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21 entries from January 2008

January 31, 2008

Windy & Blowy: People You Don't Want to Wake Up With

I had an all-nighter, to see the sun rise, and overhear the Morning Show commence on Channel 9. I thought I’d wait until my son awoke, to see him off for his first day back at high school, but in the interim I watched the talking heads: Karl Stefanovic and Lisa Wilkinson, and jeez, it was like watching a car accident.

They stumbled through their auto-cue, their chemistry non-existent. The weather girl, live from Melbourne, was a total bimbo. I don’t know who writes her lines, but her vocabulary had me perplexed:

At the first live cross, she said (of today’s weather in Melbourne):

“It’s windy and blowy.”

My son was awake at this time, eating his breakfast.

“Mum, I don’t like the way she used that word - blowy.”
We both laughed, then he said:

“And it’s a stupid sentence: windy and blowy. Aren’t they the same?”
“Yeah, but blowy isn’t a word.”

In Australia we do use the word ‘blowie’ to refer to two things: blow flies or blow jobs.

Continue reading "Windy & Blowy: People You Don't Want to Wake Up With" »

January 30, 2008

The Phone Sex You Have Without Having Phone Sex or Glimpses of Sadism

Being at home has its advantages. I’ve had a little more time to write, but the housework…oh man.

An idea did flash through my mind as the phone began ringing this afternoon. How do I override this sexual hurdle? Stress kills sex, it also drains one’s libido or makes masturbation a dangerous exercise when the urge hits (I won’t tell you about the dangers of masturbating in the shower, except to say soap on floor). I’ve fallen asleep during my solo hokey-pokey time at 4 in the morning, and this afternoon the phone rang, and I thought: let’s kill two birds with one stone or a politically incorrect stone that may be viewed as sexual harassment, or would be if it occurred within a workplace, but seeing as I am a virtual stranger to these telemarketers, so what? I also betrayed yesterday's bad. But the sadistic undertow made up for it.

What is the worst case scenario? They’d never call me again, and hopefully remove the number from their phone list.

Continue reading "The Phone Sex You Have Without Having Phone Sex or Glimpses of Sadism" »


I’m weird. I think that it’s more ethical or reasonable to sell sex for money than to sit there on a telephone, calling and harassing strangers to make a sale for a god forsaken corporation.

They’re like hyenas. They work on the voice first. It’s their first cue to talk to you in a tone that translates to, ‘hey haven’t seen you for years, how are you doing?’


No offense to any who happen to stop by here, but man, there has gotta be a better way to earn a crust. Servicing a stranger with oral sex for cash is more honest in comparison to, ‘hey I’m your new best friend and I’ll (try to) make you an offer you can’t refuse’. It’s like receiving calls from Satan’s little imps. That’s the dirty side of capitalism, the side that unleashes my un-sexy inner demon.

Continue reading "Severance" »

January 28, 2008

Cock Spam vs Advertising Behemoths

I was thinking: women do have it easier.

Then I thought: there are so many advertising agencies out there, huge names that charge galactic fees to produce adverts to increase sales and establish brands.

Following that thought: most advertising agencies have cheap competition – effective competition.

This conclusion is based on me receiving the thousandth (millionth, billionth, trillionth?) CIALIS spam e-mail. I don't know how those spammers do it. I constantly mark everything as spam, and think it'll automatically be forwarded to the Norton spam folder, but no…they're like a virus.

The result? I remember the brand name, and I remember it without fancy adverts and jingles. That's the killer right there. I think erectile dysfunction + CIALIS spam.

Erectile dysfunction is like a catastrophe, and it can be where reproduction is involved, but sex? Orgasms? Orgasms and erections aren't dependent functions where women are concerned (we have vibrators and dildos).  Frankly, I don't see how erectile enhancer spam e-mail is going to benefit me, but screw me! I'll never forget the name of the wretched things. I don't have a cock, and it's not like I'm going to push Viagra on street corners. It's not fun party conversation. Not like you'll have a bloke confess his erectile dysfunction over a gin and tonic, for you to discuss the merits of erection enhancing drugs.

"Hi Brad, haven't seen you in months. How's life been treating you?"
"Oh, busy as usual," followed by a nervous shrug.
"How's Marg?"
"She decided to take up with her lover. She left me," he gingerly shakes his ice cubes.
"You're kidding!"
"No…I have a problem. I can't keep it up, and…"
"No fear…erectile enhancers."
"What? Really?"
"Yes. One pill and you're Godzilla!"
"Thanks. You're a gem. I don't know what I'd do without you."
"No worries Brad. Let me know when you score, and we'll have a trial run. Give me a call. I'd love to test your uber shlong." Nudge-wink-nudge.

