You’re cuckold as ice.

Not Safe For Work content warning, etc etc and general disclaiming. If you’re not into porn things then stay clear. I hadn’t planned on doing this entry, but Facebook wouldn’t let me post the clip so I had no other alternative:

Like most clickbaiters and members of the internet generation, I’m given to bouts of hyperbole. There are things in my life that err on the side of amazing, awesome, phenomenal, unreal and unbelievable. In reality, my life is anything but. Sure, great things happen. I get surprised from time to time. Some situations I get myself seem inexplicable, but like everything else are usually the result of causality.

If you’re questioning the validity of my unnecessarily polysyllabic preamble, it’s because I found a porn clip that’s divine.

Yes, I know what the word means. I hear you out there with your squabbles and frittering. Hey Leon the chorus of voices in my head meant to represent this invisible peanut gallery cry you don’t believe in God, so how can you use that word in any conscionable fashion? Because, dear evocation of my increasingly obvious insanity, this clip is so transcendent that it confirms for me the existence of a higher power. It’s awesome, in that it inspires me awe. I’m amazed that it exists. It’s certainly a type of phenomena. It’s unreal because this scenario achieves a level of absurdity that reality can’t reflect. Lastly, I do not believe that a mere mortal had the insight and sublime humour to create something of this magnitude. In short, some kind of deity certainly exists, because unless I’m hallucinating, this clip exists. I can affirm with certainty that it wouldn’t without celestial intervention.

You may think you’re watching porn, but I can assure you that you aren’t. There is no humanly possible way that someone could stay aroused while viewing this clip. The narrative subverts the conventions of the medium in such a way that the medium is invalidated. It’s known that flexing and forcing other muscles to work is a quick way to bring down an erection. This scene should be forcing you to laugh so hard that your abs will constrict, ruining any hardon that’d been accrued.

The premise to the clip is that this lady’s husband bought a hoverboard from some dude, but couldn’t afford to pay for it. They come back to the apartment to see if she can pay for it, or work out some kind of deal. If this doesn’t seem all that amusing, it’s because you’re not picturing her husband gleefully gliding around the apartment while they fuck. His whimsy is all encompassing. While he’s meant to be in a submissive position, at no point does he give up status. How could he? It’s impossible to not focus on him spinning in circles while he jerks off another dude. The love he has for his wife is considerably less convincing than his lust for this new toy. He just wants to play with it and is willing to do anything in order to satisfy that desire. Of course she gets him to suck this guy off, but in the process his attention is laser focused at the vacant hoverboard offscreen. She’s moaning with this dealer’s member inside of her and he’s too concerned with practicing his spins (while naked except for a helmet). The dialogue is stilted and the delivery is all the actors can manage without breaking down into hysterics. The Harmontown podcast sent me here and I’m so glad to have lived a life with knowledge of this clip’s existence. Are you ready?

Behold: The most sacred and hilarious cuckold porn I’ve ever witnessed.

Why is a large child going to a sex club anyway?

I got new boots! I’ve been wanting a pair of kickaround shoes for quite some time, but after discovering zero pairs I liked I resolved to do something about it. See, I like clothing that’s simple. No affectations or frills, just nice simple colours that’re easy to wear with a multitude of other items. Perhaps if I knew more about how to clothing I’d veer a bit riskier, but I don’t. With the exception of inbuilt wheels, pumps to make you “jump higher” or flashing lights (all of which I owned as a kid) gimmicks ain’t really my thing. I don’t have the confidence to pull off shiny reflective panels, a deluge of saturated colours or velcro. Simple and plain means it’s harder for me to fuck up. So stuck behind the polarising motivations of not knowing what I want and knowing what I don’t want, I went for a risk-free choice. I got my first ever pair of Dr Martens.

