ELV note: We interrupt our regular programming — i.e., our march through the 50 Essential Restaurants of Las Vegas, in descending order — to bring you a few words about Bar Masa.
What you mainly feel, after the anger subsides, is a sense of relief. The sort of relief that only comes from knowing you’re free. Free from the pull of perfection. Free from dark thoughts that pull you back in, time and again. Thoughts of passions and pursuits. Chasing the high. Never getting enough.
Before relief sets in, there’s a twinge of sadness. Like finally saying goodbye to an affair that was no good for you. It could be a drug habit, or a batshit crazy lover, but either way, you know the time has come to say goodbye. And then you get mad. Real mad.
“What the hell happened to you?” you say to yourself.
Over and over you say this to yourself.
“I loved you…worshiped you,” you keep thinking. “Defended you when others, many others, attacked you, and told me you were no good for me. And now you’ve done this to me and I realize they were right.”
And let’s not even talk about all the money I spent.
It was so wonderful at first. A frenzy of sensuality. A high unlike any I’d ever experienced. There was a rush. A dilation of pupils. An “oh my god!” factor from my first taste of your sinful pleasures.
And now it’s all gone to hell. And you know it. And it’s all your fault.
So I’m pissed. Really pissed. Because I realize it was all an illusion. An illusion designed to separate me from my wallet.
Sure there might’ve been some honest passion there at first. I felt it. Saw it. Tasted it. You can’t fake that intensity.
But then something changed. Old habits die hard. People revert to form. Money becomes more important than emotion. Product gets stepped on. Best behavior takes a back seat to the almighty buck.
Where once I slurped upon your glistening and gleaming skin, all I see now is limp, haggard and dry. Muscles that were taut and firm have become flabby and forgotten.
The delicacy of your makeup is now slipshod and done only with expediency in mind. Where the starch in your soul once sung, now there is only the mush of mendacity.
Your garden — once a source of fascination as I picked through its leafy wonders, is but a soggy and limp semblance of itself. Once, warm inviting liquids of lust fairly oozed from your pores; now they taste only of salt and surrender.
You’re like an old whore who, with enough makeup (and booze), still thinks she can command her tariff of ten years ago.
You can still fool most of them, you old slut, but I’ve seen you in the light of day and it’s not a pretty sight.
Your pimp would be mortified.
It used to be I couldn’t get enough of your charms. Now, I don’t want you at all. The spell has been broken.
But I’m relieved. Relieved of always thinking you were the best, of always holding others up to your (now abandoned) standards. Relieved of spending my time and energy and money on someone who no longer deserves it.
But I don’t hate you. No, I just feel sorry for you….and anyone stupid enough to pay your price.
I will remain an addict of course. A relentless, tortured pursuer of the voluptuous pleasures of the flesh that you once provided me. My libertine ways will find other outlets. Already, my head has been turned by newer, prettier, cheaper things. Lithe, lewd little lovers with something to prove. They are what you used to be, you fat bloated cow.
Thank you for setting me free.