When I first ventured out into the world away from home, I had a friend who we will call Aria. Aria was a Princess from some obscure and distant Eastern European country that evoked images of vampires on the mountains, and werewolves in the woods. She had long black hair, her body as thin as a scythe, her eyes were pools of pure shiny blackness. I guess what I'm trying to tell you here is that she was intensely and darkly beautiful, in a distant and inaccesible way.
We had an odd relationship to start with. She would come to the door, say "hi", and once inside, she would sit on the floor in complete silence, and draw hundreds of sharp and jagged knives on pages she tore from her diary.
Then she would announce "I'm leaving", and leave she would.
Years passed, and as they did, Aria came more and more out of herself. She worked in a bar, hung out, and even told jokes. I was relieved. She had relationships with a couple of people I knew, and then she met Marcus. He was about as famous as you could be within his field, and everyone I knew thought he was the greatest. We lost touch when they both moved to Los Angeles together, and made a whole new life for themselves.
Aria was happy, and deeply in love.
But my good friend Marcus was secretly very sad. After a time, his secrecy frayed away, and there was no more pretense. He killed himself on my birthday.
My memories of him are like he was a thermos that someone had dropped and never confessed about. So together and tough on the outside, but inside he was all water and broken glass. As soon as I heard I thought of poor Aria, and remembered all those pages of her drawings I never threw away. And I imagined her when she found him, hanging dead from the rafters. And I wondered if all those years ago, she was looking into the future, silently asking me for a sharp and jagged knife, so she could cut him down.
Monday, June 20, 2005
Hey. So, it's been a while, huh?
An explanation for all my fan (sic)...I haven't had the internet at home for a long time now. But instead of that blood-pumping, heart racing, no time to breathe kind of desperation only true afficionados of internet (read: porn) addiction can ever truly know, I've been putting off getting rewired. I still have time to get my hair dyed, rehearse with my band, and buy a new pets (I have a baby goat called Oskar Rammstein), but the whole geek-out reply to emails and bid on one-off computer experiments from Apple thing really isn't calling out my name too loud right now.
The high water mark of my ego hasn't abated at all. It hasn't burst its banks either, I think it's reached some sort of maximum density, and any further input will just kind of condense it, like dark matter, so it doesn't grow, it just gets heavier. I have lots to confess, but I just haven't felt all bloggish about it. The demands on my train of thought are quite intense of late, so maybe I haven't had enough to go around for once. I also have stagefright. People really do come up to you and say "I read your blog, I like it." when you're in the line at the bank, walking the goat, or most radnacious of all, in the shower at the pool. But it's crazy and upsetting knowing that every time I post something, the editor of my favourite mag ever is nursing a hangover and reading it, tirelessly hunting down/seeking out new material to enrich his magazine with, like those squids from the matrix. You know me, I live to impress. I think I'm having some sort of colloquial vernacular erectile dysfunction or something.
Don't panic, I'll get to talking about sex in a minute.
Random observation: watching people like my doctor blunder their way through typing out a referral to a specialist is intensely frustrating. I will not stand for bad spelling. In the end I took her keyboard off her and took dictation. She's fine with that. My doctor is a hot Singaporean, who looks about 21. God, she might even be 21...anyways, the point here is that we have a very bad and wrong relationship, and we both know it, and we both love it.
She says I'm in great shape, and that I "...have the strength of one hundred kittens -easy!"
When I first met her she was all bouncy and happy and just airing out and blowing to pieces any preconceptions I had about doctors. Unlike all my male doctors, she didn't ask me to remove my pants when I had a cold, or, if I pulled a muscle in my back, to...remove my pants. No. So I had to come up with new and exciting (or dynamic and synergistic if you work in advertising or marketing) ways to get her to see my cock.
I slammed it in the cupboard door so I could pretend I was worried it was going to get an infection. That went well. Actually I came harder than I have ever cum before, which both surprised and relieved me. Anyway, she handled it very gently, and didn't mind at all when it grew in her hand. "See?" I said "It's swelling." "Yes! Yes!" she replied with a big dynamic and synergistic smile on her face, the breath from her exhalation making the shiny stainless steel of my penile acoutrements fog up like car windows on prom night. She prescribed for me to stop banging it in the cupboard door, and maybe to even try wearing clothing when I'm cooking in future, which I think was very sage and sensible. I saw her in town later that night, with some of her friends, all of whom looked 21, and very excitable. She raced over and gave me a big hug, and introduced me to her friends, all of whom looked at me with the knowledge that I was the guy Maylin had just been telling them about. You know, the one with the dynamic and synergistic cock. They all made a point of finding out when my band is playing next, just in case I jam my cock in something. Helpful.