They seem sturdy and hard-wearing. They’re leather, so I polished them up with this “dubbin” stuff to protect them from torrential downpours (in Toronto spring? It happens. Frequently). They’re polished and navy blue and they’re shitting all over my soft feet, so unused to hardship. I know leather’s supposed to be malleable, but in a fight to surrender I think my skin would call uncle first. Thankfully I sit at a desk most of the day, but still after two days of wearing them I’ve taken to adopting breaks whenever I can. My ankles haven’t broken out into blisters yet, but “yet” is a foregone conclusion. I’m not used to this. I’m used to just buying comfortable shoes that bend to my will, rather than fighting with footwear. Everyone seems to think it’ll be purgatory for the first few weeks, but once I’ve paid my dues I should have footwear that’ll last me years. I’m pretty rough on my feet gear, so we’ll see who’ll tap out first. Dear 2 week future Leon, you owe me. I’ll accept payment in the form of a future sports almanac. Grazie.

Had a mediocre night at Oasis last night. Seriously. What’s gone wrong with my life that I’ve managed to find a night at a sex club to be mediocre? The place is great, it was just a pretty unfamiliar crowd last night. Seemed really young, loud, and more unattended guys roaming around leering at people than I’m used to. The rules state that the 3rd and 4th floor are off limits to dudes wandering on their own. The 3rd and 4th floor are replete with plush vinyl lounge suites. It’s where most of the action happens. Guys can come up if they’re invited by a woman who vouches for them. It’s a great system that cuts down on the creep factor. Last night seemed a bit loose, which made me feel a little tense. When my girlfriend questioned a bunch of the guys walking around on their own, they replied that their female friend was in the other room. Then subsequently walked down the stairs. Dicks. Neither of us were really feeling it, so we just went home for snuggles.

The porn scene being filmed was pretty lovely though. Once again, 2 years ago I wouldn’t have thought my response to seeing two girls with a ball gag and a glass dildo engaged in a bit of consensual rough-housing would be “lovely”. Thing is, I have no more apt word for it. I found out later that they were an actual couple performing together, which made a ton of sense. There was an undeniable energy and connection between the two of them. As much as they would’ve been playing up for the camera, there was a natural flow to their engagement. The play was rough, but knowingly so. It was a joy to watch.

In any case, even if there wasn’t much action to be had it was fun playing in the heated pool. There was maxing and relaxing back in the hot tub, a sauna and hot showers with excellent pressure and nice smelling liquids. If I haven’t mentioned it before, I love showers. If I had unlimited hot water I might never leave. I’d waterproof a laptop/kitchen and just work live in the shower. I’d never have to wear clothes and I’d always be fresh and clean. I’d be a splishy, splashy, soap sudsy prune skinned cherub and that’d be ok. So when it comes to visiting Oasis I tend to take multiple showers with no excuse necessary. Do I want to go into the hot tub? I better shower beforehand. Going outside to do bombs into the pool? Shower time first. Do I stink of sex? What could be more pressing than a shower? No matter what I get up to there, you can bet I’ll come out smelling of roses (or tangerine/lavender, last night’s scent).

There are sure to be rides, swings and play to be had, but not the type you’d expect.

Because this space is a free canvas for me to talk about whatever I feel like, I’m gonna use it to plug one of my friend’s projects (that also involves its fair share of plugs).

Toronto has an unfair share of enticing conferences, gatherings and conventions. If there’s something important to you there’s a high likelihood it’ll be important to others. If it’s important enough to others, someone might hire a hall, hotel or convention centre to share their love of the thing they adore. In this case, I’m talking about something often important to many types of love itself. I’m talking about the Playground Conference.

It’s about intercourse, sex, play, fucking and finding pleasure in all the best NSFW ways, but that’s hardly all it’s about. It’s about ethically navigating consent, discussions around gender, sexuality and the fluidity within those spectrums. It’s about engaging in kink in an aware, supportive space. It’s about examining and reconsidering potentially problematic issues within the media you consume and the life you lead. It’s about showcasing sexual preferences you may never have heard about, but are all types of fascinating. It’s about learning more about what makes you tick, what makes you hard, what makes you wet, what makes you yearn, what makes you drool.

Playground is all of these things and more (and if you call in the next 10 minutes…). Playground is a well curated, excellent space for understanding the things that resonate with you, or those you’ve never understood that resonate with others. It’s a superb place to meet people who are conscious and considerate of the feelings of others. It’s rare for any “othering” behaviour to be a mainstay and if it is, people would be quick to apologise and correct their actions. Playground offers grounds for those outside the mainstream to have their voices heard, considered and respected.

