Vintage = Sex

Sexuality & Romanticism

How true is the male stereotype? Though I am aware sex "can" be a primary impulse, society emphasizes that it's a man's only motive. Anything else they may think would be a 'lie' because what they really want is sex. Period. Since most of my friends are guys, I've learned that that's a falsity. Romanticism differs between men and women. Society upholds that romanticizing simply entails lovey-dovey things like The Notebook, Valentines, flowers, and 'love-making' by candlelight. But real romanticism is attaching a particular attachment to anything. It could be smoking a cigarette by the railroad tracks on a crisp autumn night, drinking coffee and conversing with someone you've never met before, or feeling the music of a particular band as it pulses through you and the crowd; uniting the diversified group through song and dance. It could also be staring into your significant others eyes, tasting the flesh of their lip, or wistfully hoping after someone. But, men tend to romanticize passions first, and love second. Women tend to romanticize love first, and passions second.

Tend is a lenience, it doesn't apply to everybody. Of course there will be deviations. What I'm saying applies to the general audience. In theory.

When women think about sex, it tends to be flowery and romantic. It's lustful too, but the predominant tendency is intimacy. When men think about sex, it tends to be passionate, lusty and raw. It's sensitive too, but the impulse leans more towards the physical aspects.

Anatomically speaking, how we relate to sex could be part of our defense mechanism. If women tend to romanticize the situation more, they'll only want to share it with a certain person. She's the one who'll have to carry around a life for nine months if something were to impregnate her, after all. Men don't have to worry about that. But subconsciously speaking: men aren't insensitive. They aren't sex-driven hounds constantly lusting and needing satisfaction. And women aren't always sensitive, lovelorn, and all that shit. It's just a tendency, and tendencies aren't certainties.

Anyway, what I'm curious about is honestly how much of your time is spent thinking about sex or something related to it. Not whether you romanticize it or not, just outright think about it. In a percentage, say, everyday. To open the poll, I'll begin. I probably think about it 38% of the time. But it depends who I'm with, what the circumstances are and where the conversation is going. Heh. Sometimes it's more like 58-63 if I spend an entire day in the gutter with a group of silly people who think along my sexual wavelength. Hah.

Masochistic Humor

Laughter was broken by intervals of coughs. Eventually the ravaged throat hiccupped blood and the laughter subsided. Such a bitter metallic taste was too astringent to perpetuate joy. Water, rolled around, spat out. Still an iron-rusted likeness: hard, sour. Vomit. Laughter again caught the air, but it was satirical this time. Comforting? Almost, but alluding more so to preoccupation. Water, rolled around, spat out. The metal was gone, but lemon twisted slightly with a precious small amount of chyme - stomach acid - laced the larynx. Disgust, momentarily abated; laughter ensued.

Possible new layout

I'm unsure, so that means it'll change. This is just a temporary-fix until the new one comes around, I think. I have an idea that's sort of along these lines, but I had nothing else to do so I just scribbled, scanned and stuck it onto the background.

Any suggestions are welcome, but I'll say it before anyone else does:

BOOBIES. BREASTS. TITTIES. In the LLAMABLOGBOOBIES.

Oh, to be decrypt

Oh, to die: but to experience the be all and end all of existence, the desire to find myself in equilibrium with men, to lack the differentiation of my mortal body to yours. His rib will be as mine, his skull indistinguishable from my own except by those few who specialize in such a field. I do not anticipate it so much as accept it. Dwelling on fear of the inevitable is wasted apprehension. Save fear for those integral moments when it may save your life with intuition. Otherwise, do not trip over trepidation or they will walk all over you. Dirty shoes. Toe-gum. Foul-smelling smiles. Manipulation. It won't take much for you to crumble under their irrefutable obstinacy.

I'll be the bitch who fails to cry at your funeral while the priest murmurs Christian incantations and the women bow their heads and bodies over your pallid corpse. My cheeks will flush while theirs will wax. It will smell like dehydrated poppy-seeds. I will want to close the casket. Instead I will walk away. They will glower at my back and burn holes into my abdomen with their sensitivity. I will envy you, for in my head I will envision the nails, which will extend and curl, the gnarled hair that will extend and flourish, and then the decay of your body. You will become immaculate. White bone, parched cartilage... no more an individual -- equal with the mass of skeletons enclosed in caskets under the ground. A tombstone will stay, perhaps; but with years it will also wither and disintegrate to become stone from whence it came.

