Flesh Mesh



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Air “Sexy Boy”


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It’s a well-known fact that sex interests all of us. Correct me if I’m wrong but I’m fairly sure that I’m speaking for the collective here. Moreover, it has been the case throughout history, whether shaggy neanderthals dragging their quarry kicking and screaming back to their cave for a good old prehistoric bone shaking, or brazen hussies having scarlet letters painted on their doors for interfering with another woman’s sexual conquest, it has forever been a topic of enthusiastic discussion. I was born in 1974 and, by that time, attitudes were already beginning to change. The generation before me were particularly cagey with regards to their yearnings and sexuality remained largely unspoken about. However, behind closed doors, head boards still rattled.


It is astonishing how much things have changed over the past forty years or so; nowadays porn is readily available at the click of a mouse pad and attitudes towards sex have altered considerably. In another twenty years or so I would imagine even Disney films will feature a little gratuitous full frontal nudity as it seems to be the natural order of evolution. Personally I have no desire to witness Pocahontas sliding up and down a well-oiled pole seductively or Buzz Lightyear flashing his alloy junk to the other toys in the box but I’m all about progression where sex is involved so I’m perched on the fence with this one. However, there is much to be said for exercising a dash of restraint and that appears to no longer be applicable in many cases.


The naked form is a most resplendent sight. Gutter media may suggest we should all aim for the perfect body and that’s little more than thinly veiled fascism in my opinion. All this misinformation achieves is to create a society obsessed with collagen implants, Botox, and tummy tucks and takes us away from appreciating the natural beauty before us. I find exaggerated breast implants unappealing in the extreme and have no great desire to place a woman in a wind tunnel and watch her bosoms play dead. It is, of course, each to their own and there are other reasons why procedures are undertaken but generally cosmetic alteration just leaves me cold. Besides, who wants to spend ten hours in economy seating as they cross the Atlantic while the woman in the adjacent aisle’s tits explode due to bogus surgery? I’m all for keeping it real and, should I be offered the chance to go under the knife to enhance my God-given endowments, then I would pass it up in a heartbeat. I do, however, believe each to their own.


What about pubic pruning? One of my earliest sexual awakenings concerned a young lady whose bush which was so dense that it had the appearance of a pair of furry panties. A real furry juggernaut, this gargantuan shrubbery was so unruly that it was almost unsanitary, and heaven knows what sort of refuse had become tangled within her genital gossamer over time. Back then, I would be discouraged by the slightest discrepancy, and the fact that she also possessed the feet of a chimpanzee eventually sealed the deal. I believe the words “I’ve got to return some videotapes” were uttered as I made my swift exit and never looked back. Looking back on the forest of lost souls over twenty years later, however, I actually do so with fondness.


Good old-fashioned seventies bush is a thing of the past now and has long since been replaced by tram lines, intricate insignias and the everything must go yard sale clearance. Hold a gun to my temple and I would admit that my preference leans more towards shaven but it still saddens me to see less foliage being allowed to simply run free. Who cares if one’s lady garden resembles an end of shift barber shop sweepathon? As long as you’re content with what you’ve got and aren’t fussed about your sexual partner arising from cunnilingus with a grill full of stragglers then I’m all for allowing nature to take its natural cause.


Whether you have one withered polio arm, clubbed foot or a much more defined ‘tache than any other girl in gym class, it matters not in the great scheme of things. The media brainwashes us into believing we should look a certain way; be slimmer, have larger breasts and penises, suck in our bellies and conceal our imperfections. All this to conform to a template which doesn’t allow for those beautiful flaws; the very characteristics which make us unique. If a woman were to lay naked before me and wore a scar across her tummy from an appendix operation then that would be the first place I would kiss affectionately. We’re all flawed in one way or another but our definition of flawed is one pounded into us through mass marketing and social lobotomy.


I’m no buddha myself as I discarded my first love on account of her left nostril housing a bloated booger for chrissakes! Poor lass had no idea why our romantic picnic failed so spectacularly but the fact is that, had she blown her nose that day, it all could have been so different. We conveniently forget that Beyonce Knowles still evacuates her bowel daily and Ryan Gosling’s farts likely smell of raw sewage. Meanwhile, Justin Bieber’s wedding tackle is thinner than a cat’s whisker and he quite possibly only one has one testicle. None of us are perfect and thank God for wondrous defect. I’m not looking to sway opinion and neither do I claim to have all the answers. Just making conversation is all.

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