Category: sex

ridin’ off into the sunset

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I think there’s a significant portion of us that would love to drive off down the highway in a fast convertible, beautiful woman beside us, no cares, flaunting social norms, cranking tunes, mooning and flashing the passersby, outrunning the cops, and then pulling over on an out of the way back road to fuck on the hood about every couple of hours.

It’s a young person’s game, of course, and if you’ve ever paid any attention to one of these stories, they’re always freeing, but they all end in tragedy.

Because there’s no such thing as freedom without responsibility, and while I think we should all feel free to flash our tits down Main St, or eat a pussy in the grass, carefree can also be careless.

Every high has its hangover.

At some point, reality comes crashing in, and we have a choice. Figure out how to live the adventure while taking care of business, or how to go out in a blaze of glory.

Viable choices, all.

Target: 1000 words
Written: 374 words, short story: Forest Edge

Read: Tropic Of Kansas, Christopher Brown
Comics: Preacher 60-63
Music: Nina Simone Essentials, Nina Simone (probably the only good thing that'll happen all day)

happy fuckin’ new year

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I can’t complain. We had a good time last night. I stayed sober enough to drive, which was fun.

We played the Game of Death, which is always a good time. Nobody got radiAIDS this time, so I suppose that was a win.

(RadiAIDS = AIDS + radiation poisoning. I mean, come on. You have to laugh.)

I feel like I need to go into full retreat now that the holidays are ended.

New Year’s resolution? Sell a book, write a book.

Keep on keepin’ on.

Do better today than yesterday. Start cutting out the toxic bullshit.

No more evil in my life, by my action or another’s, sanctioned by my silence.

Write. Write more. Read. Read more.

Fuck. Fuck more.

Lose some goddamned weight.

You know, the usual.

Target: 1000 words
Written: 263 words, comic: Western Cradle #1

Read: The Autobiography Of Malcolm X, Malcolm X (like it would be written by anyone else)
Comics: Preacher 5-8
Music: New Times, Violent Femmes (indeed)

still sizeable

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Like, top of the bell curve, I imagine, for most.

Not horsecock, just average white guy.

That’s how we measure size in the internet era. In the Nineties, you would have said, Nicole Eggert pre-Baywatch, not Pamela Anderson mid-Baywatch.

And now it’s weird.

Target: 900 words
Written: 1631 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Hunter Of Worlds, C.J. Cherryh
Comics: 100 Bullets 25-28
Music: ¡UNO!, Green Day

return from blue mountain

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Sounds like a cheesy Eighties find yourself adventure or maybe even a horror movie, where the kind of geeky lost soul goes somewhere, has an adventure, realizes it was all bullshit, and then comes back to sweep the girl of his dreams off her feet.

You know, the girl he’s only ever really known in passing, and who, in reality, would never date this guy who comes out of nowhere with his newfound perspective on life, all based around love (love he has for her, but she’s never really thought about him; she’s too busy diddling over the football star).

He’d have had some partying fun, met a girl who was maybe manipulative, but who would have taken him through his first real sexual experiences, but then betrayed him unexpectedly, making him realize he didn’t actually want what he thought he wanted, and so, he comes down the mountain, proposes to the girl, who is (because this is all about him and not her) expected to swoon and drop everything to be with this brand new bodhisattva/reformed bad boy, because love, and we all jump onboard and presume happily ever after, but really, what do these people even know about each other?

There’s likely some gratuitous nudity, because in this world, women are objects, not people, so making lewd jokes at their expense and paying some struggling actress to doff her top (and probably threaten that she’ll never work again if she doesn’t, or promise that the big studios will come running, and other big stars did it, and also, other stuff, behind the scenes, you know how it works, wink wink nudge nudge), and we’re all just fine with it because we love sexual freedom (which we do), but we also love the exploitation of women as a secondary class, and if we can combine the two… Hollywood!

Anyway, we’re back from Collingwood, and let’s hope that movie never gets made.

It sounds positively horrid.

Target: 900 words
Written: 247 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Gregor And The Curse Of The Warmbloods
Comics: The Wicked + The Divine: 455 AD 1, The Wicked + The Divine 29-31
Music: Random Covers, Spacehog (I've hit a very strange area of my playlists)

caught up, okay

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I’m okay. I’m probably okay.

I mean, nobody’s really okay, but I’m okay-ish. All my idols are being destroyed one by one, which probably means one shouldn’t have idols. The lovely men and women of the world never seem to be the ones at the forefront, the darlings; it’s always the guy nobody really realized until they were gone.

Also, again, no correlation between talent and being a good person.

(See Spacey, Kevin).

It’s easy to go off the rails, and I think we underestimate how much fame can affect a person. How when people start throwing themselves at you and it’s no longer an effort to earn things, one can become entitled to the point of criminality.

For the most part, we let them get away with it, which is why it’s such a goddamned shame when the public image is ripped away.

Fuck ’em, for the most part.

But still. The Usual Suspects, Neverwhere, The Belgeriad… still good, or even great, even if the ones that created them are monsters.

It’s a conflict that never ends; is great art made less great by bad behaviour, or is bad behaviour just one facet of an artist, to be divorced or overlooked when evaluating the content of the work?

No one is perfect; some men are far less so.

There is no answer here, only acknowledgement.

Perhaps we’re just fooling ourselves, because we want to believe. We want to enjoy. We want to love.

