Your Favorite Color is the
Key to Your Sexual Life
The cloths you wear, your home furnishings and the car you drive all
give clues to your sexual personality. The key is the colors you select for
your possessions. Most people claim they haven't a favorite color. But look
around you, and you'll notice a pattern, especially in your clothing and home
decor. The predominant color for you is the one that appears most frequently
-- it's the one that mirrors the sexual you. A panel of psychologists,
speaking at the 1975 Home Interior Design Forum, explained the association
between color and sexual patterns.
RED: People who like red tend to be tigers in the sack. They are
easily aroused and enjoy sex in every way imaginable. Once the sexual spark
is ignited, it may take hours to extinguish. When two reds get together, the
ensuing erotica could make Lady Chatterly blush. Lovers of red tend to be
aggressors and weaker colors should be aware.
YELLOW: If you tend to favor yellow, your sexual drives are complex
and turn toward the adaptable. The favorite color of homosexuals is yellow.
But don't panic -- not everyone who wears yellow is queer. In most cases the
person will consent to the stronger partner's desires in a passive manner.
You will never enjoy sex to the fullest, but you will never turn down an
invitation from somebody you enjoy or admire.
PINK: Persons who like pink show a reluctance to mature in sexual
matters: women tend to tease, to promise more than they intend to deliver. In
some cases they flaunt their femininity -- but because they secretly hate
men. A great percentage of prostitutes boast entire wardrobes in pink. Men
who like pink are the philanderers and flirts. They are the type who will
make three dates for the same evening and not keep one, preferring to pick up
a dish in some bar instead. Women whose husbands like pink should keep a
secret nest egg.
PURPLE: Lovers of purple frequently consider themselves to be too
sophisticated for a fun romp in the sack. Women sometimes are the type who
hate to mess their hair. Men are business-like in their approach to love-
making. In both sexes purple partners are more concerned with their
fulfillment than anyone else's gratification.
BLACK: Black color preferences point to black sex (not necessarily
meaning black partners). These people are the misfits of the sex world and
seek out each other in kinship. They tend to prefer perverted sex and are
usually masochistic or sadistic in nature. They are moody people and often
perform at their peak when under stress or during unhappy times. Police
psychiatrists claim that sex offenders prefer the color black. And it is no
coincidence that the uniform of mosters and teenage gangs is black attire.
GREEN: Those who prefer green are fresh and innocent in their
approach to sex. Women who love green will always make love like virgins all
their life. And a man may always be a trifle clumsy and awkward but in a
charming and endearing sort of way. Green lovers are gentle, but not
passionate. If chosen as a mate, one will never need worry about infidelity.
ORANGE: Lovers of the color orange lean toward sexual fantasies. The
sex act is regarded as a dramatic one-act play in which they are the star.
Foreplay is as important as the act of love. They whisper sweet nothings,
meaningless dialogue; they feel it is their image. Orange people often do not
experience orgasm -- but they put on a darn good act. Men tend to pull their
partner's hair, and women leave red welts on the sex partner's back.
BROWN: If you love brown, you're a real treasure for the right mate.
Brown lovers tend to be warm and deep, sensitive to the needs and desires of
their partners. Sex is a 24 hour a day thing. Where you can't say "I love
you" often enough. Snuggling by the fire, walking in the rain or catching
snowflakes on their tongue is a turn-on to a lover of brown. They need lots
of time and privacy to make love. But their emotions are such that one harsh
word could end the affair.
GREY: The color grey a preferred by people who are indecisive. They
can't get excited about anything -- including color -- so they choose a
noncommittal shade. Men who prefer grey look at sex as a way of relieving
tension -- but nothing more, nothing less. It's wham, bam, thank you ma'am.
Women don't make love, they have intercourse. And for one of two reasons only:
to accommodate their mate, or to become pregnant. They count the cracks in the
bedroom plaster until the sex act is over with and done. But when teamed with
another color, the grey spouse considers the other's infidelity a blessing.
When a grey marries another grey, the marriage is made in heaven.
