Dear Reader,
I read this poem whilst I was at school. It made me wonder. You should read it too.
Not a red rose or a satin heart.
I give you an onion.
It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.
It promises light
like the careful undressing of love.
Here.
It will blind you with tears
like a lover.
It will make your reflection
a wobbling photo of grief.
I am trying to be truthful.
Not a cute card or kissogram.
I give you an onion.
Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,
possessive and faithful
as we are,
for as long as we are.
Take it.
Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding ring,
if you like.
Lethal.
Its scent will cling to your fingers,
cling to your knife.
- Carol Ann Duffy
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Transition
Ah...hello !
In high spirits tonight despite having nowhere to move to next week. Cardboard box with the word 'Whore in the box' is a possibilty. And yes, I could pop out and frighten you if you'd like, in true whore style.
Spoke with one of my friends earlier after what feels like a long long time. We used to work together in years past, folded socks and held the odd intellectual discussion all at the same time. And who dares to suggest that men can't multi-task!
Mercutio. He and I have somewhat reversed roles over the years. The most important of our dicsussions took place at work three years ago. Infidelity. It was and still remains my opinion (which might surprise you dearest reader), that people who are unfaithful with the mind are no better, worse in many cases, than those who physically dip their nib in some unknown's ink ( a quote used very appropraitely by The Dame herself). For the mind, yes, that time bomb ticking inside our cranium has few barriers. Our imagination is boundless, absorbing, lethal. For in our minds there is nobody to say a word. The people inside our thoughts are mute. Mute and fragile in comparison to ourselves, and rightly so. What would your partner think if they knew precisely what acts of butchery you had committed with the boy from the corner shop, or the gas woman, or even that executive who oozes with ripe sexuality. So ripe infact that s/he could rot were it not for you. Even though it was all inside your mind. If you actually went and had sex with them, would your partner be hurt some more. Would the wound be a little deeper.
And we should mention each and every one of those times when you are close to orgasm. At heaven's gate. The bubbling up inside of your desire, where you are tranported to the Lord himself. What about the fact that it's no longer your partner in your mind, but infact somebody else (you know what i'm talking about, don't you?) Would your partner be thrillled to hear that infact it was the thought of David Beckham's backside, or Naomi Campbell's cleavage that made you come. And not how they said 'you want it don't you, want it baadddl' Didn't think so.
So, back to Mercuito. I think we both agree that this is the case, that the mind is a weapon of mass destruction, and the physical leakages, are even more so...
The funny thing is, at the time Mercuito and I worked together, I was in search of THE ONE (yes, I have sinned, so I must confess). I refused to believe that experience counted for anything. Mercutio knew what experience was about, and has a lot under that belt of his (ha!). And look at us now. He has been in a 4 year relationship, they are going on a holiday (a proper, just the two of us, clarification of love issue, vacation) and here I am, writing..well...this blog.
In high spirits tonight despite having nowhere to move to next week. Cardboard box with the word 'Whore in the box' is a possibilty. And yes, I could pop out and frighten you if you'd like, in true whore style.
Spoke with one of my friends earlier after what feels like a long long time. We used to work together in years past, folded socks and held the odd intellectual discussion all at the same time. And who dares to suggest that men can't multi-task!
Mercutio. He and I have somewhat reversed roles over the years. The most important of our dicsussions took place at work three years ago. Infidelity. It was and still remains my opinion (which might surprise you dearest reader), that people who are unfaithful with the mind are no better, worse in many cases, than those who physically dip their nib in some unknown's ink ( a quote used very appropraitely by The Dame herself). For the mind, yes, that time bomb ticking inside our cranium has few barriers. Our imagination is boundless, absorbing, lethal. For in our minds there is nobody to say a word. The people inside our thoughts are mute. Mute and fragile in comparison to ourselves, and rightly so. What would your partner think if they knew precisely what acts of butchery you had committed with the boy from the corner shop, or the gas woman, or even that executive who oozes with ripe sexuality. So ripe infact that s/he could rot were it not for you. Even though it was all inside your mind. If you actually went and had sex with them, would your partner be hurt some more. Would the wound be a little deeper.
