Monday, September 05, 2005

Why are men psychotic?

Here's the background: I don't do relationships. All that cozy couple shit makes me feel queasy. B&Q Sundays and his ‘n’ hers bathrobes? It just isn't for me. I mean, I can just about cope with breakfast in bed the morning after the night before.

Yeah, the first part of a relationship, the falling in love, in lust, when you just can’t wait to lay eyes on the object of your desire, rip their clothes off, suck the sweat from their face and call it nectar, beg them to take you every which way right now wherever you are because you just have to have them inside you, that rocks. That’s great. An impeccable instant high. For as long as it lasts.

Anyway, I might not subscribe to the myth that a girl’s life is incomplete without a man to call your own but it doesn’t necessarily follow that I’ve sealed up the tunnel of love and declared my body a cock free zone; I love sex, every single sweaty inch of it. This is as good as it gets; sex minus the emotional harrassment. You’d think guys would dig this. You’d think it would be the fodder of a thousand fantasies; a girl who wants a guy for his cock and isn’t bothered about all the other stuff. But men are nothing more than me, me, me, self-obsessed, oversized, contrary toddlers.

Jimmy. The perfect example. The definitive case study.

I’d seen Jimmy around, propping up the Clerkenwell bars, a tall dark silent streak with trouble in his eyes. Sexy as Hell. I couldn't resist, so one night, feeling an itch I couldn't scratch on my own, I invited myself back to his place. The next morning I left Jimmy snoring gently, sleeping like a baby under his musty duvet. I didn’t think too much about the whole interlude. It was just another night indulging in my favorite exercise alternative, much more satisfying than getting sweaty at the gym.

The next time I go out, there’s Jimmy, eyeballing me like he’s just stumbled across an oasis after an unplanned thirty-mile desert stroll. He’s all over me like a rash, putting his arm around me, nuzzling my neck, introducing me to his friends who slip casual comments in that Jimmy must have it bad, he’s been talking about me all week. Alarm bells start clanging in my head so I make my excuses and get the fuck out. The next day Jimmy’s on the phone in a pout, grumbling about me doing a wham, bam, thank you my man, saying he’s heard about my reputation, telling me I’m a slag. Like he’s as pure as the driven snow. Christ on a bike. Talk about role reversal.

That was over a month ago and Jimmy’s still hanging round like a bad smell. I just can’t figure it out. I mean, I'm enthusiastic but I’m no screaming porn star. I’m foxy but I’m no supermodel. I wouldn’t exactly put myself in the Angelina Jolie category, but Jimmy’s not the first to lay this crap on me. What’s the big deal?

My only explanation is that men are psychotic. If they can’t have it then they just want it all the more. But if you’re into them, if you show them some honey, they’re like, yeah well, so she’s crazy about me. That means I’m a stud, I’m the bollocks, I am King Dong, so I need to get out there amongst the desperate hordes and spread my own personal brand of joy.

But show them that you don’t give a toss, like, yeah whatever, and you're elevated to godess status. It’s easier to persuade a shark with his teeth sunk in your midriff that vegetarianism is the way to go than to get a cunt-struck testosterone-zoned male to leave you alone.

So in the love/lust zone, instant throw-away gratification is the route I choose. It's the only answer.

Life's too short not to fuck around.

Sunday, September 04, 2005

Why be a corporate whore when the perks are so much better elsewhere?

Ugh. Sunday morning. Possibly the most horrible hours of the week.

Unless of course you spend most of your waking hours stuck in an open-plan office pod, in which case the whole of Monday is a major disaster zone, without question.

I've never been able to do the office thing. I have tried, I mean, I'm not dissing it without some prior knowledge of the situation. Admittedly, my knowledge of office-bound wage-slavery isn't based on years of the torture - I managed two days and three hours before I packed up my stuff and ran out of there with a smile on my face and relief in my heart. But that was enough for me to be able to say, without any hesitation whatsoever, that the mere thought of being confined to an office during daylight hours for the rest of forever makes me itch.

The corporate world doesn’t fool me. I can’t toe the sort of line that puts money in the bank and sucks away your freedom, giving it back to you in little taster parcels they call ‘holiday’ as if that’s supposed to keep you afloat and relatively sane from here to retirement. I might never be able to boast at parties about what a big swinging dick I am in the field of corporate banking, or chicken-feed wholesale, or Tupperware parties, or whatever, but at least my mind is free, free from flipping through hoops of advancement, promotion, promises, free from being assaulted with the lies that it means any more than jack-shit at the end of it all. At least I have my integrity. Nobody is going to suck me into the career brainwashing maelstrom. I'd rather sign up with the Hari Krishnas. Or the Moonies. Or even the Scientologists. Yeah, my feelings about it are that intense.

I guess you could argue that I'm still a wage-slave working at the club. But it's different. There are no promises. All I'm expected to do is turn up, serve the punters, smile a bit, refrain from insulting any of the DJs or members of their entourage and then, when all the punters have been booted out and I've handed over the takings on my till to Fat Bastard (more on him some other time), I'm free to go home or, as is more often the case, to party. Nice and simple.

And this kind of job has some attractive perks. I don't mean that I get a pension and a season ticket loan (get real, like that kind of shit makes me salivate). I get a much better deal; I haven't queued or paid entry at a London club for the past two years, I get major discounts on my supplies of good-time candy, and I have a ready stock of Alpha males in lust with the barmaid vibe. Plus, I get to sleep all day if I want to and I never have to button myself into a suit. Not too bad, huh?

I kind of like my life.

What's Up, Doc?

I was sixteen when my Mother watched a documentary about teenage tearaways, freaked out big time with The Mommy Fear, and threw me into a year of couch sessions. I guess it must be kind of scary to envisage your only child being destined for a life as a trick-turning crack-whore. But then, my mother always has been a bit of a drama queen.

So, my mother leafs through the Yellow Pages and next thing I know, I'm signed up from here to infinity for weekly sessions of psychological torture. And it was torture. I had to sit in a stuffy, smelly little room every week for fifty endless minutes with a fuzzy-haired stranger regarding me impassively from behind her wire-rimmed glasses and occasionally muttering, well Sara, how do you feel about that?

I just didn't know what to say. I had nothing to say. Not a sausage. I mean, this therapist was an expert in teenage trauma and I was about as far from traumatised as you can get. So after a few weeks of painful silence - weeks of nothing but the clock ticking, feet tapping and the occasional heavy sigh from me - I got bored of trying to stare my therapist out and started to make stuff up. I had to entertain myself somehow and it sure wasn't going to happen unless I was the one to make the effort. So I borrowed a copy of Freud from the library and started conjuring up elaborate dreams packed full to bursting with phallic symbols. My dreams featured an alarming array of pillars, posts, mountains, fighter jets, rockets, swords, guns, baguettes, postboxes, pens, and even, to spice things up a bit one day when I sensed that my therapist's attentions were starting to wane, a giant florescent pink dildo with wings trying to attack my mother.

My therapist's verdict? I have penis envy.

I mean, duh! Thanks for nothing. I could have told myself that for free. What woman wouldn't love to have a cock all of their very own for a day? I mean, think about it - the possibilities are fascinating.

But maybe that's a topic for another time.