There is something quite sexy about a man in a business shirt and tie, in a pub, singing karoke, smiling outrageously.

Easter

Time is my distraction and my downfall. I think about it too much, waaaay too much. Everything I do has some element of maximising effective time use. On sat night I went out and my mobile got stolen and I had to call Optus and sort it out immediately. In fact, I could not continue my night until it was done and so I went home. The relevence of time? I panicked over it, the loss of it, the wastefullness, the passing of it.
And now tonight a boy was supposed to come over and spend some nookie time with me and I want him to, but mostly because I think I have to because of time. The time is now. I am on holidays now and so I am compelled to fill my time with pursuits I feel I need. The boy is not my boyfriend, I am not pursuing a relationship with him, I saw him two nights ago, I will survive a night without nookie. And then there is the idea of making up for lost time and making time worthwhile. I could lose access to nookie boy and then will I regret not asking him to come over tonight? One night? One night in thousands? Am I losing out on something else more exciting by dedicating not only my free time, but time that could be spent finding love, not just nookie.
Love my nookie though, but tonight's time is for me I guess. Easter saw me waste it on all the other people.

to be continued...

i bother myself with sadness, wondering if i am missing out, wasting my time, or deluding myself.

47 days

I think age is a very high price to pay for maturity.

Tom Stoppard

I'm a Star!

I have been watching a bit of porn lately and all of the material I had read as an under-graduate ninny came flooding back to me while I watched a close up of a penetration. I saw what is being seen so clearly: pussy. The female leads are the stars, getting paid more, yet having to show more and perform more. I watch her get cum sprayed on her face and her arse spread wide. I listen to her scream and pant and want more and I see her exclaim on her face. I could go on. I also see cock, but mostly only cock, never a face and hands, hands inside the woman, hands moving her around, hands around her throat. So whose gaze is it? I dont mind a bit of porn, in fact I like it, but it sits uneasily on me, this borrowed gaze, as if i may be someone else.

Never underestimate confusion as a tool...

Yet in asserting this lack of contextual language, by using it to explain his own critique, Harris has worked himself into a narrow frame where “mystery” (pg 18) is alluded to, but never explained.