BLUE: Lovers of blue are wonderful sex partners. They are sinners,
affectionate and sensitive to their partner's needs. They consider love making
a fine art and their approach is elegant. Men who love blue are like concert
pianists, delicately ravaging their partner like they would play a baby grand.
Women in the blue category enjoy sex to the fullest. They are exciting
partners but their passion may be compared to a tidal wave rather than firery
aggression. Both women and men enjoy foreplay and the aftermath of lovemaking,
as much as the sex act itself. In marriage a blue person is a wonderful mate
-- never seeking outside interests.
WHITE: If a person is infatuated with white, sex often seems filthy.
These people are puritanical in nature. French kissing is obscene and to make
love in the daylight in unheard of. Women who love white will undress beneath
the covers. Men will shower before and after the sex act. These people still
use pet names for their genitals.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Reality Or Fantasy?
There are certain things in this life that really intrigue and puzzle me. The first one being, If we see the world only as we imagine it, how can we define what is real and what is not, and are things really here? How do we see things the same if we all have different minds?
I wonder if anybody out there knows how to separate reality from fantasy? What is real and what is in our imaginations? What would the world be like if we did not think? If we did not have imaginations would the world still exist?
I do not believe that anyone has the answers to these problems, as we will probably never know. I personally believe that without our imaginations the world would be blank and uniform. But in our minds we can separate what is true and what is not. The things in my life that are most important to me will always be there no matter what. The things in life that will always be there are the real things...but are they real or not?
It seems to me through this life that there are many people that are susceptible to rejection and abuse, both physical and mental. On different levels, not only through relationships or family even but also through people you trust and rely on. You reach a place in your head when you start to doubt yourself and ask yourself meaningless questions that only you can answer.
At these low points in your life you question your individuality, your human rights and weather or not you deserve to be on this earth. But we must all endure these experiences to give us knowledge of existence, and how to deal with things and move on. It is difficult to grab these concepts but when u realise how to deal with them you look towards the people you have got. In my personal opinion I could not live without my friends. Although family are supportive and can offer good advise, they are not there to share your hidden secrets with and have a good time with.
Friends are the most sacred people in your life. Without them you would feel lost and more vulnerable to being hurt because no one would be there to give you support. To me, I feel like they are the only true people in my life and I could not imagine what I would do without them. But how can we feel emotionally attached to another human? What do they do that we cannot give ourselves.
You cannot physically see it, but we know it is there because we can hear it. If we were born with no senses, would we have an imagination? I do not think so and it is for this reason that anything that heightens our senses must in fact be very realistic. Music heightens our sense of hearing and is a wonderful creation. Another thing in life, which I depend on, purely for enjoyment. It brings me closer to people because it is a subject that can be talked about and you can relate to people through it. It also lets you express emotions and feelings that maybe you cannot articulate through talking or writing. There are so many different genres that suit the personality of every human. There is such a wide variety of music out there in the big wide world and it seems to be that a different genre of music is created in the space of twenty-four hours. I have only started to get into the `alternative' scene and am finding the wide choice in music hard to understand, as there is so much of it. I find the whole music scene one of life's greatest conceptions and for this reason I think everyone should live their life by it, or at least be strongly influenced by it in some way.
Be it ska, hardcore punk, rock or jazz it can let feelings pass through your mind and body. This could also create a sense of fantasy. How can something that you cannot see make you feel so emotional and attached to?
`We could all even be part of a computer simulation, like a game. Yet we would not know it, for we are just code running to be made to act, as if we were real, despite the fact we are not. Like knocking a man unconscious, and plugging him into a virtual reality machine. He would wake up believing what the machine showed him was real.
Unless we are just brains connected to a large computer network, which had neurons attached to our brain. Then we could have sensations fed into the mind itself, like a trip, but an everlasting one. A dream is not real, yet when dreaming you can feel pain, sense, taste, and so forth. Even fear. But yet, it is not real.'
From this theory I can only say that I believe what it says. It is one theory of how we differentiate reality from fantasy...and if in fact we really can.
