I like girls. I like the way they walk, talk and smell. Driving in their car talking on the cell phone unawares. Single Mom. Unsingle Mom with the flag in the window. Hi. I want to be good to them, take care of them. I want to be bad to them, just because I can. Not a very good marketing plan, but I am surely not alone here. Feet, hair, fingertips, and of course the ultimate obsession, the boobie. Or booby. The thing that we as straight men, and often as straight boys do not have and want, need. Let us get Freudian. Mother's milk. Feeding on the teat of mother, before being viciously pulled off and given mashed peas for dinner at age two. Forever searching for that new teat to replace the original. Of course girls were breast-fed right alongside us, but then in 12 more years they get their own set, and they can stop worrying about it. Good thing Freud's theories have been largely discounted. Whew.
All sweaty and out of breath after running. Save me. Barrettes in the hair, holding it back from hanging in your eyes. I'm on the ground. Hair free of constraints, hanging in your eyes. I'm devastated. Freckles over the bridge of the nose. And let us not forget the pony tail. Pig tails are twice as good. The good girl who wants to be bad. The bad girl who can't be good. Spoiled innocence. I feel dirty.
If there were not this level of obsession over the opposite sex, none of us would be here. And girls - you are the same way. The difference here is that guys have not a subtle bone in sight. At least early on. We learn to be subtle because you're doomed if you're not. Girls are subtle with their obsessions. If girls were chasing boys as much as boys are chasing girls, it would be a different world indeed. Guys would be asking girls loaded questions, and wondering what the girl is thinking all the time. And girls would be fooling around with their secretaries at lunch, and not paying attention when her man is asking her what do you think of this color for the bathroom? I'm surely in Voodoo territory now. Its like guys talk with guys about girl stuff, but rarely about guy stuff, unless you're close, and then its ok, but only as long as you're drinking. Girls seem to talk about girl stuff with just about any girl, regardless of emotional proximity.
I would like to take an open minded approach. Let's turn the tables. You girls should go out there and do some serious cheating on your boyfriends and husbands. We're going to do it to you. Well, I'm not. But one of us will. Beat us to the punch. Show us how it feels. I'm in the book.
Sexual deviance is a good thing, I think. It keeps things interesting. Make an exception here for the really sick stuff that involves minors. You need help. Imagination is not the same as action.
I'm waiting for the words to stop popping into my head.
I consider myself to be fairly moderate when it comes to most of this business, but I'm happy to know that someone out there can get pleasure from a pile of feces on their face. Happy is the wrong word. I'm happy if you're happy. My personal obsessions revolve around the female foot. The arch, the toes, the heel. I don't want it ground into my back inside a 3" spike heel, but then I'm not into pain. And I don't like women's shoes all by themselves. I don't sniff shoes at the YWCA locker room. I think one of the most erotic things is the female foot, carefully presented in an open toed, open heel shoe. The Mule. Maybe some straps, but not those spaghetti ones.
I like knowing that there can be two different ways to smother a person, a man, since this is usually how the smother thing goes. Girl smothers boy. Feet smothering and well I guess it would be vaginal smothering. Or ass smothering. But the line between vaginal and ass is nebulous at best and for my money, who's counting. That's an interesting thought, girl smothers boy. At least in the world of fetish. It speaks more of the boy who wants to be smothered than of the girl who is smothering.
This is something that my NY friends know of because they were there. I feel it needs to be documented, just so no one forgets. A few years ago there was a birthday party affair in Brooklyn, a surprise party. A really good party too. Dancing, talking, drinking, loud behavior and plus the surprise part. Later in the evening I think the guy who lived there puts in this video of different film stuff he had done, all together in a video collage format. It's about a half hour long. And we're all in a small room huddled around the TV, just sort of watching it, early in the morning, feeling tired from the drink. And the next scene opens in a barn. It's amazing how long you'll watch something happening before you pull away. Before it gets to you. So there they are in the barn, poor video quality, like this copy is the 500th time this has been copied and passed on to the next person. There is a girl lying on the floor of the stall, and I guess there were some guys around. Everyone is naked. And then within a period of maybe 10 seconds the entire room is evacuated, due to the feces that has just been deposited on the girl's face who is still lying on the floor of the stall. This was like knock-down-the-old-lady-in-front-of-me-get-out-of-my-way exodus. It wasn't just a few people. Everyone is gone, the party is over. It goes without saying that this was not the typical scat-loving crowd. I'm sure there was a domino effect in effect too. People being swept away with the flow of bodies. I would like to stay and watch how this ends, but my ride is leaving effect. I remember standing there watching the people scramble madly out of the room, and the guy who's place it was is dying on the floor. He is so happy. The kind of insane laughing that leaves you not breathing. I gather he's pulled this video out before when a room needs to be cleared and it needs to be cleared right now. In fact I know this is the case, because in between gasps of breath, he said that he keeps this video around for just that reason. It is foolproof. At least you hope it is foolproof. There is a chance that a room full of people will not leave but will see this as an opportunity and then you have to leave and get a new apartment.
