Sex 2

By Hank Fredo

For Hank Fredo, the world is a chequered space of craziness and intrigue. He has lived through most of what the life has to offer, and along the way there has been pleasure in this experience. He has met some of the best souls and the worsts ones. In this second volume, Hank shows some of the elements that created the lens he sees the world through, in hope that we understand why he chooses to stay on the outside of the norm. He takes us along as he recounts his many sexual encounters and shows us the different experiences that made him the writer we love!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Seagull Editions
• Release date: May 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223897309

Book preview

Welcome....

As I begin to write this, I wonder if maybe my younger years were my best. There were difficulties back then. I was stupid, adventurous, and naïve. The world held wonders for me back then. I have heard that a man’s youth is when he is most imaginative. I call that a truck load of bollocks. My fifties had been crazy with imagination.

Back then I was too busy to really imagine much. My mind was wild with things that were sometimes important and often not. I craved a lot of things—joy, money, women, and art. As long as I have lived, I have always craved art. In all its form.

It had been one of the most consistent part of my life.

Art was one of the best part of drifting around with my parents. I got to see a lot, feel a lot and listen to so much that wouldn’t have come to me if we’d stayed tucked safely in one corner of the world. I imagine it would have been a boring life otherwise.

When I think about things like this, I feel a certain sense of appreciation for my father. Man was crazy, in a good way. He loved music like most dads back then did. He loved books too, but we rarely stayed still. But with music, he seemed to come alive, like a peacock ready for a flaunt.

He loved them all—classical, jazz, blues, rock and roll? He used to dance like a tree dragged raggedly by winds from all directions. Even the memory of it is funny. I didn’t like him much as I grew up. I guess it was the rebel in me, fighting against what was slowly becoming the norm in my life.

Yet, I learned so much from my parents. Their constant movement gave them a unique kind of appreciation for life. They were no without drama and difficulty. Life wasn’t easy because they were always moving, it was the other way actually, but still they lived so well, and so fully.

I might even go the long mile and say I envy them.

This isn’t about that though. What I am trying to ease into is what I learned from my parents. From my father, I learned a great deal about art. About the beauty of words. He didn’t put me down and show these to me like most father probably do with their kids, yet I owe him my taste in almost everything art.

My mother was the pinnacle of belief. And from her, I learned to believe not in God or any other religious stuff that is up in the air these days.

I guess that is why I perceive humanity differently. It is why I find myself on the outside of the norm, viewing others as they live their lives in the loop of routine bullshits, sensationalized deceits and silly convictions. Or maybe it all comes from the many perspective I have gathered all my life.

Still, I remember the first time it sparked crystal clear in my head—my mind. It was pure bliss, believe me. It was looking through a clean glass and seeing a lucid image on the other side.

I believe, wholesomely, in coherence. In the reasonably clear-sightedness of understanding. I believe in what I can tear apart to see a comprehensible whole. It is daunting that this isn’t same for many other people. I think it is the simplest thing.

Knowledge’s real value is understanding. Understanding removes every shred of mystery, making it easier to see through. Why believe what you can’t completely understand? I have never been able to make sense of that. And I have tried, trust me.

Most of my present years are spent thinking about things I had cast away before. Which brings me to what this book is all about—not just my curiosity about life and the blandness of the mundane, it carries my accounts of pleasures too. Those small intangible moments that culminated to this point.

You can call it a ledger of memories—both fun and weird. I have lived most of it. Back then I found myself in places I had no plan to be in. I woke up with people I didn’t remember going to bed with. I tried things, I met people. I went places.

Now, I am stuck in L.A. Stuck might seem like a bad word there, but it is not. I love it here. I have written most of the books that has made my life comfortable in this city. It has been faithful lover and friend. But of course there are times I wish I can stretch out and reach out to the world like I used to. Get the hell out of my house, get in my car and just drive until there is no more road stretching farther in front of me.

I make peace with memories instead. They are consolations, or compensations. I imagine I would have been filled to my neck with regret if there wasn’t much to look back to. But there is and that is all that matters right now.

When I get nostalgic, I go for a drink and watch the young ones live wilder than I did. It is rare because I prefer the quiet of my house, the 90s record playing as I write. Away from the craziness of everyday life bustling outside. In here, in front of my computer, I feel freer than I have ever been.

There might be more pleasure out there, but the sanity I feel here is profound. The world and its cesspool of normalcy can stay out my door while I tell you about my life with some of the most bizarre people you’ve ever met. I hope you learn a thing or two. But if you don’t, it doesn’t matter. I am not trying to advice you. I just want you to know what I got up to when I looked better than you and the ladies loved me. 

New Orleans!

For me, New Orleans would always be about Celine. My memory of the city gets clouded in my memories of her and her friend, Claire. They were like