As I performed my weekly ritual of popping around the nearby Spar to grab the boring weekly essentials for lunch, snacks and potential dinner ingredients, I saw a man, fairly shabbily dressed. He looked like the stereotypical bum. The quintessential wastage of society. Battered, bruised and certainly not donning the latest variation of Armani Mania, this man walked through the car park, into the store. As he took each step, almost leaning on this worn out back pack, his shoulders hunched like a man not wanting a world to see him, his cap pulled low, like a man not wanting to see a world, I noticed that he had with him a companion. An equally scruffy looking, mangy, medium sized dog. Casually walking beside him. No collar, no leash, no restriction. This dog calmly walked beside the man, as if in complete knowledge of the next destination. Not perturbed by the cars funneling in and out of the car park, nor the people hustling towards their next social stop on the busy Sunday that lay ahead.
This, almost equal respect, that the two exuded for one another, had piqued my interest. On getting out of my car, I feverishly looked to confirm my initial suspicion that a man devoid of respect for and from my Northern Joburg suburb would have cavalierly walked in, with dog in tow. Instead, I was rather surprised to find our not recently washed Fido, calmly, casually, sitting at the entrance of the store. Still, no leash nor anything resembling a restriction. It surprised me that this dog, which in all likelihood, wasn’t formally trained was so composed and content with having to just…hang out, and wait.
With my intrigue firmly activated, I grabbed my basket as I walked past the dog, and with me not taking my eyes off him, he propped his head, glanced at me and turned away. Almost to say…well, nothing really. It was as arbitrary a glance as people walking past one another in a mall with no specific intent to actually look at each other.
I found the mystery man, picking up an unsliced loaf of bread. He didn’t stop for any other piece of consumable good. He didn’t pick anything else up, window shop in any specific isle or even look around. He just walked with his loaf of bread, to the check out point, paid for it and walked out.
I feverishly grabbed most (my curiosity got the better of me) of my list and hurried through paying for them. I then grabbed my packets and made for the exit as if I had shoplifted the entire contents. To my sadness, I could no longer see our Rip Van Winkel, nor his well behaved companion. I then packed up the car and settled for the fact that my career as a purely voyeuristic private investigator was over.
Until, as I turned out of the car park, I found the objects of my intrigue, nestling under a nearby tree. It was at that point that the man pulled out of his bag, a small plastic bowl along with a bottle of water. He pours a decent amount of water into the bowl and then breaks the loaf he had earlier bought in half. Both are gently placed near the dog, now comfortably sitting next to his friend. They both then proceed to dig into the loaf, stopping every now and again to wash down the dry bread with quick sips of water. The man, affectionately ruffling the fur of his canine companion.
This image instantaneously brings a smile to my face. Not only does it remind me of pets gone by, but also instills in this low on hope individual, pure, unadulterated economy sized packets of confidence in humanity yet. This mans selflessness, for whatever reason, speaks volumes of the potential of the human psyche. Who knows why he looked the way he did. Who knows why he was the way he was. Sure, I run the risk of over romanticizing and over dramatizing the event, but the simple, undiluted fact is, it was what it was and he did what he did. The dog knew who his friend was and so did the man. Those few seconds that I shared remotely with them, made me wonder for many more hours about the very decency and emotional centering that exists around me.
I am filled with rage. Passive aggressive with extra aggressive. I have become a whining malcontent within myself at the very callous personas that punctuate my life. The frivolous change of opinions and sheer lack of respect at the concept of processing things on an intellectual, logical level. The people shaped baskets that contained many, many egg shaped emotions are starting to come apart at the bloody seams and it feels like I am the only one who sees it. I am filled with contempt towards actions and behavior that has little to do with and minimal impact on me. I feel a growing void between myself and the rest of the world based on the lack of insight, introspection and analysis performed within those that surround me.
With witless tongues we articulate without filters. We act on impulse and go back on paramount philosophies. We throw away who we are in the search for that most instant of instant gratifications. Consuming ourselves in trivial games that have little or too much bearing on our journey. We affirm shifting beliefs with actions hoping that they will become true. Though all they ever end up being are half truisms. We sleep walk our way through it all…passively acting on predefined scripts of what we think we are supposed to want and do.
