Titillating treats

I discussed this blog recently with someone and we agreed that it does tend to wallow in two rather primitive aspects of humantity: sex and alcohol.
I said that I would earnestly attempt to move beyond these topics.
Let's see how it goes . . .

Perhaps the most dangerous effect of alcohol is its ability to make moderately unattainable goals seem within reach. You imbibe a bottle or two of wine and all of a sudden you find yourself thinking, "Oh, of course. I'll just ------, and then everything will work out fine." You spend all your waking hours - and some of your dreaming ones - fantasizing about something that you know on a rational level is completely unrealistic. Add some booze into the mix and - your cheeks flushed and chest burning - you cannot imagine what all the fuss was about. You'll just go out and do it right now. It is comparable to the feeling of earest invincibility one achieves only through an adrenaline rush, but without the fevered urgency.
My humblest apologies for being so cryptic, but I fear absolute transperancy is denied me in this forum.

Of late I've been giving some thought to the nature of human sexuality, in all its nuanced incarnations.

I was watching the TODAY show recently, God only knows why, and was mildly nauseated to bear witness to a discussion on whether or not men and women can really be friends. Now, setting aside the obvious assaults on logic, i.e. the fact that they're even having this debate, in a shrill, chirping forced manner, on what I thought was a nationally respected NEWS show, for Christ's sake, and that they've assmbled a panel of four primped and pinched middle-age women and one sagging and desperately funny man, rather than a diverse dais, evenly balanced gender-wise, let me give my thoughts on the matter.
Can a man and a woman ever be "just friends?"
No. No they cannot.
And I know whereof I speak.
I have tried in the past to maintain friendships with women, all to no avail.
There are some women of my aquaintance with whom I can be friendly, but I would not say that we're friends. Why are we friendly? Because I recognize certain qualities about them I appreciate or admire, and because I realize we will never, ever have sex. The complete apparent lack of desire on their part feeds a lack of desire on my part. (A topic I'll have to go into at another time is how much being found attractive by another makes said other attractive in turn, and of course, the opposite is also true.)
And even with the derth of desire there remains a hint, a potential -- unavoidable, given the sheer physiology of it -- of sexual congress.
I say "friendly" rather than "friends" because I know only enough about them to allow for mild amiability. If I knew them more deeply, more fully, knew their faults and foibles and quirks and dreams, I would find them more attractive as a result, and any friendship would be incinerated by lust and longing ere it was fully developed.
I have been close with women. An outside observer would call us "friends." But if I am truly honest with myself, all the while I chatted with them in a parked car or strolled beside them through the woods or sat next to them on a couch watching a movie, I jealously clutched a hope that the friendship would blossom into something -- I hesistate to say "more," -- different. That she would lean over, place a hand on my thigh, lock eyes with me and dip her head for a breathless first kiss.
I have explored this dynamic from all angles: I have had chaste friendships with girls; friendships which dissolved into physical exhanges -- fooling around, to use the vernacular -- and then solidified back into standard practice. I made a disasterous attempt to maintain a friendship with my ex-girlfriend.
In all of the above situations, the lingering phantom of fucking insinuated itself into my thoughts. I perhaps think too highly of myself by imagining that it entered the ladies' thoughts as well.
There is a dull and expected trope in modern fiction, something we all believe possible because we've seen it so many times on screen and in print, of a person having a close, dependable, beloved friend of the opposite sex with whom they share a platonic bond. The notion appeals to us ferllas, as it may to you gals. We all wish we had a special female friend we could drink a glass of wine with after a long day. Or bounce ideas off of when writing a paper or a novel, or planning a heist. Someone we could turn to for insight regarding the opposing camp. "What do girls really think about this . . .?"
We would go to the gym together, push each other physically, wind up panting and sweating, sipping from the same water bottle and grinning, recalling the highlights of the workout.
We would boisterously bump shoulders at pool party, dance with each other at the wedding of some mutual friend, all with the shared knowledge that we were really the best of friends -- like brother and sister really.
Yes, men long to have such a girl in their lives. And think. "wouldn't it be great if we could do all that and fuck, too?"

