26 Mar 2004
So skipping along the road,
I watched the cars go past,
And then a big red bus passed,
And remembering my sweet slumber,
I accidentally slipped,
Beneath the erasing rubber wheels,
Straight to hell.
23 Mar 2004
There is not much point in arguing the corner for freedom of choice if you are not going to use it.
Well, that’s the whole point isn’t it? As long as I have it I am free to do what I want with it, even if that means not using it at all. That is my choice.
Your choice for apathy.
Perhaps. You see Desmond, I believe that we do have the ability to change our futures with choices that we make. I believe that we can cause our individual paths through life to alter.
Right. For a minute there I thought you were suggesting that any actions that we make are futile maybe because everything is already pre-destined.
No, not exactly. I mean, I am lazy by nature but it is more than that. I believe that through free choice we do have the chance to affect our destinies.
Then why do you take no action?
Because, although our actions affect us, they never affect us in the way we might have intended them to. You see, there are too many other variables, too many other considerations to be taken into account in any one moment for us to ever have complete control of it.
Like what for example.
Like your own freedom of choice. If you choose to act in a certain manner might that not effect my actions? The weather. Every passing moment brings change. We can have no hope of keeping ahead of this tide.
So what are we to do?
Accept that we are going to be blown around, often away from our intended path, and continue in the general direction we have set ourselves, if we have indeed set ourselves one. What happens if you take the wrong turning when you walk to a new pub and then realise your mistake five miles down the road? Do you turn back or do you alter your direction to get back on the right heading?
I suppose it depends on your character, but I take your example.
Good. However, this does not explain why I take no action.
Well, why do you choose to take no advantage of your freedom of choice?
It could be argued that every event is indeed pre-ordained from the very beginning, the result of a chain reaction of action and effect, like dominoes if you will, and so every choice that I make is indeed not mine. It has already been made. I just have the illusion that I have the freedom to make up my own mind.
Then why argue for freedom of choice? I do not understand.
Nor do I really. However, I believe that although the chain reaction might seem like a done deal, like all the dominoes falling down, the outcome is not written in stone, if you will, and that other forces act upon the chain that are beyond the chain’s control. For example, what if, after knocking down the first domino in a line of dominoes, you took out the fourth and fifth domino before they fell, thus changing the expected outcome.
Ah, but wouldn’t your action of removing the dominoes itself be pre-determined itself?
Well, yes, but you miss the point. I mean to explain that there are many of these causal nexi that are all pre-determined by cause and affect but when they come into contact with other chains they cause changes in each other that could not be pre-determined.
Look, like I said earlier. As an individual, I cannot be sure of my future because I have to be aware that your actions might affect it beyond my knowledge and out of my control. We are like the chains. Do you see?
Perhaps. It is not too clear.
I know. It is a desperate attempt to escape the logical and rational answer that we, actually, have no freedom of choice at all. I’m not sure if it works yet. Shall we have a beer and continue this inside?
Much later indeed….
Nah, its all bollocks! We’re all stuck in a great big cosmic equation that noone fucking knows but we know about it and there’s fuck all we can do about it and it’s fucking crap. Landlord, two more tequilas.
22 Mar 2004
Two Thursdays ago he ran into her in the Carriers. He barged into the pub with his fellow hockey players post-practice, all brimming with adrenalin and sweaty armpits and boisterous behaviour and he ordered the round. As he took a well earned draft from his pint, he sauntered around the corner to the table only to be struck by the visage of that dark lady. There she sat at a corner table, looking at him. His brain flashed a warning to get a firm grip and he walked straight ahead to her table, all the time aware that the fact he was sober and about to make with some moves, was rather a rare occurrence. ‘How will I perform?’ he asked himself as he straight away sat himself down on a stool next to the lady in his sights.
Later, as he left her company to joins his sporting compadres on another table, he mused that the meeting had gone quite well. Other than the fact that he had apparently given her an incorrect number in the club, that he couldn’t remember her name and had to persuade her to play hangman so that he might discover what it was and that one of Shakira’s flatmates was sitting at the table. A flatmate that Shakira (for that was her name) asked if he remembered. “Erm, no, should I?” he ventured, all the time with a dawning feeling of familiarity. Shakira informed him that Tracey had been the target several weeks before, in the same club, but she told him with a smile on his face, perhaps because although he had forgotten her name, he had not forgotten her altogether. Numbers were exchanged again and he told her he would call. Which he did.
Saturday night came and he found himself sitting alone at a table at that same pub. They had arranged to meet at seven thirty for a drink and would then meander over to the restaurant for a meal. All very proper date-like. He was absolutely shitting it and bemoaned the fact to himself that he was still sober at least twice every minute. Probably as a result of the noticeable element of clean-sailing that he had achieved in their last sober meeting, he had decided to start their date sober and move on with her from there. He wondered if this fear was normal for a pre-date sensation or if, as your date tally grew, you became hardened to the trepidation he was feeling. He couldn’t remember. He also wondered and worried about Date Etiquette. For example, is there an unspoken law that he suspected might exist but was not sure about, that said, no matter how well things are going, one shall not attempt to get into her knickers on the first date? How far then? A kiss on the doorstep, tongues, groppage, what?