Also there are a shit ton of sexy things and people. Experts in their field (some might use the term “sexperts”, but it’s one of the rare portmanteaux I’m not a fan of) or just enthusiasts. There are international authors, speakers, porn stars, advocates and those who simply want to learn more all under one roof.

I feel like saying most of this would be enough to put most “ordinary” or “normal” people off. Fuck that, nobody is ordinary or normal, we all have our little weirdnesses, eccentricities and isms that make us exceptional in every sense of the word. I met and befriended a ton of lovely people last year. People who I don’t define by their sexuality, but applaud for their openness. I’m sure to most people it sounds like a bunch of sex freaks all trying to fuck each other. It’s not. It’s a showcase of the diversity within a very human activity and interest. I had many of my views expanded, boundaries challenged and pushed, none of which I regret. Nobody is there to force anybody into anything they’re not into. It’s a supportive safe space. There’s respect and affection permeating the conference. It’s engrossing to learn about a multitude of activities and preferences you may not have even known to exist. Moreover, it’s fun as fuck.

To give a hint at the kind of programming and diversity you may expect at something like this, cast your eyes over last year’s schedule.

There’s a lot of love, time and money that goes into putting on something of this scale. It’s something that’s of unfathomable benefit to a humming sex positive community like Toronto. It’s no large corporate entity, but a grassroots operation that spares no attention to detail. Knowing the organiser personally, it’s something she does at a lot of personal expense of every kind. That care and attention reverberates throughout the event. I felt just a little bit tingly to be surrounded by the types of people I met. People who all felt so fortunate that something like this existed. Especially feeling the absence of the Feminist Porn Conference this year, Playground 2015 is one of the big red dots on my calendar I can’t wait to attend.

Also, if you call in the next 10 minutes (for real this time)- or two days, rather- you can get in on the ground floor. Super duper early bird tickets for $50+bf are available, with a growing cost as the event looms closer. I’ve already got my ticket. Am I gonna see you there?

We could also affectionately refer to it as “The Delta”

Okay, so. I’m letting you know in advance that this post is gonna be high in sexual content. No avoiding this. If you’re not into reading my take on sexual content (and more importantly, sexual content involving me) then just skip it. If you think (and rightfully so) that reading about me having sex would be strange or uncomfortable for you (hi mum and/or ex-kindergarten chums) then do yourself a favour and leave this stone unturned. Things may get graphic and you might not want those images in your head. Mental bleach can only get out so many damned spots.

So you’ve been warned, right?

Last chance. If you haven’t turned back by now, abandon all hope, here be dragons and any other archaic warning I can think of.

 

 

So I’ve been testing my boundaries ever since I arrived over this side of the world. First up was Wreck Beach, to see how I felt about public nudity.

Next thing was the Crush party, a club style event that featured optional private booths for people to get down in. Tick.

The line in the sand that I’d drawn was for the SPIT parties at Oasis Aqualounge. A quick background for Oasis could really be covered by following the link, but if you’re too lazy to click (I can’t blame you) it’s an upper class venue for adults to have some open fun. There’s a heated pool, hot tub, sauna/steam room, hot showers, a variety of public/private rooms with vinyl beds, a dungeon, stripper poles, a bar and an unlimited supply of towels, condoms, lube, baby wipes and moisturiser.  It’s equal parts impressive and surreal to enter. When I arrived people were either garbed in a towel or naked, there were a bunch of people chilling and chatting in the hot tub and a host of attendees playing gaily in the outdoor heated pool, squirting each other with the assorted water pistols while funnoodles lay around. Patrons are encouraged to engage in whatever consensual play they desire, which means you generally have a couple of dudes walking around with one hand on their cock, going for it. It’s surprising how quickly you normailise to nudity and/or sexual behaviour. Other patrons have the option of asking permission to watch or touch, with swift dismissal from the premises if they don’t comply with the couple’s wishes. Everything looks pretty upscale. The cleaners must do a pretty meticulous job (I guess vinyl stops stains from forming) because it seemed clean and hygienic.

