He wakes up. It is early. Chatter on the radio. Before sunrise it is cool. Then it rains. He showers. He has no deodorant. He does not look forward to later in the day when all of his pheromones will be filling the work environment, driving his colleagues wild. He will not be driving his colleagues wild. He has an egg sandwich and a coffee for breakfast. He looks down at his belly. It is distended and hairy. He needs to do even the most basic exercise. He knows that masturbation does not count as exercise. Even if he breaks a sweat doing it. Then there is a shooting in DC and there is a lock down and then the rest of the day is rumours and speculation and then the name of the shooter is revealed but even this may not be true and then his ex-wife asks him when he went all black power and he replies he has always, in some way, been black power. Then he misses his stop on the way home because he is reading a book about Europe then he thinks he probably has a stalker and that will teach him not to try and meet people online and then provide every piece of personal information including where he lives and where he works and all of his contact details and then when the interactions go sour there will be no let up no let up at all and every public tragedy and event is used as an excuse to contact him but still he ignores in the hope that it will stop but he rather fears it will not stop even as he is told that she is coming to the East Coast soon all too soon that will teach him to contact anyone on the internet for sordid things. He will probably not learn his lesson but he eats a bagel and reads a bit more about the depthless depravity of Europe and then he goes to sleep less worried than he might be.
For some strange and unknown reason, it has for many years been considered indelicate, if not absolutely improper, to discuss matters pertaining to sex and sexual relations, and a criminal silence has been maintained which permitted innumerable girls to be morally ruined by the male sex.
Sex Talks to Boys (10 years and older), I. D. Steinhardt M.D. (1914)
When I discovered that my snazzy new smart phone had a front and rear facing camera this happened in my head:
- I could take a picture of my genitals and then a picture of me looking at my genitals without moving my camera.
- I shouldn’t do this should I?
- No I should definitely NOT do this.
- But I’m curious now.
- Don’t do it! You’ll forget that you have taken these pictures and then lend someone your phone and then they will be bored and they will look through all your pictures and they will see your genitals. You will have given your phone to someone who should never see your adult genitals; your Grandmother or your Great Uncle.
- Go on. Do it.
- No! You’ll get drunk and decide it will be a great idea to upload the pictures to your blog as some kind of edgy art project that seeks to talk about the self-reflective techno-sexualisation that the modern world is currently failing to address.
I am currently teetering on the edge of that last point.
Stupid technology filling my head full of terrible thoughts of exciting and interesting ideas for expressing myself.
I MISTILY remember my very first
Plunge. Wrapped close in vodka’s sweet, warm blanket
I stumbled with my giggling Aphrodite.
She was, to me, the entirely beaut-
Iful, but so drunk was I, a moist fruit
With cored-nook, more than Heaven (even bru-
Ised) would have been. But her eager wet-
Ness, warmed with woman’s flush, began that night
Of febrile fumblings, synthetic starts and
The weakened will of Desire’s wanton wand.
At last, with volcanic idleness, Influ-
Enced by dawn’s golden glimmer, dormant yet
No longer. Life’s spray captured in her tight-
Ness. My vigorous fountain pooled then, in
Nature’s flawless chalice. Then sheath to bin.