And we should mention each and every one of those times when you are close to orgasm. At heaven's gate. The bubbling up inside of your desire, where you are tranported to the Lord himself. What about the fact that it's no longer your partner in your mind, but infact somebody else (you know what i'm talking about, don't you?) Would your partner be thrillled to hear that infact it was the thought of David Beckham's backside, or Naomi Campbell's cleavage that made you come. And not how they said 'you want it don't you, want it baadddl' Didn't think so.
So, back to Mercuito. I think we both agree that this is the case, that the mind is a weapon of mass destruction, and the physical leakages, are even more so...
The funny thing is, at the time Mercuito and I worked together, I was in search of THE ONE (yes, I have sinned, so I must confess). I refused to believe that experience counted for anything. Mercutio knew what experience was about, and has a lot under that belt of his (ha!). And look at us now. He has been in a 4 year relationship, they are going on a holiday (a proper, just the two of us, clarification of love issue, vacation) and here I am, writing..well...this blog.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Monday, August 28, 2006
In the name of the...
'I don't trust love. I've heard it declared too often. But I trust lust completely.'
- Toni Bentley ( The Surrender)
Reader.
The worst thing in this life is to be a thinker without being a doer. I mustn't become one of those people who talks about the dirty but never actually does it. Sparkling metaphors and oceanic prose will only get you so far (quite far, but not the furthest from your being).
The above writer has an immense talent. Anal sex is the new prayer according to this remarkable woman. And I'm gripped. Gripped by a world in which cum is baptismal juice, and the boudoir is the altar. Where the act of sex is confession. It's the sort of book you wish was edible. And only when the last page was firmly pushed down your throat and into your stomach would you be fully satisfied.
And now to me. I wonder if having sex can really be likened to finding god. It might explain the increasing number of atheists we have among us. It might also explain why so many people talk about feeling as though something bigger exists, some unknown power, something which is the alternative to God. That thing, dear readers, is probably an orgasm. And I don't mean a quick trickle of the juices or the muffled 'oo-ee-aah-yes!' that so many of you are probably used to. I'm talking about something different. Something deeper, something you have to train yourselves to achieve. Think of it as Sunday school, if you will.
Reading this book and my time in Brighton have made me realise just what it means to be a good fuck. Or, in my case, what it could mean. To really possess another human being. To give them something nobody else ever will or ever could. To create love where there is lust, so much lust, frothing like a pint of Stella, up up and over the pint glass. But it requires experience, and longing and wanting. So I need to find myself somebody who'll make me their pupil. Any offers will be kindly received. I want somebody to mould and flex me the way they would a lump of play dough. Things need to be pushed, things need to be pulled, rolled up, rolled out, kneaded, folded over and over and over...
And back to reality we go...
The Dame and I had a pretty amazing weekend. It opened up the pores of our revolution and fuelled our forbidden fire. I also ventured into my first gay bar/club, was hit on (boogied infront of) by a 70 year old, ate some delicious Japanese and Italian food and walked along Brighton Beach, something I had yet to do. The artist in me (and believe me, there is one) almost orgamsed at the number of art studious/galleries this place has to offer. To fuck on an easel would be a fantastic opportunity! Also, we saw Chris Eubank lost in his huge black hummer (now now, free yourself of all dirty thoughts immediately).
Sex over the telephone is planned for tonight. Can't wait. M is under strict instructions to wait. To long for me. To hold back those fingers and to marinade in the feeling of me, in the thought of me, of what I might do. Control is a wonderful thing. It allows the mind to flourish, for the imagination to ripen, a peach filled with juice ready to be eaten. And it allows for expansion, contraction, hunger, greed, and at the end of it all....I will have thought and done and succeeded all at the same time.
Amen
- Toni Bentley ( The Surrender)
Reader.
The worst thing in this life is to be a thinker without being a doer. I mustn't become one of those people who talks about the dirty but never actually does it. Sparkling metaphors and oceanic prose will only get you so far (quite far, but not the furthest from your being).
