Thursday, October 4, 2007


I know what you're all thinking.
You're thinking "Isn't that just a turn of phrase?"
And now you're thinking "Holy Shit! Maybe he is using alien technology to read our minds!"

It's true: I am using alien technology.
See, the aliens landed and I sold you out. All of you.
In return I get to keep five of you as my personal slaves.

Don't worry. You can't escape.

It's funny; this desire to possess someone, and be possessed by them in return.
The UK author Jeanette Winterson wrote that men can never truly love because love is a destructive force, and men are too insecure to allow themselves to be destroyed.
Of course, she's a lesbian, so what would she know?
Probably how to truly pleasure a woman...

But, it's not true! We men regularly destroy ourselves with what we love: alcohol and drugs.
We don't actually love women.
We're very fond of parts of them, sure, but to really love something - to really love it - you have to understand it.
And women are unfathomable.

But I think that's kinda the whole point.
Women are like a desert: that stark, overwhelming beauty. The shimmering horizon. The boundless sky. No sound but the wind rattling sand grains against the dry grass.
And women are also like a beach. A graceful curve of sand, caressed and lulled into calmness by the unending sea. And then when you look at what makes up a beach; at the grains of sand, you will discover that a good many of them are tiny, tiny shells. Perfect miniatures of purest white.

You can't possibly fit it all in you head - boundless sky, timeless horizon, unending sea, tiny shells. It's all too much!
But that's what a woman is.

Obviously, I'm not referring to the random tipsy slags down the pub. I'm talking about a woman I want to possess and have her possess me. Not necessarily for ever, but for a little while at least, y'know?

Of course, it's be pretty cool to drag a fired up young lass into the supply cupboard and tear off just enough clothing: ruck up her skirt, and hitch down my trousers, as we pantingly claw at each other. Nothing wrong with that.
I have never done this, of course. That's mostly due to my irrational fear of massed stationery.

...but, women. Ultimately unknowable. I don't want a tame one.
I want to wake up in the morning, open my eyes to see her give me a sleepy smile through a veil of her hair, and have absolutely no idea what she was thinking.
And you know what I'd do then?
Finger her.


Fyodor said...

Poolroom. Straight to.

The Devil Drink said...

The love of alcohol and drugs is a joyful thing, grasshopper.
When you've finished that bottle of Scotch, and you're wondering whether it'll be there with you tomorrow, you don't have to ask. You know that tomorrow morning you'll feel profoundly touched, in a special place, just above the waist and below the diaphragm.
That, my friend, is the lovin' you can only get from a substance that loves you back.
Hey, use your fingers if you want. I won't judge.

worldpeace and a speedboat said...


harry said...

This was an exercise in bathos.

So, it does actually have literary worth despite appearances.

It also was inspirational for the Devil Drink, thus it has even more worth.

Also it is offensive, and as Nana used to say "If you can't say something nice, you're probably talking about John Howard."

Anonymous said...

You can ward off the alien mind-reading technology with a foil hat... (they taught me whilst creating hair my crop-circle...) now you can't get me HA!

x sparkly