I spend most of my time alone, or surrounded by people I wish would get out of my personal space.
My days are spent internalising everything, analysing every nuance of my life until any meaning slips away and I could just as easily be thinking about the shape of a shoelace, as the finality of death or the reason I have to get up in the morning.
I like to think that somewhere, in amongst all the teenage-esque melodrama and introspection, I am slowly and steadily attaining some scatterings of the hermit’s wisdom. I have to be, right? It wouldn’t be fair just to aquire the crazyness of a bearded dude in a cave and not at least get his guru powers of analysis.
I think about things too much, but too much for what? Hammock hammock hammock Stapler stapler stapler… I’m edging towards nihillism, I try to think about what’s right and wrong and come back full circle to… what does it even matter anyway? I know paedophiles are wrong and sick and should be killed, but I also know they were kids too at some point, and life fucked them up, and it’s not their fault. So who can really condemn someone who is just a product of a different environment and experiences? I can’t take credit for not being a paedophile, because who knows? Maybe if I hadn’t been hugged by my mother or if my uncle had fingered me when I was too young to even know it was wrong, I might be a paedophile too. And back I come to the… well if paedophiles aren’t bad people, then I’m not a good person. I’m just whatever. We all are. There’s nothing to be proud of, because you didn’t fucking do anything. The only person who can be remotely proud is the mother who leaves the abusive husband and thereby potentially saves a little kid from becoming a sicko some day… and even she only left him because her particular circumstances made her the woman who leaves.
Sometimes I think that I’m so fucking clever, I end up thinking through the most basic of concepts, concepts people I consider less intelligent than I have ingrained in them without question. Every day I marvel at glass being transparent, cars moving forwards instead of backwards, and the fact that I feel thirsty when I need hydration and how amazing it all is.
It just occured to me, something I’m surprised I never thought of before. It’s not exactly deep stuff here, but morality rarely holds my attention for long.
So on to a more comfortable subject. Sexuality. Mine to be precise (who else would I be thinking about?)
I realised that while men always seem driven by the desire to touch a woman’s body, run his hands over her geography, becoming aroused as he explores… wanting to touch and invade and know every part…
I have no interest in touching a man, other than to make him harder so he can invade me more decisively.
I never feel like I want to touch a man. I really don’t. I don’t even want to touch a cock, other than because touching it fits into the rhythm of playing with each other… I used to despise foreplay and only begrudgingly included it into proceedings when I realised sex was so shitty in my teenage years because I wasn’t aroused enough by the eager thrustings of my early fucks. But I like to be touched and I get a tremendous kick out of a man enjoying my body, all the time thinking, I’m young now… when he’s old and has a wife who is old too, he will always have my young body saved to disk. If we never do this again, and if I managed not to go psycho afterwards and want to TALK and ask him what he’s THINKING, I’ll have the next best thing to the immortality of procreating.. I will be immortalised as a young vibrant sexual thing in the minds of these men, and no finer woman can take that away because if he likes her more than me now, and she “wins” him, he’s going to see her tits sag and her skin become translucent and papery.
But back to the desire to touch. I began thinking along this path because I was replaying some mental footage of the last time I got naked with another homo sapiens (oh no, that kind of implies I have since been naked with other species… well hey, maybe I’ll get some interesting traffic) and I remembered my friend the next day, telling my hung over, grumpy and spiteful self all about how much he wanted to touch my legs, and how great my ass was… and I thought, that’s funny, because I only remember vaguely that his dick felt good in me, but couldn’t recollect anything about his body even though I touched it and kissed it enthusiastically, because that’s what you do, it’s rude to just lie back and take it. It’s just common courtesy to pretend you like their body too, even if man bodies are kind of shitty compared to woman bodies. Woman bodies are all curvy and smooth and interesting, and mens are like bumpy and lumpy and remind me of ken dolls, except with dangly giblets on the front. I mean I see a hot guy and I’m all, OOoh he’s hot. Look at those strong manly looking arms… but I just want those arms to hold me up against some strategic furniture somewhere, and grip a little too tight so I get the butterflies in my stomach, oooh he probably wouldn’t stop even if I asked, sensation that kind of infuriates me as a feminist but I love it really. I don’t want to run my hands over his body or look at his legs with the loosely interwoven man hairs, like a gentle layer of hair suspended over man leg flesh… making me wonder if I let my leg hair get that long, would it look like that? I don’t know. I’m not going to try, because I want to be admired and treated like something worth examining and playing with, and I’ll just look at the guy’s face and try to read some kind of compliment to me in his eyes. And then I’m happy… and if he actually says something flattering… Noah, better make a move…. those 5,000,000 animal species won’t round themselves up.
So are men lying when they say this shit, just feeding my ego because they are smart enough to know that shit turns me on? Are women just not interested in men’s bodies as much as their own? Or am I just a vain selfish creature who’s missing some little piece of her sexuality? Tell me am I normal? NORMAL? Like a normal person!
Oh or maybe I just keep sleeping with guys with shitty bodies. I try to check my memory logs to see if that theory works but I honestly filled up the records with what he said about me, how I looked, and how excited he was, and I couldn’t tell you how good or bad any of my previous partners’ bodies were.
You know I’m not going to leave it at question marks, I’m going to think the hell out of this one until I come up with some trite little aphorism I will hate myself for being proud of, and eventually it will be slurred out one night to an audience who are talking about something completely irrelevant, and someone will be like, no, that’s retarded. And I will decide they are a moron, but also discard my aphorism and try to come up with a better one.