The above writer has an immense talent. Anal sex is the new prayer according to this remarkable woman. And I'm gripped. Gripped by a world in which cum is baptismal juice, and the boudoir is the altar. Where the act of sex is confession. It's the sort of book you wish was edible. And only when the last page was firmly pushed down your throat and into your stomach would you be fully satisfied.
And now to me. I wonder if having sex can really be likened to finding god. It might explain the increasing number of atheists we have among us. It might also explain why so many people talk about feeling as though something bigger exists, some unknown power, something which is the alternative to God. That thing, dear readers, is probably an orgasm. And I don't mean a quick trickle of the juices or the muffled 'oo-ee-aah-yes!' that so many of you are probably used to. I'm talking about something different. Something deeper, something you have to train yourselves to achieve. Think of it as Sunday school, if you will.
Reading this book and my time in Brighton have made me realise just what it means to be a good fuck. Or, in my case, what it could mean. To really possess another human being. To give them something nobody else ever will or ever could. To create love where there is lust, so much lust, frothing like a pint of Stella, up up and over the pint glass. But it requires experience, and longing and wanting. So I need to find myself somebody who'll make me their pupil. Any offers will be kindly received. I want somebody to mould and flex me the way they would a lump of play dough. Things need to be pushed, things need to be pulled, rolled up, rolled out, kneaded, folded over and over and over...
And back to reality we go...
The Dame and I had a pretty amazing weekend. It opened up the pores of our revolution and fuelled our forbidden fire. I also ventured into my first gay bar/club, was hit on (boogied infront of) by a 70 year old, ate some delicious Japanese and Italian food and walked along Brighton Beach, something I had yet to do. The artist in me (and believe me, there is one) almost orgamsed at the number of art studious/galleries this place has to offer. To fuck on an easel would be a fantastic opportunity! Also, we saw Chris Eubank lost in his huge black hummer (now now, free yourself of all dirty thoughts immediately).
Sex over the telephone is planned for tonight. Can't wait. M is under strict instructions to wait. To long for me. To hold back those fingers and to marinade in the feeling of me, in the thought of me, of what I might do. Control is a wonderful thing. It allows the mind to flourish, for the imagination to ripen, a peach filled with juice ready to be eaten. And it allows for expansion, contraction, hunger, greed, and at the end of it all....I will have thought and done and succeeded all at the same time.
Amen
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Revenge
So, no numbers, not a single one! But there were looks and those are what matter. Nothing quite beats, in my opinion, that deep penetrating gaze, the linger of the eyes as they make their way down your body, slowly. And yes, i'm proud to say, I received those in the plentiful. Gay men do it with such ease. In a single moment they can tell you that they like you, that they want to leave with you and also, if the linger lasts long enough (rather difficult in the smoky joints these gay clubs are, what it is exactly that they'd like to do to you.
The straight men of this world hold no such power (unfortunate as it is). What they have instead is an often surprising sense of self-confidence. And it is this self confidence that holds their hand, takes them to the dancefloor, beneath the ball of a thousand eyes (for god forbid anybody should not catch of glimpse of this act of slithering masculinity) and gently eases their crotch over an often unexpecting woman's ass. And this fitting of the curves is called 'grinding'. I've never been good at that myself.
What I did notice, was that the men in this club didn't grind. They simply jutted to the rhythm, were lost in their own sexuality, coming up for breath only when the glass in their hand came up empty.
Another interesting fact. The club was called 'REVENGE'. This has me thinking. Why would a gay club be called revenge. What revenge is being sought exactly and against whom? Perhaps the club (back in the day) was owned by a dangerous homophobic woman and the new owners bought if from her once she was declared bankrupt. The club was the gay man's revenge. Perhaps. Perhaps they threw a few names into a trilby.
