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The Cozy Spot

49 posts categorized "attraction"

July 19, 2008

The Bernays Principle: From Religious Sexual Abuse to Feminism

It was the apology that Sydney (and its media) eagerly waited for, and the agitation increased as the days passed by during this week, or World Youth Day Week. Sexual abuse has made headlines around the world, and it seems that there are ways to go in regard to sorting the issues out but an apology is a small and essential step. An apology is an acknowledgment of fault. As for what happens in the future? Hopefully cases will be turned over to the police instead of being internal - but there is a long way to go yet. I don't think the financial 'out of court' settlements really do much justice, when the abusers don't see a day in jail.

How and why clerical abuses occur is a mystery. One would think that sexual self-love would be sufficient. The excuse of clerical celibacy (as a partial cause) doesn't really wash because many other non-clerical people are celibate, and they don't go about taking advantage of minors. The Catholic Church has a lot of things to work on, namely figuring out a way to screen potential pederasts beforehand: perhaps psychological evaluations over the course of a year? Then again, an attitude adjustment regarding sex is another issue; any sort of repression tends to create a bottleneck. It's one thing to be celibate without religious reason, and quite another to force oneself into the fold or compromise. Perhaps the Catholic Church should look at asexual men as better candidates. Yes, asexuality is real.

The definition of asexuality varies, but an asexual person is commonly defined as a person who doesn't experience sexual attraction. Asexual, on its own, is defined as 'without sexual desire or interest.' Is it possible for a person to be asexual? According to Asexuality.Org it is. Asexuality, according to, is an orientation, not a choice (like celibacy). What is the difference between sexual attraction and attraction? Sexual attraction motivates the individual to act on the urge. It all makes for interesting discussions. Sexuality has existed since day dot. After all society has relied on sex to have a steady increase in population. But does reproduction really require sexual paraphernalia for sexual intercourse to occur? I tend to doubt that it does. Many population spikes, or spikes in birth rates, occurred in the era before pornographic saturation. In other words, people don't need visible sexual stimuli in order to reproduce and people can have sex without experiencing the romantic 'swept away' moment. In fact, many people have supplied information to sex surveys of the past to state that they experienced minor thrills during sex. This is usually attributed to mediocre sexual technique, poor anatomical knowledge and sexual oppression.

One person of interest, that is rarely the subject of much debate in the 21st century, is the person who is considered to be the father of 'spin' or PR, Edward Bernays. Edward was interested in his uncle's (Sigmund Freud) work on the unconscious, and was interested in manipulating public opinion by using the psychology of the subconscious. Perhaps one of the scariest quotes attributed to Bernays, is the following:

The conscious and intelligent manipulation of the organized habits and opinions of the masses is an important element in democratic society…Those who manipulate this unseen mechanism of society constitute an invisible government which is the true ruling power of our country. . . . In almost every act of our daily lives, whether in the sphere of politics or business, in our social conduct or our ethical thinking, we are dominated by the relatively small number of persons . . . who understand the mental processes and social patterns of the masses. It is they who pull the wires which control the public mind."

Bernays developed marketing techniques that are still practiced during political campaigns. His work wasn't limited to politics; he drew upon Sigmund Freud's psychoanalytic ideas to promote (by indirection) products such as cigarettes. In short, Edward Bernays was a propagandist. To this day, he is considered as the Father of PR.

Posterlightofthecross In fact, if the most recent Papal apology on sexual abuse is weighed against all the hoopla and PR of World Youth Day (events, masses and concerts featuring many 'Christian' Australian Idol finalists and winners), one can possibly see WYD for what it is – a massive gathering of people that represent a group mind. This group mind shares the same faith, and seeks like-minded individuals. One can almost taste the buzz in the polluted city air when standing among these people or pilgrims. They are affable, and not the hard boiled city person one would normally come across; many people interviewed for news programs have been quoted to say something along the lines of, 'it's nice to see people smiling in the city.' One cannot argue against the positive vibe. It's pleasant. I'm betting that the issue of clerical sexual abuse won't register strongly among the pilgrims. It will go in one ear and out the other; what they will take home from this trip is the new friendships, fun and the chance to see Pope Benedict XVI. World Youth Day is pure PR, and these sorts of endeavours aren't a surprise in an age filled with uncertainties (environmental and economic) that multiply by the day. One can go further to say that many youth need some form of spiritual sanctuary in order to feel like they matter because it's tremendously easy to feel like being a cog in a world filled with confusion, violence and elephantine sized shit. What or who is the best candidate? Youth. Religion isn't just about God, or whose God is 'best', it's also about maintaining an ordered society. By order, I mean the opposite of chaos.

