I've gotten used to going to The Marquise's boutique to deliver new consignments of ropes. Enough so that I can now enter, hold my head up high, give her two kisses on the cheeks, subtly take in her saliva-inducing breastage and make small talk.
"Wow. Is that a new three-pronged anal speculum with locking mechanism? I've always loved chrome!".
(I DO have to rehearse in the bathroom mirror above my toilet. When the abdominal cramping subsides, I know I'm ready - though I do fast for 36 hours before each visit. Just in case).
Yesterday, I strided in confidently with my gargoyle's finest hemp and was about to go through the protocol. Just as I was ready to glance down at the Royal Boobies however, a voice I did NOT want to hear came wafting over my left shoulder - from the nose-hook and ball-gag display if I'm not mistaken.
The Crazy Ex, ever accompanied by her pleat-eliminating paramour, was doing some shopping. Apparently, she had not appreciated my flurry of drunken phone calls at 4:00 a.m. a few weeks ago when I discovered that she had an additional source of income from filmed leather-clad escapades with subhuman, testosterone-deprived, chastity-belted "men".
I was taken aback when SHE - being seemingly proud of her commission of sins too repugnant to enumerate - went on the offensive. Her Master's degree in French Literature from the Sorbonne has endowed her with a mastery of our tongue and of fine rhetoric. She started with a sardonic "Hello", which was followed by a lesson in late-night telephone etiquette.
The Marquise, not aware that my former orgasm inducer and I were acquainted, walked over and happily concluded that "ohhh... YOU'RE the Gargoyle Master's Mistress!" (apparently, the tone of our conversation mislead her). "He seems to be very obedient" she remarked with a wink.
The Ex then discharged a netherworld-shattering cackle.
I eventually exited after hearing a litany of my "vanilla" sexual self's "hang-ups". Apparently, not being interested in the slightest in women's latexwear and my own (quite fictional) "G-Spot" is abnormal in some people's eyes. I felt I was in some sort of bizarro flipped-up version of the universe, where women have urges to be serviced and where men are expected to be physically attentive.
Obviously, when faced with people this delusional about the origins of the universe, our reasons for being and the roles our Creator expects us to play, there is nothing one can say to expose the silliness to their eyes. It is frustrating, but the best way to change people's misguided views is to live a good life and to provide an example of moral rectitude.
Of course, they're both bisexual. They just don't understand what a man like me can offer. Quite sad really.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Friday, March 21, 2008
Feline Fracas
In 1812, Canada was invaded by our friendly neighbours to the south. French-speaking Canadians were presented with a historically significant decision: to stay within a British colony or align with the new republic that had been formed from a disdain for the Crown and not stop the invaders' taking of the St-Lawrence Valley. 200 years later, interpretation of our ancestors' choice is still open for debate among leading toenail-picking, ivory-tower-residing history professors. This is rather unusual, as the reason seems pretty obvious to me. We Canadians, though separated by geography, cultures and prevalence of female mullets, are united by one overriding passion: perpetually whining about the stupid-assed weather we've decided to live in.
Last Tuesday, at the tail end of a horrendous winter that just does NOT want to end, we had our first signs of the possible approach of Spring. I took advantage of the slightly-warmer-than-average temperatures to air out the apartment while I was at work by opening the windows.
Of course, reinforced steel bars had been installed, in addition to other redundant court-imposed precautions, so I was reassured that my little rim-pooper will not escape. That which I did NOT anticipate however, is that things may find their way IN.
I came home from work and started sneezing as soon as I opened the door. I found Gargy on the kitchen floor NOT producing ropes for our beloved clients. Rather, the screen on the living-room window had been ripped open to, apparently, welcome a lovely little unbred cat into his loving lap.
I went to grab the hairy hairball hoarder and do what any normal, non-Down's-syndrome sufferer would do: fling it down three stories and hope that the fall would be sufficient to send it back to the demon-dimension from whence it came.
Gargy had other ideas.