It has me shocked, dear reader, the number of plus 40s (including one + 50 and one +80!) who came out in skinny jeans and tank tops and kissed (and necked) mid dance floor to the piping hot Madonna tunes being played by the DJ in Drag. It shouldn't surprise me that gay men who come out when it's time to go in (all puns intended) are often groping life for a chance to be what they wish they were back in the day. But really, and as admirable this sudden burst of sexual awakening is, tank tops and items of clothing which require the aid of vaseline should be stopped. I'll take care of your laundry. I can even show you the ashes if you'd like.
The reason I say this, is because, it strikes me, that age matters in homosexuality more than it does elsewhere. Old really only attracts old (unless you have some sort of fetish) and youth is the gay man's prized possession. The pick of the young crop is what being gay is all about. And can gay men dance, yes they can. They can shimmy, strut and grind all at the same time whilst balancing a vodka and orange on their mohicans. For every five gay men there is one truly inspirational sexpot who knows just what to do and where to do it. There are those gay men who could change your entire definition of queer and those who could unwind you with a single word. And in the land of the straight, the ratio works out at about 1:150.
It was eye opening, it had me curious, and I will ask The Dame if we can go to yet another gay bar tomorrow night. One thing is for sure however. That there is a feeling of safety, a feeling of being alone and comfortable simultaneously that you simply don't get at the straight club. We have to look over our shoulders, into our drinks, over at our friends and clutch our wallets (and handbags) which ferocity. And this is sad.
The straight men of this world hold no such power (unfortunate as it is). What they have instead is an often surprising sense of self-confidence. And it is this self confidence that holds their hand, takes them to the dancefloor, beneath the ball of a thousand eyes (for god forbid anybody should not catch of glimpse of this act of slithering masculinity) and gently eases their crotch over an often unexpecting woman's ass. And this fitting of the curves is called 'grinding'. I've never been good at that myself.
What I did notice, was that the men in this club didn't grind. They simply jutted to the rhythm, were lost in their own sexuality, coming up for breath only when the glass in their hand came up empty.
Another interesting fact. The club was called 'REVENGE'. This has me thinking. Why would a gay club be called revenge. What revenge is being sought exactly and against whom? Perhaps the club (back in the day) was owned by a dangerous homophobic woman and the new owners bought if from her once she was declared bankrupt. The club was the gay man's revenge. Perhaps. Perhaps they threw a few names into a trilby.
It has me shocked, dear reader, the number of plus 40s (including one + 50 and one +80!) who came out in skinny jeans and tank tops and kissed (and necked) mid dance floor to the piping hot Madonna tunes being played by the DJ in Drag. It shouldn't surprise me that gay men who come out when it's time to go in (all puns intended) are often groping life for a chance to be what they wish they were back in the day. But really, and as admirable this sudden burst of sexual awakening is, tank tops and items of clothing which require the aid of vaseline should be stopped. I'll take care of your laundry. I can even show you the ashes if you'd like.
The reason I say this, is because, it strikes me, that age matters in homosexuality more than it does elsewhere. Old really only attracts old (unless you have some sort of fetish) and youth is the gay man's prized possession. The pick of the young crop is what being gay is all about. And can gay men dance, yes they can. They can shimmy, strut and grind all at the same time whilst balancing a vodka and orange on their mohicans. For every five gay men there is one truly inspirational sexpot who knows just what to do and where to do it. There are those gay men who could change your entire definition of queer and those who could unwind you with a single word. And in the land of the straight, the ratio works out at about 1:150.
It was eye opening, it had me curious, and I will ask The Dame if we can go to yet another gay bar tomorrow night. One thing is for sure however. That there is a feeling of safety, a feeling of being alone and comfortable simultaneously that you simply don't get at the straight club. We have to look over our shoulders, into our drinks, over at our friends and clutch our wallets (and handbags) which ferocity. And this is sad.
Saturday, August 26, 2006
Friday, August 25, 2006
The purity of being pure
Every secret of a writer's soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind is written large in his works.
-Virginia Woolf
I wonder if this is true for sex. I wonder if the way you make love (ugh) to someone, or the way you fuck (better) tells the story of what's really going on inside that head of yours. Are horrid lovers generally horrid people? I am inclined to say perhaps they are.