As I sit, perched on my crucifix, with my comfortable dwellings, clothes filled cupboards, more than decent salary and plethora of other proverbial creature comforts…I wanted to be this traveler, under a tree, breaking bread and sharing a drink with sincere friendship, loyalty and respect…in complete trust and honesty.
“live…love…fight”
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Sooner or Later
In an era of the manufactured, the generic and the default, what exists for a purist that puts stock in the lesser spotted concept of hope. Yes, good people, I once again find myself delving in the plethora of self loathing that I embrace as my protective cloak from the rest of the world. I have found that time away from fellow mortals merely catalyzes self analysis and hamster processing about who I am, what I do and what I want. As I drown in an endless sea of pointless personas, the world chugs along…with dismissive disregard for this self proclaimed professional appreciator of life…
Having experienced a recent period of cavalier binge drinking and party going amidst the corporate request of 40 hours a week, I have discovered that I am in a familiar, yet not recently seen doldrum. Whilst memories are made, acquaints acquired and self validation found, I can’t help but feel that though I have removed a decent portion of my head out of my ass, that I remain critical to the concept of the cycle I, and for that matter, others, find themselves in. Now though I believe I don’t contribute to the wonderful statistic that fall under the column of “working to jol”, I am, however, enjoying the cheaper thrills of this, the poor man’s New York.
After now, spending a weekend in, with the most damaging substance possible, my thoughts, I find myself questioning the concepts of loneliness, companionship, friendship and essentially, all possible variation of relationships. See, I am in a weirdly needy place. Perhaps needy is a strong word, but it seems the truer articulation of “lonely, strong self loathing, fragile, sensitive” is just a divulgence too far…wait…damn!
Like the teenager that after masturbation, no longer wants the object of his ejaculatory affection, but rather the nice girl, that “gets” him, that communicates and clicks as if it were dialogue from Juno, I too crave more connections with people that resemble a personification of context and insight…and intellect.
My recent endeavors, be they quasi romantic or otherwise, have proven to be constant reminders of the vast void between myself, and so many others. Now, I know I project, but is it too hard to expect someone to be able to hold my attention? I am not of the MENSA brand, much closer to the MENS HEALTH variation really, yet constantly am exposed to life forms that are devoid of anything resembling interesting. I have been critiqued that I am too critical on others for the lack of ability to hold my attention, that I expect a certain word quota of enchanting and disarming. But is that such a ridiculous request…or hope?
I do not read, so that absolves me of that sub culture, I do not go to theatre, I do not frequent dinner parties or other variations that carry the inference of “cultured”. I do not expect a girl to tell me of the glory of Kevin Smith movies. I do not expect her to tell me which formation best suits my Manchester United. I do not expect her to tell me that when she hears the Kings of Leon that she is in fact reminded of Terence Trent D’Arby. I do not expect her to want to try to keep herself attractive, not by virtue of ridiculously priced cosmetics, but rather going to the gym 3 times a week. I do not expect these things…but fuck me, I sure hope for them. Is that wrong? That I burden them, both potential exes and friends alike, with such unrealistic expectations?
If so, why am I then judged by these very standards, if slightly varied? Why am I shunted into a specific percentile based on my inability to recite Shelly, to acknowledge the quality of the variations of wine, to appreciate the early work of fuck knows what author?
We are the only species that makes excuses and care for the weak. We go against Darwinism, and rather manufacture and maintain environments in which the slow, the weak, the non ambitious, the unintelligent, the unimaginative, the inarticulate and the uninteresting can exist. What the fuck are we doing?
My inference that we need to go on a massive population control program is purely based on my interaction with various demographics and with vastly varying context. For me, one of the most startling has been in the context of romance. I have no issues meeting women, but women that have the ability to keep me interested, by virtue of their opinion, history or the ability to articulate either, are far, far too rare. As I troll through both my facebook profile and phone book, I find a severe lack of intrigue, context, value…hope.