I don't know how girls feel on the topic of friendship with guys, not being a girl myself. I have received opposing advice on girls recently.
Reading an interview with Bill Maher in Rolling Stone, I stumbled upon the notion that the key to understanding women is realizing that they are a lot more like men than we realize. Treat them as you would want to be treated and things will work out fine.
Now, Maher has never struck me as a ladies' man, his stellar work in Cannibal Women in the Avocado Jungle of Death not withstanding. And though I appreciate the man's apparent earnestness and the bare-bones of his liberal beliefs, his personality is like oiled sandpaper to me. Still, this was a view I had long held: that men and women are mostly alike, divided by the constraints of society more than anything else.
Now, I also heard from a far more reputable source -- me own sweet mum -- that I must never think of a woman as being psychologically or emotionally the same as me. Such would be a grave error. Women and men are eternally different.
And, indeed, science rather backs her up.
Womens' brains, you see, develop differently than do mens'. The two hemispheres stay merged longer.
It is my belief, therefore, that women like the idea of a male friend, but for an entirely different -- and I might say sinister -- set of reasons.
Women like, first and foremost, the notion of being close to a man without having to have sex with him. This is why the concept of a gay best friend is so popular with women. (How often have you heard of men having a lesbian best friend?) For most women do not pursue sex itself as men do. There are a few who harbor appetites as ravenous as that of the male, but they are a glorious and select minority.
Secondly, women, self-conscious bitches that they are -- and ladies I say this with a twinkle in my eye, and hardly any real misogyny -- enjoy the notion that there is some poor dolt close by yearning to have intimate physical contact with them. They look at male friends as an ego boost.

This said, I just took a break from spewing this nonsense to ask out that auburn-haired barista mentioned in a past post. She said she had a boyfriend, but that we could go out as friends. I had to supress an outburst of, "What the fuck is that?" after she spoke these words. How naive, I thought, of her. or, perhaps, how dissolute and worldly. Either she thinks we can just be friends -- how childish -- or she is debauched enough to be on the look-out for perspective boys-on-the-side. Or, as I always think when a girl shows the slightest interest in me or acknowledgement of my existence, she's just being kind.

Then again, she could -- I was about to say, be lying, like most women, but I will be more even-handed and say -- be, like most people, dissembling.
Maybe she doesn't have a boyfriend, but says she does so she can keep potential suitors at arms' length.

This is the problem with over-thinking things -- one of the problems: I do not narrow down possibilites, or just simply take things as they are, so much as I explore every possible meaning to the point of pointlessness. It's like Cold-War-era escalation, each possibility being amped up as I devote thought to it, but none being eliminated.

Bah!
I like this post!
I feel the old upsurging vehemence of my past blogging days.
My skills are returning.
Long-winded, offensive, vividly addled prose!
It must be the blend of alcohol and caffeine currently tango-ing through my bloodstream.

We find ourselves now in the tail-end of Autumn's majesty. The penultimate stage of The Season of Mists and Mellow Fruitfulness.
I had planned a lengthy discourse on how Autmumn is a disappointing tease of a season; how the qualities people really love about it are only manifest for about two weeks, and the rest is either a weak-willed assault on burly Summer, with Fall never really asserting itself until Summer gets tired and moves on, or an equally weak-willed surrender to Winter, with Fall cravenly throwing in the towel at the merest suggestion of the Old Man's wrath.
Spring is likewise a teasing season.
Summer and Winter, absolute brutes that they are, are the only true seasons.
Anyway, most of what I wanted to say on the subject has already been said to my one reader.
She says I over-think things.
Yes, Precious, I overthink things. That's what I do. Overthink trivial matters. Buy people gratuitous gifts which make them uncomfortable in an attempt to garner affection and "be liked." Fritter away time yearning for things and never working up the guts to get them. Vacilate between self-loathing and self-agrandizement. These are the things that I do.

