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