When faced with our own mortality, are there key figures in our lives that we would wish to spend our last few days? How many couples would be forced to say that their partner features in the countdown, due to the Labrador like companionship that they have evolved in to? How many would choose their random left field friend that was honest, sincere, interesting and funny, as opposed to their boyfriend that has nothing to say since he played in a schools cricket week that one year in university ten years ago? Would we look around the room and do a quick calculation of the percentage of remarkable personalities that surround us? Or do we merely just slide deeper into our metaphorical bed and pull our safety blanket a notch higher?
There are far too few people that have the ability to tell a story that you will remember as opposed to the regurgitation of factoids. There are far too many that will give you the manufactured, the generic, the default. Lacking soul, heart, wit or intrigue.
I have met too many that remind me that Vanilla runs strong. For God’s sake, can I please have some Rum and Raison or Blueberry?
“It was the best of times…if only someone had told me.”
Having experienced a recent period of cavalier binge drinking and party going amidst the corporate request of 40 hours a week, I have discovered that I am in a familiar, yet not recently seen doldrum. Whilst memories are made, acquaints acquired and self validation found, I can’t help but feel that though I have removed a decent portion of my head out of my ass, that I remain critical to the concept of the cycle I, and for that matter, others, find themselves in. Now though I believe I don’t contribute to the wonderful statistic that fall under the column of “working to jol”, I am, however, enjoying the cheaper thrills of this, the poor man’s New York.
After now, spending a weekend in, with the most damaging substance possible, my thoughts, I find myself questioning the concepts of loneliness, companionship, friendship and essentially, all possible variation of relationships. See, I am in a weirdly needy place. Perhaps needy is a strong word, but it seems the truer articulation of “lonely, strong self loathing, fragile, sensitive” is just a divulgence too far…wait…damn!
Like the teenager that after masturbation, no longer wants the object of his ejaculatory affection, but rather the nice girl, that “gets” him, that communicates and clicks as if it were dialogue from Juno, I too crave more connections with people that resemble a personification of context and insight…and intellect.
My recent endeavors, be they quasi romantic or otherwise, have proven to be constant reminders of the vast void between myself, and so many others. Now, I know I project, but is it too hard to expect someone to be able to hold my attention? I am not of the MENSA brand, much closer to the MENS HEALTH variation really, yet constantly am exposed to life forms that are devoid of anything resembling interesting. I have been critiqued that I am too critical on others for the lack of ability to hold my attention, that I expect a certain word quota of enchanting and disarming. But is that such a ridiculous request…or hope?
I do not read, so that absolves me of that sub culture, I do not go to theatre, I do not frequent dinner parties or other variations that carry the inference of “cultured”. I do not expect a girl to tell me of the glory of Kevin Smith movies. I do not expect her to tell me which formation best suits my Manchester United. I do not expect her to tell me that when she hears the Kings of Leon that she is in fact reminded of Terence Trent D’Arby. I do not expect her to want to try to keep herself attractive, not by virtue of ridiculously priced cosmetics, but rather going to the gym 3 times a week. I do not expect these things…but fuck me, I sure hope for them. Is that wrong? That I burden them, both potential exes and friends alike, with such unrealistic expectations?
If so, why am I then judged by these very standards, if slightly varied? Why am I shunted into a specific percentile based on my inability to recite Shelly, to acknowledge the quality of the variations of wine, to appreciate the early work of fuck knows what author?
We are the only species that makes excuses and care for the weak. We go against Darwinism, and rather manufacture and maintain environments in which the slow, the weak, the non ambitious, the unintelligent, the unimaginative, the inarticulate and the uninteresting can exist. What the fuck are we doing?
My inference that we need to go on a massive population control program is purely based on my interaction with various demographics and with vastly varying context. For me, one of the most startling has been in the context of romance. I have no issues meeting women, but women that have the ability to keep me interested, by virtue of their opinion, history or the ability to articulate either, are far, far too rare. As I troll through both my facebook profile and phone book, I find a severe lack of intrigue, context, value…hope.
When faced with our own mortality, are there key figures in our lives that we would wish to spend our last few days? How many couples would be forced to say that their partner features in the countdown, due to the Labrador like companionship that they have evolved in to? How many would choose their random left field friend that was honest, sincere, interesting and funny, as opposed to their boyfriend that has nothing to say since he played in a schools cricket week that one year in university ten years ago? Would we look around the room and do a quick calculation of the percentage of remarkable personalities that surround us? Or do we merely just slide deeper into our metaphorical bed and pull our safety blanket a notch higher?