There is one respect in which Autumn trumps all other seasons, however: Clothing.
Thick, woolknit sweater. Long coats. Thin gloves. Boots.
Don't get me wrong, I love Summer fashion as much as the next red-blooded, sartorially enlightened American male. The vibrant hued sheer summer dresses clinging lewdly to feminine curves. The playful flip-flop sandals, which though I recognize are murder on a gal's posture, still illicit tinglings of desire -- the gaily painted toes and the delicate veins on the tapered ankles. Gentle, floral perfume and the sweet, sour tang of sweat -- a scent both soft and sharp, like a velvet blade.
Nonetheless, autumn is the season which really stirs desire for me. Dark, muted tones. Fluffed scarves like comfy, woolen pythons coiled about ladies' necks. The ineffable whiffs of nutmeg and cinnamon. The spiced, crumpled-leaves, old-book smell of fall. And the boots. Tall, leather, no-nonsense. They necessitate long, purposeful strides. They speak of daring adventure in times past: swashbuckling on the heaving deck of a frigate in the Caribbean; galloping full tilt astride a froth-lipped steed; dashing, revolver in hand, down a foggy cobblestone street; grappling, gritted-teeth, hair a-swirl, on the catwalk atop a Zeppelin.
Flip flops are revealing, no doubt, and convey girlish sun-soaked innocence, but boots are where it's at.

Listen to me, prattling on about footwear like an addled fetishist.
Which, arguably, I am.

People would label me as such, surely.

But what a strange term. One fellow shows zealous desire for breasts, say, and he is normal. Another acknowledges the erotic potential of toes and all of a sudden he's a depraved pervert.
Neither body part is inherently more sexual than the other.
No, I simply wish to express my reverence for every inch of the female form.
I have my favorite spots, surely.
The outer edge of the hip, which slopes downward on either side toward fertile valley-land. The dimpled extreme border of the lower back as it thrusts out into the gluteals. The delicate, birdcage structure of the ribs as they meet the latissimus dorsi when a girl's hands are stretched above her head. The fine, elegant curvature of the throat joining flawlessly with the firm, angled clavicle. The wrists, delicate yet eternally strong. Filled with a tautened cable-rigidity and a green, nubile grace are a woman's wrists. That oft-traversed, criminally over-looked unadorned expanse between navel and pubis.
Oh, I could waste hours rhapsodizing.
Suffice to say, I bow in thanks to Whomever - Intelligent Designer or Indifferent Natural Selector - is responsible for the female body.

And girls get finnicky over the attention to usually disdained body parts. (I even appreciated the soft, indescribably tender axial region. Much to my ex's squirming distress.) Get over yourself, ladies! Men like you. Every bit of you.
A girl of my acquaintance recently ended a relationship with a fella after he expressed interest in her feet.
"I have ugly fucking feet!" she shrilled in response.
I once had occasion to give her an extended foot massage and can attest that they are nothing of the sort. Certainly not model-caliber, but nothing to sniff at, if you'll forgive the expression.
And this same girl, on our first meeting, confided in me that she enjoyed having her anus licked. (La feuille de rose, as the French call it, which translates literally to "the pink leaf." Gotta love the French.) How can she be so at home with the one part of her anatomy and so alienated by the other?
I was originally disgusted by her dismissal of a prospective beau due to his professed enchantment with a certain body part, but, upon further refelection, I feel I might be able to commiserate. Back in high school, my own psyche was so riddled and rent with body-image hang-ups that I found myself disliking my girlfriend because she found me attractive. How fucked up is that, huh? I thought, "I know I'm an unfuckable troll, so what the hell is wrong with her that she feels anything other than loathing and revulsion towards me?"