Love, lust, like, hate, hate-sex, sweet loving sex, or making love, which is just a fru fru lame thing to call it. If two people really love each other, like sick-to-your-stomach love each other, you're going to be as rabbits in the Spring. In the closet. In the back of my Honda. Rip you clothes off and shut up madness. Or maybe that's lust. I always get them confused. Maybe if you're lucky lust turns into love. But I doubt it.
I keep thinking of this whole lifelong marriage idea and the ½ of all marriages ending in divorce. That's what we all want right? The lifelong marriage. Finding the One. But I don't think this is just some thing that has happened to our society to make marriages all of a sudden more fragile. It's the opposite. It's is now more acceptable to live without a mate, and have your own life. No that's not it. Maybe it is that getting married is great and wonderful and you're sick-to-your stomach in love but sometimes things change for one person but not for both and that's ok and you move on and if you have luck then it happens again but it's not the same as the first one was. This seems to be heading for a discussion on Fate. I'll just force it along.
The movie about fate. There's one out now. And it's good. They can do their own advertising. I want to believe in fate, but I don't think I do. It's a nice idea that there is a guiding force, but when you come to a left-right decision, you pretty much know which one is right, it comes down to your head vs. your heart. Does for me at least. So the idea of fate is that maybe its not pulling you along so much as it puts things in your way that you have to make a left-right decision on. I call it the left-right decision because you will never know the other course. You pick one, and that's it. There is no 20/20 hindsight. It's not allowed. If I wasn't going as fast, I would have never gotten in that accident. If I had only gone a little faster, I would have been 50 feet ahead of that deer before it jumped out at me and caused me to veer off the road and into that tree.
Dustin Hoffman running to the chapel to stop the wedding of his love to the other guy. The wrong guy. This is a very dark movie. If you don't know the title, go to the video store and ask the clerk, "What's the one with that guy where he's running to the chapel at the end?" They love it when you do that. There is a beautiful scene as he is first at the Hotel to meet Mrs. Robinson, and he opens a door to go through, but a whole line of senior citizens starts pouring in, one after the other. I'll have to watch it again just to count how many. Someone out there knows the number. And then after the q-tips comes an equally long line of young kids, much like himself, save the sleeping with a married 40-something mother part.
After seeing this movie and a few other Dustin Hoffman flicks, I started to see how he got material for his Oscar Winning Rainman character. The first was the aforementioned, when he goes to kiss the daughter, he has his head tilted in that mechanical Dustin Hoffman way, lips pursed, motionless. Just like in Rainman when Tom Cruise's character's girlfriend kisses Raymond just to do it.
The second is in the same movie when he would get all nervous and upset over Mrs. Robinson's seductive demeanor and start to moan and make little noises and squeak. This is the basis for the Rainman character. That and the endless math tricks, which are apparently super rare for people with Autism and was done for us the audience, and to make this poor guy more lovable. Lovable character with disability related to hot Hollywood stud = box office draw = money = Oscar.
The third was in Midnight Cowboy, an even darker movie. Here it's just his overall ability to play a messed up character really really well. I believed he had a bad foot. And the coughing and the hacking? You can't fake that. He probably went around to where sick people are and grabbed their juice glasses and then ran away, licking all over the rim and sides hoping for a virulent strain. I hope he did. Dustin Hoffman gave himself bronchitis to be a better actor. Hell yeah. Bravo. And on top of that, he's a talented motherfucker. He deserved that Oscar.
We have again strayed from the subject. Fate. The One. Basically I think there is more than one person out there that any of us could be sick to your stomach in love with at any one time. But then throw in the location thing, and my soul mate is living in Peru thing. Figure it this way. Nature always gets her way, always wins in the end, like a casino. She's gonna play it safe and hedge her bets so that when you fuck it up, when you don't run to the chapel to stop her from marrying that dolt and messing up the cosmic flow, when you don't get that phone number when you have the chance, there will be another chance someday, you hope. If Mother Nature just depended on our dumb asses to get the job done, more than half of us wouldn't be here.