Crom makes an excellent point:
Indiscriminate sex sounds like fun in concept, but the reality of it is quite different. Most encounters of this type when viewed over the shoulder take on a different hue, one of where you are glad that nothing bad came of the event, rather than exulting that it happened.Pretty Lady never ceases to be shocked by The Larger Populace of seemingly No Imagination. Being a lady who, through no fault of her own, has found herself living a life that, in the words of one stranger long ago, 'most of us can only dream of,' she knows that the events which are most melodramatic in the telling are generally the most tedious and banal in the experiencing. Or at least, that the devil is in the details, quite literally.
Now, Pretty Lady has never had indiscriminate sex in elevators, or anywhere else, because Pretty Lady has quite an excellent imagination. Her imagination extends to all sorts of troublesome logistics, which make it clear to her that sex in elevators, as a practical investment, is best relegated to the realm of Artistic Fantasy, and not Messy Actuality.
In fact, she has never understood why so many men of her acquaintance are so dense about this obvious fact. Well she recalls, while wearily engaged in securing yet another belt, rope, collar or wrist restraint to an uncooperative bed or wall, asking her then-whatever-he-was--"Can't you just imagine that you're tied up?"
In Pretty Lady's mind, not only does this come to more or less the same thing, but imagined scenarios are much more efficient, in a practical sense, than painstakingly enacted real ones. Gentlemen of her acquaintance repeatedly inform her that "men are more visual, when it comes to sex." They also seem to be more literal in their erotic requirements, as well as messier and more inconvenient.
Which is why, in the absence of her yet-unmanifested One And Only, she vastly prefers to hang out with a Georgette Heyer novel of an evening, rather than skulking around in elevators.
29 comments:
Messy reality indeed. I have made a mistake or two, usually based on opportunity, of not having a source of water and other "materials" close at hand. But that was many years ago. Call me boring, but I have logistical requirements.
That lack of imagination is confounding, isn't it? I am really quite speechless in the face of it. It seems there simply is no practicable prosthesis available that will assist one born so unfortunate.
I don't know if it's one of those unwritten laws, but I am under the impression that Ladies by definition do not skulk, in elevators or otherwise.
Crom
Ladies by definition do not skulk
True. Impossible for moi in any case, what with that thousand-watt lightbulb strapped to the top of my head.
Pretty Lady, you make exactly the same point I was making, in essence, which is I'd like to imagine meeting strangers for sex in elevators, but probably wouldn't actually want to do so. Shame on Crom and everyone else for trying to pop my bubble of fantasy!
The fact is, I think things tend not to happen near me because the people I'm friends with realize I wouldn't react well to them. As an example, I have friends who have, apparently, been doing drugs for the last twenty years, and I only just recently saw them do so. Never have I been offered any kind of illicit substance by them; never have I watched them, as our former commander-in-chief would say, inhale. But there they are.
I've had more than one friend say that the idea of Chris Rywalt, only on drugs, was just too frightening.
The one time anything of remote interest happened to me -- a woman I didn't know bit me on the neck at a decidedly low-rent comic book convention -- I was so stunned I only stood there and then didn't tell my wife about it for a decade.
Boy was she mad at me.
"...thousand-watt lightbulb strapped to the top of my head."
This was unclear, sorry. I have failed to grok the fullness (as VD would say) of this statement. However, I am trying to understand this while at the same time figure out what liquor best mixes with TheraFlu so my capacities are somewhat diminished.
I have failed to grok the fullness (as VD would say)...
Vox Dei, Valentine Michael Smith, Robert Heinlein, whoever.
what liquor best mixes with TheraFlu
In large mug, take juice of 1 or 2 lemons (depending on how juicy your lemons are; these can be purchased at nearest corner store--oh, sorry, you're in Texas--nearest 7-11 or HEB. Add generous dollop of honey. Fill with boiling hot water; stir. Add 1-2-3 shots whiskey. Drink while reading fluff fiction (or watching fluff TV) and go straight to bed.
Also: 1 can chicken broth, 1 package tiny noodles, one can chicken, 2 eggs, one lemon. Heat chicken broth, simmer noodles and chicken in it till cooked, whisk eggs and pour in, add lemon juice. Season with much black pepper.