I have only recently realized what I'm sure others have always known, vis that the build-up to an event is always, always better than event itself.
The human mind is so complexly, convolutedly, intricate that the stimulated imagination is capable of infinite wonders, all of which surpass what dull reality serves up. It's an unfair comparission, to be fair to reality, for within the human consciousness there are endless variations and possibilities. When reality manifests it can take but one form, which, no matter how glorious, cannot hope to surpass all forms existing at once.
Withheld fulfillment is key in sexual interaction, as well.
I remember my favorite teasing moments in bed with my ex, hovering above her, muscles bunched in my stiff, extended arms, just tracing the engorged head of my cock over her moistened lips, parting them with such slow, intolerable deliberation -- brushing softly against her greedily alert clit. And even after insertion, our faces close, but me pulling away slightly, mouth hot and eager just out of reach of hers, making her rise to touch her lips to mine.
Likewise, on a very special birthday of mine we spent at a swank hotel in Boston, my ex gave me a protracted spanking while I lay facedown on the bed. The best part for me was not the actual slaps, nor the thrilling intermittent bits in which she drew her fingernails across my stinging cheeks or gently licked my buns, but the wait. The expectant, agnozing moments when I waited for a slap.
So you see, the action, the event is a let-down. The expectation is key.
Above reverence to physical human form aside, mentally we are fucked from the get-go: disappointment is practically hard-wired into our psyches.

I am sore.
After hitting the weights all week, working, and yoga I feel like one of the sides of beef Stallone pummelled in Rocky. It's a good feeling. I enjoy muscle soreness.
During yoga I forced myself into the warrior pose, and was pleasantly reminded of fencing: heel alighnment, toes forward with one foot, toes to the side with the other, bent knees, straight spine, chin out, eyes up, arm extended from the shoulder. I want to start fencing again.  

Some of the success of my past blogs was due, I feel, to their division into sections. Boundaries, as the teacher on Daria said, can parodoxically provide us with freedom. It gave me structure. Let me know what I have to do.
And so I will begin initiation sections into this blog.
The first:

Pet Peeves:

To start with, the term "pet peeves." It's a whiny, sophomoric-sounding phrase. I will instead use "Things that Fuckin' Bug Me."

So . . .

Things that Fuckin' Bug Me:

Gym Edition.

I dislike people who grunt and curse at the gym. Planet Fitness's fascistic No Judgement policy upsets me, but it's on the right track. No lunks, as they say. Coarse, bestial snorting and growling rather puts me off my pump. Show some stoic resolve, people.
Also:
People who don't shower at the gym.
I am no Mr. Universe, but I'm comfortable enough in my skin to be naked in a Mens' Locker room. Get over yourself and clean up, you skittish jerks, I feel. Why walk away all chafing and sweaty? One of the best parts of working out at a gym is the shower after and the change into clean clothes.
However, I likewise dislike people who shower sans sandals.
Are you nuts? Show some concern for your feet, guys. This isn't your shower at home. I shudder to think of what's blossoming in the gaps between the tiles.
Further locker room annoyances:
Guys who put shirts on first when changing. Or take them off last. There is something inherently repellent to me about a guy wearing a shirt but naked from the waist down. Shirtless, but with pants, a man looks ready for action or hard labor. He might be getting into an underground bare-knuckle fight or building a barn. Fully naked, of course, has its own evocations. But pantless and wearing a shirt? It indicates complete inability for any determined physical exertion -- you can't get in a brawl or demolish a building with no pants on. The only option for that clothing combo is unwilling sex. It is a sickening blend of violent male sexual potential, and complete vulnerability. I understand if you're changing into formal evening wear and do not wish to crinkle your slacks. Then, by all means, shirt first. That's just sound thinking. But otherwise, c'mon, fellas, jeans first. Then t-shirt.
I dislike when there is a variety of open treadmills, with wide open spaces between them, and someone -- usually and older person, usually a man -- picks the treadmill right next to me. Gimme some room, bro, I say.
Still, I have picked the treadmill next to attractive girls on occasion, when space is limited. I like the implied competition involved with adjacent machines.