I envy the stone. I envy your bones. I will not cry. You don't deserve it.

Tea Secrets

The tag attached to my tea bag says that I should be proud of who I am.

I'm obliged to the powerful message this ginger tea bag has beheld for me.

I shall be proud of who I am henceforth.

Intermission Prelude

Thank you for regarding me as your friend. Thank you for considering what I say and contemplating my words. I appreciate your opinion, and I hold it in high regard. If you're uncomfortable with me or something I'm doing don't hesitate to tell me what it is. The last thing I want is for you to be uncomfortable around me because of something I'm doing; I'd gladly change what I'm doing to accommodate you. However, I refuse to change who I am. I cannot be who you desire me to be, so I hope all that I am is sufficient. I love your quirks. I love the way you look when you're exasperated with me. The satirical expression, which distorts your eyes and snares your lip nourishes my spirit.

I'm elated in your presence. I delight in your attention, but I try not to get too caught up in the moment. I'm afraid of regret, so I avoid doubt as much as morally possible. You inspire me. If I could paint a portrait of how important you are to me and make other people understand the intricacy of my gratitude; I'd be more famous than Da Vinci, Michelangelo and Monet. They would see your laughter: the quiet chortle behind smiling lips, the humor in your eyes, and the subtle way your composure is enough to turn heads. They would understand how the way you curl your fingers around my hand can be electric. Lovelorn pretense would waste away. Loneliness wouldn't exist. They would feel wholly appreciated, endowed with warmth that has been written and jaded to all extents, but felt uniquely from one person to the next.

My perspective has been altered. I see things a little differently now. I wish I could deliberate exactly what it is I know or feel, but it's difficult for me to comprehend. It's surreal but adamant. It would be neat if you could understand, but I can't expect you to. Thank you. You're special. You're irreplaceable. I wouldn't be the same person if I didn't know you.

Music of the moment: Fast Car by Tracy Chapman

Yellow Sparrow

Backache,
Headache,
You're such
A mistake;
I knew to
Step back,
Make contact,
But retract
When exactly
You react.

Pining for that reassuring inebriation
All, which bombards you, is senseless
Ambiguity.

Tracing, backtracking, lacking a sense of
clarity, you fall --
into my lap
of amiability. Entangled in lovelorn
sensitivity, we lose each other to the horn-
thick drudgery of apathy. Backache, head
ache you're such a mistake; I knew to step
back, make contact, but retract when exact-
ly you react.

Angry purple make-up smeared under
the already tired-emphasis of your sli-
tted and weary eyes, I pause to conte-
mplate, animate, my sense of self-suff-
iciency. You're lacking, slacking: break
for me, my apathy; all I've come to be.

Saturday night alone in my bedroom I
seek for those friends which I've gro-
wn to get used to. They loiter in the
palpable recesses of my memory, un-
related to anything of any real subs-
tantiality. Look for them, search, play
the gullible wench with a satirical lau-
gh. Guffaw, guffaw, rapture abounds.

Lucky are we, the few, but innumerous;
Enrapt with the company of these fell-
ows, who spring from our delusion.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

<'begin explanation'>I felt a little woebegone and lonely before I went out for coffee with Matty last night. Outright pensiveness tends to make me feel poetic. I wrote all but the last stanza last night, without the last part it felt incomplete. It still is, I think. But for the time being I like it raw.<'/end explanation'>

bonne fête ·

Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me...

Happy News

Unrelated to creative writing but exciting enough to share: Vanessa is an auntie! Now, this joyous event of nephew-affirmation should be enough inspiration for her to write and post, yes? Haha. Com'on now, the Llama blog needs some flavah.

Crushed Nutmeg

The rain ran across the ice. It applied ample lubrication while the warmth of the stagnant air continued to deteriorate the ice and snow. It was nearing half-past six. She walked peaceably, hands thrust into the front pockets of her overcoat. The smell of spring rain was welcomed into her eagerly flaring lungs and the taste, which swathed her taste buds, was delicious. Distant warm light began to swell behind a flat blanket of cloud, faintly indicating the lengthening of the days. The hope of spring was beginning its gentle asphyxiation of winter.

The catwalk was coated in ice and water, so she took special precaution by trudging through the water-weighted snow on the right side of the pathway. Contemplatively, she made her way towards the street corner. Home was near. Idle thoughts carried her tediously onward. The damp air and plump drops fell to coil a couple pieces of hair by her ear and forehead but she paid no heed. Suddenly she hit a particularly icy patch. Her shoes dramatically slid from under her and she fell hard to the ground. Her hand instinctively flung out for support but the hard asphalt gnashed and stung. Bitter water, dark and damp, clung to her left profile.