This should do you for a couple of days.
thousand-watt light bulb
Let's just say I tend to stand out in crowds, despite my best attempts to blend in.
Chris, if I ever take any illegal drugs, I promise to invite you to the party. Or to the campout, as it may be. But I'm never having sex with you.
Alas dear Lady, your advice came too late.
Since I have the benefit of experience here, let me encourage all of you never to drink a tumblerful of TheraFlu and follow it up with a tall glass of sangria.
That was a bad idea.
Pretty Lady notes:
But I'm never having sex with you.
Well, that's a relief.
Despite the differences, there is a striking similarity between your blog, Pretty Lady, and Vox Day's... An elclectic set of personalities, ideas, and other human patterns from some very thoughtful people that is (almost?) intoxicating.
Sometimes I wish we (people, maybe a few interesting animals, but NO plants as I don't care for socialism:) were able to communicate, or more, commune in thought, either as a whole, in groups, perhaps in individual sets. After reading these blogs, I think my wish is akin to the ideal expressed regarding "free sex", best left to fiction. Or not(?).
An elclectic set of personalities, ideas, and other human patterns from some very thoughtful people that is (almost?) intoxicating.
Whoopee! Pretty Lady's lifelong Fantasy is Realized. Such a terrible pity it had to be Virtual; the full-on fantasy included sparkling, full-dress Parties in Person, wherein the repartee bounces off the chandeliers, and gentlemen occasionally come to fisticuffs.
Ah well, life is not over yet.
So Romantic! There were those times, long since past, where such things were the norm. Though, it was only in comparatively more recent times when fisticuffs became an accepted gentemanly endeavor while full dress was in order. The elegance, the splendor, the duels... sigh You were born too late, Pretty Lady. For myself, I feel very dated. Even suits were better than what passes for fashion these days. I think the world has changed from a place where people tried to move up in the world to one where people decidedly work toward the lower rungs. sigh... again...
Still, you make my heart sing with your dreams! Perhaps all is not lost!
You're right, Doom. The world was a better place when two well-dressed gentlemen could take a nice walk followed by hurling lead balls at each other at a thousand feet per second. There's simply nothing to compare with having your liver blown out through your spine and then spending three agonizing days before expiring.
Although having a long piece of steel slid through your entrails followed by a few days of sepsis and then death, that's a close second.
At least it was romantic, Chris. Today, we worry about being melted as civilians (well, another way of saying nuked or chemicked to obscurity) in a fast or slow process, being obliterated as soldiers by a shell or automatic weapon fire so no one can even tell who we were, and all in such large numbers it is neither personal nor tragic to anyone in particular since they will most likely be dead too. Just statistics in a never ending weave of impersonal death. So, yes, give me the lead or steel any day. Beyond that, it seems I now live in world full of cowards who not only won't, but can't back themselves up. A fluff "civilization" built on nothing. As well, I have better than average odds with most gentlemanly pursuits of lore.
Why doesn't anyone assume they'd be a poor person who dies at five years old of cholera? Or a peasant who croaks after an impacted wisdom tooth gets infected? Or an Inuit whose sled falls through the ice?
Chris, your "death from cholera" bit is reminiscent of my commentary regarding reincarnation, but I happen to partly concur with you.
Doom, while I appreciate your yearning to return to a simpler time, I would remind you that very few people lived the exalted lifestyle of the gentle. Of course, authors from that time period would focus on the glamourous much as our media focuses on the cult of celebrity. Given the amount of words dedicated to recording our political and social history vs. the amount of words dedicated to Brad and Angelina - the odds are good that future generations will know who they were and people who did things for good or ill will have faded behind the crush of the paparazzi and Us Weekly.
The exercise of asking yourself "What would I do had I been born in 18XX or 17XX or earlier instead of 19XX" is useful in the fact that it can provide direction as to what your heart truly desires as opposed to what you are told to desire, examples being the house, SUV, 2.3 children, trophy spouse and a plasma bigscreen.