We can only dream!

When I don't write about sex...

When I don't write about sex, or stories with sex, I write about oddball situations. The one below is heading into horror territory, and I'm sure it's going to have a gruesome 'sicko' ending. I just haven't finalised that yet. I have two or three gory options.

Continue reading "When I don't write about sex..." »

January 27, 2008

My First Story for 2008 & Genesis

My erotic short story, The Art of War, has stepped out in the UK, in Scarlet Magazine. It's in the print edition of the magazine (February Issue), not on the site. The heroine of the story uses Sun Tzu's The Art of War for strategy when her relationship goes downhill. It's my first story for 2008 that has been published beyond this blog, and the illustrations are so cool! It's always a weird feeling for me. I think, 'Geez my story gets there, but will I ever make a flight out of Oz?' SomeoneAow1_2 over there is flicking through pages, reading my story, and I've got my arse parked on the other side of the world. It's probably a silly thought, but it still makes me happy. I'd liken it to setting a homing pigeon or falcon on a specific course, to find that it has reached its destination safely. A thank you is in order here, for the images of the article. Thank you Alex & Suze

I've started another short story that's making me happy, which is good considering I've canned a few stories in the past: never felt content, sounded like crap (when read aloud: which is how I evaluate every story I write), unconvincing (to me), falling out of lust with male/female characters (finding that they don't live up to my vision), all the strange things that one can think of.

I wouldn't be lying if I said that outside events also influenced my creative processes, that of it being a struggle to swim over the foaming wave that is the Office, and all that's unfolded over the passing year - the need to get out, before insanity hits, either that, or a mottled tidal wave of melancholy. Therapy for me sometimes involves fashioning a story according to emotion, experience and mood. My work situation is ideal for splatterpunk horror, exploring nihilism with grotesque brush strokes, vicious additives and graphic enhancements.

January 26, 2008

Anima, Animus, Persona & What the?

It was one of those nights. I settled on my sofa with my laptop and thought I'd dip into my additional research. I was looking for a definition, or something that was more sound than Internet pages. Some may think that the Internet provides adequate information, but it can lack where substance is concerned, and depending on the area one researches, many essential points may be omitted or manipulated (on a Grande scale).

My mission?

To navigate some of Carl Jung's writings. I needed to figure out the anima and animus, but I became sidetracked by another chapter that discussed persona and society. At this point I wrestled with Jung's tendency to objectively refer to 'he' (his readers, patients, examples and so on), like women have no higher intellectual function, but found that his concepts can be applied to both sexes.

His discussion of society, and how our persona was formed, pointed to social frameworks and how these frameworks aim to mold an individual. This is understandable, as many idiotic advert executives still produce feminine stereotypes for most domestic cleaning products. Apart from the standard gender associations or roles that we see in mass media, there are other standards that apply to just about everything we do: occupational, personal, sexual, and so on. A person, according to Jung, is pressured to be a certain quantity. A professional male, for example, is obligated to present a certain aura by clothing, attitudes, behaviors and other things.

Further on, Jung discussed the way society makes it impossible or virtually impossible for people to be 'two things,' in a professional sense (day in and day out - the primary profession one invests time in).  Using similar examples: A politician couldn't be a mechanic (they would be viewed as being erratic or vague), an academic couldn't be a car mechanic because they'd be viewed a dilettante, and on it went. So I lit another smoke, pondered Jung's points, and throughout my chemically toxic state, arrived at the dark avenue.

What was I?