Which woman is it that feels a man's fingers enter her, and truly questions what goes through his mind as he does this. Is he intrigued; trying to get a feel for what it's like inside the cave. Perhaps he wants to see just how far the fingers might go. He may just want to explore the area fully, the way a marine biologist explores the ocean: never quite aware of what lies beneath but pretty damn sure there's something huge left to discover. Perhaps the man (or woman) wants to see if they can exert their control fully, whether in fact the gear stick to 'THE WOMAN' is down there. And as they watch her eyes roll back and a few moans escape her mouth, they know they have it. That in that one moment alone, they've captured the woman. And it is this, i'm sure of it, that turns him (or her) on, precisely this.
But what is sex afterrall? It's about giving and receiving (atleast it should be), but really, how can you expect to give badly and receive so nicely? It's simple, you can't. And this is where the good fucks are sorted from the bad. As i will shortly find out. For the truth of sex is this, has always been this: The biggest pleasure is in giving pleasure. (And don't you believe anything else!)
Was my last day temping today. The stapler, the paperclips, the lever arch files, oh yes, those lever arch files can tidy themselves or rot in hell, for i am done. And earlier this morning i had a discussion as i sifted and sorted through a wad of invoices (ask any more and it's over!) We ( the girl and i) discussed what it meant to be a virgin. More precisely, what it means to be a virgin in their twenties, for, whether we like it or not, we are a rare species.
'People always say it's a good thing to still be a virgin, but i don't really think it is'. This is what the girl said as she inserted the invoices, one by one, into a lever arch file.
If they like the idea of virginity so much, why aren't they all still virgins themselves i ask. It's probably because they couldn't help themselves as they were humped (or did the humping) in the back of their ford fiesta, late one cold december night straight after their fifteenth birthday.
And now, they have more experience than we virgins do. They know what goes where and for how long and which hole requires an entrance fee to be paid at the gate ( and no, the fake NUS will not give you 10% off).
But is it really worth it, doing everything so young? Surely there's something to be said for waiting, for preparing your mind, for craving and then obtaining the experience you've forever thought about. Because the one thing that can let sex down, is boredom and boredom comes from repitition. And those flowers plucked early will also die early, won't they? (the lady on QVC, did however manage to convince me that there exists in this universe a spray which will preserve fresh flowers for weeks on end!, but that's besides the point).
The reason i have waited these many years is because i was dissillusioned and unsure. I had little idea how to fuck and who to fuck, who i'd like to fuck and who might like to fuck me. But now i know, and the bomb is ticking away slowly.
It makes me smile reading all i have written. It makes me smile that a virgin could write like they have a sexual CV the size of their arm. But you don't need to fuck to know what fucking is all about. And THAT, dear readers, is the purest thing about being pure.
-Virginia Woolf
I wonder if this is true for sex. I wonder if the way you make love (ugh) to someone, or the way you fuck (better) tells the story of what's really going on inside that head of yours. Are horrid lovers generally horrid people? I am inclined to say perhaps they are.
Which woman is it that feels a man's fingers enter her, and truly questions what goes through his mind as he does this. Is he intrigued; trying to get a feel for what it's like inside the cave. Perhaps he wants to see just how far the fingers might go. He may just want to explore the area fully, the way a marine biologist explores the ocean: never quite aware of what lies beneath but pretty damn sure there's something huge left to discover. Perhaps the man (or woman) wants to see if they can exert their control fully, whether in fact the gear stick to 'THE WOMAN' is down there. And as they watch her eyes roll back and a few moans escape her mouth, they know they have it. That in that one moment alone, they've captured the woman. And it is this, i'm sure of it, that turns him (or her) on, precisely this.
But what is sex afterrall? It's about giving and receiving (atleast it should be), but really, how can you expect to give badly and receive so nicely? It's simple, you can't. And this is where the good fucks are sorted from the bad. As i will shortly find out. For the truth of sex is this, has always been this: The biggest pleasure is in giving pleasure. (And don't you believe anything else!)