Once I had asked myself that question, I found I had a very clear answer and I am seeking property to begin doing exactly what I would have done had I been born in an earlier century. I do not believe I would have been welcome at the boiled-shirt parties, and I would not be of the gentle class. This bothers me not in the slightest, in fact I only wish I had ceased aspiring towards the exalted circles earlier in life.
All that said, I do dearly love fisticuffs and were it not for the legal consequences for fighting outside of the ring, I would indulge myself more often. As it stands, I belong to a boxing club that allows me to legally vent the excess testosterone so despised by modern society.
Does this mean you're taking up blacksmithing?
Aye. I have consulted with a few of the local blacksmiths - you might be surprised to know that there are quite a few in Texas - and I have drawn up plans for my forge. I have yet to build it of course, I have to have a workshop in an appropriate place, i.e. unrestricted zoning so the neighbors cannot complain about the smell, and the incessant ringing of the anvil, but I hope to have the land and be building by summer.
Chris,
As for my musings, they are just that. In the dreams I have had of past lives (I don't believe in reincarnation) the only one in which I was nobility was not pleasant. In a small kingdom that dotted the eastern lands that became England, I was a prince. We were lowly, lived in filth, had bad food and often starved, the keeps were cold, castles if you could afford them, were worse. Disease, plots, and wars kept our numbers thin. I didn't even have good armor, a chain coat and furs. So much for fancy dining, dancing, and frivolity.
Crom,
As I said, musings. Nothing more to that, just enjoying a little ebb and flow of interesting pleasant thoughts. More artistic, or as artistic as I get, than anything.
I used to be with you on the fisticuffs. After the last two disasters, I've decided better to keep clear than to face a jury. I'm addicted, but I have to let that particular vice go. Now, dueling on the other hand... *grins*
"the full-on fantasy included sparkling, full-dress Parties in Person, wherein the repartee bounces off the chandeliers, and gentlemen occasionally come to fisticuffs."
Just the gentlemen? Nuts. Because there's nothing quite like seeing me throw down in full sequined-and-tulle evening-ish-wear.
Oh, and Crom---real *women* think blacksmiths are HOT. Just FYI ;)
A good friend of mine, his brother's a blacksmith. Interesting profession. His parents are dairy farmers.
And yes, Crom, I did echo your thoughts on reincarnation. I knew I'd read that somewhere recently.
The Inuit falling through the ice I got from the book I'm currently reading, The Noonday Demon. (Apparently a lot of Inuit are suffering from clinical depression.) The author says that if your sled falls through the ice, a well-trained team of dogs can pull you out -- if the ice doesn't break further and the reins don't snap.
I find this interesting. I also wonder why the Inuit don't move someplace more hospitable. But then I could ask the same of myself.
there's nothing quite like seeing me throw down in full sequined-and-tulle evening-ish-wear.
Mitzibel, my dear, I can imagine this very clearly, and am deeply appreciative of the sight. I have also been known to create a regrettable Scene or two myself, in my younger days, and thus am in complete sympathy with you.
But alas, I am afraid that the parties I intend to throw shall exclude, not you, but the sorts of persons who would piss you off enough to risk tearing your tulle. Even Pretty Lady has standards.
Doom, if you had those actual dreams, I say your non-belief in reincarnation is merely a comforting fairy tale, to shield you from the brutal truth--that you, and all of us, have lived more squalid and unrewarding lives than any of us can count. Is it not a miracle of some sort that we all choose to keep returning?
Crom, if Pretty Lady can run both a covert and unlicensed business, and a studio which is a blatant fire hazard, out of a rented apartment in one of the most highly regulated and governmentally corrupt cities in the country, you should have no trouble becoming a blacksmith in Texas, on your own land. I salute you, and recommend the outskirts of one of those little towns with a central square, and a courthouse in the middle.
Pretty Lady,
Perhaps so. The thought that came to mind though, about coming back, is this: Perhaps we have no choice, perhaps we need to do the right things to be free. Consider it a cosmic rubiks (spelling) cube. Oh, if what you say is true, then I've been here before. If that happens to be true, then almost no matter, we live in the best of times, in America. Nag about war, worry about terrorism, complain about taxes, whatever. Even our poor (or mostly our poor) are fat. The rest of the world... same old same old, but here... we are living in a dream if an annoying one at times.
