Pharmakeion (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
pharmakeiaspring) wrote2011-09-18 10:15 pm
pharmakeiaspring) wrote2011-09-18 10:15 pm
Thoughtdump is sexcrime. Captain Airstrip One was Always At War With The Avengers
You know, sometimes gentlemen, I do wonder if I am a sexual predator. Or a cougar, or whatever they call it. Does one have to be over forty for that title? Can I be a puma or an ocelot or a leopard? Maybe a shoving leopard. Lately I seem to be hitting on/getting involved with people significantly my junior, usually undergrads. Usually Newcastle undergrads. Usually Newcastle Rock Soc members. I find very little attractive about most Durham undergrads, as there are only a few flowers amongst a sea of horse-faced gilet/rugby shirt-sporting children of the defunct upper class. Durham's Rock Society are far too genteel for my liking, it's not a decent rock society unless there's at least one vendetta ongoing between former or current members of the committee. Now, it's possible this is just droit de grad student, but I've honestly never been the one in the student union during fresher's week keeping a tally chart. Hopefully so far I have been obeying the campsite rule - leave them in a better condition than when you first...er...pitched. Oh, the plethora of possible tent peg jokes.
One of my friends on livejournal is suffering from what I think of as bi-inadequacy. She thinks she has to sleep with a woman to prove her bisexuality. By that logic, every basement-dwelling faggot-yelling-over-Xbox-live thirty-year old virgin should be in a state of not-heterosexual-until-proven-so-by-baptism-in-Skene's-fluid sexual limbo. This I know, but I used to suffer something of the bi-inadequacy myself, or rather assumed-bi-inadequacy. Someone confiscate my hyphens. I remember some years ago whilst enduring another undignified jaunt to London the utter fool who sang in my ex's band thought would get them noticed, we spent the evening sitting in the East End summer with the scents of Brick Lane curry wafting over Commercial Street blah blah etc. out the back of the grubby tenement Fool-of-a-Singer's current girlfriend was living in. My ex, F-o-a-S and their mutual friend decided to speculate on my bisexuality, how kind. Ex, having denied me women so far in a sort of wishy-washy manner and his friends maintained that since I had never slept with a woman I was clearly not bisexual. Nonsense, said I, and I would prove it. With Ex's permission I would kiss Fool-of-a-Singer's current girlfriend, who, when sober, is quite nice, or at least she was when we last spoke. This was not because girlfriend had been flirting with me - I am still very bad at telling when someone is flirting with me. When I flirt with someone it consists of my talking normally and then deliberately performing primate vulnerability gestures and sexual signals at them, crossing physical boundaries and the like and watching out for their body language shutting down. I never learned it instinctively - Desmond Morris taught me to flirt. Girlfriend was not flirting with me to the best of my knowledge. She was just a convenient and drunk demonstration model. Ex, to my surprise, gave me permission, to my further surprise so did Fool-of-a-Singer's Girlfriend. And so, I proved it. Fool-of-a-Singer, in his usual fashion, then complained that his girlfriend hadn't sought his permission. Perhaps he was under the mistaken impression that she was his property. I asked permission of my Ex because I was considering his feelings, not because he had veto rights. He lost those considerations and exclusive rights to my body a few years later when he started hitting me. That, curiously enough, was the first time I kissed a woman. Later, when the girlfriend in a half-drunken stupour had fallen asleep on the cold concrete outside and I tried to wake her, she told me not to touch her and muttered something about being afraid I would rape her. And that was very informative.
Let me put it this way, by now, I know the kiss of a woman who is doing it to titillate their partner, I know the kiss of a woman who's thinking "This could be interesting..." and I know the kiss of a woman who enjoys an occasional wander in the Garden of Venus. Those people who never leave said garden, I know nothing of, due to pure statistics. I move in the circles of very few of them, and those I know are happily monogamous and partnered. And far as I know, the one time I kissed my friend with bi-inadequacy, there was nothing pretend there. I would say this to her, but the complaint about her bi-inadequacy was with one about other people gloating about their sex lives and I know how it would be read. I'm thinking about all this because I lately was considering the fact that because of various social nonsenses it appears to be necessary for me to make the first move, taking a role more traditionally thought of in those social nonsenses as "male". Then lately I extended the thought that those social nonsenses sometimes make it so that some women do not resist sexual advances because they are afraid of making a fuss, appearing frigid, and so on. Who knows how that works with a woman who thinks she will turn on her boyfriend by kissing me (and they are rarer than some seem to think...). This reminds me that it is absolutely vital at all times, whether making an advance on a male or a female to check that the person is okay with it. Unfortunately I think those checks can't just be verbal. And I still cannot instinctively read body language. Minefield.