The Bernay's system of PR –in today's terms- can't be considered 'genius' but it was considered genius for the 20th century. His principles tend to hinge on human vulnerability or human vulnerability is the springboard of every marketing campaign. It doesn't matter if it is religious, non-profit or commercial, the same principles are recycled and applied to just about anything; take the upcoming Sydney Sexpo as an example. The Sexpo isn't about education. There is nothing there to educate the masses about sex or sexual practice, but it is sold as a lifestyle event, but it's a commercial event. Upon entering the Sexpo, people will notice the décor; it is wall-to-wall sex toys, videos and other paraphernalia. There is no literature, other than copious adult magazines filled with women showing their 'pink'. The idea of being a sex dynamo or getting there is enough; it is every modern adult's dilemma – how great am I in bed? Can I be good in bed? Which product will help me be great in bed? Here's news: products aren't a panacea. Intimacy isn't about products.

Virginia_slims The world of feminism is interesting, and more so today. The feminist dinosaurs of the past have faded, some have found other causes, but the shadow of feminism lingers on. Like any ism – there tend to be more splits than the split ends on my scalp. There is pro-sex, there is radical, there is anti-porn, in fact there are many varieties of feminism out there; if feminism was a tobacco industry, I'm sure that women would be able to find their perfect blend of tobacco, which brings me to the next interesting morsel concerning the father of PR, Bernays, and his successful campaign to get more women to smoke in the United States, in the 20th Century.

The dilemma for the tobacco industry was as follows: How do you sell cigarettes to women when smoking is taboo for women? I think many would agree with me, even though I am a smoker, when I say that smoking would have to be a modern evil in the sense of profiteering and corporate greed, not to mention the preference of using crops for tobacco instead of food, in a world rife with hunger.

The Bernays approach or solution to overturning the female taboo on smoking is interesting because it simply shows how feminism isn't exclusive to women. Men have used feminism or feminist ideas to push products, and women fall – and continue to fall – for it. These days, however, women are told to buy something (that is associated to grooming or image) because, after all 'they work hard' and 'they can afford it.' Independence, as a concept, is still used to manipulate women.

In the Twenties, The American Tobacco Company used PR to promote cigarettes to women. A.D. Laskers adverts featured opera singers promoting Lucky Strike cigarettes. Lucky Strike was further promoted as the healthier cigarette (like a 'healthier A-Bomb?'). Then cigarettes were linked to weight control with captions such as, 'Reach for a Lucky instead of a sweet.' And the idea of thinness continues, with the word permeating certain brands like Virginia Slims (remember? The one with the 'feminist' – 'you've come a long way baby' caption?)

When Edward Bernays comes along, the picture changes. It isn't about healthier cigarettes; the campaign took a different direction: sell women cigarettes as a symbol of freedom or liberation. See, men like Bernays didn't have to wait for the feminist Sixties to arrive. It's pure social/group psychology. Even latter feminists have taken advantage of group dynamics to get their points across. The idea of cigarettes as a symbol of independence wasn't Bernays' sole idea; he arrived to that idea by way of consulting a psychiatrist who advised him. Bernays prepared for the PR campaign of THE century. It's a PR 'thang' that is still being taught, and similar marketing methods are used all the time - example: product sample bags.

Bernays hired fashion models to march in New York's Easter parade. Each model held a lit cigarette and wore a banner stating, "torch of liberty " and further on, the photographs from the parade were sent (and published) aroundBlow the world. From that point on, as soon as cigarettes became trendy, female independence and submission walked hand in hand (refer to the vintage advert on the right) Similar marketing methods are used today. I don't even want to entertain how many freebies tobacco companies give to celebrities, but even the paparazzi enters – albeit indirectly/unintentionally – the scene each time a picture of a smoking Britney Spears is captured, sold and published en masse. So much for the torch of liberty when there is clear and obvious manipulation of just about everything and it does raise questions: how liberated are women? How liberated are men? Are you as liberated as you think you are or are you as liberated as marketing companies say you are? Dita Von Teese’s smoking video, depicting her seductively sucking on a long cigarette, didn’t really wash with me; it was like stepping back into a bygone era - going backwards instead of forwards, but when I posted that video on my blog months ago (accompanying a post about the folly of tobacco marketing), some commenters swooned over Dita smoking. Go figure.

