An Introduction to Lust
So I think the best place to begin our relationship is with some initial honesty. I usually wait until I really like someone before the fibs, white lies, and outrageous whoppers come into play. So truth be told, I am a sinner. That would be a confession if I thought it was a bad or shameful thing. But being thankfully free of the encumbrances of religion (I will also break the news that I am an atheist), being a sinner doesn’t have the same “my soul is damned” quality to me as those who are, shall we say “Jesus-tically challenged”. I lie, I cheat, but never steal intentionally. I will drink far too much white wine on a Wednesday night, and have been known to both drunk text one gentleman and booty text another on the same night. There. I put that out there so you have been warned.
This is the third time I have lived in Los Angeles. I was born here, my parents were as well. The city is somewhat of an addiction. Living anywhere else just feels off somehow. But then when you fly home, back, low over the city baking under the sun, the haze of the smog over the inland areas, there is just a subtle burning feeling. Underneath your skin, warming you and calling you home. There is nothing like it. The last time I came home was the time I knew I would never leave again. That came with a price that has been almost as high as home prices in my neighborhood, but one I would gladly pay again.
My topic for our wanderings will be lust. I like that. Lust is fun. It’s the wanting. Wanting things makes the world go round. It’s one of my favorite thoughts; to want, not need, not require, but just want. And really, what lady wants the word “sloth” associated with her. “Gluttony” is also very unsexy. I do think lust is like a fine cologne. A little just tickles your brain, but become a slave to it, and you become one of those freaky people on “Real Sex 8” who have taken things a bit to far to have their lives shown before 10 p.m. on cable. Not good. I mean, we all need to keep our jobs, lives, etc. intact. But a little lust is good. It’s healthy, and something of the lifeblood for everything that makes this city shine like a beacon.
Lust in my life can incorporate many things, especially shoes, but stop right there before you call me “Carrie Bradshaw”. I think Sex in the City did women a foul injustice. Don’t ever send me a quiz asking if I am a Carrie, or tell me you are a Miranda. I will say you are lost, and by the way: THERE WAS NO FRICKIN CARRIE. The show was created by A MAN! How offensive! The columns that the show was based on were written by a woman, and were much darker than that fluffy fashion show. Don’t get me wrong, I like fashion, and was glad to see women having sex on TV, period. But it wasn’t real. Kim Catrall doesn’t really go around having sex with random UPS drivers… or maybe she does. But she certainly doesn’t tell people. My life is real. What I tell you, confide in, blurt out, or confess will be absolutely true. I will assign nicknames and pseudonyms to protect the guilty.
So let me introduce myself. My name is Priscilla. And I have a pretty funny story to tell you how someone named me that (not something I would ever choose for myself.) But somehow the names that other people chose for you are the ones that stick.