In other news, last night I watched what Amy refers to as "The Matrix Reformatted" which is all the Matrix films one after the other, the second and third heavily cut to trim out extremely tiresome mobile suit battles. It was still four hours long, but still not as difficult as watching anything by Tarkovsky as I have stated before. Do you ever get that feeling, when people are saying things like "You do know now...but you will.." in mysterious tones, that you're looking at a sandpit from your childhood that children are playing games in? Or when people talk about Aleister Crowley as if he was a demon lord, or talk about homeopathy as if the laws of pharmacological efficacy were some kind of a personal choice that water makes. Or misquote that Hamlet line about open-mindedness. Stop fucking gilding refined fucking gold and sprinkling fucking perfume on the fucking violet. And then I think to myself "By Cassiopeia's heavenly cucking stool, I'm an arrogant hubristic bitch for thinking that".
One of my friends on livejournal is suffering from what I think of as bi-inadequacy. She thinks she has to sleep with a woman to prove her bisexuality. By that logic, every basement-dwelling faggot-yelling-over-Xbox-live thirty-year old virgin should be in a state of not-heterosexual-until-proven-so-by-baptism-in-Skene's-fluid sexual limbo. This I know, but I used to suffer something of the bi-inadequacy myself, or rather assumed-bi-inadequacy. Someone confiscate my hyphens. I remember some years ago whilst enduring another undignified jaunt to London the utter fool who sang in my ex's band thought would get them noticed, we spent the evening sitting in the East End summer with the scents of Brick Lane curry wafting over Commercial Street blah blah etc. out the back of the grubby tenement Fool-of-a-Singer's current girlfriend was living in. My ex, F-o-a-S and their mutual friend decided to speculate on my bisexuality, how kind. Ex, having denied me women so far in a sort of wishy-washy manner and his friends maintained that since I had never slept with a woman I was clearly not bisexual. Nonsense, said I, and I would prove it. With Ex's permission I would kiss Fool-of-a-Singer's current girlfriend, who, when sober, is quite nice, or at least she was when we last spoke. This was not because girlfriend had been flirting with me - I am still very bad at telling when someone is flirting with me. When I flirt with someone it consists of my talking normally and then deliberately performing primate vulnerability gestures and sexual signals at them, crossing physical boundaries and the like and watching out for their body language shutting down. I never learned it instinctively - Desmond Morris taught me to flirt. Girlfriend was not flirting with me to the best of my knowledge. She was just a convenient and drunk demonstration model. Ex, to my surprise, gave me permission, to my further surprise so did Fool-of-a-Singer's Girlfriend. And so, I proved it. Fool-of-a-Singer, in his usual fashion, then complained that his girlfriend hadn't sought his permission. Perhaps he was under the mistaken impression that she was his property. I asked permission of my Ex because I was considering his feelings, not because he had veto rights. He lost those considerations and exclusive rights to my body a few years later when he started hitting me. That, curiously enough, was the first time I kissed a woman. Later, when the girlfriend in a half-drunken stupour had fallen asleep on the cold concrete outside and I tried to wake her, she told me not to touch her and muttered something about being afraid I would rape her. And that was very informative.
Let me put it this way, by now, I know the kiss of a woman who is doing it to titillate their partner, I know the kiss of a woman who's thinking "This could be interesting..." and I know the kiss of a woman who enjoys an occasional wander in the Garden of Venus. Those people who never leave said garden, I know nothing of, due to pure statistics. I move in the circles of very few of them, and those I know are happily monogamous and partnered. And far as I know, the one time I kissed my friend with bi-inadequacy, there was nothing pretend there. I would say this to her, but the complaint about her bi-inadequacy was with one about other people gloating about their sex lives and I know how it would be read. I'm thinking about all this because I lately was considering the fact that because of various social nonsenses it appears to be necessary for me to make the first move, taking a role more traditionally thought of in those social nonsenses as "male". Then lately I extended the thought that those social nonsenses sometimes make it so that some women do not resist sexual advances because they are afraid of making a fuss, appearing frigid, and so on. Who knows how that works with a woman who thinks she will turn on her boyfriend by kissing me (and they are rarer than some seem to think...). This reminds me that it is absolutely vital at all times, whether making an advance on a male or a female to check that the person is okay with it. Unfortunately I think those checks can't just be verbal. And I still cannot instinctively read body language. Minefield.
In other news, last night I watched what Amy refers to as "The Matrix Reformatted" which is all the Matrix films one after the other, the second and third heavily cut to trim out extremely tiresome mobile suit battles. It was still four hours long, but still not as difficult as watching anything by Tarkovsky as I have stated before. Do you ever get that feeling, when people are saying things like "You do know now...but you will.." in mysterious tones, that you're looking at a sandpit from your childhood that children are playing games in? Or when people talk about Aleister Crowley as if he was a demon lord, or talk about homeopathy as if the laws of pharmacological efficacy were some kind of a personal choice that water makes. Or misquote that Hamlet line about open-mindedness. Stop fucking gilding refined fucking gold and sprinkling fucking perfume on the fucking violet. And then I think to myself "By Cassiopeia's heavenly cucking stool, I'm an arrogant hubristic bitch for thinking that".