Species

To the true sensualist, beauty and physical perfection are neither here nor there. The gorgeous wrappings on a parcel may excite the imagination of some, but unless one is happy to remain in the realm of promise and fantasy interminably (and the true sensualist will always yearn for the heat of a real touch) then those metaphorical wrappings must be shed at some point. And this why the gift itself - the sexual essense within - is the only quality that the sensualist prizes.

Luckily, when it comes to appraising parcels, the sensualist has a sexual sixth sense - a special sort of x-ray vision that looks right through the wrapping and reveals whether the gift is likely to please; yet (most intruigingly) without ever revealing what its precise nature or appeal will be. Call it a kind of instinct. Call it a kind of torment.

Also, much like two dogs or cats in a room full of bipeds, when two sensualists find themselves located in one room, it takes a fraction of a second for them to notice the other's presence, no matter how large or how full that room may be. Because two lone animals of the same species will always instantly sense one another in a crowd, even though they may each be labouring under the charming delusion that they are human beings just like everyone else. Indeed, I believe that they may be drawn to one other without initially knowing why.
 
So what is it that entices the sensualist? What lures such a beast to one's side? And when you find one in hot pursuit, how do you know if he or she desires you as a mate of their own species or merely wishes to gorge themselves on yet another tasty human prey?

Good questions. I'm very glad you asked me. And I do want to answer. I want to bring these thoughts to a conclusion for you, but each time I try, I lose myself in longing and feel too flustered to think. But I will try now nonetheless. I think the answer to the last question could possibly be something like this: if you find that you really couldn't give a flying fuck whether you're prey or not - if you just don't want or need to know because your urge to succumb so vastly overpowers your urge for caution - then the chances are that you have nothing to fear; you're most probably of the same breed yourself and sensualists don't usually kill their own (though not, I might add, for want of trying).

Can you trust me on this?

Lord, no - I shouldn't have thought so. Now would you please shut up and fuck me?

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.

Pity for the Partridge, Sorrow for the Sparrow

Birds can fly; we cannot. And long, long has man looked to the birds and coveted their power to soar above the world, to sail upon the gladsome breeze, ride tattered clouds and do poos on people's heads from really high up. But please, before going berserk with envy and frustration, dear Readers, I would ask you to spare a little thought for one very grave misfortune endured by our feathered friends. Please - before you go out torching nests and toppling birdbaths - calm yourselves, and ponder this: with pretty wings instead of hands and brains the size of lentils, our friends the birds may fly about to their tiny wee hearts' content, but they are quite unable to wank.

Yes... Just think about that.

The Wanking Receptacles List

A great day has arrived in your lives, Readers, a great day. For today is the day that I have decided to publish some of my painstaking research into the subject of wanking receptacles. It's taken me five years to gather these findings, so I do hope you will find them informative.

Here it comes: the full list so far:

A (worn) sock (bachelor's No. 1 choice)

A (worn) sock called Pamela (slightly less common)

A freshly laundered sock (trick entry - I made that one up)

A tub of vaseline (subsequently disposed of)

A tin of Brylcream (subsequently disposed of)

A cut-off Head and Shoulders bottle with some nice slippery blue shampoo still lining the inside

A friend's trainers (subsequently hurriedly dried with friend's sister's hairdryer)

A watermelon

A washbag (after being rapidly emptied onto floor with the other hand)

A trombone

A mug (used)

A pillow

A new guitar (sperm-based bonding ritual)

The hole in a toilet roll (not recommended - it "didn't really work")

The fingers of mummy's rubber gloves

A frying pan (clean - at least, beforehand, that is)

A stranger's towel, discovered in a sauna at an opportune moment

A vacuum cleaner bag (presumably empty, but unfortunately I forgot to check)

A cuddly toy (with customised perforation)

A polythene bag pre-greased with body lotion and wedged into the narrow space between two single beds in a hotel room

Mother's teatowel (wiped with damp sponge and replaced on rail)

The exhaust of a Golf GTi (I don't believe this one)

A tree (frosty, in wintry field)

A jaccuzzi in a spa (no hands)

Each new vehicle purchased, in course of entire life (christening ceremony generally performed in a lay-by, the most recent vehicle being a Range Rover)

A dinner plate (after eating favourite dish off it and prior to taking a photograph of it - so I certainly believe this one)



Any gentlemen who think they may have an object to add to the above list are requested to please come forward. Identities will, of course, be treated with the utmost confidence.

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.)