Now the SPIT parties at Oasis feature a live porn shoot on the premises that patrons are welcome to watch being filmed. It’s up on the fourth floor, which single male patrons are unable to access without a female willing to vouch for them. It’s a rule born out of necessity from past experiences and one of the many procedures in place to ensure people feel like they’re in a safe space. There was no point at which I felt unsafe or uncomfortable. Chalk that up to male privilege if you will, but I think it speaks volumes about the mentality that the venue enforces.  Many points awarded to Oasis here.

Here’s where I come in. A partner I’ve been seeing came to me with a request. During the evening there were to be a few live performances in the vein of Hysterical Literature. My partner was wondering if I’d be comfortable pleasuring her in a room full of people while she read from a book of her choosing and tried to maintain some form of composure. Also vice versa. I was taken aback but not closed off. We’d been together a number of times before and she’s a great partner. Very giving, exceptional at receiving and a total joy to share sexual experiences with. Thinking about it over a few days, I warmed to the idea. I’m at a stage where I’m constantly testing my boundaries (as indicated in the opening sentence) to see where the edge of my comforts lie. So I consented and tonight, I performed.

The girl before us did a solo performance using a toy for aid. The girl following us had originally come alone, but had bumped into a partner she’d shared an experience with a time previous. Both were equally adorable and endearing. Watching someone trying to continue with a mundane activity like reading aloud while being incapacitated by pleasure had such a playful quality to it. I didn’t find it erotic or arousing, just lovely to watch. Seeing someone’s face contort against their held composure was sweet and so incredibly human. It was an wonderfully supportive atmosphere, which certainly helped when it came to participation.

I found the giving to be exceedingly easier than the receiving for several reasons. Firstly I wasn’t really the one who the audience was focusing on and secondly it meant I wasn’t having to read aloud while my partner pleasured me. Complicates things. I started behind her, running my hands across her body, gently kissing with little pecks, nibbling and nuzzling in the nape of her neck (yes, deliberate alliteration). We were in a room full of people, but as she read from her book I closed my eyes, concentrating on her and only her. When we moved down to a position where I could get my tongue involved, it became more intimate. Her words got scrambled and tripped over themselves. The audience laughed in a friendly, encouraging fashion. It was exciting, but also generally fun and humorous to be a part of. It was hard to stifle a grin or two. Perhaps it’s a bit of narcissism too. If you’re doing something right and you’re getting moans of affirmation, you can feel the energy of the room. People want you to succeed and you feel their approval when you make the right move. You’re performing for  them, technically, but really they’re helping you out. At times, despite the room full of people, I still felt like we were alone together. We managed to establish a little eye contact (when I could tear myself away long enough to look up) and I remembered just how much I loved feeling around inside of her and the way that she tasted. Soon enough she put down the book and I finished her off. We kissed affectionately to a round of applause.

Swapping over was a challenging affair. Being the centre of attention raised my self-conscious hackles a bit. I tried to focus on my book, on the words I spoke. The more I did so however, the less I could concentrate on what she was doing to me down there. It felt good, really good and it was hard not to chuckle too much as I messed up word after word due to stimulation. I’d chosen to read from Tom Robbins’ Jitterbug Perfume, a delightful read full of evocative, silly language. The audience laughed along not only with the situation, but the content. I had a great time, but to be honest I couldn’t get there in the end, even despise my rampant narcissism. A combination of self-consciousness and a long-held difficulty in taking pleasure instead of giving took their toll. Being in that central position, I felt the audience around me in a way that I couldn’t ignore when the roles were reversed. It ultimately didn’t matter, the audience was appreciative of our efforts and gave us a rousing ovation for our hard work.

Also the girl from the first performance joined my partner and I later on for my first ever threesome. It’s a story I’ll save for another time. Suffice to say it was an incredibly fun experience that involved a metric fuckton of laughs, hiccups, awkwardly trying to figure out what a 69 looks like divided by 3, my joy at having two hands pleasuring different girls at once and a squirting orgasm that left 3 towels drenched. Never have I been so happy about unlimited towels.