Her body seized. She began the futile task of struggling to her feet. Two streams of light garishly blared out, distorted by the subtly falling rain. The bumper cracked against her forehead, throwing her backward. Her head struck the road. There had been a mere second of concentrated and agonizing pain before she lost consciousness. Contorted, maimed, her body lay. In the ghastly glow cast by the streetlights, blood leaking from her mangled body appeared black. Like snakes it slunk through the water. The driver was drunk and the passengers, partially stoned. They were terror-stricken and loitered swearing and vomiting for the first few minutes before a neighbor had the sense to come outside from the clamor and call an ambulance.

They announced her dead on arrival. While the sky began to blush dusty-rose behind a mask of slate gray and the rain maintained it's romantic continuum, a black body bag was drawn about the girl. Haunting silence ensnared the street. A young girl cackled at her brother who slipped on the sidewalk. People stood, pallid-faced and grim in housecoats on their porches, feeling the adrenaline mix with the vomit and blood in the water. No legible expression was fixed on her face. Softly closed eyes, straight-set slightly parted lips... the first spring rain of the year, oh, she loved the rain so much. Whether in heaven or hell, she arrived home a little swifter than she had anticipated.

. . . . . .
Music of the moment: Butterflies and Hurricanes by Muse

Resurrecting the Dead

Germany invaded Russia. The battle lasted many long and arduous days. The General fought with valor and benefited Russia greatly with his raw mercilessness. But, inevitably, as time wore on; Gustovski found it difficult to maintain his stamina. He was killed honorably, but Russia could not afford to lose him forever. Thus, they summoned a powerful Savage who portrayed infallible grace with her cloak of majestic deception, and she conjured up a mighty spell. With her grace and magical proficiency she resurrected the General, but this time he was greater than the former Gustovski. So they dubbed him with a brighter, shinier and more magnificent title to fit his more magnanimous physique.

General Squishy.

Dispel Everything

"I dream of that" wistful words,
Morose, malcontent, it slips
From their quaking lips.

"I never knew" weary words,
Distant, detached, it falls
From my aching jowls.

A genteel grin obliterates
The distilling feeling, which
Propels my spirit through a
Perpetual spiral of delirium.

Ignorance breeds apathy,
Knowledge seeds saturnine
A pining desire flourishes
For that unattainable plane
Existing between two worlds.

Apologies are never accepted by
humble, simplistic gentlefolk
But they are never shunned
By myopic, egocentric fools.

From my aching jowls,
Distant, detached, it falls
Wary words, "I never knew."

From their quaking lips,
Morose, malcontent, it slips
Wistful words, "I dream of that."

Fregan Fortitude

The delicious warmth of an early March day engaged the smell of melting snow that slathered the asphalt with slush. It was 3:32 in the afternoon. Sparse-few clouds lacking much structure, languished tiredly along the horizon while the white sun contently thrived through the bluescape. Miniature creeks formed between boulevards of snow and ice-rimmed outcroppings jutted delicately out to sparkle with the meandering light. A woman pushed her shopping cart out of London Drugs, talking absentmindedly with a friend whilst fixing her maternal eye on her son who clung blithely on the outer edge. Vigilantly did she mount and descend from the curb.

"Ahh-hhhh-hhh," the prepubescent boy with fair hair supplied his company with incoherent noise to make his voice jump with the rough pavement, which jaunted the vehicle with the velocity of his mother's push. Laughter peeled from him. His tiny red fingers curled into miniscule fists and he grappled the thin bars.

She walked past. She had only given the group a simple glance and hadn't seen the boy's face while he laughed, but she felt his unbridled pleasure elate her. A bag of flour and a loaf of bread sat cradled in her arms. An older gentleman passed by. His toque was pylon-orange and rolled up far enough that it only covered a quarter of his ear. His jacket wore wrinkles as deep as his face and his jeans were faded and tapered. She looked to his eyes and smiled, but he stared at her unintentionally exposed midriff and failed to acknowledge her friendly glance. Discomfiture only lasted momentarily in the girl's mind. The boy's laughter resonated, and her spirit blushed with it.

. . . . . . . . . .

Music of the moment: Sketches of Lovers Rolling in the Grass by No Birds