I couldn't (and I did try) find what I was in the professional sphere of things. I haven't worked in a concrete professional throughout my life. I am not (in essence) what I currently am, or what I am in the sense of the three years I've invested within a corporation. I was never a nurse's assistant during my four years mopping up bodily fluids, assisting people and so on.  I was hardly an eager bartender, thinking I'd spend the rest of my life mixing drinks or managing bars, and I couldn't tolerate fiery chefs in restaurants to be inspired and gain an apprenticeship, and yet I've been all these things (and some  more) over certain phases. Jung makes an interesting point about squandering time, and how this may cause angst, and it didn't surprise me, because by the time I reached the end of my smoke, I felt uncertain about my erratic occupational endeavors and knew (as I know) that my passions, or my core did not lie within all the jobs I've spent time in. So I thought about all the time I've wasted, and how life's circumstances demand people to divide their time. It's not like we are living in Jung's time, where professions were determined, or da Vinci's time where professions were determined by genealogical history. We're probably living in the most uncertain times, where people roll with the punches, and sacrifice more than their predecessors. All right, this thought may be more logical, but it didn't comfort me because there are many people who don't define their self by their current occupations, meaning they don't spend additional time investing in knowledge related to their job descriptions. I, for one, don't. I don't scour the Internet or book shops for knowledge relating to my current mundane office job. Even if I did, it won't guarantee me a promotion, but that's a different story which entails office politics, personalities and overall incompetence which I can't tolerate on any professional level (in any job, and it's not about being a control freak, something I'm not).

I wasn't closer to the big questions. I started watching a German film on SBS, titled 'Devotion,' this oddball psychological drama that was hinged on two characters. Then I briefly entertained the coincidence: German film/Carl Jung (German), and I entered the weird zone. So I thought I'd concentrate on the now (me sitting on the sofa with my laptop), and work on the now (a half written story living within my laptop). As for the rest? I'll use a common Australian phrase: Fucked if I know.

January 25, 2008

The Crab Farm

Last night's YouTube crab clip took me down the garden path. Okay, it's not a fragrant Garden of Eden, more like ivy infested paddocks, but I eventually found laughter in crabs or pubic lice.

It's one thing to have safe sex, and obey every rule, but another thing entirely. You can double up on condoms, and religiously pop the Pill, but this doesn't stop the pubic louse. Nope. It's the one critter that'll get through, and colonize your nether regions, as I found out when I became entangled with my roommate's crush.

I didn't plan on sleeping with the family acquaintance. He'd visit once weekly, to supposedly have coffee. He was a cock wielding Serb named Mischa, who'd take the time to announce his gonads by spreading his legs – getting comfortable on the faux leather settee. My roommate's mother would often read his coffee cup, divining portents, and I didn't understand a word. While he spoke English well, he'd keep me out of their conversations; they'd talk about the weather, the unfolding war in Yugoslavia, and I'd excuse myself. I didn't take the time to notice him, but my roommate assessed his financial assets, and macho leanings; he had a way of flaunting his alleged wealth. And while my roommate thought him arrogant, recognizing his fuck tactics, I dismissed her interest.

"You measure a man by his money," I said.
"Is that so bad?"
"What if he has nothing? What if he's bullshitting you?"
"He might be keeping it secret…you know…"

She fancied him to be a mobster, some kind of Tony Soprano type, but to me – only because I dealt with the real deal at the club I'd worked in – he maintained a vaudevillian act.

"He's a blowarse," I said, but an attractive blowarse. I didn't reveal the second part of my thought to her. I kept it like a dirty pair of panties; disgusted and intrigued by the aroma. I didn't spend much time with him. I hardly gave him the time of day; he hardly spoke English in my presence, and when he did, he'd keep to the bare essentials, like how my current job was treating me. I'd be nonchalant, and I had a right to be this way. I was busy dividing my time between two other men, and ran myself ragged. I'd spent my evenings with fuck buddy Ali, and step out on formal dates with Ercan. Some call it two-timing. I call it testing the waters or keeping options open, so the dick wielding Serb wasn't on my hit list. Besides, my roommate was experiencing the daily dilemma: do I or don't I? I'd tell her to go for it. What else did she have to lose?

"You lost your virginity years ago."
"But he's older."
"You didn't seem to care about his age when the assets issue arose," I said.
"But what if it gets serious? What if he wants to go the distance, and decides he wants children."
"Oh for fuck's sake!" Men like him didn't stay around that long. I knew it. I could smell it. He was like the barflies at the club, those who'd stand sipping drinks waiting for their special tables.
"He's probably married," I added.
"I don't think so."
"So who irons his shirts?"

It's not an optimistic thing, to sense these things at such a young age. I was twenty, but I'd seen my fair share of men leading double lives, and Mischa didn't know the meaning of 'sensitive new age,' something I would come to know on an intimate basis.

