Slugs and Snails

Well, Readers, today we can all breathe a little sigh of relief around here, I think.

"What does she mean?" I hear you cry.

And I riposte, quick as a flash: what?! Didn't you notice that at least half the posts had been hidden? What do you do in here? Just look at the tit pictures? Is that it? Shame upon you! And there was I thinking you came in to ponder my art and to marvel at my wit and intelligence... (HEY! Stop scrolling down. There is no nudity in this post. NONE whatsoever, so you may as well stay up here.)

Enough of that. Let's just backtrack to the subject of the hidden posts for the time being. You remember the art competition thing I entered a few weeks ago in the hope that Steve Buscemi would give me a flat in New York? Well, I got into the finals, and that was great news, of course, but then I had a massive paranoia attack about what would happen when the judges clicked on the link from my competition profile to this blog, expecting to see deep and moving art works, and the first thing they clapped eyes on was "Be my ass-fuck Valentine". So I went through the whole blog one night carefully weeding out all the stuff about ass-fucking and snails pooing out of their ears and so on. When I'd finished, there didn't seem to be much left over, so I had to go back through the whole thing again and put a few back up. Anyway, luckily the judging is over and Steve Buscemi and his art-world chums have now presumably all gone home for tea. They didn't give me the flat in the end, but I did get an "honorable mention" which is worth much MUCH more, I think. (Shut up! It is!)

Actually, you're right. It isn't. But that is neither here nor there. The only reason I am writing this post is to announce to you that I have just spent a pleasantly frivolous early-afternoon putting all the embarrassing, rude and puerile back-posts which I had made private last week back up again. This blog has thus been lovingly restored to it's pre-Buscemi levels of filthiness. And now please allow me to set the tone back to its accumstomed level so that we can all relax again:

Snails poo and breathe out of little arseholes on one side of their heads. I have seen and heard them doing it.

Thank you. You may now resume your ordinary activities.

(See? Told you there wouldn't be nudity. Now go back up to the top and read this properly, you scallywag.)

Dear Valentine

So, is everyone hard at work bracing themselves against the inundation in feel-bad mulch which characterises the run-up to Valentine's Day? Yes? Are you all busily culvitating the right mood - the right mood being one of darkly peevish indifference or its alternative: embittered distain? I am a great believer in traditions - especially meaningless invented ones - so I do hope so.

I was just preparing for V-Day myself when I disovered the tips I will be copying in below. I have decided to follow the author's advice to "think outside the box" to the letter this year and see where it leads me. Here goes:

"Instead of sending out the same generic Valentines as everyone else, why not add your own personal touch this year with personalized greeting cards?"

By golly, yes. What could be more romantic and appropriate? I think I shall do just that!

"Here are three ways to inject a little personality into your custom Valentine's greeting cards this year:

1. Choose a thoughtful theme for the card. Typical store-bought Valentine's Day cards feature hearts, flowers and happy couples, but when you're designing your own cards, you can think outside of the box. Try choosing something that will be especially poignant for the recipient. Choose something that matches his or her interests; for example, an animal lover might respond to a picture of a beloved pet, while a sports fan will respond to an homage to their favorite team."

OK: something poignant to the recipient; something that matches his interests. Hm... what are his interests actually? Let me just think... Uh-huh.... uh-huh. Yup. OK. Got it. And this is definitely going to be "outside the box". Next tip, please:

"2. Next, decide on a special message for the card. Instead of a simple "Happy Valentine's Day," you can let your imagination run wild. Keep in mind that this message will help set the tone of the card, so consider your audience and choose your words accordingly. Pick a phrase that will communicate the depth of your love."

Ah, good point. Let me just consider my audience for a few moments as I choose my words... Hm, how best to communicate the depth of .... OK, got it. Phew, this is going to be so romantic. And yet so thoughtful and sincere, too. (These really are excellent tips.)

"3. Remember, when you're designing greeting cards for loved ones, it's hard to go wrong. Just let your love be your guide, and you're sure to create something that conveys your feelings far more accurately than anything you could buy in a store."

Well that's good to know, isn't it? Can't go wrong. Gosh, Readers, I'm so happy, knowing that by following these simple tips, I can now go and create a card that will truly warm the cockles of my Valentine's heart.

And here is the result:

(For those of you who don't speak German and wish to understand the inscription on the gingerbread heart, "Schneckerl" means "small snail". The word to which it is hyphenated is, I assume, fairly self-explanatory. Now I did intend to explain a lot more about the linguistic intricacies of the phrase "Anal-Schneckerl" at this point, but you know what? Having just translated it literally into English in my head and imagined the resultant puzzlement, I've just realised how much more fun it is if I just let this incomplete annotation stand.)

Room 35

"Do you want to spend the night?" he asked, his head propped up on his hand as he lay on his side, the sweat still glistening on his body, "You can if you like, you know. Or will he ask too many questions?"

He tapped some ash from his cigarette into the ashtray that was lying on the cream-coloured covers.

"Exactly," she said, "I have to go. It's 4 in the morning. Again!"

"Yeah, we really should get started on this stuff sooner next time."

"It wouldn't work," she said, "We'd just go on for longer."

