Desire Vs. the Volcano
Sexual desire: It can make your limbs tremble, your breath come in short gasps, your knees wobble and your heart pound. It may, if you’re in a certain fortunate category, cause your clothes to be passionately torn off or your hips lustily gripped. It can also lead to more aggressive acts.
Although in my experience, desire often has gentler effects as well. In fact those effects are sometimes so gentle that one might overlook their source, or completely miss their connection to desire. For example, one might find oneself climbing a volcano on a rainy evening in an unfamiliar locale without understanding precisely why. Read the rest of this entry →
This is brilliance from 
Oh, the opposite sex – how does one attract them? Well, if you’re a male chimpanzee you don’t need flash cars or a loft apartment with a shiny microwave oven or even testicle extensions or other apparatus available with reasonable shipping from China. No – if you’re a male chimpanzee, all you need are some dry leaves. And an erection. Yep – that’s it. An erect penis, and some dry leaves. That gets you some chimpanzee ass. For real.
Since it became Wordsmoker‘s mission late last week to get Miss Peacock a date, I felt that I owed everyone a run-down of my Halloween evening.
Movies influence us in many ways. There are very few men out there who haven’t approached a potential sex-partner completely nude while holding their erect penis and shouting “Say hello to my leetle friend!” in an accent probably closer to Pakistani than Cuban (much like Al Pacino himself). Recently, I wedged the end of my whip under the rear axle of a bus and I let it drag me into town so I could see some Nazis melt as they meddled with powers beyond their understanding. I also shot a big shark from a smaller boat on Sunday. Etc.
I edged closer to where Masami sat, chucking an edamame skin into a bowl with what I hoped was casual panache as I scooted across the tatami. The afterparty tonight was in a place that tried for a retro, dark-wood-and-paper kind of charm, Tanizaki mystique slathered over the grimier realities of a twenty-four-hour bar catering to sweaty rockers prolonging their post-gig buzzes. Somebody’d already had to take one skinny bassist home; there had been blood coloring the half-digested yakisoba in the sink below his face when he’d been discovered leaning motionless with his eyes closed and his forehead cooling against the bathroom mirror. Soon the usual suspects would begin the half-joking humiliations that constituted bonding in this world, though sometimes it seemed more like bondage: out of the corner of my eye I could see Nobu conspiring with an ugly dude I didn’t recognize, gesturing toward one of his favorite targets, a skinny, sweet guy with newly-dyed blue hair whom everyone called Dice, hot sauce in his hands and a dangerous glint in his eyes. Poor Dice, I thought, but only in passing; I had other things on my mind. 
7:35 AM: I awoke with alacrity. The sun shone through the bamboo and leaves and warmed my soft fur. I could hear the little one, already up and playing in the distance near the water towards the south end of the enclosure. It’s been a while since Gao Gao’s been around, and I feel a terrible longing for him. 
When searching for information, my first impulse is to check the internet. (Oh, Google, where would I be without you?) But today I was struck by a sheepish nostalgia: when was the last time I looked in a book for answers? Even a dictionary, for heaven’s sake.
