We, The Novelty.
We are the entertainment. We are the spice, the flavor. We drive your desires and creativity. We are the supposed unattainable.
You weave stories of us, like challenges you’ve conquered. Do we only exist in those moments of palms and sweat? If we don’t moan and growl, do we even speak at all? Can you ever hear us, or are you only choosing not to?
We are the novelty. Given all of the individuals who crave us, certainly we must have it all. If lust and immediacy is what fuels us, we are always moving. Let us amuse you. Let us boost your confidence. Let us give you a story, a parting gift you can remember us by—if you choose to remember us at all.
We are the porn stars. The squirters. The dicks you compare to baby arms. We are the exotic. You dream of us, yet you never carry us further than your dreams. You want us, but for how long? Our value exists for a fixed period of time, where uniqueness and newness is retained and inevitably expires. Fleeting amusement is just that—fleeting. What is a novelty without someone to use it? If we don’t occupy your fantasies, do we cease to be?
I may be the novelty, but you, too, weave a tale. You sell your narrative. You believe in what you sell. You believe you are the character you create. I want to believe in that character too.
I buy into it. I buy into you. Not because you swindle me, but because I so desperately want to believe in more. See—I’m rooting for you, too. I want you to be different. I want you to be who you say you are.
It’s only ever temporary—everything is, so I feel I need to make you stay. In reality, I only want you to stay on your own accord. I want you to want, but when you don't want, my want feels foolish. So eventually, I let you go. When I’m not holding on, you slip away. Not slip—fade. You were never fully there to begin with, I just wanted to believe you were.
It’s a never-ending cycle. The hamster wheel I can’t seem to escape, yet keep chasing. Always chasing. Maybe the next rotation takes me somewhere new. I must find solace in my hamster wheel. And I do—I do enjoy the wheel and not only because I have to.
I know there is more outside of my glass cage. It a constant tease to watch the world outside pass me by. Maybe I would enjoy the wheel and the cage if I could journey outside, just once.
Every time I try, I humbly lick my wounds and retreat to a place more familiar. A place that accepts me. My wheel. My cage. I make due with whatever sustenance I create for myself. Mostly, it still leaves me hungry.
Tears fall at the sight of an endless sea of bodies connecting with each other. I yearn to be a part of it, but there is no one who draws me in. No one to remain by my side once the bodies wash away. A circus of novelty. A novelty contained inside endless novelty. So much novelty, that we—the novelty—lose our value.
I make use of my novelty. It get’s easier over time. I settle into the role, even use it to my advantage. If I collage together these moments, maybe I’ll have enough to create the whole. A collection of experiences, each in its own box, nonexistent outside of it’s constraints. But all these little boxes can never be complete. Radical independence is merely a defense mechanism as to not require companionship.
I never know if an encounter is isolated, so I take them for all they're worth. Their expirations are getting shorter. Their time, too, is fleeting. I must continue the cycle to replace the ones that go missing. Another cycle. Another rotation of the wheel.
No one told me how to make them stay, only how to keep them satisfied.
I am worthy of attention—consistent attention, not only the fleeting variety. I am worthy of respect. Though, it doesn’t mean they acknowledge it. Respectable is not a special skill listed on my resume. As much as we would like it to be, It cannot be demanded. How do we earn it, if we are never given the chance?
We are the novelty. The unattainable. The entertainment.
To know us is to experience us. But to see us—really see us, you have to lead us out of the cage.