Was my last day temping today. The stapler, the paperclips, the lever arch files, oh yes, those lever arch files can tidy themselves or rot in hell, for i am done. And earlier this morning i had a discussion as i sifted and sorted through a wad of invoices (ask any more and it's over!) We ( the girl and i) discussed what it meant to be a virgin. More precisely, what it means to be a virgin in their twenties, for, whether we like it or not, we are a rare species.
'People always say it's a good thing to still be a virgin, but i don't really think it is'. This is what the girl said as she inserted the invoices, one by one, into a lever arch file.
If they like the idea of virginity so much, why aren't they all still virgins themselves i ask. It's probably because they couldn't help themselves as they were humped (or did the humping) in the back of their ford fiesta, late one cold december night straight after their fifteenth birthday.
And now, they have more experience than we virgins do. They know what goes where and for how long and which hole requires an entrance fee to be paid at the gate ( and no, the fake NUS will not give you 10% off).
But is it really worth it, doing everything so young? Surely there's something to be said for waiting, for preparing your mind, for craving and then obtaining the experience you've forever thought about. Because the one thing that can let sex down, is boredom and boredom comes from repitition. And those flowers plucked early will also die early, won't they? (the lady on QVC, did however manage to convince me that there exists in this universe a spray which will preserve fresh flowers for weeks on end!, but that's besides the point).
The reason i have waited these many years is because i was dissillusioned and unsure. I had little idea how to fuck and who to fuck, who i'd like to fuck and who might like to fuck me. But now i know, and the bomb is ticking away slowly.
It makes me smile reading all i have written. It makes me smile that a virgin could write like they have a sexual CV the size of their arm. But you don't need to fuck to know what fucking is all about. And THAT, dear readers, is the purest thing about being pure.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
The little boy who wrecked a home?
Hul!
I promised myself I would write this blog everyday....and look...it's 22.41 and i'm just beginning. My phone sex buddy (M) is due to call in fifteen minutes. So i'm thinking, it'll probably be past 12 midnight before I post this thing! (Must also scoff down Chinese meal beforehand, only to work it off later!)
...
23.25: Managed to get back earlier than expected. My mobile phone has died. The lady at the call centre (and what a firm young lady she was) kindly informed me that they weren't sure what the exact nature of the problem was, that one of their thingies ( a highly technical turn of phrase you realise) had fallen off or something and that I should expect to be reconnected within the next hour. So, blog will be written and phone sex has to be put off. Bugger. It's a while since i've chatted to M, as we can only chat when M's boyfriend is out of town on work.
But I have known M for many years. Very clever, with the biggest libido going. We can talk about many things, but the sex has reduced or ability to really spend over an hour discussing other aspects of our lives. But i'm trying to change this. The guilt of the relationship sometimes turns what we say into something we shouldn't. But really, truly, honestly...I can't believe that what i'm doing is wrong. For if I did, I wouldn't do it. Ha! but when are relationships ever this simple?
Being a self confessed home wrecker is an interesting thing. Even though you could bet your willy on the fact that the home will never ACTUALLY be wrecked (atleast with M, I can assure you it will not!), you, as the HW must feel utter guilt. It's imperative. And this is because nice people are monogamous and anybody who graffitis over the white picket fence should be done for vandalism (and rightly so!)
So the sex is good, but it's not real sex. M insists it is 'different'. That there are different types of sex and well, that what we do isn't really the same as 'being together'. I'm sure real sex is different and probably much better, but the distinction between various types of sex is a concept pretty much lost on a virgin. ANY sex would be a great thing. And well, I would be the first to raise the flags and rally in support of phone fumbling. Because, over the telephone we don't have the sweat, the bodily fluids, the awkward impotence, the bad breath (even a virgin knows this much) to deal with. Instead we have our minds and imagination, and this is the only place where the walls can dissolve at the drop of a hat. In this respect, cyber sex comes a close second. In fact, any sex where you are miles away in body, but pretty much conjoined at the brain, would come a close second.