I wonder if anybody out there knows how to separate reality from fantasy? What is real and what is in our imaginations? What would the world be like if we did not think? If we did not have imaginations would the world still exist?
I do not believe that anyone has the answers to these problems, as we will probably never know. I personally believe that without our imaginations the world would be blank and uniform. But in our minds we can separate what is true and what is not. The things in my life that are most important to me will always be there no matter what. The things in life that will always be there are the real things...but are they real or not?
Friends
It seems to me through this life that there are many people that are susceptible to rejection and abuse, both physical and mental. On different levels, not only through relationships or family even but also through people you trust and rely on. You reach a place in your head when you start to doubt yourself and ask yourself meaningless questions that only you can answer.
At these low points in your life you question your individuality, your human rights and weather or not you deserve to be on this earth. But we must all endure these experiences to give us knowledge of existence, and how to deal with things and move on. It is difficult to grab these concepts but when u realise how to deal with them you look towards the people you have got. In my personal opinion I could not live without my friends. Although family are supportive and can offer good advise, they are not there to share your hidden secrets with and have a good time with.
Friends are the most sacred people in your life. Without them you would feel lost and more vulnerable to being hurt because no one would be there to give you support. To me, I feel like they are the only true people in my life and I could not imagine what I would do without them. But how can we feel emotionally attached to another human? What do they do that we cannot give ourselves.
Music
You cannot physically see it, but we know it is there because we can hear it. If we were born with no senses, would we have an imagination? I do not think so and it is for this reason that anything that heightens our senses must in fact be very realistic. Music heightens our sense of hearing and is a wonderful creation. Another thing in life, which I depend on, purely for enjoyment. It brings me closer to people because it is a subject that can be talked about and you can relate to people through it. It also lets you express emotions and feelings that maybe you cannot articulate through talking or writing. There are so many different genres that suit the personality of every human. There is such a wide variety of music out there in the big wide world and it seems to be that a different genre of music is created in the space of twenty-four hours. I have only started to get into the `alternative' scene and am finding the wide choice in music hard to understand, as there is so much of it. I find the whole music scene one of life's greatest conceptions and for this reason I think everyone should live their life by it, or at least be strongly influenced by it in some way.
Be it ska, hardcore punk, rock or jazz it can let feelings pass through your mind and body. This could also create a sense of fantasy. How can something that you cannot see make you feel so emotional and attached to?
Another theory
`We could all even be part of a computer simulation, like a game. Yet we would not know it, for we are just code running to be made to act, as if we were real, despite the fact we are not. Like knocking a man unconscious, and plugging him into a virtual reality machine. He would wake up believing what the machine showed him was real.
Unless we are just brains connected to a large computer network, which had neurons attached to our brain. Then we could have sensations fed into the mind itself, like a trip, but an everlasting one. A dream is not real, yet when dreaming you can feel pain, sense, taste, and so forth. Even fear. But yet, it is not real.'
From this theory I can only say that I believe what it says. It is one theory of how we differentiate reality from fantasy...and if in fact we really can.
Non- verbal communication
Hello again from the MCBIMDAVIG's. The many aspects of nonverbal
communication include eye gaze, gestures, posture, touching, paralinguistics,
and personal space. Personal space will be the focus of our second and final
newsletter*. During communication, many cultures have certain distances that
are considered to be acceptable and polite which vary depending on the nature
of the communication. Why should one be interested in this topic? Why is it
so important? In his research, Dr. Edward Hall writes that culture plays a
definitive role in determining how individuals use personal space. When people
of different cultures come into contact, they may understand each other just
fine on a verbal level, however the distance that is maintained between them
may relay a totally different message that the speaker has not intended.
As a result, serious offense may occur. Throughout this newsletter we will
be discussing the topic in greater detail.
