A Player’s Tale: Of Lust, Loss and Love on the 8Th Continent

By A Young Don Juan

This rare, uncensored glimpse into the intimate life of a celebrity—albeit anonymously—feels raw and genuine, infused with a vulnerability that appeals to the voyeur in all of us.
- Blue Ink Review

The author’s writing is regal, intelligent, social media contemporary, and provocative without becoming raunchy...Readers who enjoy erotic accounts written from a unique, cleverly intuitive perspective and spiced with a pungent, feverish hedonism will be pleased to discover the heady material blossoming in the pages of this candid memoir.
A provocative and entrancing autobiography that’s both titillating and authentic.
- Kirkus Review

This is a dangerous book. It is in the tradition of forbidden works, like Casanova’s and Henry Miller’s. More than a simple autobiography, this personal narrative is a revolutionary glimpse into the insatiable desires and endless depths of youthful feelings, exposing things best-kept secret.

A Player’s Tale recounts the adventures and misadventures of a young man who was born into the purple glow of “Hollywood Royalty.” He tells of his first childhood glimpses of the nude female form, his loss of virginity with a prostitute, and his most excessive exploits in a culture of selfie-fueled libido, before finally discovering the peace of love. He speaks frankly about sex in the modern age—from insecurity at sleepovers to the problems of fidelity, from sex tapes to chakra openings, from ayahuasca trips to bedding sisters, from threesomes to attempted suicide, from ego death to alchemical transformation. It is a coming-of-age narrative not just for the anonymous author but for the world, as it deals with sexuality and spiritualty at the dawn of the twenty-first century.

Reflective and humorous, this memoir of a man’s eternal quest for love led him to countless women, exotic lands, and the ultimate awakening to his soul.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 27, 2019
• ISBN: 9781532085475

A Young Don Juan

A Young Don Juan wishes to remain anonymous in the hope that the integrity of the content and the reputation of all parties involved will remain unscathed.

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Copyright © 2019 A Young Don Juan.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Author Credits: Ali

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-8546-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-8548-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-8547-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019917264

iUniverse rev. date: 10/25/2019

For

Elle

Contents

By Way of an Introduction

Childhood’s End

A Ghost’s Love Story

The Age of Innocence

Laws of Magnetism

Past is Present

Inner Revelations (out of the cave)

Res-erection

Fidelio

Coming Away

Shades of Desire

My Best Friend’s Girl

The Black Sun

Potpourri of Porno

Christine

2012

Friends with Benefits

Selfie Sex (or sex with yourself)

He Too

Last Life in the Universe

Zep Tepi

Sex Magick

Mono

The Eighth Continent

The eighth continent is a realm where even sailors fear to tread. A deathless place where psyche meets the sky, and no land between; where dreams are buoyed atop the desiccating flames of desire’s wake. Beyond the seven seas and continents, there is a world that unites them all, for it is populated by the travelers on a journey in love, exploring its multitudes in meaning. Their pilgrimage may seem robust, with a seesaw of connections, but they mostly travel alone, reclaiming the shards of their shattered spirits, cracked by traumas of youth; or running on the treadmill of soul’s memory of lives passed.

Although we recognize each other here, where a common language is spoken, there is no definition to this borderless realm, which snatches us up, ensnaring us with hallucinations that can batter heroes as hastily as redeem whores. This eighth continent can render travelers more tender, humbled humans, swiftly as it can break them in the buzzsaw of despair. It is a revolutionary place once you let go of the idea of the possible long enough to allow the impossible to happen.

After that, one finds a domain of goddesses and demons, a marriage of heaven and earth, of our highest and lowest natures. Thus, like Fight Club, no one talks about it, except circuitously, in bragging of exploits or whispering of indiscretions, for we rarely grasp the interconnectedness of our dreams, our memories, our urges… our entire sexual landscape, as a whole. And we are all there, coloring it in.

By Way of an Introduction

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L et’s talk about sex. After all, it was the first global language – even the birds and the bees do it. Some call sex talk crude, giving us all the more motivation for an honest conversation,

 beyond the personalization that quickly devolves arguments into memes and barbs. Anonymously, we know our idiosyncrasies, the repressed contradictions we would never dare voice, before watching them voyeuristically on clandestine screens in darkened corners.

Because the libido drives us more than we dare acknowledge… publically that is. It drives men in their search for success - that Darwinian indication of man’s ability to procreate – to spread our seed as far and wide as the winds may carry. It drives women in proving their power to men and women alike, to captivate a promising mate from the competition. And this analysis may seem reductio ad absurdum, but there is a biological truth to it.

