Masculine, Alpha, Nobility
Suggested Audio Candy
T-Rex “20th Century Boy”
This should prove a stroll in the park for Keeper. Last time I checked I had a penis, balls and a just-about functioning mind so who better to delve a little deeper beneath the male epidermis than I? I have built up a fairly sturdy rapport with myself over the past thirty-nine years, indeed, one could even say that we’ve become like bosom buddies, me and I. Like any long-term relationship we have our quarrels and occasionally I may get on my nerves a dash but I have learned an awful lot about me over my lifetime, never more than the past three years when it appeared as though my world was slowly seeping away through the hourglass with no apparent end to my slump in sight. However, rumor has it that there’s beauty in the breakdown, and never a wiser word spoken I say.
Men ordinarily undergo some sort of mid-life transmogrification; I prefer the term to crisis although in my case it was probably applicable. This manifests out of a second adolescence of sorts; that first bouquet of pubic hair can never be experienced again; our choirboy falsettos have long been replaced by gruff snarls and nasal growls and we’ve had years of exclusive training as to how to operate our machinery. Some of us spend our days harvesting the crops whereas others sit around watching same greenery wilt. But we all possess the same vegetation. Mine I would liken to an affable turnip and it loves nothing more than having its roots tugged on.
The term man-child has forever both enthralled and amused me and I’m more than aware of the weight it carries. We’re all aware that statistically men mature at a more lackadaisical pace than the female of our species. Well, in essence, it’s a darned sight slower than they say. We never really mature or, more accurately, have no desire to. Affection is so critical to our growth and we enjoy nothing more than being burrow in between a firm pair of organic pink spheres on our southward pilgrimage to the mess hall. The nuzzling of nipples supplies much comfort to us momma’s boys as infants and we never forget the avenue which leads us back there.
We’re habitual creatures traditionally. A great deal of the conclusions we come to are deduced genetically and, at times, it appears that our testicles are like two fuzzy miniature cerebral orbs, playing Chinese whispers with the brain’s transmissions. A strategically placed big toe or particularly broad foot making the slightest contact with these mini-brains is ordinarily ample punishment to encourage the return of our altar boy staccato, temporarily at least. I wish I could explain the pain but no words could ever do the feeling of being kicked in the balls justice. Let’s just say it smarts like all hell shall we? And leave it at that.
Any dreams of making it as a choir boy can be dashed instantaneously as the result of the dreaded sack tap. Don’t do it ladies, we man children are a sensitive breed and it really isn’t very sportsmanlike behavior. The agony is too unbearable for these little fellas and the buck is passed to new locale in the pit of our gut. It basically feels like the old anal probe, but no milking of prostate or stroking of G-spots, just good old-fashioned Texan fisting, performed by none other than Benny from Total Recall. Screw you Benny. I don’t give a fuck how many kids you have to feed, you ain’t putting that crusty nub anywhere near me.
Outside of the Maris Pipers getting an unwarranted jangling, it’s plain sailing all the way. We’re a rather nonchalant strain or so it appears. Tell us more than two things you want us to bring us back from the convenience store and our eyes will squint like the High Plains Drifter and we’ll invariably fail miserably. We exhibit selective hearing and, when we don’t like the audio, then white noise makes an appearance. This gets us out of a fix on many an occasion and we use it habitually. The fishwife is our most primal fear and Charlie Brown’s teacher is far better elecuted that one of these contorted laundry hags. They make our blood boil in the same sink they use to wash the period offal from their bloomers. Truly terrifying to the average man, though their camouflage abilities are heightened in some cases to such an extent that many of us end up married to our own mothers or, in my case, moving back in with them at thirty-nine.
If you place us in an environment with fellow alphas then we metamorphose on a weekly basis, traditionally either Tuesdays or Saturdays if we’re really lucky. We play poker, in a small cavern which starts the evening fresh like lily dew but ends in a dense cloud of flatulence, much of which solidifies in our shorts. I’ve been pretty fortunate thus far as any vapors remain gases and I count every last daily blessing for being spares the indignity of sharting. If I were to take this pastime up, however, then Tuesday night around the poker table is the best environment for me to do so. Men being men, we take any released gases as signs of weakness in our opponents and will often know that they possess a pair of 2’s by the aroma unleashed. A particularly brazen fart suggests a potential Straight Flush ironically although it all depends on how good our poker ass is.
We stop washing our bodies the moment we’re out of earshot of ladies, play Halo Reach in our jockeys with one nut hanging free and bark team orders like drill sergeants. Meanwhile we rate breasts out of ten (a hundred for the real perfectionists). The beauty market makes so much more sense for ladies, we bathe only to please you and this is actually a very noble gesture when you consider further. The sole fact that we keep ourselves relatively clean, albeit progressively declining over time, denotes that we are prepared to make this extra effort.
Many of us, and this saddens Keeper, learn to ignore our other halves and shut them out entirely, momentarily replacing their droning audio with death metal and hardcore rap. Such caustic dick-bonnets don’t know how to treat a lady and I’m not speaking of some feisty career-minded vixen, I’m speaking of the beautiful souls crushed under the sheer might of their iron curtain of shame. This may be how the more indignant male brain works but Keeper doesn’t possess one of those. Hell, right now it barely functions at all. If you require further evidence of the kind of offal marinating within my cerebral cauldron then please allow the following pictorial to provide such unequivocally.
I have little say in what the Crimson Quill etches on parchment right now and that may or may not be as a direct result of ingesting Andy Warhol’s ashes from the Technicolor urn labeled DO NOT SNIFF UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. If Warhol was still alive then I trust he would savor his ode whilst guzzling liquefied hormones from a well-worn espadrille as I hear this was his preferred manner. Personally I would have chosen a ten-inch stiletto as it provides a far more effective funnel and is far less sandy but I won’t ever question an artist. That’s their job. We may be never be destined for wisdom with regards to what made his mind tick but, if I’m on my game, then we should know a little more about traditional alpha logic. Inside all of us is a trapped child and tomorrow I plan to ingest the great Houdini and locate our escape pods. Until then, remember what we’ve learned ladies and please don’t kick our balls unless you really must see grown men cry.
Sinning off topic, It’s all gone ectopic,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2013