Next segment:

Film:

I saw Night of the Living Dead on the big screen recently. It was playing at South Hadley's Tower Theaters last Thursday night (and is playing again on Halloween night at 9.)
It was awful.
Colorized, and in 3D, it lost its original noirish charm.
Speaking of black and white, has anyone ever made a big deal out of the fact that NotLD (that's Night of the Living Dead, not Not ell dee) was made in '68 and has a sympathetic and admirable black protagonist?
Anyway, it was awful.
Far too slow and bogged down in concrete-block dialogue scenes.
The zombies are rarely threatening, often hilarious. And they use tools!
Still, it's a visionary, seminal work and none of the far superior zombie films that followed would have been possible without it.


I saw the film with my brother, the one person capable of driving me insane with rage or paralyzed with honest laughter in a few moments.
Goddamnit, I love him.

I love the English language. Nonsensical rules and all. It's a mutt language, half Romatic, half Germanic, borrowing foreign phrases when it suits. It might not sound as rhythmic as Spanish or as silkily suave as French (sidenote, I am rendered nearly catatonic with passion when I hear a woman speaking French with a passable accent. it's oddly even more effective when I know she's not a native speaker. More impressive, I suppose) nor as delicately beautiful as, say, Japanese. Still, in terms of expression . . .. It has about four times as many words as the Frencg language. There are so many layers of meaning, nuances, hues and tones and textures. Anyway . . .. Next section:

Words I Like:

Just one has been playing in my mind of late.

Cunt.

I happen to love this word. It has an authoritative definitiveness to it.
Many people shy away from this word, perhaps because they don't know the facts of its etymology.
Its origin is heavily disputed, but it either arises from the practical meanings, "stem, wedge," to the more abstract, but appropriate, "to create or become."
It shares the same ancestors as "country," "kin," and "kind."
Women especially shy away from it, because it has been used in negative contexts by ignorant mysogynists, but more so, I think, because it is so stern and harsh and, I suppose, masculine.
I find it sexy. Part of my appreciation is due to its muddled but impressive history and its mystical evocations.
My go-to sexy word for male genitalia is "cock," and, though I would use "pussy" for the female equivilant, I feel "cunt" is more accurate. Cunt, cock.

I committed some masculine acts today. Like baking a lemon cheesecake . . ..
No, not really. Though I did.

For starters, I spent much of the day disassembling the patio at Food 101. It is an endeavor I sometimes undertake with Ed, the manager. I also enjoy doin' it solo. It can be a one-man task. I blasted my new work-out mix (some Sinead O'Connor in there, don't laugh) and hauled the wrought-iron furniture below decks. Jamming out to Ready, Steady, Go and striding manfully through the honeycomb catacombs below the Commons, I felt like I was a slick espionage thriller.
Afterwards I asked a girl out (see above).
Then I jogged to the summit of Mount Holyoke, in the storm, shirtless.
I feel a particular primitive energy when running un-incumbered through the forest. I would love to run through the forest naked. I know my Reader has dealt with naked hikers in the past, and so do not want to appear pathologically lascivious. Still, it would be a uniquely liberating experience.
I would love even more to run naked through through the woods with someone.
Someone female.
Someone who likes the outdoors . . ..
Fuck, I'm drunk.
There was a pleasant dichotomy available to me, with the torrential, blustering, nebulous Sky Father and the warm embrace of the Earth Mother.
The vistas were murky, all billowing grey haze. The Connecticut became a duak river system, water below, fog above. But it was a wild ride, nonetheless.

