I knew a boy once who had the unique gift of being born disillusioned. He could never be hurt and could not understand oppression except as that vague sort of thing he imposed on others, but it could never touch him. He had the most beautiful lips. Full and always moist without being wet. Lovely for kissing. When I kissed him, I had the most extraordinary sensation of dying a little. He was a wonderful kisser. He felt no pain, yet he craved pleasure as if it were his lifesource. He fed this habit with an ease only one who has no concept of consequence can. The kind of pleasure he craved was rarely physical, although he did find a certain satisfaction in that as well. Satisfaction but not ture pleasure. In his mind the only real pleasure one could obtain was from others suffering. Mentally he tortured those around him he viewed as weak. Although I’m sure he never thought it of himself, I always believed that he did this so that others might become as disillusioned as he. He understood that people without his ability needed oppression and painful experience to become as he was and he took it upon himself to provide the necessary knowledge. He thought of himself as a teacher. I filled myself up with him and realized he was empty.