It's fair to say that marketing and advertising are needed, but I'd go further and ask myself whether a product does truly alter a person's life for the better. It may be individual. It may depend on the product. I think promoting something like a religion may be positive for some, but it still doesn't actively deal with the issues facing the world. Sexpo may be fun, but it certainly isn't educational for some, and it's more a business venture. These days cigarettes are evil, and aren't the symbol of independence for women (their addictive factor isn't a symbol of independence for any one for that matter), but sex is interesting. Now sex, there's something there. It is the new thing. It's better than cigarettes. Addiction? There is sexual addiction, but it's never really taken seriously. It's not like sexual addiction will increase one's chances of developing emphysema or lung cancer, and if you whack a condom on, the chance of contracting a disease is diminished. But is sex an adequate symbol of independence?

Are we truly independent as individuals?

March 04, 2008

Twilight Taxi Ride

I stepped into the Twilight Zone that is chemical attraction, in a taxicab no less. I awoke a few mornings ago. It was more like stumbling out of bed, cursing the crap weather and stepping into a tepid shower to get myself going. I had an appointment, and realized that the bus wasn't to arrive until half nine. I stood on the street, weighing my options. If I took a train, I'd add another hour to my journey and miss my appointment. A taxi it was. Lucky for me I live on a main street. The continual strain of exhaust pipes and tyres is my daily regimen; I sleep to the sound of cars (occasionally large trucks), and awaken to the same sound, and it's probably added a few stress points but that's neither here or there, because what grabbed me was the heady aroma of phermones in the taxicab.

Phermones are odorless but that doesn't mean they're inert. I couldn't find any other reason for my va-va-voom reaction. My eye fell on the driver's quadriceps. It was as though he was squashed in his seat, which meant that he was over six foot – a giant, with nicely shaped thighs. I scanned him. His hands, fingers, the way he gripped the steering wheel and that wasn't enough for me; I viewed his rear-view mirror. Dark eyebrows, deep brown eyes, lush eyelashes and a swarthy complexion; it was a neck-to-neck draw. Lust versus the 'chemical reaction' of the Fall,' or what is perceived as 'falling (in love, lust, etc?).' I was taken hostage by my hormones.

Continue reading "Twilight Taxi Ride" »

August 07, 2007

Bus Stop

We did a little of ‘spot the cute guy’ this afternoon, but it didn’t work that well for me, primarily because one needs to be interested in that or on the lookout, and as I don’t fit into that category, I began to ponder what category I do fall into. It didn’t take me long. I fall into the thunderbolt category; something has to hit me like a bolt out of the blue, or a tsunami; a naturally overwhelming disaster that ruffles every nerve, ligament and muscle, the kind that disconnects the self from the present moment, like those where one’s tongue is dragging on the pavement, carpet or lawn without one realizing it until it’s pointed out. A mammalian grunt or pant; something along those lines would be ideal as I’m not into the type that ‘grows on you,’ like the saying. That phrase may as well describe a fungus or a fungal disease like thrush; grows on you. Pfft.

Then again…

The tortoise wins the race, whereas the hare is winded by the end of it, which is what the whiz-bang attractions (followed by the ‘you gotta have it’ rushed intimacy) can get me. I know this but do you think I seriously consider it? No. The afternoon was the polar opposite of morning; I gave up on the spot-the-cute-guy game and focused on my coffee instead.

