I
am in desperate need of an explosive and cathartic sexual
release. My eyes are aching and have been for some months, out of
necessity for the kind of sex that leaves me huddled wheezing and
crying in the corner of my bed with only my outstretched arm
touching a warm, beautiful woman, as company [sic]. My rancid
tonsils (no euphemism) are reminding me of how lowly I rightly
see myself: I am lucidly aware that damn near any woman to whom I
can feign attraction would do. Any hand or special equipment that
I don't own would not do. I need the warmth of a limber, moist
screamer, and to my own great disapproval, fun-da-mentally, I
don't mean on an emotional level. My emotional level has been
de-existed by too many cruel heartless bastards; I pass blame.
In
my usual everyday rôle of sweet, sensitive, thoughtful,
contradictory, cruel enigma (she said it, not me) I would, I
would, I would place love, and its antithesis thought, up at the
zenith of my requests. Cleesh: My spirit has been crushed; my
heart has been stomped on by a shiny, pointy shoe. End cleesh -
later. Why to explain it? As I get more and more tired, as I do
less and less, as I am less and less, as existence passes more
and more, I find myself. After finding myself, I play with myself
for some minutes. After playing with myself I feel momentary,
minor, all but non-existent, Lilliputian feelings of guilt that,
if my rationalised thoughts are to be believed, shouldn't exist.
Again with the existence/non-existence thing... Can he be trying
to tell us something which he will later fight to the hilt to
have History change to fiction? (The ambiguity and dual meanings
make approved-of points either way). The self I find and the self
I display as me are, as you could no doubt expect, two and the
different. It is this very duality of self which separates this
erection-led, pseudo-morose, potentially ironic snit from others.
It is, to quote - for I have not the belief in my own - ... (more
punctuation anyone?) ...in all honesty, what was to be here has
understandably fled its existence/my memory and taken up
residence somewhere funny. I have my eye on someone. Someone
keeps becoming another someone as I walk further down the street
and they disappear into memory.
You
understand why, don't you? Not fully correct: I don't speak like
this. I wouldn't impose that upon anyone. I wander around,
holding and buying books (but books are only for couples; I must
remember the rules). I attempt Flirting Rule One on the
Underground. I think there's supposed to be something about
talking in there somewhere, but I'm meant to be a misanthrope. If
someone falls in love and falls on me, allowing me to maintain my
aloof, regal manner, then I can allow that. Better still, if she
is willing to have me as a kept man so I can freely spend all day
reading, writing, drumming and masturbating, then all she needs
do is ask if I can feign attraction. I love being shallow, it's a
holiday. It's who I am. Je suis shallow. (If anyone knows how to
say "I am..." in Japanese, could they please email me.
Many thanks). I plunge into the shallow end, shattering my neck
and getting sympathy blowjobs. I shop at the gap (you'll get a
capital letter when you earn the right to have one) and meet
equally shallow people. Nike must sponsor evolution; it's the
only reasonable explanation.
And
here for the Americans, who racistly don't understand irony, is
aforementioned irony: I lambast society for being shallow simply
because I want to get laid.
Covering
insecurity: By the way, it's all lies. Funny, huh?