Days came, I'd return from work, and I'd either find him there, or anticipate his visits. A strange thing happened along the way. My nocturnal sex life with Ali ended, and I found myself waiting for Mischa to arrive. I somehow craved his bullshit machismo. It was a spectacle, as was his accent, or the way he'd stress certain words, like 'fuck.' Despite my gradual weakening, I'd keep my distance. As far as I was concerned he was out of sexual bounds; my roommate was indecisive, and besides, I wasn't interested in getting involved with complicated men. All attached men are complicated, and if they don't appear to be so, they eventually complicate values and everyday life. It's not like you can invite them to family gatherings, or regular functions; they need to clear their schedules, and plan everything to the final detail – even if they don't reveal this – because to do otherwise is courting alimony. Besides these sorts will let a woman down nine times out of ten. Want definite disappointment? Date an attached male.

My roommate and her mother went away for the weekend, leaving me to house sit. I didn't expect any visitors as I assumed they had informed their friends of their absence, but lo and behold the door knocked one night, and I found Mischa standing at the door asking me how I was. I immediately informed him that no one else was home, and he decided to step in.

"So what are your plans?"

Nothing became an intimate dinner in Darlinghurst at The Balkan restaurant; I wrestled a huge steak, and picked at my side dish of sauerkraut. Two bottles of red wine later, and I felt logic slip away. Face reddening, anti-oxidants running wild within my cheeks, I received his questions. He interrogated me about my future plans, and felt at ease when marriage didn't feature.

"Why aren't you interested? I thought Greek girls were interested in marriage."
"I wouldn't be able to do the things I'm planning if I got married," I said, gulping another mouthful of cabernet.
"How come?"
I rolled my eyes, come on.
"Marriage, house, children, husband…in-laws…you've got to be joking."
I didn't pay attention to other diners. The waiter cleared our table, and refilled our glasses, and the conversation continued. Mischa found comfort in knowing that I didn't view men as potential husbands.
"What's interesting? Marriage?"
"When are you hoping to marry?"
"I didn't say I was."
"You have to have some idea," he pressed.
"I don't."

And I didn't.

At this point, as my cheeks became inhabited by Hell, I knew that we'd fuck. It's second nature. Maybe Mischa's probing eyes translated his plan. But we barely got to the car before he grasped my arm, and twirled me around. Sandwiched between his hefty body and the car door, I had no choice. The wine swirled within my brain, and his cologne (Paco Rabanne – I still remember it) intoxicated me. We kissed hard. He was like a lifeguard, and I was sucking his tongue for dear life, and once we finally separated, to enter his car, we silently continued on our way to the apartment.

It all started, to end in fifteen minutes, and a ferocious fuck it was. What bed? What sofa? There I was, on the floor, with him brusquely instructing me to raise my ass so he could whip my panties off. We screwed like (and unlike – as we were missionary, animals do it doggy) animals, him heaving and grunting, stuffing his cock all the way inside. I whimpered, but I sure as fuck enjoyed the meaty grind.

We continued like this for a couple of weeks, meeting in secret places, like motel rooms and his car, for fervid humping, but my carefree world stopped when I decided to take a leak one morning, and found myself in an annoying predicament. I couldn't stop scratching myself, and it was when I peeled down my knickers, as I sat on the throne – in the blaring light of morning – that I wanted to scream.

I saw them, countless brown creatures, making their way through my Amazon forest. Little brown creatures: what the fuck? I was disgusted and horrified. I'd never experienced it before, and as far as I knew, going by the elementary school head lice, that no conventional shampoo was going to shift these critters. The apartment was fully awake. I didn't have time to stand in the small wading bath to shave my twat, so I took off to the medical center, hoping I'd find a one-stop solution to the alien invasion.

Two doctors owned the medical practice. The first, a liberal Anglo doctor, was my favorite but happened to be away that day, so I was lumbered with his conservative (read: Greek 'goodboy' turned doctor) partner. This was the guy who mistook my ingrown pube for herpes, or had sadistic fun trying to make me think it was herpes, when I'd known otherwise.

"How can I help you today?" He glanced at my history, crinkling his nose at the last set of notes: my latest Pill prescription.
"I'm itchy…down there."
"Oh?" The corners of his lips curved upward; the slow smile didn't reach his eyes.
"I don't know how it happened."
"It's obvious, isn't it?" His eyes glowered, and he gazed at me like I was the Whore of Babylon, "you've had sexual intercourse and caught it from your partner…or partners."