There are far too few people that have the ability to tell a story that you will remember as opposed to the regurgitation of factoids. There are far too many that will give you the manufactured, the generic, the default. Lacking soul, heart, wit or intrigue.
I have met too many that remind me that Vanilla runs strong. For God’s sake, can I please have some Rum and Raison or Blueberry?
“It was the best of times…if only someone had told me.”
Monday, January 5, 2009
Californication
The title for this particular post is yet again borrowed from a song of recent past. Though apt by virtue of one of its definitions, it is actually inspired by the TV series where in Hank Moody, the lead character, essentially mirrors my life’s experiences and thought processes…ok, minus the ex long term partner and love child….and minus the woman-a-day philandering…and minus the Porsche…and successes as a novelist…and maybe minus the super quick wit and vocabulary…and binge drinking…ok, ok…But, he is strongly opinionated, is a writer, has a failed (yet vastly more continuous) sprinkling of women, a huge volume of awkward situations, and quite importantly, a decent bevy of self loathing…and therein, lays the empathy.
This impressive, dark and twisted series aside, I have decided that in this post, I shall reveal yet more behind the famous façade that is ultimately the front that a majority of men walk around with…you see, the series itself, is based very strongly around the sexual exploits of our star man, along with a few of his dreams and fantasies, we are very much exposed to his endeavors. These famously clichéd and sometimes far fetched exertions combined with my own events have destined this post to be about the second part of its amalgamated title…fornication.
Sex, as opposed to Wet, Wet, Wet’s 90’s hit, is all around us. It is heavily used in advertising, music lyrics, music videos and themes of movies. Media pushes the philosophy that sex is fairly easy…both to acquire and accomplish. I however, oppose this theory. Though on paper I am no better than our beloved Hank, I have to speak up against the fact that it is all straight forward. For as much as I have had decent “practice runs”, it always seems borderline unreal that it is actually happening…and, to me.
From the first awkward experience in the back of a car behind a public library (classy, I know) to the more vanilla of the bedroom, sex has always seemed something surreal to experience. Now before anyone thinks this is going to be an over romanized diatribe about how beautiful the whole thing is or should be, settle down, for I chastise the very basis of the festivity of copulation and its by/pre products.
Yes boys and girls, for all of the conquests, the checks on the “guy list”, proper romantic passions shared and one night stands endured…I loathe the pressure put by the fact that its “only natural”. Bull! The fact that everywhere around us, we are told that it’s a simple case of girl mildly likes boy, boy doesn’t care just so long as girl holds still long enough, boy inserts penis, girl moans, everyone (not the girl) climaxes, end scene, infuriates me. The simple truth is that I have regularly suffered one version of erectile dysfunction (ED) or another during many if not all of this, the most simple and “obvious” of human activities.
ED is a mechanical failure as much as it is a psychological one. Studies have shown that when the hamsters are too busy upstairs, things south of the border don’t feel like playing their part. Like the footballer that begs the coach to put him in, then pulls a hamstring making his first pass, I have enjoyed the crippling effect of the latter.
I am proud, in some sort of really dysfunctional way, to say that I have endured some of the biggest character building situations in modern day history. From the lack of the ability to climax, to the lack of ability to find where on earth its supposed to go, to the final piece of the holy trinity, equipment failure! Now, we could easily place focus on the fact that my penis is just as self loathing as I am, or that the one affects the other (because I do sincerely believe they are two separate entities) but I think the context that exists has to be appreciated…and well, articulated.
See, my initial thoughts as a younger man pre sex, was that prematurely taking the penalty kick was the worst thing that could happen. As such, my hamsters banked this fear as priority above classified and I think, put the proverbial “cap” on any clichéd experience. Then there was my first sexual experience. Being with a woman that was experienced, I expected that all I had to bring to the table was an erection…wrong. It appeared that I needed to have a vague idea of where to put my penis along with what seemed to me as the most unnatural thing in human behavior, the dreaded missionary thrust!
