Thank you, Sister Aem and Sister Meena. For me, it was a crazy experiment. For you, it was just another day at the office. I’ve gone back to Latex Land. You’re still there in Spaceport City, doing it as real as ever.

What have I learned from the experience? Well, I guess I finally answered the burning question: “What does it feel like?” My curiosity has been satisfied. I believe I’m ready to go back in a more traditional direction. Indeed, I’ve already begun to do so.

I find myself questioning my choice of career. How much longer will I spend my life force driving this lonely cargo through this lonely space, anxiously waiting for my next glimpse of Spaceport City. Not much longer, perhaps.

Better to be a street sweeper in SpacePort City, I have come to believe, than to be the pilot of even the best space cargo ship. Sister Aem and Sister Meena, I may be coming to you soon. And if we meet on the street, in the midst of pretending we’ve never seen each other before, let’s have a look into each other’s eyes. How are we really doing today?

It’s funny. This time I didn’t even get close. The battle was joined while I was still several light years (approximately one Earth week) away from Spaceport City. They’ve found my frequency, and they’re having a host of empathic women do a crazy dance inside my mind. Only the women aren’t crazy. They’re generally quite calm and collected. The craziness is inside me. I blame it on the empaths, but they know, and I know, what’s really going on.

A bit weird in the old space log tonight, I know. I suppose that’s how one gets at the end of a long run. I’ve been pushing this cargo, making long runs, for so long. I’m just tired.

One good thing happened out of all this. I finally found an escape from the holographic image girls. You see, ever since I let the empaths into my mind, I haven’t thought about a single holographic image girl. I’ve traded visual images for mental images, I suppose.

My course is fixed. Spaceport City, here we come once again. I know you’re ready. You’re always ready. But am I ready?

It was about one Earth month ago. I let myself fall back under the spell of the holographic image girls. I must give Daije credit: the girls she sends out just keep getting hotter. And I just keep getting weaker and weaker.

I have embraced non-reality, living in it to the point that I am missing out on real planets and real things and real beings. It makes no sense. I look around the ship, and I see the following:

• Toby, the trusty stardog – Still loyal. Still faithful.
• 1 empty bottle of Sailor Jerry Rum – I keep it as a souvenir.
• 1980 Suzuki GS850G – The carburetors are fouled again, much like my thoughts.
  Note: This is not the manufacturer’s fault. A previous owner failed to store the machine properly, and this is the inevitable result.
• Entrance permit to Spaceport City – Effective approximately one Earth month from now.
• Winter holiday greeting card from Earth – I receive these only rarely since I started this space cargo pilot job.

Just outside of Spaceport City, there’s an ocean much like the one back on Earth. I would like very much to jump in there and stay there until the salt scrubs clean my heart and mind. I wouldn’t care how long it takes, but you know how it is with space cargo pilots. There are always deadlines for cargo to be delivered.

I ran into an old friend of mine the other day somewhere around Sector 43. We stopped and parleyed for a while, two old humans still drifting through space after all these years. He had some exciting, new, real-life adventures to relay. Good on him. I had nought but the holographs, nothing at all real to relay.

Out here in space–at least on small cargo ships–one sets his own course. The time has come for me to reset mine if I ever hope to make it back. I do worry about getting back into Spaceport City. Have I ever mentioned that the people there are all empathic? They have security teams at the border checkpoints who scan your heart and mind. If they determine you’re beyond salvation, that you’ve willfully given yourself up to darkness, then they simply don’t let you in. I’ve heard of it happening to more than a couple of people. I hope I’m not next. I desperately need to get in there. Spaceport City, for me, is the battleground, the place where the positive side of me fights the negative side. Many years I’ve been there, and we’ve yet to declare a winner. The back-and-forth is starting to get to me. This time, let’s do it. Let’s settle it for once and for all.

I guess you could say I pre-planned to it some extent. I mean, I tried to set up the appointment for the full moon night. I deliberately cut that fragrant red rose from the bush. And you wouldn’t be wrong of if you accused me of intending to, or at least hoping to, end the evening with a kiss.

It didn’t go quite as I planned or hoped, though. No, it was different, and it’s a difference I’ve loved each and every full moon kiss. Not that there have been all that many. It’s the rarity of them, after all, that makes them such beautiful memories.