You're so waiting for me to get with the dirty talk, aren't you?
OK. So lately I've been waking up at 4 am every morning, so instead of being angry at myself about it, I've decided to go get breakfast somewhere nice, read the paper, and generally enjoy these things called mornings, which I really don't know that much about, having succesfully avoided them for most of my life. And it's been really nice, once I get there. But to get there, I have to catch a tram, which is always packed to the gunnels with grumpy 'morning people'. One of these grumpy morning people is an unbelievably hot, sour faced fashionista, with long and short (depending on where you stand in relation to her) black shiny hair, intense cheekbones, tight jeans and six inch heels. This girl just screams the word "FUUUUUUUUCK!!!!!" at like sixteen-bazillion thousand decibels, without ever having to open her mouth. She looks at absolutely everything like it just died and spewed liquid shit all over her Jimmy Choos. It's so hot, you could cook eggs on it. And I fully would, if I wasn't basically married.
Anyway, for the last five mornings, she's been waiting at my tram stop, making all the cars crash, and killing all the trees by staring at them. I've said hello every day, to which she arches one eyebrow, like "Oh look - diarrhoea."
I've read here and there about how pheremones are the number one secret ingredient, when it comes to attraction/seduction/dynamic and synergistic sex. And I have found irrefutable proof that this is in fact the case.
My girl got home from the bar she works at when I woke up for my breakfast date with myself, and we do what all couples who are deeply in love do - we argued. But after we got that that out of the way, we made with the hot sex. Anyhoo, when that was all said and done, she retired to sleepyland, and I went off for breakfast. I didn't wash, I just got dressed and left. You might find that disgusting, but that's what makes me a rock star, and you reading this in your cubicle at the office, praying your boss doesn't walk by and catch you vicariously living through me.
To cut a long story short, I smelled like a red hot fuck, and my hair was all messy, and my Motorhead tee shirt was on backwards, and when I got to the tram stop and saw miss grumpy morning hotness 2005 and said hello, I got two arched eyebrows instead of one. I fired up my iPod and listened to Iron Maiden, as I'm sure you do also, and when the tram arrived, I climbed on and squished myself into the grumpy amalgam of office workers, retail assistants, and people who sell golfing equipment for a living. The tram started rolling, and I realised with a fright that I could distinctly smell my girlfriends pussy, my cock, and our sex-sauces combined, and realised that if I could smell it, so could everyone else. But that's nothing. I was standing up holding the rail. Sitting down right in front of me, with her head at crotch level, was you-know-who, and she was basically swimming in sex soup. Like, her face was no more than fifteen centimetres from (insert silly name of choice for penis here.) I took my headphones out, and said "I'm sooo sorry!", half whispered, like a penitent nun caught furiously ramming a crucifix into her mons venus, by the Pope himself. I thought she might kick me, or more excitingly, bite my cock off. She wrote her phone number on my hand with a jade green felt pen, and as she climbed off the tram, she made sure as to rub every available inch of her front against every available inch of my front. More and more inches were becoming available on my front by the millisecond, so by the time her right hand had brushed across my pubic area (palm down), I had the flag fully raised, and was ready to march head first into the batlle of the sexes. I took her seat quickly, and though about Amanda Vanstone until it subsided. Not surprisingly, this took no time at all.
How you like me now, playa?!
Speaking of liking me, I finally got an appointment with the counsellor I've been trying to see. She's 50, and she's not even remotely hot. We had a sit down, and I told her a bit about myself. She told me she straight up she wanted nothing to do with me. At least she's honest, even if she didn't help me to feel any better. I've never had my feelings hurt by anyone over forty-five in the past, so this was a new record. The thing that confused me was, clearly I have problems, and that's why I wanted to see a damn counsellor in the first place. But, because I have these problems, she doesn't want to see me. Kinda like counselling elitism, or catch 22 for health professionals. I'm mystified. I mean, I know I'm a fuckup and a terrible person, but I'm also exceedingly polite and very respectful. I even washed my cock before going to see her and everything. Maybe if i hadn't, I'd still have a counsellor?
Hey, guess what?! It's BREAKFAST TIME! And before any of you judge me and think I have even less morals than I actually do, I'm looking forward to eggs benedict and juice, not hot sex with fashionistas behind my girls back. But I will take a little eye candy to go. It's perfectly natural.
Join me for my next post, when we discuss the sexual enigma that is my hairdresser!
This is knifey, from 'the internet'.