You bastard, I thought. This was followed by, 'you fucking prick,' (directed at Mischa).
"Okay, how do I fix it?" I raced in, hoping we'd be done with it.
"You can apply a cream that I can prescribe for you…"

That he could prescribe?

"We need to discuss STD's." Back then STD was the usual term.
"I used a condom, and the Pill," I said, straight to the point.
"Yes, but they're not enough."

Oh yeah, I thought, I'll transform into a nun!

"Excuse me doctor, but there's not much else."
"There is celibacy," he said, and boy, I wanted to laugh but his stoic face stopped me in my tracks. He was being serious, and I wanted that prescription so I could get the hell out of there.
"Okay, but right now I need that prescription because I'm in agony." And I was. The itch drove me mad. I sat, thinking: I definitely have a party in my pants, and I'm not liking it ONE BIT.

"I think you need to know about the repercussions of such behavior."

I went into GI Joe mode.

"Look, if you're not going to give me the prescription, I'll get it somewhere else. I didn't come here for a lecture. I'm aware of most STD's," and it's not like crabs can be prevented with the Pill or five sets of condoms.

We stared daggers for a few seconds, and he wrote out a script. I made my way to the pharmacy. I signed off on the script, and went home to suffocate those crab-like suckers once and for all. Then I shaved my pubes off. Let's say I needed to start afresh?

All the above added another dilemma; my roommate was still agonizing over the potential relationship with Mischa, and I couldn't tell her he was an infested crab-house. It took me days to muster the courage to tell the bastard he was a crab circus. I justified it in my own way, mentally cataloging the worst sexually transmitted diseases I could list, and crabs were on the bottom. One hefty slap of lotion, and they were history.

No big deal, I thought.
Then I thought it was highly embarrassing.

Fucking crabs?

Then I role played the possibility of owning up to fucking Mischa, and all the questions that would follow:

But you knew I was interested, she'd say, and then she'd tell me I'd gone behind her back even though he orchestrated the entire encounter from the first day we met – seeing me as a conquest due to my nonchalant attitude.

I did inform him of his condition.
He denied it in a prick-like manner, but it was hilarious for me to see him on subsequent visits, sitting on the settee waiting for my roommate's mother to divine his future. His legs twitched, and he used his forearm to casually brush his inner thigh…I thought I'd die laughing, being crab-free and all.

Unfortunately, our story didn't end with the crabs…but my roommate never went ahead with him, knowing within herself that something had changed. He was difficult to avoid, difficult to say no to. Call it a cult of personality, or a magnanimous sexuality. His pursuit continued after he decided to fumigate his cock, and we descended the downward spiral. I haven't dated a Serb since then…

Wanna Date?

What was the world like before YouTube? Well, for a start, you had to wait a week to watch the next episode of your favorite sit-com, and there were few outlets for quirky shorts. I decided to unwind, and visit YouTube. It's been a few days since my last hit, so I typed in 'funny date' and came up with the below.

It may be inelegant to joke around about pubic lice or crabs, it's the type of thing that one laughs at after a few years, in my case more than a decade. Lisa Simpson created a new world using Bart's tooth and Coke? Well, sleep with the wrong person, and you too can create a little colony of crab-like creatures between your legs. I like the below video, it combines the dreaded pubic louse with the other phenomenon of our era - Online Dating.

The second video cracked me up because it mocks Al Pacino's, 'say hello to my little friend!' But I could work. A woman could do this to a guy if she isn't thrilled after the first ten minutes of meeting him.

January 24, 2008

Nocturnal Perusal

I’m always intrigued by new terminology, and tonight's exploration of the web brought me to the most most recent Syndrome I’ve come across is Post-Abortion Syndrome (via Jezebel), and The Nation happens to expound the pity factor, with its opening paragraph. Pity this, pity that, pity-pity-pity…

Pity the man…

Oh yeah…it’s rich.

A part of me asks how much emotional blackmail women have to put up with from the establishment on the abortion issue. Gun control isn’t an issue, and yet, massacres keep on occurring on university campuses, but there is no real ‘gun debate’, at least not on the same par with the abortion debate.  In the animal world, a female makes the ultimate executive decision, and such a decision is based on genetic combination. In the human world, should a woman make a similar choice, or exercise her rights (for whatever reason) to terminate a pregnancy, then it’s ghoulish, murderous and downright amoral, and now we have Post Abortion Syndrome, and an article that is 90% stacked toward male agony.

Continue reading "Nocturnal Perusal" »

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