Apparently, and quite surprisingly, my hemp-spinner has enough of an intellect to have anticipated my disagreement with his adoption of a fuzzy, louse-bearing bastardisation of God's good will (how housecats got through the flood and onto the Ark, I've no clue. I'll just assume that Satan pulled some strings). He set up a trip-wire which, when combined with my violent, feline-seizing lunge, caused me to stumble into my back room. He then locked the door and stated his position in a remarkably unbroken French.
"Annie stays".
Annie, I quickly surmised, was our new friend. My options were made clear: die of exposure in an unheated storage locker or spend the rest of my time as CEO of a profitable ropemaking enterprise taking daily doses of antihistamines and enduring the presence of a cat in my home.
Being an MBA-holder through three years' worth of case studies and HR classes, and given that the decision-making process had been made for me, I ruefully acquiesced to my employee's request. Gargy opened the door, smiled at me, hugged my leg and went back to delicately petting Annie's macrophage-stimulating fur.
Oh well. Sanity's overrated anyway.
Last Tuesday, at the tail end of a horrendous winter that just does NOT want to end, we had our first signs of the possible approach of Spring. I took advantage of the slightly-warmer-than-average temperatures to air out the apartment while I was at work by opening the windows.
Of course, reinforced steel bars had been installed, in addition to other redundant court-imposed precautions, so I was reassured that my little rim-pooper will not escape. That which I did NOT anticipate however, is that things may find their way IN.
I came home from work and started sneezing as soon as I opened the door. I found Gargy on the kitchen floor NOT producing ropes for our beloved clients. Rather, the screen on the living-room window had been ripped open to, apparently, welcome a lovely little unbred cat into his loving lap.
I went to grab the hairy hairball hoarder and do what any normal, non-Down's-syndrome sufferer would do: fling it down three stories and hope that the fall would be sufficient to send it back to the demon-dimension from whence it came.
Gargy had other ideas.
Apparently, and quite surprisingly, my hemp-spinner has enough of an intellect to have anticipated my disagreement with his adoption of a fuzzy, louse-bearing bastardisation of God's good will (how housecats got through the flood and onto the Ark, I've no clue. I'll just assume that Satan pulled some strings). He set up a trip-wire which, when combined with my violent, feline-seizing lunge, caused me to stumble into my back room. He then locked the door and stated his position in a remarkably unbroken French.
"Annie stays".
Annie, I quickly surmised, was our new friend. My options were made clear: die of exposure in an unheated storage locker or spend the rest of my time as CEO of a profitable ropemaking enterprise taking daily doses of antihistamines and enduring the presence of a cat in my home.
Being an MBA-holder through three years' worth of case studies and HR classes, and given that the decision-making process had been made for me, I ruefully acquiesced to my employee's request. Gargy opened the door, smiled at me, hugged my leg and went back to delicately petting Annie's macrophage-stimulating fur.
Oh well. Sanity's overrated anyway.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Online Lust
Having never sired little boobie-stealers, I've not had to face the circumstances where access to the outside world needed to be withheld from someone/something close to me in order to save him/her/it from our secular society's amorality.
Unfortunately, Canadian mores are even more secular (particularly in those places where my first language is spoken) than other countries', so the proper religious backbone which upholds modesty and muzzles our baser impulses is absent from our daily societal dialogue. Everywhere I turn, I see perverts, sodomites and vile, libidinous women, each scrummaging for their place in the queue to eternal damnation.
I guess it was just a matter of time, then, before Gargy discovered the plenitude of pornography barely hidden amongst the virtual detritus which the offal among God's children enjoy posting onto our shared planetary server farm.
...and he is one DISGUSTING gargoyle.
That this material is even legal to produce and distribute is beyond disturbing. The portrayal of females in states of "sexual extasy" is highly misleading to those among us who are not worldly enough to understand that these are fantastical flights of fiction. Some, as my little phlegm oozer, will be imparted with the idea that members of the squishier gender actually achieve such levels of selfish "pleasure" from intimate interactions, instead of the more subtle reality that their role is as a passive GIVER of satisfaction.