For the purpose of candor, I will hide my name behind the ink of the quill, and the notion that I was a young Don Juan, whom I always preferred to Casanova, the notorious spy and schemer. Don Juan, as Lord Byron portrayed him, was a naïf in his voyages, until he encountered the mysterious land of women… where he was seduced, even more than they by him. I shall change the names of those lands, to protect the guilty… or so I jest; but for the sake of a sentiment that we learn from our experiences and mistakes, and from the freedom to do so. Of course, every participant in these events would have their own story to tell, which would add infinite value to my portrayal of events. But so goes the subjective nature of our reality.

In truth, I wish to not so much obscure myself in anonymity as to make my story universal. Though some might guess at my name, my tale is not mine alone, belonging to the countless men and women who have played the timeless games on the eighth continent throughout the generations. On that continent, I may have appeared a womanizer, a Lothario, a player, but to make such claims would reduce the women I seduced and courted and played into mere things. In fact, they were sometimes fawning and complicit, sometimes toying and self-involved, but never mere objects like toys to be possessed. Let us remember that making love is a two-way street, lest it become autoerotic masturbation or ribald violation. Ironically, there is no female counterpart to the adjective womanizer, except perhaps man-eater, which sounds vicious, if not the obvious… cannibalistic. Is it only men who lust for women’s bodies, or shall we ignore the fetishizing of men as a cultural norm? Fetishizing the male form is as old as the slave trades, where the human beast of burden was bought and sold, often to make both love and war.

And in war, like sex, polarity must be bridged by action; in the shared interest of conflict, till one acquiesces to the needs of another, we necessitate a partner… hence the mysteries of sex and violence in their timeless allure. I used to believe you can only really know someone by fighting or fucking… Why? Because the irrational is marched out on full-display… the dark side revealed for the firing squad in the urgency of a moment. Thus love has been called a battlefield where we grapple for control until we work out a white flag of compromise.

Alas, our sexual quests, like our wars, are never lived in solitude. Were such modalities to grow too comfortable, too readily accessible, without the delicate skill of a lover or the patience of an admirer, it would grow staid and puerile. It would lead to the heinous acts of bestiality, rape or insatiable neuroticism, in a lust to experience more, even though, in our hearts, we have only longed for the unity of love - physical, spiritual, psychic; while in its polarity, our sexual life is a magnetic reflection of our yearning for affirmation, our psyche’s desire to be liked, if not loved. For it is through others, in our relationships with them, that we come to understand who we are, even when we refuse to accept it.

Hence the strange interplay of sex in our lives – we want it for physical pleasure, we demand it for psychic reassurance, we need it for reproduction; and yet, like eating, there is always a next time – because our humanity compels more than mere lust for fluids and flesh. And there is something so revealing about the moans of intercourse, the quaking of the corpse, the vaginal valleys, the curves of the phallus, the flavor of skin, the opening of the spirit from the temporal to the eternal realms at oblivion’s overture… our little bites of pure living, pure death. Totality, in its empty form.

So let us use my sexual history as a mirror to comprehend what I, and perhaps you, long for. I’ll try to recount these encounters as clearly as my memory allows; or maybe, as much as I dare recall. For the whole problem of memory is akin to that of perception - we claim to remember a line of someone’s dialogue when we quote it imperfectly; we remember an action, but rarely the entire sequence of events. More often, it’s a mood, like responding to the question, how was your day? Good… Or do you really care to know all the details?

At best, we remember moments; then we piece together the gaps with the thin thread that seems to fit, but then begs, what are you perceiving even now? We look through the lens of our eyes, and if our minds are focused elsewhere, that lens is cloudy. If my attention is on the conversation, how much do I notice of the passing faces, the make of the cars, the temperature of the sky’s colors? The mind is like a wave crashing against the point in space we call now. And how many times have we relived this now, through the repetition of our thoughts?

In rationalizing our emotions into a narrative, we begin to lay claim to who am I, an unwieldy character in this story called life, which we pretend to live, in spite of its persistent paradoxes and logical fallacies, until we choose a new storyline that turns my life into that life. A toast to the next chapter! Thankfully, it starts with a blank page, never mind the lines that preceded it. For our imaginations are so generous as to transform our past, fictionalized, into our future, fantasized, for the benefit of our happiness, idealized.

