Google Baiting

Dear Unsuspecting First-Time Visitor,

If you have just reached this post via a search engine, then please be so good as to leave a comment, enlightening my readers about which bits of the gobbledygook below you were googling. Because we're all a bit bored today and, apart from anything else, we'd just really love to know more about you, so DO tell us, oh DO.

oddsbodkin forced to suck
amputee nurse gherkin-lover
on a four-piece suite
with rampant pony
squelching parsely sauce
all over her
blue tit
nesting box
rumpy-pumpy moustache
wank nodule
wedged between monster breast pods
with naughty wardrobe
puppy licking
pussy litter
in a boy scout uniform
dripping red-hot pea juice
all over his erect sapphire-breasted hummingbird
eating a wet witwanton widgeon
drenched in Dalai Lama
poo poo poo and more poo
cum bum wee-wee
oozing over frilly bonnets

Oh, and Visitor, just one last thing: you are sick - you hear me? Sick. Seek help. Now.

(Haaaaaaaaaaa! God, that was childish. Sorry. Forgive me for wasting your valuable time. It's been a dull morning. Please feel free to go back about your business now. There is nothing of any interest for you here and I'm sure you all have important jobs to be getting along with.)

The Lovers' Medium

I know for a fact that my eyes cannot be focussed in the throes of passion. In a state of rising arousal, I would find it increasingly difficult to, say, read the time off a clock. By the time the first touch meets my skin, I'd have difficulty even locating the clock itself from which I was to read it; and on the pre-climatic plateau, I daresay most of the larger appointments and furnishings in the immediate locale - be it wardrobes, rows of filing cabinets or a flock of curious sheep - would likewise have all but vanished from my view (though this is, naturally, not something I can ever recall attempting to verify).

And yet, paradoxically, I also know for a fact that, in the throes of passion, my eyes focus on my lover with ease. I can locate his pupils in an instant and gaze deep into his eyes, I can see and marvel at all the small and fascinating features of his face and his body. How can this be so?

Another thing that strikes me is how different a lover looks to me once my desire has been enflamed. I don't mean to say that he doesn't look like himself. If the Honey Monster were to press himself against me and capture a nipple between his fat, fluffy fingers, I would not look up to discover myself gazing upon the head and torso of, say, a wiry Tony Tiger or a rugged "Brains" the Weetabix. But what would happen is that I would look up and see an impossibly golden, celestially sumptuous and altogether captivating version of the dangly-armed, cereal-fixated fluff ball - bathed, as it were, in the softening glow of my heated gaze. This has often made me wonder about the nature of arousal and how it influences - indeed hoodwinks - our senses.

I have a theory. I believe that when we look at the face and body of a lover through a state of arousal, we are not actually seeing them with our eyes but with our minds. What we see is not exactly, or not quite, that which is before us. It is a beguilingly realistic illusion dredged up from subconscious memories, closely based on what we already know our lover looks like, yet smoothed and subtly transformed to pander to our erotic wishes.

When people ask what the great connection is between Polaroids and eroticism, we all have a plethora of points to make: the privacy of home-development; the playful spontaneity of the act of capture; the sensuousness of two people holding the fresh image in their hands, their bodies close, their fingers brushing; the physicality of the Polaroid experience; the way that the anticipation of watching the development mimics foreplay; the subsequent function of the Polaroid as a kind of keepsake - a physically tangible witness to and relic of treasured moments from the past. It is true that all these characteristics make Polaroid the perfect medium for intimate photography. But I feel that there is another important connection here - one that is not quite so often made. It is this: we all look a little different on Polaroid - exactly like ourselves, and yet somehow softened, somehow luminous, somehow subtly transformed. You may say that this is a physical impossibility, but I believe that when you take a Polaroid of your lover, you do not make a physically accurate, visual record of the person before you. I believe that the lens actually works back-to-front, and that what you get is the image your mind is creating of that person as you look at them through eyes that are filled with passion. Polaroid and only Polaroid can do this.