Something else you should know about M. I tried to meet M, whilst I was traveling across the world. And we were quite close to meeting and having the sex I had forever craved. But things didn't work out and now M is unsure about meeting. I can hear the footsteps of guilt in the background. And so I have learnt to give it up. Not M. Never M. M is very important in this journey i'm embarking on. But the idea. I am giving up the idea of something more with M, because whilst M has two things I have ended up with 1/2 and it's high time I moved to whole figures.
I promised myself I would write this blog everyday....and look...it's 22.41 and i'm just beginning. My phone sex buddy (M) is due to call in fifteen minutes. So i'm thinking, it'll probably be past 12 midnight before I post this thing! (Must also scoff down Chinese meal beforehand, only to work it off later!)
...
23.25: Managed to get back earlier than expected. My mobile phone has died. The lady at the call centre (and what a firm young lady she was) kindly informed me that they weren't sure what the exact nature of the problem was, that one of their thingies ( a highly technical turn of phrase you realise) had fallen off or something and that I should expect to be reconnected within the next hour. So, blog will be written and phone sex has to be put off. Bugger. It's a while since i've chatted to M, as we can only chat when M's boyfriend is out of town on work.
But I have known M for many years. Very clever, with the biggest libido going. We can talk about many things, but the sex has reduced or ability to really spend over an hour discussing other aspects of our lives. But i'm trying to change this. The guilt of the relationship sometimes turns what we say into something we shouldn't. But really, truly, honestly...I can't believe that what i'm doing is wrong. For if I did, I wouldn't do it. Ha! but when are relationships ever this simple?
Being a self confessed home wrecker is an interesting thing. Even though you could bet your willy on the fact that the home will never ACTUALLY be wrecked (atleast with M, I can assure you it will not!), you, as the HW must feel utter guilt. It's imperative. And this is because nice people are monogamous and anybody who graffitis over the white picket fence should be done for vandalism (and rightly so!)
So the sex is good, but it's not real sex. M insists it is 'different'. That there are different types of sex and well, that what we do isn't really the same as 'being together'. I'm sure real sex is different and probably much better, but the distinction between various types of sex is a concept pretty much lost on a virgin. ANY sex would be a great thing. And well, I would be the first to raise the flags and rally in support of phone fumbling. Because, over the telephone we don't have the sweat, the bodily fluids, the awkward impotence, the bad breath (even a virgin knows this much) to deal with. Instead we have our minds and imagination, and this is the only place where the walls can dissolve at the drop of a hat. In this respect, cyber sex comes a close second. In fact, any sex where you are miles away in body, but pretty much conjoined at the brain, would come a close second.
Something else you should know about M. I tried to meet M, whilst I was traveling across the world. And we were quite close to meeting and having the sex I had forever craved. But things didn't work out and now M is unsure about meeting. I can hear the footsteps of guilt in the background. And so I have learnt to give it up. Not M. Never M. M is very important in this journey i'm embarking on. But the idea. I am giving up the idea of something more with M, because whilst M has two things I have ended up with 1/2 and it's high time I moved to whole figures.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Back to basics...
Ok, so here we are, untouched, tight, unopen, mouldable....very mouldable.
A virgin. A 22 year old virgin. A 22 year old male virgin. A 22 year old clever virgin with the mind of a seedy disastrous whore. Perhaps not so clever. But willing to try....always willing to try.
When i was young, i would fantasise about couples, was turned on by women, by the way their lips engulfed a man's mouth, that greedy hunger. The lighting of a match.
During adolesence, i think something happened. In fact, i know something happened, though i have no idea what, or why, or when...to prise me away from the vagina. It was only once i was at a great distance that i saw the fleshy, layered, mound of female oppression for what it was. The truth is, she who has a vagina, never quite owns it, never quite controls it. For she is too concerned with trimming and wiping and rubbing to really hear its cries as a man (any man) ties a leash around it and takes it for a walk.