A military upbringing meant that he was ten minutes early, all the better to have time to wind himself up with pre-date anxiety. ‘Is she coming, what time is it, perhaps she’s standing me up, is it seven thirty yet, should I go now, where’s my mobile, have I dreamt the whole thing?’ he thought repeatedly. The fact that it was still only seven twenty five made no difference to his nerves. The shandy was not really helping either. Shakira did turn up to meet him, only several minutes late and looking absolutely gorgeous although she professed to being slightly tired. His heart sank a little when she asked for a diet coke with lemon and ice but nothing else. ‘Bollocks to this’ he thought, ‘Abstinence be damned. I’m having a G and T immediately!’
Things were going very well. They made it to Scrummies and they ordered, ate and talked and drank the fruity rose that he had brought. He made her laugh, she made him laugh, and he did not more than twice take a quick peek down her sumptuous cleavage. He was honest about everything. It was after he had honestly complimented her in some way that the problem started. “I cannot stand cheesey lines,” she informed him “but that shouldn’t be a problem you suffer from, what with you being a writer and everything, right?” He shook his head vehemently. ‘Right, so she wants the quality shit, the good stuff, no problem.’ he noted to himself, ‘No problem.’ The evening progressed wonderfully well. Shakira was totally engaging and he lapped her up. They eventually decided to give the chef and last waitress a break and leave the establishment. He rolled them both a fag and they took to the streets. They walked back towards her flat by the sea and on the way he put his arm around her. Then he gave her a piggy-back. She invited him up for a spliff and he accepted, although with a warning of “I warn you, I’ll get weirder.” which she laughed at after looking him straight in the eye as if to say ‘Is that possible, I wonder?’
She showed him around the flat and re-introduced him to her flatmates. He rolled a couple of spliffs which the two of them shared and they drank a dark green cocktail. The flatmates went upstairs to bed and he mused as to whether or not he should move in for a kiss. They had been exchanging private glances as they smoked and talked with the others but he was not entirely confident that Shakira was ready for snoggage, what with it being a first date and everything. She got up and walked past him to close the window with her g-string showing leaving him no choice. He grabbed her as she came back. “C’mere!” he said as he pulled her down to the sofa and wrapped his arms around her. She moaned a little as his hands stroked from her shoulder to her knees down her side. She moved her long hair from her face and he bent down to kiss those full lips as her head lay in his lap. They kissed for awhile and then she broke away and said,”Say something poetic about me.”
‘For fuck’s sake!’ he thought to himself as he stared down into her eyes in mild panic, ‘It’s almost always the same. The lady in the equation needing to justify what is happening and what might well happen in a little bit. Why? It’s all good the way it is, isn’t it?’ Then he thought to himself what might happen in a little bit and pulled himself together.
“Poetic? Shakira, sweet thing, I’m fairly pissed and a little stoned and whatever I come up with is going to sound cheesey.”
“Go on. Please.”
“But I thought you hated ‘cheesey’” he replied as he thought wryly to himself, ‘Good thing I washed my knob.’
“Please…” she repeated as she pulled his head to hers and they kissed.
“Alright. How about this…” and he proceeded to do an acceptable job of composing an epic saga of their meetings and the events that had led them to this sofa and this clinch, all from off the cuff, in rhyming couplets of no definite meter and with open ended and very loose meanings. He had commenced slowly but as his mind got into the groove it just started to pour out. He enjoyed it and she showed him her appreciation with delectable kisses. “You’re very talented,” she told him. He replied with,”It’s easy to write about something you’re very interested in.” They got back to the matter in hand for awhile before she freed herself from his grasp and sat upright and proclaimed the fact that she was about to be sick.
He thought, ‘Fair enough, that’s probably about enough for a First Date anyway, isn’t it?’ He helped her to the toilet and was about to say goodbye and leave her to it when she flapped her hand in the direction of her room and told him to wait in there and tidy it up. She shut the bathroom door and for the next fifteen minutes there were sounds of eruption and then absolution and water running. He spent the time picking the clothes up from her bed, inspecting them, folding them and piling them on the floor by her wardrobe. The room was not excessively messy at all, quite clean in fact when compared to some, he pondered with a very mild sense of guilt. He paid special attention to the two thongs he found. He smelt them and inhaled a musty aroma that hinted of spices, nutmeg or cinnamon. He placed them out of sight and sat on the bottom mattress of her bunk and waited for her to come in.
When she did she told him to close his eyes as she changed into her pajama bottoms. “I’ll close my eyes but I have to warn you that I have a very active imagination”, he said.
