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Madonna Justify My Love


We’re all sexual beings, every last one of us. Unless born with a complete lack of gender, we all have desires. Whether hidden or proudly emblazoned on our sleeves, we all feel that twinge of pleasure from the naked form. Mechanics adorn their walls with calendars of naked vixens, whereas ladies salons no doubt do the same with shirtless fireman’s calendars. That may be a generalization but the slipper fits more often than not. Others conceal their sensual desires, either through free choice or fear of non-acceptance.


I make no bones about where my allegiances lie, the female form appeals infinitely more to Keeper than any young oiled alpha bucks, no matter how pleasing to the eye they may be. That’s my preference, but all of us are different. Our chains are yanked by a melange of differing intimate pleasures. Some folk are overtly sexual whereas others hide shit away for fear of non-acceptance. It won’t surprise you to learn that I sit comfortably on the fence on this one; I have strong desires of my own and, as we all know by now, I’m an open book with any question posed. However, beneath that, I am the consummate gentleman. My fascination with the flesh is wholly natural; never sordid and more focused around sensual than fiercely carnal.


As a lad my friends all congregated around a screen ogling at Animal Farm and reveling in watching a nun being mounted by a stallion. This simply left me cold to the point where, in a room stuffed with sweaty testosterone, I sat with my back to the telly, obliviously putting mix tapes together for my Sony Walkman. This was challenged of course, but really my pals didn’t have a leg to stand on. “How the fuck can you not be aroused by Seabiscuit getting in ‘the habit’?” would invariably be greeted with the response “just doesn’t do it for me fellas” in which case the debate would ordinarily end there. Besides, my primary introduction to a ponies schlong during the Egg and Spoon race at my first Sports Day was a deeply traumatic experience, let me tell ya. I know one thing, by the time I sauntered over the finishing line in last place and still aghast, lets just say the egg was long gone. Horrifying!


I make no excuses for not desiring to watch crass porn whereby balding middle-aged men with crooked painfully red winkies use them as battering rams as they plunder the sizable fortresses of lip-clenching Botox bunnies. Where’s the appeal in that? Horses for courses I suppose. Give me two innocent looking inaugurated beauties in bashful exploration and it stokes the fire, no need for smuttiness to evoke a reaction from Keeper but I’m far from a prude. I think for me, growing up in a predominantly female environment afforded me a different vantage point than many of my foaming friends.


My own pilgrimage of self-exploration came at the usual age. The first time I found my voice so to speak was in complete darkness and was like the flood-gates being forced wide open. I recall being mildly befuddled at the detonation which took me a little by surprise truth be known. “What the fuck was that all about?” Or thoughts to that effect sprung to mind as I made Elvis faces and tremors reverberated through my bedstead. No sock, no net, no roll of kitchen roll at hand, I laid there dormant like a timid kitten while the penny dropped. It kept dropping as I made frequent use of my baton, twirling it like a majorette and depleting my mother’s hand cream in the process. “This is fucking great!!!” I thought to myself as I let out those bloating hormones and made my passage into young adulthood. Bi-curious? Fleetingly maybe, I think any man who considers themselves an open book could attest to being placed in some kind of cross roads moment. For me it just passed very rapidly, after soccer practice when I lathered myself in the showers I just recall seeing sights that didn’t delight. Not my cup of tea, to be honest. The male genitalia just leaves me cold.


I do recall one lad, the first guy in gym class to don a facial growler, who appeared to have received at least three rations, he practically dragged this jack hammer around to the point where a gnarly vein pulsated in his temple just lifting it up for the big soap up. It truly gave that pony a run for its moolah and left me similarly stunned. He always showered alone, no boy in his right mind wished to do battle with his meat lance.


At seventeen I was thrown to the wolves, planned copulation within my first semi-serious ‘relationship’ (a month passes slower when you’re still developing). We planned it meticulously like a pair of Steve McQueens planning our great escape, purchased our prophylactics from the local pharmacy and trundled home to light some candles and dust off my vinyl. I believe the song Natural Thing by Innocence was the selected audio. All was going swimmingly pre-coitus, the scent of incense and hot naked bodies made my nostrils burn in a good way and I was getting ready to croon like Elvis once more. Then it suddenly dawned on me, “Where did my Father-Son chat go?” I recall him giving me itinerary but my short attention span may have become distracted by that furry squirrel collecting acorns outside the front window. “Fuck you Squirrel, I’ma wing it!” Was my thought at that juncture and wing it I did. With wings as useful as an ostriches, I blundered forth with the rhythm of a deaf busker, blissfully unaware that my, up that point, devoted belle was none too impressed by my awkward posture.


Thankfully, Rome wasn’t built in a day. Zola Budd didn’t lead the pack until she’d learned to crawl now did she? Practice makes perfect after all, we all know that. Wherever your pilgrimage may take you, don’t worry yourself. Every thrust finds fluidity, eventually it becomes carnal and your predatory instinct kicks in. I imagine few to be as unenlightened as I was when planning that special night. But should you be placed in such a quandary, recall that first intimate unveiling and let the pheromones do the rest.

Just a sinner like you,

Keeper of the Crimson Quill


Cum One Cum All

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Emily Booth


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