One area in which personal distances has been studied are seating
arrangements. Researchers have examined seating arrangements from the
perspectives of distance and orientation. They have found that a shorter
distance implies greater intimacy while orientation or the position of those
seated had no relation to intimacy. One may think this study to be trival, but
who can recall the Paris Peace Conference of years back, where hostilities
among those involved in the Vietnam War continued, while leaders argued how
they should be seated in relation to one another.
*************************************************************************
THE CONCEPT OF PROXEMICS IN INTERCULTURAL COMMUNICATION
In face to face communication each individual has a certain amount of
desired "personal space." If a person is talking with another person from his
or her own culture, personal space is usually taken for granted and is not a
problem. However, when talking with someone from a different culture, personal
space becomes very important. Different cultures have different views on what
is a comfortable amount of personal space. If a person's space is violated
that person tends to try and find a way to reach a comfortable distance. This
is often done unconsciously and the person who is being violated will move
around to reach his or her desired space. For example, if you are used to
talking face to face from about four feet away you will try and keep this four
foot relationship throughout the conversation. If the other individual is used
to a two foot distance, he or she will try and maintain that. That peron will
unknowingly keep moving closer to you while you keep backing up to your desired
four foot distance. Studies have shown that a person who has their personal
space violated tends to be more aggressive and have a higher level of arousal.
It is important to know the concepts of personal space of the other cultures
that you may encounter because different cultures react differently to the
constant violation of personal space. One culture may think nothing of it,
while others consider it rude and may avoid communicating with you until you
realize the problem. The idea of personal space and proxemics is often over-
looked when dealing with intercultural communication. Proxemics is usually not
noticed until someone's space has been violated and a problem has arisen. It
is better to consider personal space prior to an interaction with another
cultrure in order to avoid any unnecessary problems and make the communication
that much easier and enjoyable.
*************************************************************************
PERSONAL EXPERIENCE OF CROSS-CULTURAL SPATIAL DIFFERENCES: SWEDEN
My own personal experience with violation of personal space occurred when I
was in Sweden. Swedes usually get just a little bit closer than Americans
when talking face to face. Although this was not a major problem for me, it
was one that took a little while to get used too. While I was there I spent
a lot of time with a family from Saudi Arabia. This family was used to a
distance that was much closer than the one I was used too. The distance they
found comfortable, about two feet, was what I would consider an intimate
distance, not a casual one. In this case, I could live with it and talk about
it because it was under casual circumstances. However, in a business deal or
more formal setting the problem may become a major factor in the outcome of the
situation.
*************************************************************************
IMPORTANCE OF PERSONAL SPACE, AN INTERCULTURAL FOCUS
In her paper, "Beyond Hall," Colleen Dolphin states "there is a serious
gap in the study of 'intercultural' proxemics; there appears to be very little
work with a truly intercultural focus." It's true that most of the experiments
that have been made are based on intracultural or, at the most, cross-cultural
interaction. However, we found that although people from different cultures
have different perceptions about personal space differences, they tend to
react similarly in certain situations, i.e. when someone gets too close, they
back up, and they feel that the person is being pushy, or aggressive or
whatever, and it leaves a bad impression of that person in their mind. We
talked to people from various cultures, and all of them said they would
react negatively when someone invades their personal space; however, each of
them had different definitions about what constituted "personal space." One
study conducted on this subject, by Colleen Dolphin herself, explores other
factors that affect the determining of personal space, such as age, sex,
relationship, environment, and ethnic co-cultures, which she feels "play
equally important roles in determining use of personal space." She found
that they definitely did affect it, and "particularly in the cases of age
and relationship, supercede any cultural aspects of the transaction."
The type of culture a person is from, regarding contact and noncontact
cultures, also seems to affect people's perception of personal space.
Researchers have found that people from contact cultures choose closer
distances, have and keep more direct eye contact, touch each other more
frequently, and speak louder than people from noncontact cultures.
Other studies that have been done, although not intercultural in nature, have
the potential to be helpful in an intercultural situation, because they
tend to make us aware of how we react, and that not all people react the
same. There was an interesting study done on white males that examined how
they adjust their personal space differences, based on certain circumstances.