This morning saw a rare moment; charisma wrapped around a female in her early twenties; her symmetrical features stunned me, a porcelain figurine; a pretty woman. It wasn’t a sexual reaction on my behalf, more wonderment. I recalled the old Hollywood stories that I’ve read over the years, where starlets were discovered in way off places like drug stores, and this moment was one of those. I asked myself why (oh why?) aren’t I working as an agent of some kind. Yes, it would help if I spent the better part of my adult life in that area, but I do have an eye. When that eye relates to attractive males, it gets me into trouble; logic flies out of the window faster than a crazed monkey in the Wizard of Oz. This girl had star quality. Her face, symmetry and posture blended together to form a package that would be snapped up in places like NIDA. She reminded me of the types of students that attend NIDA; most are striking. Famous former NIDA students include people like Mel Gibson (among others), for example, and I don’t think there are many who can argue against him embodying charisma; he can annoy the hell out of some people, but he only has to smile for it to be pushed in the backseat. Many women remain intrigued; some men want to be like him (despite his gaffs). The incident on the bus was so much more than the sex appeal. It contained that unspoken quantity that leaves one wondering, that inspires one to continually grasp a word, anything, to describe the presence. Ethereal, is a word.

She was the one person in the forty or so on the bus. That’s how I viewed it. She was the one in forty, a traffic stopper in a neat black straight skirt and red top. Elegance sans skank-a-porter: black stockings, matching pumps, she could have been a legal secretary, someone who worked it under the fluorescent lighting of Officeville. The other endearing aspect, she wasn’t wrapped up in herself. It was as though she was oblivious to her impact, and this added charisma bonus points, upped the stare factor by numerous points for me. The moment, although interesting, knocked a little wind out of me; the age crept up. I didn’t get misty eyed or anything but I soberly considered some things up until this moment, as the bus was heading down City Road. The what have I done with my life, moment, that crawls into one’s gut and settles in one of the larger intestines performing cartwheels until it has to be farted out; I held it in all day, until I felt like I had a pip the size of a pomegranate in my belly, for it to dissipate by the time I returned home but on the way home another thought arose, namely that I’ve been thinking of one person on a near daily basis. Yes, male. Yes, silly. Yes, insane. Illogical?




Everything else may as well be a diversion.

I awoke, prior to the bus and afternoon café jaunt, and knew that the person appeared in the final dream, the one that is interrupted by the goddamned alarm clock. As I washed, dressed and collected my purse, I tried to recall the bits and pieces of the dream. On failing, I embraced the idea, or inner knowledge that I dreamt about them, and along that thought, I tired to explore the reasons behind the frequent dreams. It’s not an obsession. More infatuation. A dear word, one associated with adolescence or early adulthood; infatuation is weird, produces impulses that veer away from all logic. It’s the type of emotion that can dissolve during the day, as routine tasks invade one’s thoughts, but returns later on, possibly in the evening, to wreak havoc or aid in producing a toe curling orgasm. Infatuations can grow on a person; the fungus of attraction and fondness wrapped by a bow of lust.

Observations, apart from being routine elements of everyday life, are life’s bus stops; they may not mean anything in the larger scope of everything, but they can brighten up the corners of the day in some way even if they don’t offer definitive destinations.

July 28, 2007

Morning Coffee

Call me superficial, but a heavenly barista is an asset to any morning and coffee shop. The below, courtesy of Mr Cute. I'm off to read my three or so newspapers and will most likely return with a piece related to an essay I've been waiting to see published all week (from my favorite old biddie, overrated feminist, and dragon lady, Germaine Greer).


Hunting a word for his mouth became difficult. The word eluded my memory; too early in the morning I thought, but the image? I sifted through sleeping words to match the vista as I queued for my religious dose of caffeine. The tonicity of his lips is a hallmark of sensuality and blessed genes. Succulent, by way of the flesh, I can watch for moments or days. Robust, they’re filled with the generosity they advertise; he opens to smile, and birdsong leaps out, whipping through the air like perfume. I can dress them up with cream, chocolate, maple syrup or icing, but I prefer ordinary coatings of saliva, until our enzymes combine or dance the Dance of Atomic Brilliance, each protein chain igniting each receptor until our tops blow off electrically charged rivers that flood our chakras, that steadily rise until our genitals are immersed in the heat of the ages, heat that shaped everything from the first prokaryote to the bulkiest canyon.

It’s how I imagine the first kiss to be.

July 19, 2007

The Work Shag

The thought of ‘Only in America,’ did enter my mind as I read an article about office romances, and it’s a thought I would have had a year ago, but there’s always a real example that hits you in the head like a cricket ball for you to seriously consider the logic behind the concept of drawing up legal documents called ‘consensual relationship agreements.’ Apparently lawyers organize thousands of these contracts each year in the United States and one of the reasons is the fallout that can occur, fallout that crosses the lines of sexual harassment, or what could be sexual harassment after an office relationship ends or if one of the two parties sits on a higher rung in the ladder, and can exert all sorts of emotional blackmail.