Or He could just stamp my pass and let me through. I’d hope God was less of an officious prick than that.

Inspired by the exceptional relationship driven episode of You Made it Weird, featuring The Nerdist‘s Matt Mira, I started thinking about the following scenario: If you arrived at heaven’s pearly gates and were given the option to ask questions on whatever you could from your life, what would you ask for?

It’s an intriguing prospect, but also one that lends itself to navel gazing and what ifs. Given the narcissist that I am, how could I refuse such an enticing prospect? I mean, the whole Jewish Atheist (apparently A Thing, so sayeth wikipedia) kick would probably prematurely boot me out of that cloudy paradise. Let’s just pretend regardless. Things I would be interested in discovering include…

  • How much cheese have I consumed in my life?
  • How many hours have I spent playing all Pokémon games combined?
  • What song have I heard the most?
  • What movie have I seen the most?
  • Is there anything I was best in the world at without knowing?
  • What is the most dangerous wild animal I would’ve been able to defeat armed with a melee weapon?
  • How many times have I smiled? Frowned? Cried? Pooped?
  • What word have I said most? Written most?
  • How many tooth brushes have I owned?
  • How many pairs of shoes have I worn out?
  • How many T-Shirts have I ever worn?
  • How many bugs did I unintentionally swallow in my life?
  • Did I ever indirectly kill someone?
  • Did I ever indirectly save someone’s life?
  • Was there a band I would have loved beyond all others had I heard it?
  • What was my highest number of skips from a stone on the water?
  • Did I ever leave a situation at the perfect time?
  • What was the worst time I ever entered a situation?
  • Who did I hurt the most?
  • What was the happiest I made someone?
  • Who was my most compatible romantic match on earth?
  • How many girls actually liked me?
  • Did I realise it?
  • Has anyone ever masturbated thinking of me?
  • Did I ever see anyone I knew in a porn without realising?
  • Did I ever “miss my shot” at large scale success? If so, what was it?
  • What was the largest amount of food I ever ate?
  • Largest poo I ever laid?
  • Who was faking?
  • Who wasn’t?
  • Did I ever meet someone hugely famous without realising it?
  • Were my friends proud to know me?
  • Which book would have changed my entire outlook, had I read it?
  • Is there such a thing as a nice way to break up with someone?
  • When I said those words, was I really in love?
  • How do you even define something like that?
  • Was there a “one that got away”?
  • When should I have waited?
  • How many entire chickens have passed through my digestive system? Cows? Carrots?
  • Was Dan Harmon really the right role model?
  • What was my primary flaw?
  • What kind of legacy did I leave?

It really is the most self-serving line of questioning. Where does this kind of thing grow from? I think in me at least there’s a strong desire to be seen as special somehow. I’ve grown up on a diet of stories that involve ordinary people rising against adversity to accomplish extraordinary things. Deep down I know I’ve always wanted something following that mythology. To rise from mediocrity and prove my worth beyond being just another statistic, another minute pixel in the vast screen of the world. At some point my parents must’ve told me I was special and I clung to that, hoping for it to be true. Life has a habit of beating that idealism out of you. At some point hope falls at the feet of failure and creeping resignation takes root. That’s something we let happen though, surely? Is it a delusion to stem the flow of despair and oppose defeat? To defy the signs that you see before you and continue to climb, as if those handholds refusing to find purchase will suddenly find stability? If it is, maybe I’m deluded. Maybe I’m a fool. Maybe I need to keep reaching up higher, because I don’t want to get to the end of my life and find myself drowning in a sea of regrets. Maybe I need to push myself beyond my comfort levels, because the alternative is to end up disappointed by my lack of success. What’s the point in reaching the end while holding misgivings? My passion is out there waiting to be found, why am I wasting time wondering what I’ve missed out on when I could be out there finding it?

Work hard, play hard, live hard, die hard. At some point you might want to get treatment for priapism.