Ahh!....and then i turned 16. 16, when school and bullies were the bain of my life. When i found my long and hard second brain, really found it. A few years earlier, i orgasmed for the first time.
I recall it with perhaps the same excitement i had on the day. The morning tug had produced a different sensation. Before then, you simply tug and let it be. But something pushed me on, further on...it was electric, the bolts of desire that ran through my body that morning. And so i came. It was clear, splashed across the toilet seat. And, just like a child given a new toy, i ran home after school to have another play, and another, and another. And i can safely say, this is one of the things in my life that hasn't bored me. It hasn't bored me once. And even though i'm now greedy for something more, something different, it never will.
And now. I've discovered a hidden side. A side which i shouldn't have. A side which is too tempting to dismiss. And it will lead to my demise, i know. But so what? The twenty year old me would never have said or allowed this. The twenty year old wanted a fantastic job without first building up a CV. But not me. Not now.
At the moment, i'm intrigued. By sex. By the idea of sex, by the greed, the destruction, the fountain of sex. The ocean of sex, the sewer of sex. In fact, you might say, i wouldn't mind swimming the sewer of sex. I wouldn't mind at all. But it's hard to break the shell you've been creating for the past twenty two years. And that's why i have my chisel, you, dear reader, are my chisel. And this blog....well it's the hammer.
So, i want to lose my virginity, the blessed thing it is, before i turn 23. I want to swim in the sewer and come out smelling of daisies (or incense, depending on which you'd prefer). This is a place where i will talk and you will listen. A place where i shall give and you will recieve. Is that clear?
And as i slowly unravel, as i gradually tumble, so shall you, dear reader, so shall you.
A virgin. A 22 year old virgin. A 22 year old male virgin. A 22 year old clever virgin with the mind of a seedy disastrous whore. Perhaps not so clever. But willing to try....always willing to try.
When i was young, i would fantasise about couples, was turned on by women, by the way their lips engulfed a man's mouth, that greedy hunger. The lighting of a match.
During adolesence, i think something happened. In fact, i know something happened, though i have no idea what, or why, or when...to prise me away from the vagina. It was only once i was at a great distance that i saw the fleshy, layered, mound of female oppression for what it was. The truth is, she who has a vagina, never quite owns it, never quite controls it. For she is too concerned with trimming and wiping and rubbing to really hear its cries as a man (any man) ties a leash around it and takes it for a walk.
Ahh!....and then i turned 16. 16, when school and bullies were the bain of my life. When i found my long and hard second brain, really found it. A few years earlier, i orgasmed for the first time.
I recall it with perhaps the same excitement i had on the day. The morning tug had produced a different sensation. Before then, you simply tug and let it be. But something pushed me on, further on...it was electric, the bolts of desire that ran through my body that morning. And so i came. It was clear, splashed across the toilet seat. And, just like a child given a new toy, i ran home after school to have another play, and another, and another. And i can safely say, this is one of the things in my life that hasn't bored me. It hasn't bored me once. And even though i'm now greedy for something more, something different, it never will.
And now. I've discovered a hidden side. A side which i shouldn't have. A side which is too tempting to dismiss. And it will lead to my demise, i know. But so what? The twenty year old me would never have said or allowed this. The twenty year old wanted a fantastic job without first building up a CV. But not me. Not now.
At the moment, i'm intrigued. By sex. By the idea of sex, by the greed, the destruction, the fountain of sex. The ocean of sex, the sewer of sex. In fact, you might say, i wouldn't mind swimming the sewer of sex. I wouldn't mind at all. But it's hard to break the shell you've been creating for the past twenty two years. And that's why i have my chisel, you, dear reader, are my chisel. And this blog....well it's the hammer.
So, i want to lose my virginity, the blessed thing it is, before i turn 23. I want to swim in the sewer and come out smelling of daisies (or incense, depending on which you'd prefer). This is a place where i will talk and you will listen. A place where i shall give and you will recieve. Is that clear?
And as i slowly unravel, as i gradually tumble, so shall you, dear reader, so shall you.
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