Now, to say that my little soldier did his darndest would be a grave under appreciation of his attempts. That said though, I believe that the awkwardness (emotional and physical) led to a decent amount of loathing being festered toward myself for not knowing what to do, and towards my unwitting partner. All this did, was portray sex as the devil. I’m of the opinion that I then even somehow developed what I believe is clinically called “Vagina Fear”…the documented medical definition being when the penis is erect and unsure if the next step, being penetration, is really what it (said penis) wants.
Anyway, all that led to drama, tears, and me smoking…and loathing. Not entirely the Hollywood-esque routine of man, woman, sex, climax, nicotine. Moving forward, my next encounter was a few months later and as my penis had the memory (if it was the only thing resembling the related size) of an elephant and proceeded to freak out. Though full penetration was obtained, happy feeling felt, climax proved unattainable. Enter further thought. Considering that partner was pretty much anything a hot blooded hetro male would want, I struggled with the notion that it wasn’t enough to get me off…for God’s sake, I was an Olympic medal winning masturbator, this was the same, but better…right? Wrong again.
Enter more thought. For along with penis size, premature ejaculation and the lack of a homing beacon guiding my way, I then began to contemplate my nakedness, my ability to physically keep up (this would be the thrusting motion) and lest we forget, the self loathing. See, for me, sex for some reason, always seemed surreal. The concept that someone would put themselves in such a vulnerable position, for me, seemed, awesome, in the context of how the word awesome was meant to be used, not like the teenage mutant ninja turtles way. It almost always seemed like something that shouldn’t have been happening to me. Though I know that I should take full responsibility for the actual opportunity presenting itself, I couldn’t help thinking…”I wish my friends were here”. Not in a vile voyeuristic sorta way, but to high five me that I was actually getting laid. Needless to say, the plethora of thoughts hindered performance beyond the realms of my actual physical profile.
As I became better at the game of getting women to actually want to sleep with me, my thought process about being a premature ejaculator faded, but many (thoughts) of the others remained. As such, sex with me became like a Keith Sweat song theme…all night long. Essentially only stopping when one or both parties were tired or one (not me) was tired of getting off…and subsequently got off. I was left, unsatisfied. Many were left, questioning.
It was sad to note that perhaps a majority looked within themselves as they felt responsible with not being able to do this simplest of human activities as per its predefined script. The truth however, was, as much as it sounds like a cliché, it wasn’t them, it was me. And so the numbers continued to tally up, the positions changed but the coital climax still remained elusive. Until…
With a greater thought processes within myself (one of the hamsters decided to re prioritize the “thinking during sex file” again), my once steady and reliable penis, had begun to fail me. With what I thought was newly discovered mechanical failure, I ventured forth trying to essentially “walk it off” with a trial and error philosophy. Let’s just say that the test subjects weren’t all that impressed.
As the erections (with partners) continued to fail in differing context, the self confidence so too continued to die down (pun unintended), like…er….going to leave out the simile for that one. And so began the sexploits with my “umm friend”. Which though sporadic over a decent amount of time, became the go to scenario. And yes, at that very point, it was 5 years of sexual quasi experience, but never a climax in any way, form or semen shape. Until she did something really right. And then it happened again, and then again, and then again. In fact, she got so good at doing that, that that’s all she wanted to do. Unfortunately, that thing was not penetrative sex, and so, the already Grand Canyon rivaling void with “normal process”, grew larger.
The most pressing inspiration for this post is in fact, that since her, I have “tried” to have sex with another, with comedic consequences. For during that latest foray into what has become a predefined path of carnal knowledge, I have had the most humbling of experiences. Mechanical failure beyond Elizabethan or Biblical proportions. For when a man hears the line he rates up there with such cult horrors as, “there is a lump”, “your sperm is dud” or “Liverpool have won the league”….”Is it in yet?”, everything changes!
I found it hilarious. For some retarded reason, all I could do, was laugh…for during the process of which my penis went from being erect, penetrated and dead, I had play by play questioning commentary…in my head.
