The guilt lay like a rock in my heart; lump in her throat. I thought that I was man enough to try to deny my sins and forget it to go on with the daily affairs of life. But that hasn’t been the case. I tried to rationalize my behavior; placing part of the blame on others to make me feel less guilty. I often wonder why we engage in guilty pleasures knowing that guilt is a demon. It is an awful, horrible sensation that eats away at your mind, consuming you if you let it, eventually, leaves you emotionally drained. For several years now, I have been fighting not to let the guilt tear me apart and learn to cherish nothing but pleasurable memories. While I longing to tell my story, I resolved to squirrel away my remorse hoping that you would see it in a different context because even I sometimes feel pleasure outweighs the guilt.
I’ve been blind-sided by remorse on many favorable and supposedly pleasurable occasion. I am not a pundit to analyze those feeling or to tell the difference between one and another – at least in one occasion that I am going to tell you.
I grew up in a somewhat normal family, but around the time when the incident that led to my unforgettable memories, my father was away on a UN peace keeping mission. I was a normal guy, despite being underdeveloped for my then age 18. I wish that I can boast being six feet tall, lean and handsome, but the truth was far from it. I must have inherited my maternal grandfather’s genes instead of from dad’s side to be barely 5’6″ with boyish looks. My friends, peers, and girls that I knew accepted me as a nice guy or cool guy, but that wasn’t enough to me to be a chick magnet or at least good enough to attract a single girl to go on a date. I often wondered what it would be like to get a hand job, blow job, stick my cock in a girl’s wet pussy and so on as imagination new no bounds. But the truth of the matter was that I was desperate to try anything with a woman.
It all started when I came down with the stomach flu. I missed three days of school due diarrhea and vomiting but fortunately got over with it without other complications. One morning I found mom complaining about diarrhea and stomach cramps etc. that I had experienced just a couple of days earlier. Mom got dressed to go to work saying that she could somehow manage but was forced to change her mind when she vomited few times just after her morning coffee.
That afternoon, I remember coming home from school to find mom in the family room, lounged on the couch sideways facing the TV. She had a trash can near and from the first glance at her; I knew there was something really wrong with her. She looked up to meet my eyes as I entered the living room, then immediately sat bringing the trash can to her face, then started vomiting. I watched in dismay as she kept at it. Then she knelt on the floor with her face down to the trash can gagging. Her jaw went slack and a trickle of drool traces slowly down one side of her chin. Her eyes looked completely dead before rolling back as she crumples to the floor in a fit of violent retching and gagging.
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