In part one of this unasked-for glimpse into the sexual persona of one Snarling Misanthrope, it was concluded that Indiana Jones was responsible for said Misanthrope’s stubble-beard. In part two, Bruce Willis and his too-bene-for-Italy hairline of Sicily were given their just due. So, without further ado, we humbly present the end of this romp of sexual weirdness. And like any descent into the gaping maw of madness, the end takes us right back to the beginning…
Part III: The Whipround - An Old Dude Randomly Whipping Stuff
But the package was incomplete. There was one crucial component missing. The accessory. Every budding young archetype needs one. Luke Skywalker had a lightsaber. Toshiro Mifune had a katana. Chuck Norris had a gun and Kung-Fu ninja shit. Neil Young had a guitar and a wall of sonic feedback.
I tried them all on. Swords were clumsy; and as a recovering comic book nerd, I was pretty sure that walking around with a giant ninja sword was not going to earn me any points with the ladyfolk. Guns were, well, guns. I never had a real fondness for weaponry, and the notion of ever outfitting myself in camouflage was far out of bounds; thus I strutted about in my acid-washed Levis. And my attempts at playing the guitar were met with something that, if unleashed upon the world, would certainly have signaled the death of music. (Had I only been plying that craft in the mid-90s, when suburban white kids playing out-of-tune guitars was briefly considered haute.) MORE>>
As a child of the 80s, I am in no way immune to the Hentai-tentacle of pop culture fuck-choking me into the reference-dropping Purgatory that is the blogosphere. And boy howdy, I couldn’t be happier about it. Anyhoo. In the first installment of this weird, psychosexual tract, I related to you, dear reader (citation needed), how Indiana Jones made me want to grow a stubble-beard, and how thus I tumbled, prickle-faced into adolescence.
Part II: The Addison Effect
A dark period had begun. I was misshapen and miscast: all sinew and voice-crackling; and still no stubble-beard, no matter how hard I gritted my teeth and willed the hair-lodes in my face to activate. I’d figured it would happen Manchurian Candidate-style: with the pressing of a button, the agent is activated; everything goes kablooie. Alas, there were no buttons, and, in the fashion of man-children everywhere, I began the terrible ritual of preemptive shaving. This of course is done at first without the benefit of shaving cream or even water. Razor meets face; razor wins. And Mother raises her brow at all the telltale blood-blots across her eldest son’s face. MORE>>
An Old Dude Randomly Whipping Stuff
I recently viewed the teaser for the next Indiana Jones movie. It didn’t particularly excite me (although the notion of an evil, Baroness-like Cate Blanchett will be quite enough to separate me from my cash), but it did bring back a cache of memories.
You see, dear reader (citation needed), when I was but a wee young hatchling, there were three things that I associated with Manhood:
2. A high hairline.
3. A whip.
The first and the third of these can be attributed to Harrison Ford, primarily in his Indiana Jones guise. Yes, I was – and still am – an uncloseted Star Wars devotee, but, true to its eunuch-like creator, the world of Star Wars to me was utterly devoid of sex. Gold bikinis were nice, but that was Luke’s sister, man. There is no teh sexay in that. MORE>>
“Here’s the deal, I editorialize for 40 minutes. The last 10 minutes, we pull our chutes and float down to Dick Joke Island together, okay?”
- Bill Hicks
I make a lot of dick jokes. It is something of a biological imperative. You see, dear reader (citation needed), some days I have a dick. Other days I have a cock. And some days I just haven’t got dick.
It is not that I dislike cocks; it is just that I have less impetus to understand them as I do the sex opposite. I look at a cock – any cock – my cock; after all, it is the only one handy. But it does not incite a riot of poesy excitement or manful exhortations. It is simply a cock, a torpid torpedo of multicolored meats, as if stitched together in a back-alley, black market organ donor exchange program – pinks and blues and purples and browns, and splotchy, scorchlike reds as riots are incited and Molotov cocktails of ardor are pitched and negotiated for gross points – “Cry havoc! And let slip the dogs of war!” This revolution may not be televised, but it looks good on video, like refuse from a Jan Švankmajer film – Meat Love, indeed.
The ass end of my inbox is presently overstuffed with all sorts of prostate-milking missives, informing me of the commencement of May Masturbation Month. Invitations, solicitations, inducements, enticements, how-tos, tattle-ups, tips, tidbits, spreadsheets, stimulus packages, and world-weary slow-hands set forth to aid me through my marathon cumshaw over the next sideric month. Which I appreciate to no end; don’t get me wrong. But it is not like I need forward encouragement.
However, it did get me to thinking. You see, male masturbation is a far more multifarious thing than many women may suspect. It comes in a veritable gift-pack of flavors, shapes, sizes, and durations – set of course to the median cycle of the solar and synodic – la lune et en sof, who guide and gird our loins like a hundred million watts of focalized porn.
The three square meals of daily masturbation, after the jump. MORE>>
“there’s nothing uglier than a man hitting his stride”
- The Tragically Hip, “Vapour Trails”
Men, in the traceless mythos of dinosaurs and literary ghosts wearing large hats, walk the earth. It is what we do, whether we wish it or not. It is how we make the world our own. We are born and raised to be doers: like is not on the list of options; we eat, we shit, we learn how not to emote or cope, we stuff our cocks into whatever cavity or Dutch is nearest us, and we are happy enough for it. We just do it, be it literal, metaphorical, or pejorative, or sexual.
It may come as a great surprise for you to learn that a man is not born; he falls from the sky: as if the other side of the world (the alternate universes of superheroes and deep-space missions and men who wear large hats) tipped, capsized, and sent babies hurtling through the void of never-is and never-was, into the arms of the love-strong.
A man, half-formed, is dropped, into a nondescript, storybook childhood: free of trauma, abuse, assault. Taught with crystalline clarity the difference between wrong and right, hate and love, fantasy and reality. Taught, with candor and unclosed affection, the articles of respect and love, and how to expertly disguise them with civility and hard work. And finally then, a man, free of falling and built to outlast any arrant desire, is set unto his task: walk the earth and make it his own.