With each thrust that my erection became weaker (which wasn’t many), I began thinking that I was more just bashing her nether regions with my groin than making Don Juan de Marco type love. When she eventually asked the question, all I could do, was refer to the questions that were already in place…”Am I even in?”, “I wonder if she can feel how fast its fading?”, “I wonder if I shouldn’t have done triceps at the gym today?”, “oh shit, am I even hard?”, “holy crap, I went from hard to soft whilst being in her, does that mean my penis is minute?”, “can I use the fact that she is so wet as an excuse or take it as a compliment?”, “I wonder if United will buy another striker this season?”…
She took it like a trooper, and we agreed that it was funny. Since then, my beloved member has come to the party, on occasion, as further attempts (she still let me) to have sex lasted longer, but a similarly disappointing ending. One thought kept bouncing around, the fact that it was missionary (queue flashback memories). As I believe I am a heavy boy, with a less than grandioso penis, this allegedly most natural position, is most unnatural to me, as yes, I had become very much a girl-on-top or boy-behind-girl type of guy. My council tells me, that as with a dodgy golf swing, only with practice, will the problem be exorcised…and that, my esteemed audience, are where we are at…
To conclude, I share a few of my meandering thoughts about the matter of coitus, or in my case, coitus interruptis. ED, with its most recent starring role, has definitely made itself an important fore and after thought in my day to day dealings. I now question whether I will be able to even have children, for should the erection last, the climax seems as existent as the clitoris (I’m just kidding ladies). But yes, it is a weird sorta fear, even though I have no interest in having children at this point.
Due to my lack of actual sexual ability, which I gladly disclaim and advertise, I have become pretty damn epic at the concept of foreplay and acquiring a non penis penetrating related orgasm out of the core demographic. Though some have chosen to enjoy the fruits of my self deprecation, many have chosen to focus on the fact that it was either sad that that’s what I would prefer doing (which is pretty awful I think, considering I am trying to get you off here!) or even worse, condemned me, for being this good, means I am actually pretty bad, in the context of practice makes perfect…the inference being that being a philanderer allows the technique to be tested and proven.
The human psyche is an intriguing piece of engineering. Well, that’s as logically as I can state it. The well documented fact that women can go from hot to dry (yes, that is an actual path) in 0.2 seconds is exclusive by virtue of genitalia, is in my opinion, wrong. For though, on occasion, by penis has shown its more tenacious side, it too aborts mission pretty dramatically based on a rift in the force…be it a tasteless statement, or maneuver poorly executed or any other number of dramatic fails.
Where does it all end folks? Do I just need to get drunk every time to start getting over the enormous load of issues my hamsters choose to process? Do I seek salvation in the little blue pill and hope that my thoughts won’t override drugs? Or do I just wave to a world lacking context, passing by? Libido…check. General working parts….check. Does not prematurely ejaculate…check. Comfortable in own skin….check. Clear mind….I dare you…
“A pair of powerful spectacles has sometimes sufficed to cure a person in love.”
This impressive, dark and twisted series aside, I have decided that in this post, I shall reveal yet more behind the famous façade that is ultimately the front that a majority of men walk around with…you see, the series itself, is based very strongly around the sexual exploits of our star man, along with a few of his dreams and fantasies, we are very much exposed to his endeavors. These famously clichéd and sometimes far fetched exertions combined with my own events have destined this post to be about the second part of its amalgamated title…fornication.
Sex, as opposed to Wet, Wet, Wet’s 90’s hit, is all around us. It is heavily used in advertising, music lyrics, music videos and themes of movies. Media pushes the philosophy that sex is fairly easy…both to acquire and accomplish. I however, oppose this theory. Though on paper I am no better than our beloved Hank, I have to speak up against the fact that it is all straight forward. For as much as I have had decent “practice runs”, it always seems borderline unreal that it is actually happening…and, to me.
From the first awkward experience in the back of a car behind a public library (classy, I know) to the more vanilla of the bedroom, sex has always seemed something surreal to experience. Now before anyone thinks this is going to be an over romanized diatribe about how beautiful the whole thing is or should be, settle down, for I chastise the very basis of the festivity of copulation and its by/pre products.
Yes boys and girls, for all of the conquests, the checks on the “guy list”, proper romantic passions shared and one night stands endured…I loathe the pressure put by the fact that its “only natural”. Bull! The fact that everywhere around us, we are told that it’s a simple case of girl mildly likes boy, boy doesn’t care just so long as girl holds still long enough, boy inserts penis, girl moans, everyone (not the girl) climaxes, end scene, infuriates me. The simple truth is that I have regularly suffered one version of erectile dysfunction (ED) or another during many if not all of this, the most simple and “obvious” of human activities.