In one case I’d read about, a woman was awarded US $250,000.00 for a sexual harassment and discrimination claim. She was out of a job three years after ending an affair with a senior executive, all because her ex caught wind of her starting a new relationship. Ergo, harassment and threats ensued. She didn’t have a ‘future’ in the company, according to him, and she could reverse this precarious situation by ending her new relationship and returning to him. Sweet stuff, eh? What makes this nightmarish, or terrifying (on an equal level of having a stalker, I think) is that a person spends the bulk of their day or a high number of hours of their day, in the workplace. Few people have the luxury of working from home on a full time level, and due to the high amount of hours, possibilities do eventuate, namely attraction or discovering a common ground with a colleague and for this to evolve into a relationship.

The purpose of the consensual relationship agreement is two fold. It protects an employee; in cases where the relationship ends thereby lessening the risk of harassment (the employee can take legal action) and it also lessens the likelihood of an employer or company being sued. Thus, while it offers some protection (from harassment or threats by ‘injured’ parties or ex lovers), it can also put one’s feet in one shoe in the sense of limiting protection; it’s limited to the workplace. Would a contract like this protect someone away from the workplace? If a person was stalked or harassed outside of the workplace (by their ex work colleague/lover), and didn’t collect enough proof, then what?

Continue reading "The Work Shag" »

July 16, 2007

Life's Little Sexual Introspections

I thought I was a step ahead, two actually, but he was far more advanced than me and this realization dawned later, and it came to mind as I really forced my ass down this weekend to continue with one large project, and two erotic short stories. I think the erotic stories kicked it off, because I had to travel to The Place in order to create the sexual ambience.

One of his first affirmations, once we shifted our communiqué away from the PC, astounded me. I wasn’t sure if it was a joke, or an arrogant aside. It jolted me because no one I’d come across made such an admission.

“I’m not the type of person who dates on the Internet,” but he just happened to do it, stumbled across the new wave and thought he’d give it a whirl. Is there a specific type, I wonder? Sometimes I think there is, particularly when a person is a serial online dater. I can appreciate people with children using this medium, but I’ve had difficulty understanding why a single unit or a person with no kids or big arsed responsibilities (such as children) uses the Internet to date and the thought is due to the single person always having more time to date (compared to one who has to juggle a job, children and domestic responsibilities, who also has to make arrangements prior to leaving the house). So no, I’m no sympathy mama when single units (male or female) whine about the difficulty of it all. I just think they’re plain lazy, insecure and expect everything to be delivered to them like an Amazon package. I often feel like telling the person who goes on and on about the difficult of actually meeting a potential lover, partner and so on, ‘it’s not like you have to arrange a sitter in advance, thereby nullify spontaneity, so shut your cake hole.’

Continue reading "Life's Little Sexual Introspections" »

July 10, 2007

Freestylin' 2007

It feels as though the era I came from rubs up against this era, furrowing it until it resembles a porcupine. This era, despite its sexual proclivities (online, at least), produces a frequency that irritates my ear. There are two distinct dimensions; the real and virtual, and sometimes adults have difficulty distinguishing either one, for many present two distinct personae that can be defined as light and dark, or day and night. I’ve briefly examined my life of the last few months, and have arrived to this conclusion. Sure, the entire globe watched Sex in the City, but try getting the few members of this world, or those around you within normal hours to discuss any of its contents and it changes.

Housemate and I originate from the same nocturnal world P.T. or pre-tech, which is why I’m still perplexed as to how I eke out my living during the course of the day, and how I haven’t self combusted from the frustrations surrounding ordinary life. We arrived from a world where people walked the walk, and stumbled into the virtual realm that talks the talk. I can remember all the times he’d screw up his face and point out the stupidity of text messaging a few years ago. I’d tell him it was the new way, a revolution in communication, until my digits ached from endless texting. I can tell you that the thrill ended for me the day I received my first phone bill in an A4 envelope.

‘Why don’t you pick up the phone? Why doesn’t he pick up the phone?’ he’d ask.

