I seem to remember a time when waking up entailed long periods of contemplating filth, mulling over which women I should be sleeping with, which women I’d like to sleep with, indulging in the contemplation of random sexual scenarios. At some point this ended, possibly around the time that Dakota came into my life, and was replaced instead by either pondering the nature of the universe, deep meditations on politics, periods of intense introspection, or fantasies of bond creating, love inducing snuggles with Dakota. For some reason I don’t actually fantasise about sex. Recently I decided that this is because I have the mind of a four year old. I feel quite vulnerable and in need of some TLC recently.
I’m looking forward to S coming back for xmas; much TLC has been promised.
Meh, I have to leave in an hour for my mates wife’s birthday party. I’m sitting here in the shorts and T-shirt I sleep in. To be fair everything that needs sorting is sorted, I just need to jump in the shower and get dressed. I wouldn’t mind so much but there’s going to be thirty odd people there, I suspect mostly female which yields itself to “So why haven’t you got a girlfriend yet?” “Don’t you want to settle down?” and the worst of all “You deserve someone really special” and no doubt there will be several “someone specials” to choose from. All in their late twenties or early thirties looking for someone with an established career to breed with, all with histories of normal stable relationships, no wild flings, no wild adventures, no unusual interests, and the word I like using is “bourgeois”.
At such times I contemplate S or think of Dakota. Goths and hippies, bohemians both, intellectually gifted, mad as a box of frogs. None of them would just up sticks and go to a jungle to build schools, or decide one day that getting actual fangs implanted was required to express their true nature. There will be no random status updates at 3 am indicative of painful introspection and a sense of being lost in life, they have every day from now until they snuff it planned. Uni, career, meet man, get house, babies, career, bring up progeny according to normal standards and norms, go on holidays and do “family things, have no exciting or unexpected events, die. At best they’ll “go traveling”. Life is not to be contemplated or explored, your own inner workings are of no interested there is only the next five year plan and what the neighbours will think.
Of course I feel like something of a curiosity because I am quite good at getting myself into random situations, I hang around with odd balls, I lack anything other than a very broad sense of direction. I have “shocking” tales that they want to know about. “Are you still seeing that goth girl?” “Why aren’t you two in a relationship?” “Tell us about that stripper”. The stripper story isn’t that great, I’m confident to the point of cockiness when it suits me, women often like that in a man, and my cockiness was rewarded by several minutes of passionate snogging in front of a confused bouncer. I do things for fun and because I want the experience. That and I have far too much of a Nietzschean “the philosopher should live a heroic life” in me to be conventional. “On your deathbed don’t you want to be able to say that you had the courage to…..” is pretty much a mantra for me. I think that, along with the lack of an established career, saves me. All these women clock on pretty early that I’m not the man that’s going to give them the house, the baby, the marriage (not the love affair, the marriage) and the respectable life style that they want.
Maybe I don’t have sexual fantasies because I’m too busy living?