ED is a mechanical failure as much as it is a psychological one. Studies have shown that when the hamsters are too busy upstairs, things south of the border don’t feel like playing their part. Like the footballer that begs the coach to put him in, then pulls a hamstring making his first pass, I have enjoyed the crippling effect of the latter.
I am proud, in some sort of really dysfunctional way, to say that I have endured some of the biggest character building situations in modern day history. From the lack of the ability to climax, to the lack of ability to find where on earth its supposed to go, to the final piece of the holy trinity, equipment failure! Now, we could easily place focus on the fact that my penis is just as self loathing as I am, or that the one affects the other (because I do sincerely believe they are two separate entities) but I think the context that exists has to be appreciated…and well, articulated.
See, my initial thoughts as a younger man pre sex, was that prematurely taking the penalty kick was the worst thing that could happen. As such, my hamsters banked this fear as priority above classified and I think, put the proverbial “cap” on any clichéd experience. Then there was my first sexual experience. Being with a woman that was experienced, I expected that all I had to bring to the table was an erection…wrong. It appeared that I needed to have a vague idea of where to put my penis along with what seemed to me as the most unnatural thing in human behavior, the dreaded missionary thrust!
Now, to say that my little soldier did his darndest would be a grave under appreciation of his attempts. That said though, I believe that the awkwardness (emotional and physical) led to a decent amount of loathing being festered toward myself for not knowing what to do, and towards my unwitting partner. All this did, was portray sex as the devil. I’m of the opinion that I then even somehow developed what I believe is clinically called “Vagina Fear”…the documented medical definition being when the penis is erect and unsure if the next step, being penetration, is really what it (said penis) wants.
Anyway, all that led to drama, tears, and me smoking…and loathing. Not entirely the Hollywood-esque routine of man, woman, sex, climax, nicotine. Moving forward, my next encounter was a few months later and as my penis had the memory (if it was the only thing resembling the related size) of an elephant and proceeded to freak out. Though full penetration was obtained, happy feeling felt, climax proved unattainable. Enter further thought. Considering that partner was pretty much anything a hot blooded hetro male would want, I struggled with the notion that it wasn’t enough to get me off…for God’s sake, I was an Olympic medal winning masturbator, this was the same, but better…right? Wrong again.
Enter more thought. For along with penis size, premature ejaculation and the lack of a homing beacon guiding my way, I then began to contemplate my nakedness, my ability to physically keep up (this would be the thrusting motion) and lest we forget, the self loathing. See, for me, sex for some reason, always seemed surreal. The concept that someone would put themselves in such a vulnerable position, for me, seemed, awesome, in the context of how the word awesome was meant to be used, not like the teenage mutant ninja turtles way. It almost always seemed like something that shouldn’t have been happening to me. Though I know that I should take full responsibility for the actual opportunity presenting itself, I couldn’t help thinking…”I wish my friends were here”. Not in a vile voyeuristic sorta way, but to high five me that I was actually getting laid. Needless to say, the plethora of thoughts hindered performance beyond the realms of my actual physical profile.
As I became better at the game of getting women to actually want to sleep with me, my thought process about being a premature ejaculator faded, but many (thoughts) of the others remained. As such, sex with me became like a Keith Sweat song theme…all night long. Essentially only stopping when one or both parties were tired or one (not me) was tired of getting off…and subsequently got off. I was left, unsatisfied. Many were left, questioning.
It was sad to note that perhaps a majority looked within themselves as they felt responsible with not being able to do this simplest of human activities as per its predefined script. The truth however, was, as much as it sounds like a cliché, it wasn’t them, it was me. And so the numbers continued to tally up, the positions changed but the coital climax still remained elusive. Until…
With a greater thought processes within myself (one of the hamsters decided to re prioritize the “thinking during sex file” again), my once steady and reliable penis, had begun to fail me. With what I thought was newly discovered mechanical failure, I ventured forth trying to essentially “walk it off” with a trial and error philosophy. Let’s just say that the test subjects weren’t all that impressed.