Well it looks like everything’s winding down for the summer. I’ve got one more shift feeding hot lunches to kids in schools, then that closes shop for several months. That’s a pity, it’s an easy, enjoyable job (the thought of which just reminded me to spend 10 minutes sending my invoice for this month’s work) that does wonders for my freezer. Seriously, the thing’s stocked with all kinds of meals to last me the summer (through some vain hope). I’ve got seafood chowder, chicken drumsticks, jerk chicken, Madagascar chicken, chicken fricassee, shredded chicken, beef chilli, vege chilli, bean chilli, mashed watermelon and probably a large lump of quinoa all waiting for my hunger. If I go back to buying large stacks of raw veges to steam, I should be able to stick it out without breaking the bank. Between that and the Abbey’s Kitchen thing, who knows? My supplies might even last into fall for the resumption of the program. Just how frugal am I? That remains to be seen.

Gymnastics is wrapping up for the session. Given that they run reduced classes in the summer (and that I’m shifting into summer camps. Why wouldn’t I pick up drastically increased hours?), there are a number of kids that, if I find work before fall (ever the hope), I’ll never see again. For a few of them, this does kind of bum me out. I haven’t always been the most child-centric chap, but it’s nigh impossible to spend so much time around developing personalities and not get a little bit attached. I’ll still have my Saturday kids, but the Tuesday and Thursday dudes and dudettes will be off playing softball, tennis or swimming laps. They’ll be skate boarding or roller blading, anything that keeps them out of a clammy indoor environment. The best ones will probably just stay inside playing video games, but I’m sure that’s a matter of preference on my behalf. It’ll only embolden them to remind me every week of how much I sound like stampylongnose (I don’t, but 7 year old Canadian kids can barely be expected to tell the difference between a New Zealand and British accent). So I’ll lose them all.

What I’ll gain is a large number of random children who’re really just there to have fun. We’ll do a little bit of gymnastic skill work, but most of the day will be taken up with games, arts and crafts, going on trips to the local swimming pool, supervising lunches and watching animated movies. On good days it barely feels like work. With difficult children it entirely feels like Hell. 3 days a week? I’m sure I’ve had worse jobs. I’m probably applying for some right now. Why is that? Money, why else?

Back home I never would’ve considered opting for a $24,000 salary. Right now I know the money would be better than what I’m bringing in (ain’t that frightening?). The consistent hours would at least keep my circadian rhythms ticking over and a regular pay check would mean I could start getting my life into some semblance of order. The work would be fairly humdrum admin for a bunch of porn sites, which I have no moral quandary over. They mention growth potential, whether this is financial or may perhaps teach me valuable skills to take somewhere else could influence whether or not I apply. How little do I value my skills and experience against my desire for structure? I’m about 15 days away from having been in Canada for a year. Am I nearing the point where I take anything that comes my way just to try and build up local experience in a variety of fields? Given the truly random nature of what I’ve been up to so far, I have no idea what’s gonna come my way. I’m getting more writing opportunities (nothing financial yet, but experience is worth something), could that be something I follow? Would a low paying office job require little enough commitment that I could take care of the writing during the evenings? If I just cram things wherever they’ll fit, will I start to feel fulfilled?

Did I say things are winding down for the summer? Maybe they’re just heating up.

Congenital greetings! Sounds like some perverted holiday salutation.

Pretty sure that there are zero pictures of my dick on the internet. I consider that an achievement of sorts. I mean, if I’d sought to put some out there and there were none, that would be naught to take solace in. If I’d tried to upload them to imgur or post them on 4chan yet yielded no dick pics on the web, I think I’d be losing then. No snapchatted prick photos or rick-roll Youtube cock shots. Nothing. I think my nipple might appear once or twice on Facebook, but that’s about as scandalous as it gets (apart from talking about your masturbatory habits on your own blog? -Ed). What am I, some kind of phallustine?

Please don’t confuse this for either braggadocio or anything puritanical. I have no issue with the concept of people putting themselves out there. By “themselves” I obviously mean their baby building bits. I’ve got friends who’ve done porn and there’s no moral judgement coming from me. If you know what you’re getting into and want to proceed, knock yourself out. If you and your audience are both consenting, then what wrong is being perpetrated? I don’t consider it a matter of dignity that my shaft has stayed well away from photographic lenses. It’s a preference, nothing more or less.