Back to sexuality if we could por uno minuto.
I am host to a plethora of sexual kinks.
Now, I am not one of those poor souls who are unable to attain full arousal without being bludgeoned by a naked G.I. Joe. Some of the best sex I've ever had has been vanilla in nature, missionary-position, gazing into each others' eyes, soft pink light courtesy of a college-era spherical disco lamp, and trance-inducing pop music.
Still, I enjoy many variations on the theme, so to speak, and am open to many more.
Fetishes, they are called, mainstream.
It derives from a term for a treasured object embodied with non-intrinsic properties.
You got questions, delve into my past posts. Not from this blog. Nor the last. Nor the livejournal (remember that?). I mean the original.
Or comment with questions.
Or ask me in person and I'll give a live demonstration.
Anyway . . .
I believe kinks to be a good indication of an elaborate intellect. An abscence of kinks is a sign of an unadorned mind.
I know plenty of smart folks who are vanilla all the way (or so it seems, what's hiding in your closet). Kinkiness does not guarantee intelligence, but a lack of it does seem to hint at a lack of creativity and open-mindedness.
Were I to discover a girl with comparable sexual predilictions I would be hearilty entranced. It would be the unique and secret bliss of finding a kindred spirit in a world of strangers. Deep calling to deep, so to speak, as when people who have committed murder shake hands, or fans of obscure musicians meet. It's like being members of an exclusive club.
More people should be so open-minded. I mean, we as humans are gifted with such a stock of possibilities. We have phyical and psychological triggers. Our entire past comes into play. There is such a vast sea of styles and modes. Let's experiment, shall we?
And being halfway depraved as I am, I can appreciate more extreme fetishes. I am not enrapt by them, but I am not repulsed, either. I want to participate in a wide range of sexual exploits, but I would be willing to engage in an even wider range.
Which is funny.

You see, much of what I like to do is dependent on my partner liking it as well. If she's just doing it for my sake, it detracts from the pure, nasty pleasure of it.
However, I would be willing to do things based solely on the whims of my partner, and would be turned-on simply by her being turned on, and expect her to appreciate that.
However, if she were to do the same for me, it would diminish my enjoyment.
Weird, huh?
But, yeah, you wanna know specifics, lemme know. This blog is starved for comments . . ..

(Sidenote: Along the same lines as above hang-ups, if I am flirting with a girl, I get a giddy little thrill from disclosing details of my sexual exploits. If a girl does the same, it is an instant turn off. It might only be if she's discussing current, ongoing partners. Maybe it has to do with the narrow-minded societal perception of promiscuous men as conquerors and promiscuous women as sluts. But I thought I beyond that  . . ..)


Speaking societal constraints: I was watching an episode of Soul Train recently. The Five Stairsteps were playing, doing a rendition of "O-o-h Child," one of their signature hits.
I was amazed by the weary, soulful beauty of Alohe, the eldest sister and lead singer, and saddened by the costumes the brothers had to wear. Why should they be forced to parade about in such gawdy nonsense? And they were all so skinny! I felt an almost maternal concern for them. I wanted to force food on them.
Still, without a doubt an awesome song.


All right.

There are a few topics left in my bag 'o' tricks, but I'll save them for another time.
The hour grows late and the tag team of Cannibus and Cabernet worked have worked their usual hay-maker on my consciousness.
I will leave you with a thought:

Human beings know themselves better than anyone else. We solicit opinions on our mental state, our strengths and weaknesses, our role, in the grand scheme of things, which archetypes we personify.
All psycho-analysis, even unprofessional attempts, comes not as a shock, but a reaffirmation.
We know who we are. When we seek outside opinions it is not because we are in the dark, but because we know and want our knowledge confirmed.

There.

Now I'm going to bed.

.

