After a marathon of acquisition, assembly, sorting, packing and strapping, I was back to eating asphalt. Two days unraveling the road to the Georgia strip joint, then a wad of hours sucking in second-hand smoke and gesturing dazedly with my laptop. In contrast to my last visit, this late, late evening felt edgier. I was already about two weeks into the current version of my sanyasin experiment, (declining self gratification), and sexual energy was percolating, leaking out from every uncharted crack in my persona.

Some of the dancers remembered me from 6 weeks back and there was a whole crop of new ones to meet. Lizzie and I discussed the scope of her dancing career beyond the club scene, Ice revealed her ambition to design cloths professionally and Sunny is joyful at the prospect of bringing her husband's kids into her home.

I have to admit I am fascinated by these women and their lives. They seem sweet and smart in conversation, remarkably open and easy going. When they work though I suffer, transfixed in a sort of horrific way as they climb the stage and do their super sexy but ultimately unattainable thing. I can not imagine not drawing. Without being able to see as an artist sees, I could not endure the violent dichotomy of their dance. My limbic system emphatically recognizes an enthusiastic celebration of and invitation to intimacy. My intellectual center in contrast, noticing merely a woman paying her bills, furiously hoses down the gut brain with potent arousal canceling neurochemicals. It feels way worse than mere cognitive dissonance, it's emotional and spiritual train wreck. After passing though this shredding inner tempest, as I lay sodden and gasping on the shore, my hands clawing foamy sand... she puts on a flimsy nothing, flops down next to me and chats like an old friend. Whoa. I don't get how standard issue guys do do do it. As for me, I'd rather not spend my evenings choking on inexpressible tenderness, but then again I am a total freak.

Consciousness capitulated after only 15 minutes of the Turner Classic Movie channel in an otherwise forgettable hotel room, alone and absolutely whipped. Florida beckoning.