Whereis our erstwhile hero rediscovers one of his core erotic experiences, being that of a voyeur and recontextualiser of social situations.
I am not a wallflower. Rather, I do not esteem my fellow man (no nor woman neither though by your grins I call tell you think so) sufficiently to put the moves on them. That’s right, almost none of your are good enough for me. None of you are even good enough for me to treat you poorly while seducing you. I made this realisation sitting cross legged on a rough Malaysian exported carpet of North African islamic origin, behind the bales of unthreshred rice, in mama-ji’s hut.
For there it was that I rediscovered the pleasure of the gaze. It has been argued, un tenuously, by a German Scientist, that the nature of the male gaze is to typically produce erotic subjects.
(As an aside for the Scientists amongst us, I believe that it was that most confounded Baron who introduced these concepts to him, and who also allowed him to note that White Germans were so perverse as to not fuck their wives as subjects, or as objects, but to fear the great Red-Negro cunt of the world. She’s black, powerful, cunt-hungry, and like Angela Davis, a genuine communist.)
For who really can be bothered fucking objects? Apart from my good friends who have such excellent taste in objects that they risk prooving the rule with their exceptionality. I knew this guy who treats his furniture like women, his parties were amazing. Which reminds me of why I commenced this post.
At times I am like a cat. Not so mysterious, but cats are incredibly social animals. They just do not do anything socially other than sexual dominance games controlled by female cats, brutal cunt ripping gang rape, and negotiating over territory. Should a cat and another cat really like one another, then they will sit not very close to one another, but just close enough. They will maintain a barrier around themselves within which they are indominable, but yet, display a kind of affection for each other in not sitting too close enough.
If I am contemplating fucking you, but lack a drive to do so, or you don’t meet my excessively high standards, then you too will be sat not quiet closely to, and observed. With unflirting eyes. With eyes that analyse and strip open your choice in posture, friends, conversational engagement, fashion, body control and other such expressions. With a minute disinterest I will imagine you, and fantasise you, into a subject so totally dominated and controlled by my mentality, that I am aware that it is not you that I am looking at, but at the manufacture of you by yourself, and my interpretation thereof. I will read you like a text. And baby, when I read you, there’s no authorial intent.
No matter how adept, your social literacy won’t produce a genuine communication of yourself, or even of your false and lying narrator: your consciousness. Its not just a barrier of space, but a hermeneutic gap which is unbridgeable and unjumpable. There is no god of public display and public voyeurism. When your knees go together and you pidgeon toe, when your shoulders shrink before an alpha, I know there’s no person behind that display. I know there’s no original text, merely bland tropes. I scorn you even as I manufacture you to “desire you”. I hate my own eisegesis, and know that the level of self-contradiction you display means there’s no exegetical potential in you. And so, I walk away with kind but patronising thoughts of you, having quietly sat with my friends, and greatly enjoyed the experience of sitting near by those people I genuinely esteem.
You, I turn into a more amusing story than you ever could be. My friends, I sit quietly by in confidence. My lovers I brutally cunt rippingly gang rape, on occasion, additionally, I demand wet food of only a most particular type and will piss on your pillow if you don’t come through. At least the guy who fucked his furniture didn’t make them work for it, and he let them upholster themselves to their own requirements.
Of course, if I actually want to fuck you, then it is more likely that I will have an extensive, interesting conversation with you, and become so interested in what we talk about that I forget to fuck you. Slut harder, next time, stupid. I’m too self-sufficient and self-important to screw you until you’ve soaked through your pants and you’ve thrown yourself at me.
Location: atop of a rice bag awaiting travel.
Location: Sitting somewhat near an idea I like.