Brand Spanking New

In the sterile room, I lay as still as possible and stared at the halogen lamp on the ceiling.
The vinyl of the table was cool against my bare skin.
I tried to take deep, measured breaths; tried to calm myself.
There was no countdown, no warning. There was simply a flash of intense pain at my right shoulder. A curl of smoke trailed lazily into the air in front of my eyes. The room filled with the bitter scent of burning. The pain was of the sort that one usually experiences in a brief jolt. the reaction to such stimuli would under most circumstances be to pull away cursing and shaking. Instead, I remained perfectly still. The pain did not diminish, but it did become familiar. It was like an annoying co-worker: unpleasant, but, by necessity, tolerable.
Nor was the smell unpleasant. I had heard of cooking human flesh described as manifesting a sweet, savory scent, like roasted pork. And, indeed, when seasoned and slow-cooked in an oven, it might do so.
My flesh, however, when subjected to the saudering iron, produced a smell akin to bread left in the toaster too long.
Perhaps I have been starved of intimate contact for too long, but when the woman wielding the metal stylus, glowing hazard neon orange, leaned eagerly over my bare chest, resting her arm on my stomach, I felt overcome by a powerful emotion. It was not purely sexual arousal. Masochist though I may be, and tough guy thought I may aspire to be, the searing (literally searing) pain twisting its way across my shoulder prevented full tumescence, but there were elements of the sexual. Instead, it was a feeling of- for lack of a better word- comfort. It was similar, if comparisons must be offered, to the feeling not of desire for sex, but the tranquil glow which settles over one immediately following sex.
But the pain was ever present.
Have you ever held your hand on an oven, or over an open flame, for an extended period of time? Just to test your tolerance. Well, I have. I assume most people have. At some point the combination of the physical discomfort and the knowledge that such discomfort is entirely unnecessary, makes one pull away. In this case, the pain continued. And continued. And continued. As I say, it didn't decrease. It did not in any real sense change. Sure there were some nuances, due to how deep she was probing or where exactly she was -closest to the bone was the most sensitive. I could appreciated the subtlties. Oddly enough, it seemed to hurt more when I looked directly at it.
She was done far sooner than I imagined he would have been.
I glanced at her handiwork: the tool had gouged its way across my right deltoid, piercing several dermal layers. A set of three arrows, bent into an equilateral triangle, was etched into my skin.


Attraction is a mercurial devil, is it not?
There are so many tiny contributing factors - a baroque, clockwork array of shifting gears and triggers.
This body modification artist I went to see, por ejemplo. She was tattooed, pierced, and studded into unrecognizability. her youthful demeanor did much to mask the fact that she had stepped into early middle age, even distracting one from the grey strands in her crow's-feather-black hair. Her severe appearance did not entice instant desire. However, her professional attitude and the fact that she caressed me repeatedly before laying me shirtless on a table and incising my skin with a white-hot knife did much to stir fantansies.
I could not imagine myself kissing her, but a pleasing image of being strapped to the aforementioned table and beaten by her danced through my sub-conscious.
I must admit that even now, shoulder bandanged and gnawing at me with a nagging, radiating sting, I can see how body modification addictions arise. I would love to get another one. The pain opened the door to a peculiar level of intimacy between self and tormentor. And it made me aware in a primal way of my physical existence.
Pain in a sexual context is more manifoldly complex. I appreciate it for the above reasons, but also because it implies a power disparity. It is not the pain itself I desire, but the knowledge that someone has the power over me to cause me pain if they see fit.

Where was I?

Attraction.

You may remember that in a past post that I commented on a girl in my botany class. I was attracted until I saw how young she was and, soon after, how dizzy and naive she was. Well, I found myself walkng beside her on our way to class one morning, both of us a little late. I held the door for her and as she passed me into the stairwell I caught, along with the over-arching sweetness of her perfume, a playful, piquant whiff of marijuana. She had been smoking before school. This explained her vacant gaze during lecture. The rebelliousness this scent implied brought me 'round again, one-eighty. I found her definitively attractive again, and sorry I had overlooked her hidden depths.
Also that day I caught sight of a woman walking by in some sort of uniform. Not Camp Po. It was simple black fatigues, but the demeanor of assured authority set my heart a'racing.
Women, so I'm told, love a man in uniform. Some have speculated that this is because women, far-sighted and forever practical, love a man with a job. I believe it is for the original reason. Women crave authority. I do not wish to be sexist here. From what I know of the sex they are a mess of layered dominance and submissiveness. Men are, I believe, one or the other.
Also at HCC: I was in the library recently. While browsing the mythology section I noticed a lanky female trot up the stairs and enter the stacks. While soaked with what is termed geek-chic, she was still not quite my cup of meat. However, when I saw her notice and make a bee-line for a graphic novel interpretation of George R.R. Martin's Game of Thrones I nearly creamed my jeans then and there.
Likewise, I have noticed of late a bevvy of broads who, though physically appetizing, displayed something about their demeanor which indicated haughtiness, or callousness, or lack of depth and made me instantly repulsed.