“Don’t!” she giggled
“O yes, that’s very nice. Wow, you look great, amazing, I’m really enjoying this.”
“Stop it!” she said and hit him on the head with her trousers.
She dove under the duvet and complained of being cold. ‘Right,’ he thought, ‘that’s definitely suggesting I warm her up, isn’t it? Can I do that on a first date? Fuck it, I’m jumping in there with her.’ He cuddled up close behind her as they watched some dramatic Bollywood movie, her translating what was going on for him. He stopped stroking her for a moment to sit upright and take off his top and then his trousers. “What are you doing?” she asked. “Shared bodily warmth works much better without clothes. Trust me, I’m a survival specialist.” he replied. She said nothing as he shaped his body to fit around hers again. And there they stayed, his strokings becoming more adventurous as her body gave in to them.
Not much later and things had advanced past a stage that he knew was against First Date rules but he gave it no real thought as his mind was happily occupied elsewhere. Things were going very well indeed and then she asked, ”What are you going to do to me?” in a tone of mildly desperate arousal, quite insistent in fact. “Errm, I’m going to pleasure you as much as you want.” he replied between mouthfuls.
“No,” she said as she pressed his head down onto her magnificent chest with both hands “What are you going to do to me?!”
He stopped what he was doing for a moment as the realisation dawned on him that she wanted to hear graphic details of sexual content, otherwise known as Dirty Talk. ‘Okay,’ he thought quickly to himself, ‘I can do that. I’m a writer. No problem.’
“I’m going to run my hands up and down your svelte body, all over you, and kiss every inch of you.” he whispered into her hair huskily.
“Are you going to fuck me?” she demanded. ‘Shit,’ he thought ‘She’s not hanging about. I guess I am going to fuck her then. First Date rules be damned. Right.’
“I’m going to make sweet love to you all night and make your toes curl and your back arch” he said as he pulled on her hair and then kissed her hard.
“I want you to fuck me hard from behind. You can do whatever you want. Fuck me hard and deep.” she hissed from between clenched teeth as he nibbled on her bits. “What are you going to do?” she asked again.
He paused as he stopped himself from coming up with a reply loaded with style and over ebullient verbiage. ‘Talk dirty man, enough with the poetry,’ he thought to himself and then the contradiction hit him. Earlier she was demanding of him top-end linguistics and now she wanted gutter talk. ‘I guess there is a time and place for both,’ he considered as he desperately stopped trying to think of ‘sweet and moist valleys’ and ‘torrents of passion’ and other such terms which were just not mucky enough for the situation at hand.
“Fuck you.” he ventured and then added, ”Hard.”
“Yes! And then?”
‘What do you mean “And then?”?’ he asked himself. ‘I don’t know, I guess I’ll fuck you again, this time hard and deep and from behind. Isn’t it eminently obvious?’ He told her and then dove downward to occupy his mouth in something that he thought he would be better at. He felt far from adequate at the whole Dirty Talk thing, but he knew he was more than acceptable at Cunning Linguistics. He made a note to spend some time working on bringing his language down into the gutter for just such an occasion in the future.
“Gosh, as I view your perfect form all I can consider is becoming one with you in a perfectly fitting physical union. The light covers you in shadows from whence arise the twin golden globes of your derriere, mounds I am intent on grasping firmly whilst I pleasure you from the aft until you deluge. I mean to run my fingers over your every inch and into every crevice, exploring the wonderland that is your perfect body, mine to behold. My throbbing member is awoken to charge forth within. I am going to plough your furrow with great might indeed. I desire to service your salivating pit of desire with great abandon, causing your breast necks to stand proud, your exclamations become wanton and your cerebellum to reach such mighty heights of excruciating pleasure. Have at you!”
So, let us try changing;
Perfect Form............................................................Sexy Bitch
Becoming one with you...........................................Fuck You
Perfectly Fitting Physical Union ...............................Ragged
Twin Golden Globes of your Derriere.......................Arse
Pleasure You From the Aft.......................................Fuck You from Behind
Great Abandon........................................................Hard and Deep
Salivating Pit of Desire............................................Cunt
Exclamations Wanton.............................................Scream your Head Off
Cerebellum to reach such…etc................................Fuck Your Brains Out
Have at You!...........................................................C’mere!
“I’m going to fuck you ragged you sexy bitch. I’m going to fuck you hard from behind and squeeze your sexy arse and make you cum. I’m going to rub your sexy body and grope your cunt and bite your tits. My cock is rock hard and ready to fuck you. I am going to fuck your cunt hard. I want to fuck your cunt hard and deep and make your nipples hard and make you scream your head off as I fuck your brains out. C’mere!”
So, from this experimental foray into the world of Dirty Talk, we can see that repetition is a good thing and it is most certainly a case of content over style. Keep things simple and do not over elaborate. When you are getting Down and Dirty there is no need for Shakespeare. Shakespeare gets you to this point.