The first study showed that men who had been socially isolated previous to
the encounter chose greater distances than those who had not. When the men
believed that the interaction would be observed by others, rather than
private, they also chose greater distances, as shown in the second study.
The third study pointed out a correlation between the topic of the conversation
and the expected length of it, with the greatest distance being chosen when
the topic was personal in nature, and the conversation was expected to be long.
The fourth study examined how room size and shape affect personal distance.
The research concluded that only in rectangular rooms did the size affect
personal distancing. Although many interesting studies have been done on
this subject, I will only cover one more. This study reveale that people with
low self-esteem decreased their expressions drastically when they were
interacting with people at close distances, whereas people with high self-
esteems reacted the basically the same regardless of the distance.
**********************************************************************
PERSONAL EXPERIENCE OF CROSS-CULTURAL SPATIAL DIFFERENCES: JAPAN
I spent a semester abroad in Japan, and while I was there I noticed
that the Japanese have a *very* different perception of personal
space. Not that it's different in regards to ours, but that within
their culture, it's different. Compared to our personal space, the Japanese
choose to stand further apart. Showing respect is very important in Japan,
and the amount of distance between people is often a way to express respect.
With this in mind, it is very difficult to comprehend the way people tolerate
the tremendous crowding that happens every day on the trains. Furthermore,
they do not express their irritation with the situation, at least not while
they are on the train. I don't know if it bothers them, and they've just
accepted it, and learned to live with it, or they since they've always
had to deal with it, they just think that's the way it is, and do not
feel the anger that we feel when we're experiencing it. I'm not sure
if it's a result of their different socialization, or different perception
of the situation. But it seems odd, because we're used to closer personal
distances, and are not as offended if people come "a little close," and yet it
really bothers us when we have to share a seat with someone on a crowded bus,
whereas they don't seem to mind sharing their lap with several people. I have
a feeling this has to do with more than just personal distance differences.
******************************************************************************
EMPIRICAL RESEARCH IN PROXEMICS
In their study, "Personal Space Among Botswana and American Students,"
Drs. Jeffrey Sanders, Wayne McKim, and Ann McKim, employ the Comfortable
Interpersonal Distance (CID) scale to determine differences in comfortable
distances between these two cultures. Developed in 1972 by M.P. Duke and
S. Nowicki, the CID measures personal space. This instrument allows research-
ers to compare cultural variations quantitatively in order to reveal spacial
variation in interpersonal communication between cultures. Quantitative
analysis helps eliminate errors in research due to a researcher's own cultural
biases.
The Sanders, McKim, McKim study provides a sophisticated statistical
analysis the perceptions of comfortable space between groups comprising of
37 male and 37 female students from Towson State University in Maryland and
Botswana University. The analysis measured spatial differences between
friends, starangers, the same sex, and the opposite sex. They reported,
Regardless of nationality, strangers were kept farther away than
friends, F(1,44) = 437.7,p < .001, and both sexes kept male strangers
farther away than female strangers, F(1,144) = 7.55, p < .01.
This statistical notation may be confusing to readers not familiar with
the CID scale, however, the above quote demonstrates how imperical data is
recorded and used to determine cultural differences in spatial perceptions.
This particular study found that Botswana University students maintained
greater distances for approaching strangers than Americans. They reported
no other significant differences between cultures. Similar studies have
found that native Puerto Ricans living in New York use less distance than
native New Yorkers, Pagan and Aiello (1982). A study by Sanders, Hakky, and
Brizzolara (1985) reveal that the use of personal space between Americans
and Egyptians differs significantly. Egyptians maintain what Americans
would consider intimate distance with their friends. However, Egyptian
females keep male friends at the same distance they keep strangers. The
researchers concluded that this, "probably reflects social norms restricting
male-female interaction." From this we can see, personal space as a part of
language reflects cross-cultural differences.