Of late, I have been imagining myself, in my leisure moments, in the company of various girls (now, I realize that they are women both by legal definition and maturity of manner, but might prefer, for divers reasons, to be called "girls") of my acquaintance. I'll be reclining, supine, on my bed, stripped to my skivvies, and will let my thoughts wander to fantasies of them straddling me lustily, or playfully tickling the sole of one foot on their way into the other room. Anyway . . . with most of them, the fantasy soon shrivels up and dies after that, owing to the fact that I cannot see it progressing much further than the obligatory intercourse. One girl, though . . .
You know, in the Renaissance, artists would often insert people they knew into the backgrounds. The Disciples ate The Last Supper, for instance, might have all been acquaintances of Leonardo.
Well, if you have a crush on someone, I feel the same event occurs, but unintentionally. Your thoughts dwell on someone, for instance. Every other thought. All day. It becomes rather incessant. Anyway . . . you are thinking about an adored person. You hear a song. Ache for You, for instance, by Ben Lee. Why, this song is about us, you think. In fact, every song you hear seems to be about this person. Every apt character in every book. But, is this infatuation? Is your subconscious simply inserting a known quantity into these archetypes? Or is it something deeper?
And it has a snowball effect.
You're thinking about them. You hear a song. You project them onto this. It makes you think of them more. You hear another song . . .

Ugh. Attraction.

What a day. Up early. Photo shoot for my Costume-a-thon at the restaurant. Gym. House hunt frivolities. Class. Branding. Purchasing show tickets. Gym. Yoga. Home.
A bottle of wine and several helpings of frittata later and I am nearly concussed with alcohol and fatigue.
Yoga was intense this evening.
I attempted to show off to the instructrix - as futile an endeavor as trying to out-run Usain Bolt - and am now racked with muscle aches. Were I to engage in coitus at this moment (and I grant you that is an astronomically remote eventuality) it would be confined to cow-girl, or reverse cow-girl - a position my ex was not keen on, sadly. I think I would have enjoyed it. There's a naughty anonymity to the procedure. I can picture myself now, slipping a saliva-lubricated thumb into her anus  . . . something I only attempted once. Slipping a tongue into her anus, now that's another matter . . ..
Or lazy doggy-style. Oddly enough, my second-favortie position. Think missionary, but with the receiving partner on their stomach. I appreciate the raunchiness of doggy-style, with the added intimacy of your bodies pressed against each other, the ability to kiss her neck or nibble her ear . . .

I am deeply in my cups at this stage and need to focus. . .


I have recently started watching ALIAS, J.J. Abrams's second effort in television. It is thus far superior to LOST both in narrative cohesion and character depth.
It is difficult to watch, however, because it was the favorite show of an dear ex-friend and I cannot watch an instant of it without thinking of her.
There is a moment in the first season when the heroine, weak from physical and emotional trauma, kisses a friend of hers. This friend, played by Bradley Cooper, has feelings for her. I know that we're supposed to feel empathy for the heroine, Sydney (Jennifer Garner). But the jaded male in me can only watch it and think, "You bitch." You know he loves you. Don't entice him. The poor bastard winds up by the end of the season beaten and tortured, in the hands of the enemy, all due to his devotion to Sydney.
And the fact that my relationship with the friend who used to watch this show ended when I poored my heart out to her only to have it picked up and discared like a used Kleenex, forever stunting my emotional involvement with others all hits rather close to home.

 . . .

Damn. I need to get to bed.
Parents' Weekend kicks off tomorrow.
Wish me luck, of Best Beloveds.
'Night, night.