But humanity is complex; there are ever demons with which to be dealt.

Target: 900 words
Written: 949 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: The Happiest Days Of Our Lives, Wil Wheaton
Comics: The Wicked + The Divine 12-13, Phonogram: The Immaterial Girl 1-2
Music: Random Cover, CKY

the best laid plans

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Friday night and we’ve washed the dogs. It’s only six o’clock. We’ve already eaten. They’ve walked.

Everything is done.

That means time to read, time to play. Time to think of better dates with my wife than dogwashing and trips to the dump.

Something involving candlelight, wine and maybe lingerie and massage oils.

Instead, my parents drop in, unplanned, for a porch drink.

Ah, well, as my wife says, who knows how long they have left? Apparently, we can fuck later. Who knows how long we have?

Target: 800 words
Written: 674 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: 'Salem's Lot, Stephen King (new book!  a classic!)
Comics: I Hate Fairyland 8-11
Music: Under A Billion Suns, Mudhoney (so much better than Vanishing Point, which was bad, at best)

tumult

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I’m looking forward to the end, I think. I don’t want it to come until I’ve met all my goals, but I think it might be a relief.

The hope is that I don’t lose the ability to do all this stuff before I go, or turn into some mediocre shade.

Or worse, give up.

Fuck suffering, fuck with a purpose. Endless pleasure and a cacophony of orgasm is the end goal, after we get through all the awkward and uncomfortable talk about whether it’s okay to kiss or hold hands.

We’ll get to the kink when it’s time to spice things up, I suppose.

Target: 800 words
Written: 191 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Brothers Of Earth, CJ Cherryh (I might even finish this, finally)
Comics: Bully Wars 5, I Hate Fairyland 1-3
Music: Unchained, Johnny Cash

of icons and disappointment

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I think I liked life better when my idols weren’t being constantly accused or exposed as total creeps.

You expect it from Republicans, but man, I wish so many of the people who I grew up thinking as good people, people to pattern oneself afterward, didn’t turn out to be assholes.

Maybe they didn’t.

So much of it is speculation and hearsay, so much of it divorced from reality and put upon with one’s own prejudices, that a person has no choice but to take it with a grain of salt.

It’s one thing when accuser after accuser comes out of the woodwork, because this shit tends to be serial among the rich and famous, but when it’s isolated, without evidence or corroboration… do we still believe every story?

I’m all for believing survivors, but to assume that every accusation is the god’s honest truth is downright naive, and actually malicious when put into practice. Weaponized outrage.

Some of the stuff coming out of all this has been truly horrific; some of it much more complicated than its rage conductors would have us believe. Blind belief never serves anyone. Wouldn’t it be more beneficial to be certain, as certain as one can be, and thereby discourage those who would wield outrage for personal gain, revenge or whatever against trotting out lies and thereby destroying someone’s life and career?

Anyway, thoughts on the day; I still side with women, in most cases, with the caveat that blind acceptance is always a bad idea. Myopia is never a good look. We owe it to ourselves and the presumption of innocence to at least wait for the facts before we condemn.

Target: 800 words
Written: 402 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: The Regiment, Farley Mowat
Comics: Postal 24-25, Postal: Mark 1, Postal: Laura 1
Music: Out Of Exile, Audioslave

ribfest

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Every year, I think there’s a story in the subculture of Ribfest.

Every damn year.

There’s a raunchy comedy in there somewhere, and at some point, I’m going to write it.

Hell, maybe I’ll make a comic out of it. That could work, although it screams crude sex comedy with lots of butts and boobs and random dicks.

Maybe the return of the batwing, a la Waiting.

I don’t know. There could be a book in it, but hell, it’s hard to make a book that funny. I do have ideas for another book that’s funny. Several, actually, but they have heart.

Can I add heart to Ribfest?

Is there a book in this? Who would be the villain?

Vegans?

Yes. Vegans.

Target: 700 words
Written: 944 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Living Dead In Dallas, Charlaine Harris
Comics: Think Tank 12, Think Tank: Fun With PTSD 1, Wildfire 1-2
Music: An Open Letter To NYC, Beastie Boys

pop

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I usually hold pop music in disdain, but especially this morning. What makes modern pop different than shitty 80s pop?

Slight better production? More revealing clothes?

Is there anything more tedious than some rapper bragging about how great a rapper he is? Would you even watch a ball player or a concert pianist if all they did was brag about how many homers they hit or how well they tickled the ivories? Or would it get old super fast, and no matter the quality of the production, get lost in the pathetic and annoying ego of its progenitor?

I don’t actually have anything against love songs or sexy little ditties, but man, do it fucking right. Add some depth and emotion to it.

At least we seem to be moving past the phase where some producer takes a pithy inspirational phrase and creates a song around it, where there’s nothing but the same goddamn phrase repeated endlessly.

If your song has more writers than the road crew contains members, you’re not a fucking artist; you’re a commodity.

And for shit’s sake, The Weeknd, try not to sound like you’re completely bored with your own music.

Of course, it is boring garbage, and it bores me when it comes on, so why wouldn’t the man who played it a million times not feel the same?

Target: 700 words
Written: 127 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Gregor And The Prophecy Of Bane, Suzanne Collins
Comics: Saga 65-66 (depending on how it ends, this may be the best comic series ever written)
Music: One Love, The Prodigy