As the erections (with partners) continued to fail in differing context, the self confidence so too continued to die down (pun unintended), like…er….going to leave out the simile for that one. And so began the sexploits with my “umm friend”. Which though sporadic over a decent amount of time, became the go to scenario. And yes, at that very point, it was 5 years of sexual quasi experience, but never a climax in any way, form or semen shape. Until she did something really right. And then it happened again, and then again, and then again. In fact, she got so good at doing that, that that’s all she wanted to do. Unfortunately, that thing was not penetrative sex, and so, the already Grand Canyon rivaling void with “normal process”, grew larger.
The most pressing inspiration for this post is in fact, that since her, I have “tried” to have sex with another, with comedic consequences. For during that latest foray into what has become a predefined path of carnal knowledge, I have had the most humbling of experiences. Mechanical failure beyond Elizabethan or Biblical proportions. For when a man hears the line he rates up there with such cult horrors as, “there is a lump”, “your sperm is dud” or “Liverpool have won the league”….”Is it in yet?”, everything changes!
I found it hilarious. For some retarded reason, all I could do, was laugh…for during the process of which my penis went from being erect, penetrated and dead, I had play by play questioning commentary…in my head.
With each thrust that my erection became weaker (which wasn’t many), I began thinking that I was more just bashing her nether regions with my groin than making Don Juan de Marco type love. When she eventually asked the question, all I could do, was refer to the questions that were already in place…”Am I even in?”, “I wonder if she can feel how fast its fading?”, “I wonder if I shouldn’t have done triceps at the gym today?”, “oh shit, am I even hard?”, “holy crap, I went from hard to soft whilst being in her, does that mean my penis is minute?”, “can I use the fact that she is so wet as an excuse or take it as a compliment?”, “I wonder if United will buy another striker this season?”…
She took it like a trooper, and we agreed that it was funny. Since then, my beloved member has come to the party, on occasion, as further attempts (she still let me) to have sex lasted longer, but a similarly disappointing ending. One thought kept bouncing around, the fact that it was missionary (queue flashback memories). As I believe I am a heavy boy, with a less than grandioso penis, this allegedly most natural position, is most unnatural to me, as yes, I had become very much a girl-on-top or boy-behind-girl type of guy. My council tells me, that as with a dodgy golf swing, only with practice, will the problem be exorcised…and that, my esteemed audience, are where we are at…
To conclude, I share a few of my meandering thoughts about the matter of coitus, or in my case, coitus interruptis. ED, with its most recent starring role, has definitely made itself an important fore and after thought in my day to day dealings. I now question whether I will be able to even have children, for should the erection last, the climax seems as existent as the clitoris (I’m just kidding ladies). But yes, it is a weird sorta fear, even though I have no interest in having children at this point.
Due to my lack of actual sexual ability, which I gladly disclaim and advertise, I have become pretty damn epic at the concept of foreplay and acquiring a non penis penetrating related orgasm out of the core demographic. Though some have chosen to enjoy the fruits of my self deprecation, many have chosen to focus on the fact that it was either sad that that’s what I would prefer doing (which is pretty awful I think, considering I am trying to get you off here!) or even worse, condemned me, for being this good, means I am actually pretty bad, in the context of practice makes perfect…the inference being that being a philanderer allows the technique to be tested and proven.
The human psyche is an intriguing piece of engineering. Well, that’s as logically as I can state it. The well documented fact that women can go from hot to dry (yes, that is an actual path) in 0.2 seconds is exclusive by virtue of genitalia, is in my opinion, wrong. For though, on occasion, by penis has shown its more tenacious side, it too aborts mission pretty dramatically based on a rift in the force…be it a tasteless statement, or maneuver poorly executed or any other number of dramatic fails.
Where does it all end folks? Do I just need to get drunk every time to start getting over the enormous load of issues my hamsters choose to process? Do I seek salvation in the little blue pill and hope that my thoughts won’t override drugs? Or do I just wave to a world lacking context, passing by? Libido…check. General working parts….check. Does not prematurely ejaculate…check. Comfortable in own skin….check. Clear mind….I dare you…
“A pair of powerful spectacles has sometimes sufficed to cure a person in love.”
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