Over this year’s Easter weekend a stain on my bed head was brought to my attention by some random guy I woke up on top of, and was again noticed three months later by somebody I am now seeing regularly. By the coat of dust and my track record, it could have been there for years and belong to almost anybody. All I know is that based on the spatter-ratio it definitely isn’t mine. The new bit of rumpo announced the biohazard to my friends and voila; a high-resolution digital flash photograph. While I am by no means a filthy slut, I do admit that I was slow to chip off the extra coat of varnish. Should I ask my friends to delete the photograph and stop showing it to everyone I know, or is the ‘egg on my face’ merely my comeuppance?
The Whore of Babylon and Greater Melbourne, Melbourne
Dear the Whore of Babylon and Greater Melbourne,
It’s a shame you can’t see me through the internet (or possibly a good thing, as I’m not wearing any trousers at my desk) otherwise, you would notice that my face hasn’t registered a response. No rising of an eyebrow, no disapproving pursing of my lips and certainly no blinking of an eye (just an involuntary twitch that is a relic of the weekend). No, I haven’t recently come into the immobilising effects of botchulism (although I have considered giving the ravaging hands of time a little nudge in an anti-clockwise direction), however, when you have friends like mine, you are very rarely shocked.
Take my friend, Casanova, for example, who – by the sound of it – would give you run for your money. You see, young Casanova is just that; a harlot; and as charming as he is, he wears his promiscuity as a badge of (dis)honour. Perhaps you and he should combine forces (unless you have slept with one another already), just like a slutty episode of SHAZAM! I think the planet would probably explode. He was telling me just yesterday that at the weekend he overexerted himself on another and somehow managed to destroy a futon (how Nineties) in three places. I must admit I was a tad envious: how frequently can you say that you have sex like burning that produces its own firewood?
Regarding the photograph, I would say it’s just desserts for the unidentified deposit of man pudding. To be honest, I’m quite surprised that you actually have a bed and not toothpick to clean, what for all of the notches whittled in your bedpost. Consider yourself lucky that you haven’t been implicated in the photograph and the only means of your identification are those who are familiar with your bed, which sounds as though it could be the greater population of Melbourne’s gay community. Give your (teenage boy’s) bedroom an airing, clean the phantom semen off the bed head and get yourself to a clinic for a screening. Oh, and give Casanova a call. I’m certain his number can be found scrawled onto the walls of most public restrooms.
I do believe I came with a hat. : clusterflock
2 years ago
[...] —”Spray It with Feeling” When residing in the terrace house in question, I happened to cohabitate with a character you might be previously acquainted with, Stampy McNasty. For the uninitiated, she was a two-thousand-pound quadruped who would skulk around the house with a face as long as the animal she was emulating; and whose mane of horsehair would clog the shower on a daily basis. Living in a house with noise issues and with my bedroom stationed above the kitchen where most of the activity occurred, I was privy to her stomping around like a fairy elephant each morning, the whispered phone conversations to her drug dealer (presumably for horse tranquiliser), and on occasions her hissy fits to uncompliant friends and relatives. Unfortunately, on the rare occasion that Stampy would ensnare a stallion, I would learn of his presence by extended patterns of her snorts and moans: she was a grunter. The sound would filter from the crack beneath her bedroom door and would float into my adjacent room and fill the silence with a chorus from the coital filly. It was rather unpleasant for all concerned, I assume. [...]