Subtlety is lost on most people.
Anyhoo, I've had to purchase special software packages in order to keep my little spastic odor generator from seeing anything of a prurient nature. This is because of what happened last Friday.
When I got home from my failed attempt at obtaining a human receptacle for my eagerness, Gargy was furiously frictioning my desk chair whilst watching 15-second "sample" film clips from an Internet site graciously described as "irksome".
That a woman in dire need of funds to feed her addictions and genealogically unimbued children would lower herself into the depths of drug dealing, shoplifting or drive-thru servicing MAY awaken my deeply dormant inner bleeding-heart socialist. To see such a woman reverse the Natural Order and bind men in spanking-ready positions makes me wish we would impose a sharia female-modesty lapidation statute in my decidedly snowy, non-desert-like land.
(...they're calling for another snowstorm on Montréal. This would make this winter the shoveliest since before my birth. I may be a little pissy these days).
Upon further review of the videos (after Gargy was rather reluctantly - nay, shot-inducing scratchingly - sent to his cage without his good-night Cannibal Corpse lullaby), I noticed a decidedly disturbing development. In one facially-penetrative dildo scene, the Dominatrix' genitals were more than prominently displayed.
I knew that birthmark.
I had a Crazy Ex to call.
Unfortunately, Canadian mores are even more secular (particularly in those places where my first language is spoken) than other countries', so the proper religious backbone which upholds modesty and muzzles our baser impulses is absent from our daily societal dialogue. Everywhere I turn, I see perverts, sodomites and vile, libidinous women, each scrummaging for their place in the queue to eternal damnation.
I guess it was just a matter of time, then, before Gargy discovered the plenitude of pornography barely hidden amongst the virtual detritus which the offal among God's children enjoy posting onto our shared planetary server farm.
...and he is one DISGUSTING gargoyle.
That this material is even legal to produce and distribute is beyond disturbing. The portrayal of females in states of "sexual extasy" is highly misleading to those among us who are not worldly enough to understand that these are fantastical flights of fiction. Some, as my little phlegm oozer, will be imparted with the idea that members of the squishier gender actually achieve such levels of selfish "pleasure" from intimate interactions, instead of the more subtle reality that their role is as a passive GIVER of satisfaction.
Subtlety is lost on most people.
Anyhoo, I've had to purchase special software packages in order to keep my little spastic odor generator from seeing anything of a prurient nature. This is because of what happened last Friday.
When I got home from my failed attempt at obtaining a human receptacle for my eagerness, Gargy was furiously frictioning my desk chair whilst watching 15-second "sample" film clips from an Internet site graciously described as "irksome".
That a woman in dire need of funds to feed her addictions and genealogically unimbued children would lower herself into the depths of drug dealing, shoplifting or drive-thru servicing MAY awaken my deeply dormant inner bleeding-heart socialist. To see such a woman reverse the Natural Order and bind men in spanking-ready positions makes me wish we would impose a sharia female-modesty lapidation statute in my decidedly snowy, non-desert-like land.
(...they're calling for another snowstorm on Montréal. This would make this winter the shoveliest since before my birth. I may be a little pissy these days).
Upon further review of the videos (after Gargy was rather reluctantly - nay, shot-inducing scratchingly - sent to his cage without his good-night Cannibal Corpse lullaby), I noticed a decidedly disturbing development. In one facially-penetrative dildo scene, the Dominatrix' genitals were more than prominently displayed.
I knew that birthmark.
I had a Crazy Ex to call.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Goin' Out
Now that the Crazy Ex is officially gone, I've had to face the fact that I am REALLY in need of some female companionship. Is it too much to ask to find a single girl who, by her wicked demeanour, is in no way marriage material AND would want to spend some happy time with me?