And so, for better or worse, my mind wields memory like a shield, to preserve the moments I need, not because those moments are always the highs or lows, but because they offer me pieces to the puzzle of my identity… an identity that can seem so secure when reconstructed, until confronted by the truth of a moment - a raw experience that sears itself into the soul. It is the eternal moment that turns a hope into an experience, realized rather than rejected in the interminable potentiality of fantasy. The eternal moment thus connects the world outside with the world inside – married by the muse, in song.

The muse is the lover of life, even though she can’t stand the world. It all started as a child, when she was curious. Like most children, her sparkling eyes were more perceptive and radiant than her parents’. That curiosity guided her from peering into the eyes of an ant, to a human belly button… Before she was institutionalized. How better to degrade you than to grade you? As you grew older, society believed it had cured your inner-muse of that malady called curiosity. You specialized at your job, adopted a companion, and obsequiously repeated the ideas of the day with overt plagiarism from the daily op-ed in your news or Facebook feed. Occasionally your curiosity piqued until someone asked if you were a conspiracy theorist, or your lover cried out, No! Not like that… So you either hid your muse behind a well-rehearsed mask, or you let her out…

And you rebranded yourself an artist because it’s the only way to call yourself creative, even though Queen Victoria warned against them - those artists who mix with all classes of society and are therefore most dangerous. In truth, everyone is an artist who dares unleash the muse of the soul. The chef who tastes, the gardener who cultivates, the librarian who daydreams, the architect who draws, the door man who sings, the barber who sculpts, are each as valid in their expression of the muse as the celebrity or rock star. But the world may never recognize your art. And that is the world’s loss, not yours. Your muse was meant to be intimate, to make the intangible tangible, the universal personal, the ethereal terrestrial, and the incomprehensible relatable; for poetry is the language of the soul.

Unfortunately, we forget our soul when we lose sight of our creativity, and rather than desiring to do good or spread love, we care most about being right and getting A in the eyes of the public, lest humiliation rebrand us as failures. But there is nothing more conformist than being right. And no matter how infinitesimal our mortal experience – not even one seven-billionth of human existence – we still cling to some notion that I know.

Reality then becomes our virtual reality coordinated by our thoughts to create continuity for the story of… who I am; why I am here; how I got here. And by pretending to know, we forget our muse in listening without hearing and thinking without feeling… unless the other person’s words are spoken in validation of what we already believe. Until a moment of revelation, when the thoughts cease, and the infinite appears, in silence.

The alchemists of old were said to see the silence in their search for the philosopher’s stone, which would catalyze the transformation of base metal to gold. Carl Jung interpreted the most ancient forms of alchemy to mean the process within the individual, to find his or her own stone – in Christian lore, it is the Holy Grail – as a means of transmutation, from our base animal to our higher angelic natures. Thousands of pages have been written about this journey, but I will now lay bare my abridged alchemical adventure, of mixing my body with so many others in the process of finding that magic formula to light my heart in love.

In pursuit of that stone, the alchemists believed they could see the silence, a beautiful paradox to implicate the utter problem of words… when we talk, we speak about a believed-in past, or an imagined future, or some rough paraphrase of what we are experiencing… And yet, the problem of the parallax view is that you and I can never look upon the same object, for we are always separated by where we stand in space and time. What is your experience of hard, of wet, of green? I trust it is imbued by the emotions of the muse in you. So beyond words, let us esteem the silence of emotion, and behold the present in awe…

Alas, I hope that these pages recount neither right nor wrong, but the many-faceted desires of a carnal incarnation, as a phenomenological experience of a young man, hoping to unpack some of the enigmas of the sexual animal that is a human being - that conscious animal who looks upon all its fellows with an interest in their sexual prowess – as mate or competitor? A human must discern for itself whether to follow instinct, indoctrination or imagination in applying that awareness. Because from birth, no one teaches us the truth about sex, except to wet the seal, insert here, and if you’re especially well educated, wrap it up.

Perhaps they do not teach us the truth because they have not discovered it for themselves… Perhaps it is because sex is as enigmatic as human consciousness itself.