The thing is, I was thinking today about how as soon as a new technology emerges (after military applications have taken their pound of flesh) people use it to plaster their peen onscreen somehow. Snapchat is a highly functional piece of. Nah, I can’t even finish that sentence. I don’t think anyone but the app’s accountant thinks it’s important software.  Still, no sooner had it hit the Google Play store than people were transmitting their bits to others. Chatroulette/Omeagle were known for the same reasons. Does anyone even use them for the intended purpose? Who am I to say that genital sharing wasn’t the intended purpose? If it was then I’ve definitely missed the boat on all of them. Don’t even own a webcam, so that rules out any penile posing.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’ve never done it and I don’t get the point. I don’t know what you gain from the exchange when it comes to internet exhibitionism. You show your dick, the gal balks and quits the chat. Is there more to it than that? What happens when they do quit? Do you just soldier on and save your salami for the next comely lass to come across you cumming across her? Is sexposing (have I ever sounded more like Cosmo?) yourself an endless quest to find a doe eyed dear who finds your dear dick endearing? Suddenly I’ve become overwhelmed by my strong underdog complex and I’m almost on their side. Talking about turning on a dime. I mean, fuck the non-consensual elements, that’s the mortar of a shit brickhouse. That endless dedication to the cause, however? That grit in the face of adversity? I kind of admire that.

I mean, what’s under-riding your over exposure? Surely it’s that utterly human need to be desired. We all want others to see something in us that they admire, if not want. Everyone wants to be the star of their adventure and receive their token adoration. These dudes, while fundamentally embarking on shitty behaviour by putting their needs before their consideration for others, must exhibit a certain amount of loneliness. Has someone way down the line left them with lingering seeds of self-doubt? Is it a problem that one random female with a coy grin could fix? Has past heartbreak left them with a compulsion to discover someone out there who can appreciate their existence (and by existence, I’m once again talking about their dick)? Or is it a confused and horny teenage boy trying to thrust himself into a world he has yet to understand? Is it an older guy who just wants to relive the rush of his more adventurous youth (or compensate for his lack thereof)? As long as she’s ok with it (always consent, guys. Always), what’s the harm?

Maybe I’m filling these guys too full with the milk o’ human kindness (which they’re looking to pump into some unsuspecting sista). I’ve had some thoughts that are pure conjecture, so take this next bit with a grain or two of salt. I’m sure the majority of indiscretions stem from deviant desires to despoil innocence. There’s an undeniable element of the male psyche that just wants to tear apart something because it’s nice, gentle, beautiful. Please don’t equate this to a “men are all monsters” thing, but I think on some level there’s a a truth to it. Whether a man admits it or not, I feel like there’s a primal urge (that most of us would very rarely if never act on) that’s hidden deeper in some than others. A drive that likely arises from feelings of guilt or disgust at our own baser needs. What do men do when it comes to sex? We get horny then fertilise others. It takes two to make a thing go right and I’m not denigrating men’s role in crafting a tiny human, but our biological imperative is to disseminate ourselves rather than focus on a more nurturing directive.

Is there a notion of jealousy at women’s ability to produce offspring and bring life into the world? The Madonna/Whore dichotomy couldn’t have become pervasive if not for a nascent element of something that’s not kosher. Do we resent the fairer sex for the purity we associate with childbirth? Is there something insidious driving this insatiable need to prove that women can be gross and sexual too? Are we merely trying to bring them down to our level? To point a metaphorical finger and say “oh yeah, well she wanted it too, she’s not so pure after all.” Are we trying to apportion the blame for our own self-hatred? As if trying to explain to the virtuous image we hold of our own mothers that we’re not monsters, we’re still worthy of love because we weren’t solely to blame? Could that somehow cause these dudes to centre the camera on their crotch and stroke away?

*Shrug* Maybe they just really love their penis and want to share it with someone else. Random act of cockness?