Behind The Eyes

Suggested Audio Candy

[1] Slipknot “Eyeless”

[2] Rupert Hine “With One Look (The Wildest Dream)”

As you will no doubt already be aware, I love me some peepers. It’s true that the eyes are the windows to the soul and they just so happen to be the most expressive piece of equipment we possess. While all other body parts can be rather deceptive and not offer any bona fide clue as to what cogs are turning beneath the chassis, the eyes tell absolutely no lies and offer exclusive insight into what really makes us tick. When I meet someone for the first time, I’m all about the eye contact. Some people struggle to maintain this for any length of time and this isn’t a particularly encouraging opening sign if you ask me. Should I speak to somebody one to one, particularly about matters of importance, then I ensure that mine are unflinching. If the compliment is returned, it’s game on.

It is a few months now since I was first introduced to Matt Farnsworth and Diane Foster and the very first thing I noticed was just how genuine they both are. During our first Skype exchange, I activated my roving search lamps and was thrilled to discover that this was to be a two-way transaction. I know my mind better than most and, when I receive such optical encouragement, I’m all in faster than a poker rookie, although far less likely to lose my stack of chips. Faith comes into play and, while this may appear to be a somewhat precarious pastime, I would be woefully lost without it. By the close of my opening conversation with our Dark King and Queen, I knew everything I needed to in order to commit to their cause and I’m not one for switching allegiances.

Matt and Diane are the epitome of the ultimate unisex bundle. It is no secret than women lust over Diane and, while men aren’t traditionally as forthcoming with their views on same-sex suitors, I would imagine many of them to harbor desires towards Matt too. You’re not alone. It isn’t that I would wish to be rammed against the shower room wall, being back blasted by his fleshy serpent, but should I look back from my restrained position and survey the options I’d probably retort something along the lines of “if it’s gotta be anyone, let it be the Mohawk guy and please soap it first”. I’m comfortable in my skin and just say it as I see it, which is undoubtedly why we hit it off in the first place.

The pair complement one another like Bonnie and Clyde, Rose and Jack, Mickey and Mallory, and even Bert and Ernie although I’m reasonably convinced that they don’t sleep in matching pajamas. By supplying carnal candies through a scrapbook of breath-taking pictorials, they provide us with exclusive insight behind their eyes, and it is that which makes them so damned moreish. I could not scribe so frequently about them if they weren’t who they claim to be as I can’t support a cause that I don’t truly believe in. However, my allegiance has and will never be in question as I’ve seen their souls first-hand and they shine particularly brightly.

It’s not all about them though. You see, in 2011, this illustrious pair spawned their creative offspring and gave us Marcus Miller, the notorious Orphan Killer. When Mr. Stork paid them a visit and delivered their love child, he must’ve been greatly relieved to sign off the particular bundle of joy. Marcus arrived in a rather ominous crib, clutching a comfort blanket woven from epidermal surplus and with a fleshy mobile hanging overhead consisting of freshly plucked clergy giblets. Most new parents would decide between painting their new arrival’s nursery either blue or pink, but the moment they looked into his blackened optical whirlpools, they plumped on deep red emulsion.

Fuck breast-feeding this newborn and double-fuck delivering such evil in the first place! I can imagine poor old Mrs. Stork with her legs in stirrups as she squeezed him out and would imagine that she ripped like David Banner’s Wranglers after a temper tantrum. I think it is fair to deduce that the afterbirth got the looks on this occasion. Having said that, Marcus is still the object of many a quivering quim as he dresses to impress and slashes with panache. If he should screw with the same intensity that he brandishes an ax then I’d imagine Vagisil shares would rocket in the Midwest overnight. Of course, what he packs in his trunk would no doubt be grimy, serrated, and decorated with barbed wire.

Brother Matt, on the other hand, is far more aesthetically pleasing and gussets spill over at one swim in those baby blue peeper pools of his. Skinny dipping in the clearest waters, said ladies tread water perpetually, awaiting an eyelid running over their arched spines. Each blink drops another coin in the purse so to speak and, if of alternative inclination, loads up the one-armed bandit. Now, let’s just call a spade a spade shall we? Erotica and horror are united by fate and the dark endorphins released by such fusions would offer Elvis impersonators the world over some decidedly stiff opposition. However, his is no cheeseburger. Matt is prime rib all the way, seasoned with blackest peppercorn, and primed to make those eyes recline. Meanwhile, beneath the border, Mighty Joe Young’s forearm is the garnish to this succulent hors d’oeuvre and doubtless spits Tabasco with ferocity.

Fortunately, Diane Foster is here to get the cart get on the tracks as Keeper’s designs are unswervingly on the fairer sex and her loins are particularly tender and succulent. Those glorious nipples are no doubt banned in all 51 states and act as beacons of lust to both men and women globally. I’ll be straight with you: the first time I laid appreciative eyes on her naked majesty, my tongue tasted tarmac. Is there any part of this salacious cum-stealing angel which doesn’t sit right? No dice pessimists; no fungal toes, unsightly blips, or cunningly concealed sixth fingers I’m afraid. Just acres of supple pelt for all those lusting lickers to unravel to.

However, more prominent a factor than any other in our seduction is the manner in which she walks the line, teasing like an unsteady high wire act, whilst constantly possessing such beautiful poise. Historically if you look back at the true screen greats of times past you will find they have an elegance and dignity about them which transcends time. Lady Die carries herself like a bag of feathers, each blowing seductively whilst behind those mesmerizing peepers are oceans of deep red torment. Her appeal therefore becomes multifaceted, a quality which precious few auteurs from any given generation can attest to owning. Here, allow me to put it into verse.

Both Monroe and Hepburn can now finally rest
as a new set of feathers have ruffled the nest
Her teasing soft breeze can bring men to their knees
there’s pleasure unbounded should these moments we seize

I implore you explore take some time wine and dine
Each look in these eyes reveals just what’s behind
every stare she supplies tells a tale so divine
Every pore we adore as we bow at her shrine

Salacious and gracious our lady in waiting
Damn right she’s audacious what’s the point in abating
Both her eyes and her thighs choose against telling lies
such cruel highs arise each time this jaybird flies

Let us read this and heed this, tear this and share this
Shit’s right off the chain in absolute fairness
This disease aims to please and there’s no finer vector
so drop to your knees quench yourselves on her nectar

I admit I kind of get carried away when writing about our Dark Queen but the fact is that all three of the above monarchs have plenty going on behind their eyes. Admittedly, Marcus could do with some eye drops as conjunctivitis is a bitch and three-quarters when cooped up behind a mask comprising rotten flesh and expended life glue. But this creeper’s peepers are certainly no sleepers. It’s all there as plain as day. That is precisely why The Orphan Killer is so vital to so many and also why its cruel creators and innovators encourage the look of love. Now, if you will excuse me, I have been sat here looking at a screen for almost two hours now, and I’m beginning to feel the first pangs of cataracts setting in. Irony can be so callous.