She got the feeling it would always be 4 in the morning; that moment when he stood up, ran his hand through his hair and flicked the curtains open, then lay back down to smoke. The sky outside would always have that dirty oatmeal colour, like a widower's fridge. You have now left the Dream Zone. Welcome to Reality. Please get off on the left-hand side. Should you discover any unattended luggage on the platform, please take it with you. It's yours.

"It feels a bit like coming out of the cinema after a matinée," he said, "It has no business being this light. It's just wrong! You sure you don't want to stay over? I don't mind..."

He began to hum and sing along to a Brazilian song that was coming from the laptop on the desk. She was sitting up in bed next to him, the covers pulled up to her waist, sipping on one of the glasses of wine they'd stolen from the cocktail bar when they'd made that rather urgent departure.

"No, I look like shit in the mornings. You don't need to see that."

He laughed, casting an admiring glance over her face and body,

"Now that's something I really can't imagine!"

She gave him one of those complicated smiles that adults like to bestow on euphoric children; the kind that signifies "I adore your innocence though it wounds me so".

"And I'd like you to hang onto that little illusion. But I don't have to go just yet. I want to listen to you singing some more. You know, you're a pretty crap singer for a musician. I think I like that... and I like you."

He lay back down on the bed again, stretched out on his back and then closed his eyes and groaned.

"What?" she asked.

"Aaaah, that was just so... fantastic! Fucking amazing. I still can't believe it."

He cracked his eyes open a little and turned towards her. "We didn't do such a lot of... penetration as the first time, did we? Was that alright for you?"

"Oh yes, I just love all the other stuff."

"Mmm, I could tell."

He looked down at the bed covers and shook his head almost shyly as he murmured,"Nobody has ever done some of those things to me before."

She studied his face for a couple of seconds in silence. Then he took a cheeky sidelong peek at her and laughed.

"Hey, only joking!"

She slapped him playfully.

"Oh you!"

But she was racking her brains, going through all the things she'd done for him. There had definitely been a very strong reaction to something, but what? She tried to match it with the right moment. She thought she had it. Yeah, he'd liked that. That had surprised him, driven him crazy. She couldn't help feeling secretly proud.

Downstairs, a few minutes later, the lobby was deserted. He rang on the bell a couple of times, but nobody came. The door to the hotel bar was still open and a dim light was on somewhere, so he walked in calling, "Hullo? Hullo? Anyone there? We need to order a taxi." The light he had seen was coming from the kitchen over on the other side of the bar. She watched from the doorway as he went through, still calling. A few seconds later he reappeared, his flipflops softly scuffing on the floor as he padded back, grinning naughtily and victoriously holding up two chocolate croissants.

"Hungry?" he asked.

"I'm fucking starving!" she said, grabbing one.

They stood at the hotel doorstep looking out into the deserted street, munching happily. Then he turned to her, looking rather sensible and serious with the chocolate from a stolen croissant smeared all over his face.

"How are we going to find you a taxi?" he asked. But she was laughing now. It was so endearing. She fought the urge to rub her face in his hair and say something incredibly stupid. Instead she just laughed tenderly and said,"You're completely covered in chocolate!"

"Oh, am I?"

As he wiped it off, she said, "I think I can walk home from here. I'm fairly sure I know where I am."

He walked with her to the end of the street then they stopped on the corner and kissed. He was gazing happily at her and she knew she probably looked just as dazed as he did.

"Thank you, Miss Carlisle, for another truly wonderful night," he said.

"It was a pleasure, Mr Ramazvazkrzschdurian," she solemnly replied and walked away down the dim street.

"Amazing," he called after her, "How that just rolls off your tongue!"

"It's one of the most agile parts of my body," she replied, walking backwards and waving.

As she made her way home, the birds were singing and the sky was blenching sluggishly into wakefulness. A road sweeper van was parked up ahead, its headlamps winking at the conniving morning light. Three road sweepers in fluorescent orange uniforms were brushing the pavement. As she strolled up to them, her handbag slung over her shoulder, she was suddenly aware of her glowing face and ruffled hair, her lack of underwear and the discomfitingly jaunty sound of her blushing peep-toe sandals as she walked. The road sweepers must have heard her coming because when she looked up they had all stopped sweeping and were standing to one side of the pavement, leaning on their brushes. They were standing very still in a line and, as she approached and walked by, they each looked deep into her eyes and smiled. Feeling self-consciously regal, she returned their smiles and put an extra little leisurely swing into her hips. How contented they looked, and how peaceful. It was as if they had just achieved something they were proud of and wanted to stand back for a moment and bask in the glory in it. She wondered if this was the greatest job satisfaction they got; catching sight of a happy girl or boy strolling home in the early hours, bathed in the afterglow of a wonderful fuck. They must live for those private glimpses in the night. That was how it felt to her at this moment, at least.

If this was a musical, she mused, we would all be breaking out into some kind of song and dance routine right now. She was tempted to fling her arms out and spring up into the air just to see if they joined in, kicking up their heels and pretending to woo their brushes as the sun came up. The idea was so compelling that she even did a couple of high kicks, twirls and sweeping arm flourishes when she reached the bottom of her street. There was noone about to see, and besides, who gave a shit anyway? She was happy, she was alive and it seemed she was a fantastic fuck!