining heavily for days but today it was lighter. The greyness of the day left very little to look forward to and also meant that the pavements and the roads looked dirtier than usual. He felt heavy on his feet, natural after a run, but he still resisted the urge to sit. After finishing his banana, he put the skin inside a veg bag he’d brought with him and skipped it back in his bum bag to take home for his compost bin. Before getting his phone out and putting his headphones in for his journey home, Jerome thought he’d enjoy this moment of life; watch the workers of the world go by.
Stood arms folded in front of a north London coffee shop window, wearing an old baggy black T-shirt with some tightly fitted black tracksuit bottoms and a black beanie, Jerome felt out of place, more so than usual. The people walking by and walking in wore their loose jeans rolled up and their jumpers that looked older than Jerome himself. The women wore their hair short and the men wore theirs long and in a messy bun perfectly contrasting their well groomed beards. Everyone looked identical to Jerome. Suddenly he no longer appreciated the music-less bliss of the coffee shop as he listened to the sounds of coffee beans grinding and overheard conversations in well spoken accents that he didn’t recognise. He smelt the richness of the beans fanning around the shop and he felt the richness of its clientele too. Suddenly recalling that he paid £1.50 for a banana a grey expression began to cloud his face. It was time to go home.
Whilst looking for a song to play to start the shuffle of songs on his favourite playlist Jerome noticed a familiar Nordic accent amongst the well spoken English ones of the gentrifiers. Not native enough to believe it to actually be the person he thought it was, he turned around to leave writer still selecting a song. And to his surprise, but of course not your own, there stood the person he thought he’d heard, facing the opposite direction, queuing, but still recognisable. She wore tightly fitted black jeans that were covered from the ankle by her brown suede boots. She wore a yellow rain yellow and blue raincoat that sparkled with water from the rainy outside that ran slowly downwards along its surface before dripping onto the floor. Her hair was still shortish and a dirty blonde colour and her face still beamed with positive expression that you couldn’t help but feel warm at the sight of.
Should he tap her? No no, she’s deeply engrossed in conversation with a man. He looked like everyone else around here, facially, like he belonged in a commune full of white middle class edgy hippies but dressed as though they worked in the non profit sector with young people that from inner city stressed that they tried so desperately to relate to but of course failed. Bless him, his heart was probably in the right place and the work he does is still important. No no, leave them to it... Right on cue, along came Jerome’s mind to fuck this all sideways. Suddenly he remembered the way he felt when he sat in a lecture theatre staring down at this average height, skinny, pretty faced, middle aged, blonde woman that spoke so passionately about her own research and the research of others in areas to do with gender and gender equality. He remembered feeling engaged, drawn, in a way that was unfamiliar to him at university; he listened to what she said and made mental note of how she said it, considered what she meant by it. He watched her move slowly from one side to another side of the lecture theatre as she spoke passionately about a topic that was so important to her full of expression. He remembered waiting behind at the end of every lecture to speak to her thinking of a question to ask as he waited in a queue of people that genuinely sought answers to things that they were confused by. Jerome was never really confused, he listened intently to every word that she said and processed exactly what was meant by it. He was fascinated by this wonderful woman and seeing her again, he realised that he still was. Her name was Anastasia, but she asked to be called Anna, as that’s how she referred to herself.
Jerome didn’t know what to do, so he stood behind them and figured he would interject into their conversation when the time was right, and just claim that he was waiting in line to buy a coffee or water or something like that. sure it would work, he was in running gear. What could go wrong.
Jerome’s mind had won again. It began wandering off, like a c***d high on sugary sweets, it could not be tamed. Suddenly Jerome was back in that lecture theatre waiting behind to ask a question but he was the last person in line and it was just them...alone.
“I always wait behind to ask you something that I already know the answer to, but today I genuinely do have a question.” Jerome started.
A startled look fell across Anna’s face. And then it began to look confused as she tried to make sense of what she’d just heard. She gathered herself to respond, “are you ok, Jerome?”.
“Not really” he returned hesitantly, but enticingly. He looked seductively into her green eyes and they started back longingly, but her face remained relatively emotionless.
Slowly creaking closer, Jerome’s voice began to soften and quieten to a seductive whisper. “I... ummm... I wondered if you could explain the concept of sex tourism again to me” Jerome was dangerously close to Anna now but for some strange reason, unbeknownst to Jerome, she hadn’t retreated; not in her words or her actions. But she stepped back as Jerome crept forward, perfectly in sync like a ballroom dance. Jerome tilted his head towards her exposed neck. She wore an open buttoned loose white shirt tucked into charcoal black trousers that flared at the ankle. Her shoes were dark Brown Birkenstock clogs that reminded Jerome of someone else that he’d once lusted over.