Childhood’s End

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T o borrow from the great Sabitini, I was born with a gift of laughter and a sense that the world was mad . In the song of my soul, making sense of a crystal ball floating in orbit, I saw myself as one tiny speck within a cell called earth, within the body of a giant, or call it god , however you conceive that which is ultimately transcendent. Like a Russian doll nested inside larger dolls, are the mysteries of our cellular structures not echoed at the grandest scales of heavenly bodies? Or is the myth of our being satisfied in the happenstance of a semen greeting an egg? If we are just genes, then we are the replica of our ancestors’ parts, reassembled in a newly minted coin. If we are our thoughts, then we are the pale reflection of past influences, reactively sorted by the second. If we are our emotions, I am no different than you or any other being with the capacity to feel. But the riddle of the soul, and what follows death, can equally demand, what was I before birth? From whence and where did this consciousness occur?

Plato contemplated this problem in the Eleatic dialogues of Parmenides - if we exist in a unified universe, how did we separate from that oneness that should connect all? My reply is that we have never left the oneness of consciousness, which cannot contemplate nothing because it is still in relationship to something… so we believe in separation according to our own limitations, while seeking consciousness’ expansion, as both involution and evolution. And thus we incarnate for a bodily sojourn…

I was born at the top of the mountain. But whether careening downhill on skies in winter or riding up on horseback in summer, the paradise of the view could never ease my sense of loneliness. That was my first memory, before my mother’s moist, tempered blue eyes introduced my embryonic self to love. Under the touch of her soft caress when she kissed goodnight, or in bed beside her, I, Narcissus, saw myself in the lake of her eyes. Is that not what we look for in the eyes of all our lovers? Ourselves. And within her eyes, I was entwined by her snaking fears of rejection, for I had abandoned her when I left her womb. And with my maturation, I sensed her self-pity mixed by admiration. She would never again possess me. But I would bear the burden.

I would try to ameliorate the sting of separation through constant female companionship – at first, carried and nursed like a prone prince. To reach for my mother’s embrace at my beck and call was to reassure myself of love. To hear a nanny’s voice playfully call to me was enough to make me feel wanted. Perhaps the birth of the ego came with a name. So my desires sparked with it, from the unconscious impulse to feed, to the conscious lust for female attention. It was not enough to look upon beauty; I wished to possess it, requited. In my 6 year-old dreamscape, that meant rescuing the captured cartoon characters of G.I. Joe, who then showered me with a blessing of kisses.

Which is to say, I was not thinking of girls my own age. I recall a cute blonde putting her lips on my cheek in the backseat of a car. We were in 1st Grade, and I found her gesture utterly humiliating, as I think a lot of boys did back then. I’m not sure where the correlation of girls and cooties came from, but it’s as though, as boys, we belonged to a separate tribe. And while I enjoyed playing sports with that blonde, swapping lips seemed like an alien touch. Especially with the self-consciousness of my best friends’ laughter. Perhaps that was the real fear – social ridicule. I had to hide the fact of my Barbie doll, not only for shame of owning one but also for the reason why… so I could undress her in search of her perfectly plastic proportions.

A few years later, around 8, I dreamed of a lioness of a girl, my classmate. These were my first sexual dreams, where we actually kissed and groped each other in the nude. But I woke with such guilt at having desired her, that shame of a dog crapping in the house. Was it the indignity of thinking how my mother and father would interpret these dreams; or at the instance of my friends’ ribald response in their own awkwardness? And how many still snicker at their friends in love… as though it were a humiliation! In truth, those giggles elucidate one’s own insecurity at the overwhelming power of emotions, even as we work so hard at grappling them till we find ourselves in a wrestling match with a tiger. Guess who wins that fight?

Of course, that’s not to say sex isn’t amusing; nature had a great sense of humor in placing our sex organs next to our paths of excretion. We generally do it (as we called sex in 5th grade) like we go to the bathroom - cloistered clandestinely. But that urge seems rooted in biology, when our primordial selves recognized the danger of our nude vulnerability. In the heat of copulation, a man, bare-ass to the world, is most exposed to the intrigues of enemies. At best I was amused by the notion, and at worst repulsed, when asking my father where babies come from, that a man’s penis should be inserted into a woman like a tool. I preferred the visual of men and women kissing in naked embrace, as seen on TV. That airbrushed passionate caress became synonymous with lovemaking until I accidentally opened my eyes to my parent’s moans one vacationing morn. Awkwardly parallel them in the king size bed, I returned to sleep with a curious thought… how could sex be stimulating? I’d much rather play with my action figures than a woman.

Until a darker shade of sexuality aroused me, in a fantasy adventure film where a woman captive was tortured. I felt my masculinity aroused, demanding I protect her. Was that a biological urge to preserve the human race in her, or my soul’s trauma from some past life memory of loss? Years later, I blanketed my bed with an image of