In this most recent experience, when she realized the kiss was coming, she seemed shocked. She said softly and with genuine surprise, “What’s this? No.” She turned her head to the side, and the kiss on the lips is not what happened. Instead it was a kiss on her cheek, and what I still find striking about it was the softness. When it was done, we tried to say our goodbyes, but neither of us was making any sense. So finally she went into her house, and I climbed back on board and took off.

Now I sail on, about as far from Sector 37 as I usually go. It’s nice and quiet here. Things are just the way Toby and I like them to be on board this little ship. Oh, yes, we’ve got our beloved, our dearly treasured and closely held peace and quiet. I don’t know about Toby, but if I have much more of it, my heart and soul might just explode.

It’s true. I’ve always had a weakness for the string girls. I’m afraid I still have a weakness for string girls. The string girl was here today. The ship was sealed, supposedly impermeable. But suddenly there she was.

What is one to do? You can’t tell her to stop coming around. Not after all those Earth years together. You can’t tell her about the darkness she brings with her. You can’t blame her for the disappointment. She’s only a part of it after all. Instead, one would have to tell oneself honestly, “String man, it’s you, my friend. It’s you, and it’s always been you. String girl 1: you left her. String girl 2: she left you. String girl 3: you left her. String girl 4: she left you.”

Crazy string man with his crazy string girls, even out in space. But not right now. The string girl has gone away again. She’s gone to her string girl cave.

Me and my trusty stardog Toby are right here, right where we always are, cruising through space swiftly without a sound. Tomorrow there will be a little detour, one I’ve been making with increasing frequency, to that little sub-station over in Sector 37. It doesn’t take much to make a former string boy happy.

Looking back through the ship’s logs, I see a lot of references to the string girl. Whenever I think of her, I get all judgmental. She should do this, and she should do that. And she did this, and she did that.

But in truth, I’m every bit the string boy that she is the string girl. My weaknesses are different, but they are just as hard to overcome. She’s off on her trip–floating and spinning around in no discernible pattern. I’m off on my trip–straight ahead destination to destination. Yes, sir. I will deliver your cargo on this star date at this star time. No, sir. I don’t care what the cargo is. That’s your business.

The charge: Wasted Life Force. I offer no defense. The string girl blames her crime on me as well. Go ahead. It doesn’t make me feel anything. I’m beyond all that.

And, yet, I still hold out hope. It’s crazy, I know. I should have thrown in the towel Earth years ago. I’ve been stopping at a little sub-station out in Sector 37. Several people there are from the vicinity of Spaceport City. They treat each other kindly, and strangers too. So I was there recently, and I met an unpaired female. I didn’t try to meet her; it just happened. Of course, I got too excited. I talked too much; I didn’t say what I meant; and I’m sure I scared her half to death.

But I’ll be back there again shortly, and I hope to run into her again. I’ve been thinking about her and what I’ll say to her. First I’ll tell her that I have trouble talking, and that what I say–the words that come out of my mouth–are not at all what I mean. I won’t clearly tell her that I’m interested in her. I won’t tell her that I’m really just a string boy in space. She knows that already anyway.

I still judge people, including myself. It’s a hard habit to break. I kick my own ass for thinking about the new girl. How dare I consider damaging yet another female? What about my own conviction that I’ve caused enough damage for one lifetime?

Maybe life, even in space as it turns out, is nothing more than a desperate strugle to avoid being alone. Maybe we’ll screw over anyone in order to have someone. Or maybe that old Russian guy back on Earth was wrong. Perhaps it is, in fact, possible to overcome decades as a libertine. Perhaps there’s a way, after you get so tired of it all, to go back to where you started. Like the alkie finally finding a way out of the bottle, or the watcher of holographic image girls finally getting back his childhood eyes, maybe it’s just a matter of letting the chains slide off one by one. Maybe the chains were never really fastened to begin with.

I always feel kind of weird after spending time with those people from Spaceport City. But it’s a good kind of weird feeling. One of the things about being out here in space bouncing around from universe to universe is that you end up not knowing if it’s all really confusing, or if it’s all really simple, and ultimately deciding that it was just useless overthinking that made you think it was confusing.

For now, I’ll give up on all the thinking. Nothing comes of it anyway. Still, I wonder if the new girl ever thinks of me. And the string girl? I wish her well. I really do wish her well. Somewhere out here in these multiverses there must be one of you man enough to be with her, to give her comfort, to help her find her peace of mind. I failed, it’s true; but that doesn’t mean I’m a failure. Or maybe it does if I were willing to wear that label. But I’m not willing. I’m moving forward. I’m done looking back. Say a prayer for all of us wherever we are: the string girl, the new girl, and this permanently optimistic string boy in space.

