December 1, 2008

Of deer, musth, lust and death

Posted in Lust, Nature, prostitution, shame at 11:27 pm by prurientdiarist

I was two seconds slower than death this morning. The Hyundai in the incoming lane was not.

The deer shot out from the brush-lined, roadside creek in front of me. Even with the dull light of early morning and the steady cold rain, I saw it soon enough to hit my brakes, though I wasn’t in any real danger of hitting the buck. The same couldn’t be said for the guy in Hyundai.

As the other driver skidded to a stop, the deer was flung back and to its side, flipping head or tail, its four legs desperately clawing for solid footing as its internal organs endured catastrophic injury. No more than 10 feet away from my car, the animal struggled to rise then staggered off the road and into the woods opposite of where it had emerged.

Shaken but not injured, the other driver told me he was OK, then he fished out his insurance card and started dialing his agent. I hung around a few minutes until a police car showed up, then continued my commute.

Odds are the deer was driven by one of two impulses — to flee hunters or to procreate. Since today is that start of hunting season around here, it’s likely that the animal ran into its death while fleeing another death that waited patiently in a treestand. But given the subject matter of this blog (you’ll discover it soon enough, trust me), I’m entertaining the possibility that this buck was running toward — not from — something.

We’re knee-deep in deer mating season. The bucks catch the scent of a doe in heat, and their first and only thought is to rut with her. And if there’s a ribbon of asphalt between the buck and doe, you can be sure the animal isn’t going to look both ways before crossing the street.

I recall seeing a documentary about elephants that detailed a similar problem, with one little difference. If an elephant runs into your car, you’re fucked. And though deer might be a major nuisance when it comes to gardens, I’d take that over the lust-induced rages that elephants visit on tribal villages. When elephants are like this, it’s called musth. When deer are like this, it’s called November. There’s a reason why November always is the statistical leader in deer-related traffic accidents nationwide, and this is it.

Never mind that today is December 1. Deer do not own calendars. Neither do their penises.

Anyway, I’d been considering the subject of my first blog post for about a week or so, wanting to make sure I struck the right tone.

Then, while driving to work today, this fell into my lap. For someone who has allowed himself to be ruled by lust more than most people, this is the perfect hello. I hope the metaphor isn’t an absolute fit — the animal’s corpse is likely 50 or 100 yards away from where the Hyundai struck it, after all — but I suspect it’ll prove to be a pretty apt one.

Had I left home a couple seconds earlier this morning or laid on the gas a little more than I had, I’d be griping about towtruck drivers, the need for a new car and likely insurance agents. Instead, I’m playing the role of witness. I’m the voyeur who opens his mouth and tells others. This and the posts that follow are my testimony.

Last week, despite less-than stellar service a month earlier, I walked into a massage parlor and paid an Asian woman to wash me, massage me and then please me. I used to feel shame whenever I visited these women and these places. This time I only felt relief that the service was good. I don’t think that’s necessarily a good thing.