Continue reading "Freestylin' 2007" »

July 05, 2007

Entering the Fifth Dimension, Beyond Pornification

He appeared in a dream. I don’t recall the details, only his face. It uncannily followed the day, wound up in the remains that flit about within the subconscious. This morning I awoke, desperately trying to reassemble his face. I recalled the lengthy, random conversation; one that I didn’t preempt, and inhaled so deeply I thought my lung would collapse from the pressure.

The beauty of the conversation related to its non-linearity. It didn’t have to climb steadily, or feature pivotal conversational topics. It started from the most mundane area; if it were a graph, it would resemble one of those ECG’s. Up, down, steady to rockin’, for me at least. I didn’t have to keep tabs, much like gliding through a calm sea on a magenta lit afternoon, lazing on deck with a fragrant cocktail watching the sunset, not giving a toss about the itty-bitty creases of the day.

I abandoned the deep throat routine on the phone, and appreciated the jagged moments, not knowing where the road was going to take me, or us, except that I don’t like using the word ‘us’ because this doesn’t exist, and it doesn’t have to exist, which thrills me all the more; there is no expectation, and when expectation is kept at bay, or placed on the lowest priority, exciting things unfold; minutes lengthen, and before one knows it, one has spent the better part of an hour locked in conversation with a person that makes one’s heart dance a hearty jig. Don’t ask me how or why this happens, but it does or has, ever since I first laid eyes on him. There’s a good feeling there. It’s not pristine, I’ve had my irritations as well, the guy-girl related bouts of ‘what the hell is that all about?’ but on the whole, I feel that I don’t have to put on airs and graces, not that I ever have with a bloke, but the expectation can make its presence felt, usually from the other side; conversations come to a halt.

It felt odd; I didn’t think of him in a sexual context as we spoke. It was more about wholesome fun; while I can’t reveal the entire spectrum of the conversation, he did come out with a non-politically correct comment directed at a general development, and I cracked up. May seem sick, but I get a kick out of the slightly off center comment within a conversation. If my brain cells where legs, then I’d say they open up to risqué commentary; it’s only when a man carefully chooses his words (to ensure that each word or sentence adhere to a certain social platform, spiel, ism or whatever other bullshit) that I switch off, and fence sitters give me mental reflux; I haven't gotten that close to one of those in a few years. I don't think there is such a thing as boring, or boredom. For me it's about frustration, irritation and banal dénouement.

I view the concept of boredom in the same way my son views the concept of stupid questions, 'There are no stupid questions mum, only stupid people.'

So the man unleashed, perhaps the most unpolitically correct thing you can say to someone in this era we're living in,and I thought, how delish is this?

You’re so naughty. You’d have to have balls, or feel really comfortable with me in order to say what you just said, I thought.

I did the mock girlie exclamation, adding his name to the bargain of 'oh (name)!' and I think it went down a treat.

The thing I enjoyed the most was that it wasn’t a pre date call, or a ‘get to know’ call. It was a general call, and it evolved into a conversation about anything/nothing/'what the hell is this?', or the phone equivalent of Seinfeld (‘the show about nothing,’ where the nothing forms the foundation of everything: the absurdity of the everyday, and how this adds memorable notes or things that one can look back on and smile).

It’s not romance, and it may not be sex, but it feels just as good and in some ways it paralleled to intimacy. I don’t know how, but he managed to coax a few things out of me, saucier conversation pieces outside my usual repertoire during work hours. I likened it to being intimate with a person who presses any button, for me to react in a way I don’t expect; my ideal sexual encounter, like starting with a toe massage rather than the usual entrée of kisses, and sitting (or laying there) thinking ‘oh my Christ, that feels so good, I’ll do anything for you.’ That kind of intimacy, which is a rarity for me; I’ve had a few flash in the pan moments, but the reason behind my self imposed celibacy (that can be dissolved at any moment, there aren’t any strict guidelines) relates to the choreographed sexual approach or one that includes typical elements that I don’t want to see or feel again, like the ‘porno mock ass slap’ that really sets my inner sadist off within seconds, or being expected to come out with something corny such as, ‘I wanna suck your cock.’ I don’t talk when I fuck. I moan and grunt. We’re talking mammalian.

I want Twilight Zone intimacy, enter the ‘fifth dimension,’ that is beyond ‘man’, which ‘lies between the pit of a man’s fears and the summit of his knowledge,’ that which encompasses the imagination, rather than the pornification.

