Sensual, Kissable, Infrastructure, Naked
Suggested Audio Candy
Duran Duran “Skin Trade”
Where would we be without good old skin to swaddle our bones? I know where I’d be, scouring through eBay as you really can get anything there nowadays. It’s pretty much an essential for us humans and thankfully we aren’t required to wait long before being fitted up for our all-in-ones. Indeed, we are all eligible for a brand new lick of skin whilst developing away inside our gestation sacs. Genes may play a part but other than that it’s something of a lottery. Some are provided skin a little too loose-fitting whilst others wear theirs tighter than an epidermal catsuit. Pigmentation is varied, with birth-marks and any extra toes distributed somewhat randomly for each independent suitor. But generally we all manage to grab ourselves a pelt at those starter’s guns.
Anyhoots, as we mature our bodies begin to develop. Parts begin to change shape and hairs tend to sporadically sprout from all number of unusual locales. Indeed, the only consistency is that each person’s growth spurts are different from the next. My case in point is this: in secondary school there was one lad who sported a full beard while the rest of us hadn’t yet conjured up so much as a solitary whisker. He considered himself manly while the rest of us preferred the term freakish. That said, I’d be lying bare-faced if I said that we didn’t all harbor a spot of secret jealousy over being passed over while this 13-year-old human shag pile put Kris Kristofferson to shame. Likewise, there was one female who also beat many of us out of the blocks, with a facial growler which had no place on a young lady. Alas electrolysis appeared the only solution for her, outside of her parents renaming her Desmond. I wonder about her from time to time, curious as to whether or not her lip quilt ceased its incessant growth.
I was particularly gangly growing up, not quite the ugly duckling as my blonde hair and blue eyes saw me through, but decidedly less-fleshed out in certain areas. Ladies, minds out of the gutter as I’m referring to my spindly legs. That’s right, there was nary an ounce of muscle on me right through school; my legs resembled two pale white matchsticks that pointed together at the knees. Likewise, dense pubic thatches were fashionable long before I started developing fully. We’re talking fisherman’s beards by thirteen mostly, whereas my one strand became tougher to comb over to disguise my sexual tardiness.
By the time the rest of the team caught up, I was stoked. I’d pluck them out from their white tips and sprinkle them around me in the schoolyard then, when consulted, would act nonchalant and blame it on the autumn fall-out. Of course, it all straightened itself out by the time I hit college but by then the damage was dealt and for years I dragged my insecurities through like luggage at an airport lounge. On the plus side I was mighty proud with my Percy which looked far less disheveled than many of the willies in the shower room. Crooked monstrosities, garishly colored and unattractive in the extreme, I was more than pleased with my smooth dynamo which wasn’t grey or brown like some of the hideous schlongs parading around at the time.
I’m actually going to break my first golden rule right now, and break my confidentiality code of practice. I shall name ascertain somebody who was kind, quiet and unassuming mostly but became legendary the moment he soaped up his knob after Phys Ed. My reasoning behind blowing this whistle is elementary…he’s hardly going to sue me now is he? I can’t see this burning secret ruining his life or causing sleepless nights. He won’t be socially outcast and forced to eat from dumpsters. You see…Graham Phipp… had the most enormous plonker!
This thing was a bastard, hung a good three inches lower than anybody else in that room. Nobody…but NOBODY got changed near him and no amount of member slapping would allow even the most well-endowed to hold a candle up to Graham’s formidable flange-thumper. Sometimes it would even call his name out in registration period and it had its own seat on the school bus. Wherever Mr Phipp is now, and I damn well hope that’s in the adult entertainment industry as it’s a bit of a no-brainer, I’m sure he has a loving and appreciative wife who hobbles.
Despite everything, I wouldn’t have traded for any other cock in the locker room. I’ve never really been a hairy person… no unsightly strands littering the wrong places. Soft shoulders which, even now, show no signs of declining and a fuzz-free bot which is just plain adorable if you ask me. I’m happy with the cards I was dealt; my legs filled out nicely, my chest stopped resembling a xylophone under a hand towel and, as for the pubic hair, well I needn’t have worried away as I shave those buggers off.
Of course, I’ve heard the rumors circulate. One’s body appears likely to transmogrify once more in the twilight years. Earlobes lengthen to the point where young children can use them as skipping ropes, pallid hairs shoot up in the most alarming of locales which include ears and nose…and the balls…well, it’s quite tragic what transpires to these little fellas. They fall from grace and the apple often drops far from the tree. In Soho, London once I passed a mature gent clad only in long johns from the waist down. He had a pair on his right knee, clear as day. There was no mistaking and nobody had slipped acid into my drink. I saw it with my own two unfortunate peepers.
Society and the media makes some pretty harsh rules about how we should look and carry ourselves. No witch-hunts this time as, once started I’ll be plotting like Guy Fawkes to overthrow the whole British media and I’ve already got stuff planned for next week. Just an animated finger wag this time, but it is a ferocious one let me tell you. It’s all fucking bullshit you see, a myriad of manners to miss the point, designed to make you feel inadequate.
It’ll never change, in life there will always be Gods and Monsters, and the lines between them are often blurred. They’ll always peddle their noxious shit and the majority of us will continue to clamor over it. Keeper had their number a long time ago. If I had a death list it would wipe out devastatingly vast numbers so I just keep my thoughts to myself…and the Grueheads of course. Be who you want to be, look in the mirror and like what you see as you ain’t getting another one (unless they auction Joan Rivers when she croaks).
In all truth, the use of erotically charged visuals alongside this piece appears ill-considered but allow me to elaborate…nobody wishes to see a seventy old man with knee-spuds and attempting to source a penis as all-encompassing as Graham Phipp’s eye-bleedingly Jurassic Johnson would have been most laborious. Joking aside, I like the contradiction in it. It enables friendly debate when the perfect bodies adorning this article appear to stand against every word I’ve scribed. As always there is method to my madness, and contradiction is wholly intentional.
Be empathetic towards that one boy with the withered polio arm hanging like a T-Rex, Mrs Garrison from no.42 could do with a little help getting her groceries back with that clubbed foot of hers and spare a thought for little Timmy Malone, the lad born without a nose. Tell him how the flowers smell in his window box and don’t always blame your flatulence on Timmy. Judge what’s beneath, that’s my assumption and I know that’s a word Keeper ordinarily begrudges using but judgement calls will still be being mad long after my testicles crank down to their lowest notch.
I’ve been fortunate enough to date some stunning women in my lifetime but do you know what? The moment they reveal unkindness they sprout the most unsightly hairs from thickset facial moles, their teeth buck and chins two thru nine suddenly unravel like turkey blubber. That’s right…they become the least attractive folk on the planet if a little humanity doesn’t seep to the surface. It’s how we conduct, not our construct, which allows the path of contention to be traversed. Ultimately it’s just about you being you after all.
Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2013