A buddy of mine from work (well... some guy in the IT department who, by default given his chosen vocation, doesn't wash his hands after doing number two) noticed I was not well and used his only wisp of non-machine-interacting empathy - that of being able to sense male sexual frustration - to invite me out on the town Friday and "get us some girlies" (according to his playfully phallocentric comments, he seems to have some sort of magnetism for the Y-chromosome-challenged, despite his somewhat rotund, showerless appearance. There really is no understanding that which attracts females. Actually, that's a whole paragraph unto itself).
Why in our Lord's name are average men getting women to go out with them all the time when I, a relatively attractive guy who works out pretty much every day, wears nice clothes that have big fancy logos from upscale brands, makes a pretty darned good salary, can converse fluently in two languages about my cottage in the Laurentians, my $3,000 watch, how I am extremely effective in bed (I'll back THAT comment up with stories from the first six months of my relationship with my ex-wife - ooooooh she liked that lights-off missionary sex! - I'm no empty braggart) and my knowledge of Andrea Bocelli and Stephen King and other examples of fine culture, am NOT. I mean, it's not as though less handsome, less wealthy men have anything on me, right? And I'm a nice guy too! I swear, chicks are completely unfathomable.
In any case, we met up and headed to a bar on St-Denis. The girls were plentiful and I was wearing MUCH nicer clothes than the other guys there (it's as though half-worn jeans and grubby t-shirts are somehow seen as being stylish. I'll take my pleated-front khakis and double-breasted sport coat thank you very much). We grabbed beers and my guide started chatting up girls, speaking of role-playing games and such. I was surprised by the almost universal reaction: piqued interest at the start, then immediate disinterest whenever he mentions he likes playing a fourteenth-level elf magi thingy. I was starting to wonder if he shouldn't switch to being a paladin or something, but I've no clue about these things.
I spotted a magnificent twenty-something redhead at a table and we made eye-contact and flirted from a afar for a few minutes. My buddy tells me I should buy her friends beverages and try to integrate her group. I ordered a pitcher of sangria (what they were drinking) and made my way to her table. I introduced myself and she seemed to be happy I came over. She introduced me to her four friends and I found out they were actuaries from a consultancy I knew (my ex-wife had worked there. This was an in!).
I regaled her with stories from my trips, the latest being the one to Eastern Europe, notably Bucharest. I told her in detail how I was able to save quite a bit by choosing non-busy months and by negotiating packages with various travel retailers. I showed her the watch and basically went through my life from youth until today (unfortunately, she seemed to be one of those "interrupters", as she sometimes tried to tell me how SHE had similar experiences. I'm sorry, but something that happened in the Canadian hinterlands, no matter how life-altering, CANNOT compete with the fascinating intricacies of Balkan train travel).
Anyhoo, I must've spent three hours talking to her table, drinking a few too many pichers, ribbing their choice of vocations (actuarial math. I mean, is there ANYTHING less interesting?). A couple left, probably assuming that their friend wanted some alone time with me (she playfully pled for them to stay, but they really had to get up on Saturday morning to finish a report). Eventually, the three remaining girlies left for the bathroom together (what a silly ritual), and only two came back. My carrot-haired belle (the nickname I gave her all night. Cute huh?) had to leave because she wasn't feeling well at all. They grabbed her coat for her and took my phone number to give her (they both laughed when I handed it to them - good sign! I've learned that girls LOVE to set their single friends up).
I had been hoping for some physical contact that night but hey, a good man needs to learn to be patient, right? My colleague eventually met a UNIX architect with an affinity for multiple shots of Southern Comfort, elastic-waistband hotpants (as dictated by her lower-body morphological attributes) and, one assumes, foregoing post-potty ablutions. They were one of the many couples who had concluded negotiations and were making out, dripping aromatic slobber over sticky tabletops. I therefore wished him good luck and headed out alone.
...I still don't get it. How long must I wait until I find a girl who'll slobber with ME?
At least the entire evening only cost me one pitcher of sangria. Plus the cab ride home.
Gargy was on the Internet. The bucket was overflowing. Uh-oh.