****************************************************************************
In this newsletter, we have explained how perceptions of comfortable
personal space differs between cultures, given some examples of research
being conducted in the field of proxemics, and shown how different perceptions
of comfortable distance can pose a stumbling block to successful inter-
cultural communication. We hope that acknowledging the fact that these
differences exist will help us all understand that people we talk to from
other cultures may stand closer or farther than we consider normal.
Empathizing with this situation will help alleviate problems in inter-
cultural communication.
Thank you,
communication include eye gaze, gestures, posture, touching, paralinguistics,
and personal space. Personal space will be the focus of our second and final
newsletter*. During communication, many cultures have certain distances that
are considered to be acceptable and polite which vary depending on the nature
of the communication. Why should one be interested in this topic? Why is it
so important? In his research, Dr. Edward Hall writes that culture plays a
definitive role in determining how individuals use personal space. When people
of different cultures come into contact, they may understand each other just
fine on a verbal level, however the distance that is maintained between them
may relay a totally different message that the speaker has not intended.
As a result, serious offense may occur. Throughout this newsletter we will
be discussing the topic in greater detail.
One area in which personal distances has been studied are seating
arrangements. Researchers have examined seating arrangements from the
perspectives of distance and orientation. They have found that a shorter
distance implies greater intimacy while orientation or the position of those
seated had no relation to intimacy. One may think this study to be trival, but
who can recall the Paris Peace Conference of years back, where hostilities
among those involved in the Vietnam War continued, while leaders argued how
they should be seated in relation to one another.
*************************************************************************
THE CONCEPT OF PROXEMICS IN INTERCULTURAL COMMUNICATION
In face to face communication each individual has a certain amount of
desired "personal space." If a person is talking with another person from his
or her own culture, personal space is usually taken for granted and is not a
problem. However, when talking with someone from a different culture, personal
space becomes very important. Different cultures have different views on what
is a comfortable amount of personal space. If a person's space is violated
that person tends to try and find a way to reach a comfortable distance. This
is often done unconsciously and the person who is being violated will move
around to reach his or her desired space. For example, if you are used to
talking face to face from about four feet away you will try and keep this four
foot relationship throughout the conversation. If the other individual is used
to a two foot distance, he or she will try and maintain that. That peron will
unknowingly keep moving closer to you while you keep backing up to your desired
four foot distance. Studies have shown that a person who has their personal
space violated tends to be more aggressive and have a higher level of arousal.
It is important to know the concepts of personal space of the other cultures
that you may encounter because different cultures react differently to the
constant violation of personal space. One culture may think nothing of it,
while others consider it rude and may avoid communicating with you until you
realize the problem. The idea of personal space and proxemics is often over-
looked when dealing with intercultural communication. Proxemics is usually not
noticed until someone's space has been violated and a problem has arisen. It
is better to consider personal space prior to an interaction with another
cultrure in order to avoid any unnecessary problems and make the communication
that much easier and enjoyable.
*************************************************************************
PERSONAL EXPERIENCE OF CROSS-CULTURAL SPATIAL DIFFERENCES: SWEDEN
My own personal experience with violation of personal space occurred when I
was in Sweden. Swedes usually get just a little bit closer than Americans
when talking face to face. Although this was not a major problem for me, it
was one that took a little while to get used too. While I was there I spent
a lot of time with a family from Saudi Arabia. This family was used to a
distance that was much closer than the one I was used too. The distance they
found comfortable, about two feet, was what I would consider an intimate
distance, not a casual one. In this case, I could live with it and talk about
it because it was under casual circumstances. However, in a business deal or
more formal setting the problem may become a major factor in the outcome of the
situation.