And did I mention that his voice resonates something shockingly x rated within me? I had aftershocks. A good 8 on my internal Richter scale, afterward, and ran all the way home on the bus, in the early evening, like a happy little piggy…wee-wee-wee, all the way home… like I drank red cordial!

I’m not huge on self-diagnosis, but there’s something happening…I just don’t feel ready to acknowledge it at this point, and prefer to ride the unknown current to somewhere or nowhere. For all I know there could be no destination, even though each pit stop in life is a destination of sorts. At the end of the lengthy ride he said something to the effect of, ‘we began at X and ended up in Timbuktu.’ I told him it was an interesting journey. The journey is where it’s all at; small, large, or cosmic. When I think of it, for myself, the journeys inject fun into every increment within life, as life unfolds per second, moment, hour, day, month, year and so on.

The most mind blowing aspect would have to be picking up the phone, dialing to ask something mundane, and stumbling upon something I didn't plan on.

I could almost taste it; it felt so good. If it were solid, I’d lick it like the glut I can be; a pure Belgian Choc moment.

June 22, 2007


I’m not so sure if I did it intentionally, but it happened. Fifteen minutes passed before I realized that my voice descended into the temperate valley of enticing pleasure, or thoughts thereof. It can be an automatic response; making the grand exit, in a pornified manner wasn’t on the schedule but it happened.

It’s my bedroom voice, one that is slightly inappropriate in a standardized setting and I couldn’t be arsed stopping myself. Heavy breathing? Moi? It sure happened. I needed to inhale. I’m sure he didn’t have the time to sit there having a chin wag, but I stretched it…

I try to do that at almost every opportunity, because his voice is like honey; naturally refined, and oh so sweet. I’m sure I have a goofy look on my face every time I pick up; I’m hoping no one’s noticed this, then again I doubt that any one has. I face one particular direction, and its not as though any one stops to observe. I bet they’d notice the slight gradation of my pupils, as they dilate and as for my respiration?

I think of every intimate permutation and combination imaginable. I feel like saying that I’m unable to help, because I’m unable to concentrate one hundred percent on the task at hand; his voice lulls every neuron in my head. A lot like chocolate, and I’m a chocoholic.

I’m not sure what my voice is saying, not in an exact manner. I could be in the thick of discussion, and he’ll toss a few questions my way, and they’re conventional questions, bearing no relation to leisurely pursuits, hobbies or the latest film, but my response or my vocal tone loosens its grip.

I’ll respond, using standard sentences that are required of me, but each note dances.

My voice, or tone, is actually saying:

‘I’m thinking of flesh, your flesh. Although you’re talking to me, your oral cavity, from lip to tongue, is painting my thoughts right this instant. I’m entertaining your oral potential, undressing you with my mind, and transplanting you to another location; a hot running shower, bed, and bath (steam inclusive). It could be al fresco; our stripped bodies moving until we’re al dente.’

My mouth may be releasing conventional information, but the uncensored thought above twirls inside my head throughout the duration, caressing every endorphin.

June 21, 2007


I’ve never played matchmaker; never in my entire life. I don’t plan on starting. I think it’s a gross invasion, and this thought is related to being on the receiving end of ‘good intentions’. The reason behind the inverted commas relates to the skepticism behind this supposed kind act. Really, when people pair their friends or associates off, or assume that their friend will ‘look great’ or ‘be good’ with a person they see or know, what is actually going on in their minds? Do they play God? Is it about something else entirely? Moreover, how can one be certain of their friend or acquaintance being a good match for another? If only I could be compensated for all the times people in my life have played matchmaker against my will, or behind my back.

Is there a behind the scenes interrogation going on? To be on the receiving end of such intent can be viewed in many different ways. It can depend on one’s mood, life circumstance, anything really.

I tend to view it as an insult, but that’s just me. I’m a cantankerous biatch in such circumstances, and often see it as a gross invasion, that’s never requested from my end. I’d hate it if one pictured me as a perfect match for another unwitting person, and then tried to manipulate situations based on one’s ‘view’ or assessment; like they’re an authority on all things that flick my personal switch.

I’d like to say that I can handle it well at this point in my life, but I don’t handle it well. More often, it’s a case of things occurring regardless of my input, and of it resulting in me standing knee deep in so much shit that I care for.

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