A buddy of mine from work (well... some guy in the IT department who, by default given his chosen vocation, doesn't wash his hands after doing number two) noticed I was not well and used his only wisp of non-machine-interacting empathy - that of being able to sense male sexual frustration - to invite me out on the town Friday and "get us some girlies" (according to his playfully phallocentric comments, he seems to have some sort of magnetism for the Y-chromosome-challenged, despite his somewhat rotund, showerless appearance. There really is no understanding that which attracts females. Actually, that's a whole paragraph unto itself).
Why in our Lord's name are average men getting women to go out with them all the time when I, a relatively attractive guy who works out pretty much every day, wears nice clothes that have big fancy logos from upscale brands, makes a pretty darned good salary, can converse fluently in two languages about my cottage in the Laurentians, my $3,000 watch, how I am extremely effective in bed (I'll back THAT comment up with stories from the first six months of my relationship with my ex-wife - ooooooh she liked that lights-off missionary sex! - I'm no empty braggart) and my knowledge of Andrea Bocelli and Stephen King and other examples of fine culture, am NOT. I mean, it's not as though less handsome, less wealthy men have anything on me, right? And I'm a nice guy too! I swear, chicks are completely unfathomable.
In any case, we met up and headed to a bar on St-Denis. The girls were plentiful and I was wearing MUCH nicer clothes than the other guys there (it's as though half-worn jeans and grubby t-shirts are somehow seen as being stylish. I'll take my pleated-front khakis and double-breasted sport coat thank you very much). We grabbed beers and my guide started chatting up girls, speaking of role-playing games and such. I was surprised by the almost universal reaction: piqued interest at the start, then immediate disinterest whenever he mentions he likes playing a fourteenth-level elf magi thingy. I was starting to wonder if he shouldn't switch to being a paladin or something, but I've no clue about these things.
I spotted a magnificent twenty-something redhead at a table and we made eye-contact and flirted from a afar for a few minutes. My buddy tells me I should buy her friends beverages and try to integrate her group. I ordered a pitcher of sangria (what they were drinking) and made my way to her table. I introduced myself and she seemed to be happy I came over. She introduced me to her four friends and I found out they were actuaries from a consultancy I knew (my ex-wife had worked there. This was an in!).
I regaled her with stories from my trips, the latest being the one to Eastern Europe, notably Bucharest. I told her in detail how I was able to save quite a bit by choosing non-busy months and by negotiating packages with various travel retailers. I showed her the watch and basically went through my life from youth until today (unfortunately, she seemed to be one of those "interrupters", as she sometimes tried to tell me how SHE had similar experiences. I'm sorry, but something that happened in the Canadian hinterlands, no matter how life-altering, CANNOT compete with the fascinating intricacies of Balkan train travel).
Anyhoo, I must've spent three hours talking to her table, drinking a few too many pichers, ribbing their choice of vocations (actuarial math. I mean, is there ANYTHING less interesting?). A couple left, probably assuming that their friend wanted some alone time with me (she playfully pled for them to stay, but they really had to get up on Saturday morning to finish a report). Eventually, the three remaining girlies left for the bathroom together (what a silly ritual), and only two came back. My carrot-haired belle (the nickname I gave her all night. Cute huh?) had to leave because she wasn't feeling well at all. They grabbed her coat for her and took my phone number to give her (they both laughed when I handed it to them - good sign! I've learned that girls LOVE to set their single friends up).
I had been hoping for some physical contact that night but hey, a good man needs to learn to be patient, right? My colleague eventually met a UNIX architect with an affinity for multiple shots of Southern Comfort, elastic-waistband hotpants (as dictated by her lower-body morphological attributes) and, one assumes, foregoing post-potty ablutions. They were one of the many couples who had concluded negotiations and were making out, dripping aromatic slobber over sticky tabletops. I therefore wished him good luck and headed out alone.
...I still don't get it. How long must I wait until I find a girl who'll slobber with ME?
At least the entire evening only cost me one pitcher of sangria. Plus the cab ride home.
Gargy was on the Internet. The bucket was overflowing. Uh-oh.
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