*************************************************************************
IMPORTANCE OF PERSONAL SPACE, AN INTERCULTURAL FOCUS
In her paper, "Beyond Hall," Colleen Dolphin states "there is a serious
gap in the study of 'intercultural' proxemics; there appears to be very little
work with a truly intercultural focus." It's true that most of the experiments
that have been made are based on intracultural or, at the most, cross-cultural
interaction. However, we found that although people from different cultures
have different perceptions about personal space differences, they tend to
react similarly in certain situations, i.e. when someone gets too close, they
back up, and they feel that the person is being pushy, or aggressive or
whatever, and it leaves a bad impression of that person in their mind. We
talked to people from various cultures, and all of them said they would
react negatively when someone invades their personal space; however, each of
them had different definitions about what constituted "personal space." One
study conducted on this subject, by Colleen Dolphin herself, explores other
factors that affect the determining of personal space, such as age, sex,
relationship, environment, and ethnic co-cultures, which she feels "play
equally important roles in determining use of personal space." She found
that they definitely did affect it, and "particularly in the cases of age
and relationship, supercede any cultural aspects of the transaction."
The type of culture a person is from, regarding contact and noncontact
cultures, also seems to affect people's perception of personal space.
Researchers have found that people from contact cultures choose closer
distances, have and keep more direct eye contact, touch each other more
frequently, and speak louder than people from noncontact cultures.
Other studies that have been done, although not intercultural in nature, have
the potential to be helpful in an intercultural situation, because they
tend to make us aware of how we react, and that not all people react the
same. There was an interesting study done on white males that examined how
they adjust their personal space differences, based on certain circumstances.
The first study showed that men who had been socially isolated previous to
the encounter chose greater distances than those who had not. When the men
believed that the interaction would be observed by others, rather than
private, they also chose greater distances, as shown in the second study.
The third study pointed out a correlation between the topic of the conversation
and the expected length of it, with the greatest distance being chosen when
the topic was personal in nature, and the conversation was expected to be long.
The fourth study examined how room size and shape affect personal distance.
The research concluded that only in rectangular rooms did the size affect
personal distancing. Although many interesting studies have been done on
this subject, I will only cover one more. This study reveale that people with
low self-esteem decreased their expressions drastically when they were
interacting with people at close distances, whereas people with high self-
esteems reacted the basically the same regardless of the distance.
**********************************************************************
PERSONAL EXPERIENCE OF CROSS-CULTURAL SPATIAL DIFFERENCES: JAPAN
I spent a semester abroad in Japan, and while I was there I noticed
that the Japanese have a *very* different perception of personal
space. Not that it's different in regards to ours, but that within
their culture, it's different. Compared to our personal space, the Japanese
choose to stand further apart. Showing respect is very important in Japan,
and the amount of distance between people is often a way to express respect.
With this in mind, it is very difficult to comprehend the way people tolerate
the tremendous crowding that happens every day on the trains. Furthermore,
they do not express their irritation with the situation, at least not while
they are on the train. I don't know if it bothers them, and they've just
accepted it, and learned to live with it, or they since they've always
had to deal with it, they just think that's the way it is, and do not
feel the anger that we feel when we're experiencing it. I'm not sure
if it's a result of their different socialization, or different perception
of the situation. But it seems odd, because we're used to closer personal
distances, and are not as offended if people come "a little close," and yet it
really bothers us when we have to share a seat with someone on a crowded bus,
whereas they don't seem to mind sharing their lap with several people. I have
a feeling this has to do with more than just personal distance differences.
******************************************************************************
EMPIRICAL RESEARCH IN PROXEMICS
In their study, "Personal Space Among Botswana and American Students,"
Drs. Jeffrey Sanders, Wayne McKim, and Ann McKim, employ the Comfortable
Interpersonal Distance (CID) scale to determine differences in comfortable
distances between these two cultures. Developed in 1972 by M.P. Duke and
S. Nowicki, the CID measures personal space. This instrument allows research-
ers to compare cultural variations quantitatively in order to reveal spacial
variation in interpersonal communication between cultures. Quantitative
analysis helps eliminate errors in research due to a researcher's own cultural
biases.
The Sanders, McKim, McKim study provides a sophisticated statistical
analysis the perceptions of comfortable space between groups comprising of
37 male and 37 female students from Towson State University in Maryland and
Botswana University. The analysis measured spatial differences between
friends, starangers, the same sex, and the opposite sex. They reported,
Regardless of nationality, strangers were kept farther away than
friends, F(1,44) = 437.7,p < .001, and both sexes kept male strangers
farther away than female strangers, F(1,144) = 7.55, p < .01.