“What do you say?” He posed. His face was almost touching her neck. Looking back into her eyes awaiting a response, Jerome felt his head jolt back as she impulsively forced her lips against his. She took control of the embrace, gripping the neck of his shirt closely and firmly. Jerome went with her rhythm; it was like a performance of art. He followed her lead.
He felt himself giving himself to her, giving her power over him- physical power to couple the symbolic power she already held over him. And then she let go leaving Jerome stood at a tilted angle, lips passionately kissing the air. Just as he opened his eyes again, he barely caught a look at her before his eyes rolled upwards and struggled to focus between the ceiling and the little image of the outdoors. She had her hand pressed against the bulge of his trousers. She ran her index finger up along its shape and then down again before cupping it, and squeezing it. Jerome gulped as his cock began to throb.
‘Can I help?’ Jerome heard.
This powerlessness reminded him of his youth for many different reasons. The idea of freedom is one that is challenged in our younger days. The socialisation processes of our pre adult days are like lessons for our future, when we truly are free. Free to choose what to do or to choose what not to. For Satre, freedom was not in what happened to us, but rather in how we should respond to it. And we consciously and u*********sly make choices, in our everyday performances in our roles as ourselves, Erving Goffman might add. c***dhood, or everything before adulthood, seems rather constraining by comparison but is a necessary learning process before getting your licence and taking the wheel for yourself.
Jerome was frequents told what to do and what not to do, growing up, usually because of his commitment to rule breaking. It excited him for complex yet simple reasons; - Jerome enjoyed the thrill of getting away with things he knew were wrong and would be punished if seen. His crimes were like exhibitionism in a way. But perhaps more interestingly, he also loved being punished for doing things he knew better than to do. Jerome enjoyed being told what to do, he saw it generally as guidance for improvement but in some contexts, he enjoyed watching the different emotions his actions could lead the scolder to express. - sometimes it was a raised voice, and it made him feel as though his crime had frustrated. Other times it was the exhaustion in the tone having had to repeatedly scold for the same thing that let Jerome know that he’d defeated them, even if the punishment or scolding let them think that they’d won, he knew that he had.
Importantly, Jerome knew right from wrong. And when he didn’t, he did use scolding and punishments as an opportunity to learn the ways in which people wanted him to perform in specific settings, and this allowed him the freedom to choose whether to consciously comply or not comply. The control excited him. Ironically, he faced the same fight with his mind at times except he was the scolder. He was the defeated one that had given in trying to exercise control. Like a supply teacher in a lesson from hell, Jerome just sat there behind his desk, not even telling the k**s to stop breaking the rules, for they knew by now it was a rule break and didn’t care, and what power did he have, really to stop them?
Running helped empty Jerome’s head by forcing him to challenge himself physically and focus good mental energy on supporting his body. One Saturday, after a run around Camden/Islington, he stopped off at a coffee shop but only to grab a banana. He stood rather than sat on a stool because after running and sweating, he thought it best not to subject others to his arse sweat on a seat. He stood in front of the high tables they have in coffee shops by the windows staring out at the rest of the world as it went by at different paces for different people. It was the epitome of different strokes for different folks. Most coffee shops played music throughout the day, in fact an annoying feature of shops across our globalised world is that they had mistaken our love of music and our love of whatever physical product they were forcing down our throats in store, for an excuse to merge those things together. Jerome hated pop music and shops always played pop music. But this coffee shop was different, it was music free. Jerome turned off the music playing through his headphones before rolling them around his phone and placing it in the pocket of his bum bag. The weather outside was wet. It had been raining heavily for days but today it was lighter. The greyness of the day left very little to look forward to and also meant that the pavements and the roads looked dirtier than usual. He felt heavy on his feet, natural after a run, but he still resisted the urge to sit. After finishing his banana, he put the skin inside a veg bag he’d brought with him and skipped it back in his bum bag to take home for his compost bin. Before getting his phone out and putting his headphones in for his journey home, Jerome thought he’d enjoy this moment of life; watch the workers of the world go by.
Stood arms folded in front of a north London coffee shop window, wearing an old baggy black T-shirt with some tightly fitted black tracksuit bottoms and a black beanie, Jerome felt out of place, more so than usual. The people walking by and walking in wore their loose jeans rolled up and their jumpers that looked older than Jerome himself. The women wore their hair short and the men wore theirs long and in a messy bun perfectly contrasting their well groomed beards. Everyone looked identical to Jerome. Suddenly he no longer appreciated the music-less bliss of the coffee shop as he listened to the sounds of coffee beans grinding and overheard conversations in well spoken accents that he didn’t recognise. He smelt the richness of the beans fanning around the shop and he felt the richness of its clientele too. Suddenly recalling that he paid £1.50 for a banana a grey expression began to cloud his face. It was time to go home.