Crom,
I am curious about the plans for the forge. Will you be stacking it the old way, layer brick and perhaps now other material to reflect to a central focus. Will you be having it built (perhaps required to do so?) or doing much of the work yourself? I am also curious what metals you intend on working with and what you will be making. I am only passingly familiar, mostly just curious.
I hope I don't write too often. When I become a a drag, just kindly let me know.
Actually, Doom, I have the same questions about the forge, and you've saved me having to ask. Ahem?
The first one I intend to build will be very simple, basically I plan to use a 1/8th inch steel table for a top, and use a brake drum from a wrecked Dodge Ram 1500 as a firepot. The base structure will be made of mortar and cinderblock, and allow me to use my old wet/dry vac as a blower. Depending on the building I end up in, I will use what is called a half-hood chimney with a 12 inch pipe. I have seen many different designs but I believe that this will work for my first coal-burning forge.
My anvil is an 18 inch long piece of railroad track that I will bolt to a sizable log as a base. The price for a good new anvil is ridiculously expensive, and I won't buy the crappy Chinese ones that are available all over the Internet. So, I am improvising, and adapting.
As to what I plan to make... First, hammers and tongs. The best way to get your blacksmithing tools is to make them yourself. After that I have some other plans and I have drawn some things out that I would like to make, but I will not reveal those until they are done, then perhaps I will post pictures over on my blog.
I looked at some property north of Galveston Island a few months ago but the price was wrong, land here on the coast is way too expensive. I am now looking further inland and may have a deal brewing with a place off 288. I decided this last summer that I was going to do this, and have been slowly inching towards my goal. Maybe by summer I will be operational, in the meantime I will read and take welding classes to learn basic safety and obtain some certifications. I know they are not required but any knowledge is a good thing.
That's the plan.
Dear Pretty Lady,
One can also consider not collapsing inwards just because the outwards doesn't live up, for we are inexplicably in some sort of ongoing sweaty tango that pushes and pulls with the beats of our individuality.
And following that, there is also always the very best efforts of tantra, so-called, to turn to, or listen to, as human, of course, as it still is, that involve the incredible miracle of the form before the former (as you have said, is that not enough for one willing initiation?), thus no need for fantasy or whips, plus as you have said, "are they not already there?" (well, you din't actually say that).
And then perhaps include a deep yet whimsical and ongoing rhythmic meditation, contemplation, exaltation on what we may and may not be, as you so delightfully suggested in the fantasmically perfect response you gave to the Sam Harris/Dennis Prager debate, about lovley Sammy's boobsession with being soul-y the body, which had me laughing out loud and—in the way of the cosmos, and the interface of silly screens and screams—led me here to your wit.
And for the record, be that record vinyl or god knows what, the actual dance of not collapsing fully inwards or outwards is perhaps a reflection of that universal tantra, so-called, ongoing, unstoppable, spinning a beautiful rock around a giant ball of fire to who knows where...?
But back to the original synapse firing, when the tension deflates or inflates too far, for example from too much messiness (as you describe it), people perhaps then start desperately tying other people up to bring that miraculous tension of the body/soul life-force journey back to a workable passion.
Then again, who knows?
I have no idea what I just wrote and I know I should read it over, but I'm not going to becuase I am haphazard and crazy today, and I blame it on your exquisite song of words that activates such an unavoidable stream of unconscious consciousness, and reminds us poor souls to play, you flea-bitten varmits, play!
Having said that, I do wonder if Sam Harris and Dennis Prager secretly love each other. I think they'd have a decent tension, if they practiced retaining, but perhaps that is too specific for your dear readers.
I ask that because I love them, and I love you too, as you dastardly (is that word?) keep your very own interdependent sacred tantra-tension alive by refusing to abandon the amazing truth and wonder of your sat, chit and ananda to the utter madness, joy, absurdity, decay, pain, rotting, dreaming, loving, giving, hoping surrending, helplessness of it all.
Petexoxoxoxoxo
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