Too much screen time for me as I try to repair several of this little ship’s systems recently. To be honest, it was nearly a one-Earth-month period that I fell under Daije’s spell. Daije’s soldier girls were fine indeed, matching me imagination for imagination.

I’m better now. The craziness has passed for a while. And the string girl is back in town. I went and picked her up at Lydsas 4 myself, and gave her a ride back to her dark abode. I don’t wish a dark abode upon her. That’s just how I feel when I’m there. I would love to see her full of light; happy, laughing, and content. But, no; she just can’t be satisfied. She just can’t be content.

Of course, it’s odd that I’m the one to say this. I’ve got my own serious shortcomings. Life as a cargo pusher allows one plenty of time for self-examination. I sometimes think about cutting out parts of my own brain. It would be like removing faulty memory chips from my ship’s systems. But no matter how much I try to figure it out, I can’t find a way to remove just the bad parts. There would always be some good parts cut out as well.

For now, we sail on. It’s me, Toby, and the 1980 Suzuki GS850G. I took it out for a ride on a little sub-planet the other  night, and it’s never run better. Maybe we’re all at a peak of sorts. Younger men, younger dogs, and younger motorcycles might run faster, but I doubt they could run any smoother. We’ve learnt a lot about gliding through space.

It’s not something I’m proud of. But I am proud of taking a step in the right direction.

I spent nearly a full Earth week in and around Bizarro 9. Daiije came after me with all she had, including some of the hottest new recruits you can imagine.

And imagine I did. I got so far away from reality, I almost didn’t make it back in. But finally, like always, the madness passed. I took my cock out of my left hand and gave it a rest.

One Earth week later, it was time to milk the cow. The fake pussy did its job perfectly. I worry that I may be in love with a piece of rubber. But hopefully it’s only in the way that a craftsman appreciates his tools.

That’s all for now. I’m signing off. Even the Master Craftsman of jerking off must sometimes sleep.

Editor’s note: Sponson = a platform on the back of a ship for throwing trash overboard.

It was four Earth nights ago that I found myself out on the sponson–again, throwing away holographic images–again. I’m still not safe, however. Even with all the images off this ship, more images are just a stray thought away.

I keep hoping that maybe on that next, yet-to-be-visited planet things will be different. But it’s a weak hope. One hundred years of things being the same argues against it.

Wherever I go, there I am. Today I stopped at a small outpost manned by some good people from Spaceport City. They were nice, as always, but for my part, I didn’t finish the day without thinking useless thoughts.

And therein lies the root of the problem. I’m one hundred Earth years old, but no closer to right thinking than I was at sixteen. Some good women have tried to be with me, but they have all failed. Some good friends were left behind on Earth when I signed up for this cargo ship duty. I still talk to some of them, and they try to help me, but there’s only so much they can do. Ultimately, the only one who can change my thinking is me.

This little spaceship cruises through space, a vast panorama of wonders to behold. Beautiful though it is, there is also trash. I put some of that trash there just a few days ago. It’s floating out here deep in space. And where it ends up, who knows? All I know is that I don’t wish the habit of viewing holographic images on anyone. Indeed, I hope to break free of it myself.

So be it. I have made my choice. I take my old, tired cock in my hand. I jerk it mercilessly for hours until the skin comes off. I exit reality. All these times, I engage in a futile chase after the holographic image girls.

Like a sports fan who likes the games too much. Like the drinker. Like the gambler. Good me versus bad me, it is, and bad me always wins his share of rounds.

One day too soon, this very short wonderful human life will be over. By my own calculation, I have jerked off approximately 11,520 times to date. I started kind of late at age 18. But I was good for up to 3 or 4 jerks a day. I jerked a bit less when I was with female companionship, but just a bit. I still chased the holographic image girls.

My rational mind knows what a waste of life force jerking to holographic image girls really is. My irrational mind, though, doesn’t care. It was with my rational mind that I chose to pilot this one man spaceship through the multiverses. That was my last desperate attempt to stop jerking. Now that too has failed.

Daiije follows me from galaxy to galaxy. Why would she not? She exists only inside my very own heart, mind, and soul.