Whilst looking for a song to play to start the shuffle of songs on his favourite playlist Jerome noticed a familiar Nordic accent amongst the well spoken English ones of the gentrifiers. Not native enough to believe it to actually be the person he thought it was, he turned around to leave writer still selecting a song. And to his surprise, but of course not your own, there stood the person he thought he’d heard, facing the opposite direction, queuing, but still recognisable. She wore tightly fitted black jeans that were covered from the ankle by her brown suede boots. She wore a yellow rain yellow and blue raincoat that sparkled with water from the rainy outside that ran slowly downwards along its surface before dripping onto the floor. Her hair was still shortish and a dirty blonde colour and her face still beamed with positive expression that you couldn’t help but feel warm at the sight of.
Should he tap her? No no, she’s deeply engrossed in conversation with a man. He looked like everyone else around here, facially, like he belonged in a commune full of white middle class edgy hippies but dressed as though they worked in the non profit sector with young people that from inner city stressed that they tried so desperately to relate to but of course failed. Bless him, his heart was probably in the right place and the work he does is still important. No no, leave them to it... Right on cue, along came Jerome’s mind to fuck this all sideways. Suddenly he remembered the way he felt when he sat in a lecture theatre staring down at this average height, skinny, pretty faced, middle aged, blonde woman that spoke so passionately about her own research and the research of others in areas to do with gender and gender equality. He remembered feeling engaged, drawn, in a way that was unfamiliar to him at university; he listened to what she said and made mental note of how she said it, considered what she meant by it. He watched her move slowly from one side to another side of the lecture theatre as she spoke passionately about a topic that was so important to her full of expression. He remembered waiting behind at the end of every lecture to speak to her thinking of a question to ask as he waited in a queue of people that genuinely sought answers to things that they were confused by. Jerome was never really confused, he listened intently to every word that she said and processed exactly what was meant by it. He was fascinated by this wonderful woman and seeing her again, he realised that he still was. Her name was Anastasia, but she asked to be called Anna, as that’s how she referred to herself.
Jerome didn’t know what to do, so he stood behind them and figured he would interject into their conversation when the time was right, and just claim that he was waiting in line to buy a coffee or water or something like that. sure it would work, he was in running gear. What could go wrong.
Jerome’s mind had won again. It began wandering off, like a c***d high on sugary sweets, it could not be tamed. Suddenly Jerome was back in that lecture theatre waiting behind to ask a question but he was the last person in line and it was just them...alone.
“I always wait behind to ask you something that I already know the answer to, but today I genuinely do have a question.” Jerome started.
A startled look fell across Anna’s face. And then it began to look confused as she tried to make sense of what she’d just heard. She gathered herself to respond, “are you ok, Jerome?”.
“Not really” he returned hesitantly, but enticingly. He looked seductively into her green eyes and they started back longingly, but her face remained relatively emotionless.
Slowly creaking closer, Jerome’s voice began to soften and quieten to a seductive whisper. “I... ummm... I wondered if you could explain the concept of sex tourism again to me” Jerome was dangerously close to Anna now but for some strange reason, unbeknownst to Jerome, she hadn’t retreated; not in her words or her actions. But she stepped back as Jerome crept forward, perfectly in sync like a ballroom dance. Jerome tilted his head towards her exposed neck. She wore an open buttoned loose white shirt tucked into charcoal black trousers that flared at the ankle. Her shoes were dark Brown Birkenstock clogs that reminded Jerome of someone else that he’d once lusted over.
“What do you say?” He posed. His face was almost touching her neck. Looking back into her eyes awaiting a response, Jerome felt his head jolt back as she impulsively forced her lips against his. She took control of the embrace, gripping the neck of his shirt closely and firmly. Jerome went with her rhythm; it was like a performance of art. He followed her lead.
He felt himself giving himself to her, giving her power over him- physical power to couple the symbolic power she already held over him. And then she let go leaving Jerome stood at a tilted angle, lips passionately kissing the air. Just as he opened his eyes again, he barely caught a look at her before his eyes rolled upwards and struggled to focus between the ceiling and the little image of the outdoors. She had her hand pressed against the bulge of his trousers. She ran her index finger up along its shape and then down again before cupping it, and squeezing it. Jerome gulped as his cock began to throb.
‘Can I help?’ Jerome heard.
Jerri
- 08.10.2021
- 34
- 0