This statistical notation may be confusing to readers not familiar with
the CID scale, however, the above quote demonstrates how imperical data is
recorded and used to determine cultural differences in spatial perceptions.
This particular study found that Botswana University students maintained
greater distances for approaching strangers than Americans. They reported
no other significant differences between cultures. Similar studies have
found that native Puerto Ricans living in New York use less distance than
native New Yorkers, Pagan and Aiello (1982). A study by Sanders, Hakky, and
Brizzolara (1985) reveal that the use of personal space between Americans
and Egyptians differs significantly. Egyptians maintain what Americans
would consider intimate distance with their friends. However, Egyptian
females keep male friends at the same distance they keep strangers. The
researchers concluded that this, "probably reflects social norms restricting
male-female interaction." From this we can see, personal space as a part of
language reflects cross-cultural differences.
****************************************************************************
In this newsletter, we have explained how perceptions of comfortable
personal space differs between cultures, given some examples of research
being conducted in the field of proxemics, and shown how different perceptions
of comfortable distance can pose a stumbling block to successful inter-
cultural communication. We hope that acknowledging the fact that these
differences exist will help us all understand that people we talk to from
other cultures may stand closer or farther than we consider normal.
Empathizing with this situation will help alleviate problems in inter-
cultural communication.
Thank you,
My Break Up
Why does it have hurt so bad?
Why does she make me feel so sad?
Why can’t things ever be the same
What happened to us was a shame
All of my life where she had been?
I wish I just could hold her again
Why does it have hurt so bad?
Why does she make me feel so sad?
I fell for her, but I hit the ground
I can’t stand to see her walking down the halls
For my heart is does pound
And I can’t go back to just friends
For then the memories will never fade and the hurt will never end
Why does it have hurt so bad?
Why does she make me feel so sad?
Was it reallfy just a stupid fad?
I know it’s not her fault
And I need to some mature adult
It was just going to happen anyway
Is what they say
But the doesn’t change the way I fell
I know it was for the best
Fuck the best, I’m still a mess
And I must confess
I put my life to the test
Why does it have hurt so bad?
Why does she make me feel so sad?
Why can’t things ever be the same
What happened to us was a shame
All of my life where she had been?
I wish I just could hold her again
Why does it have hurt so bad?
Why does she make me feel so sad?
I fell for her, but I hit the ground
I can’t stand to see her walking down the halls
For my heart is does pound
And I can’t go back to just friends
For then the memories will never fade and the hurt will never end
Why does it have hurt so bad?
Why does she make me feel so sad?
Was it reallfy just a stupid fad?
I know it’s not her fault
And I need to some mature adult
It was just going to happen anyway
Is what they say
But the doesn’t change the way I fell
I know it was for the best
Fuck the best, I’m still a mess
And I must confess
I put my life to the test
Why does it have hurt so bad?
Love and Hate [PAPER]
On Love and Hate:
Historically, extremes in emotion and reason do not
often mix. I am thus cautious of attempting to comb through
love or hate with reason. My recourses are two: to (yes,
using what reason I have) separate intellectual thought from
emotion; and to apply as little reason as possible without
ceasing to write.
It seems reasonable (sorry) to assume that emotion and
reason have nothing to do with each other. It also seems
very likely that one cannot exist with the other. They seem
capable of cohabitation within a single person, but fall upon
differing objects. Are not the things we love or hate not
the things we understand?
Hate:
Hate is one of our reactions to a lack of understanding.
We cannot hate that which we understand. Hate is our
frustration at failure to comprehend. The more we understand
something hated, the more our hatred becomes sadness or pity,
or deepens to a hatred of that which caused whatever it was
that we did not understand. In the latter case, the hatred
may increase with understanding, but the object of the hatred
has shifted.
We are given a wide range of paths for dealing with our
hatred, from the altruistic to the reactionary. The
altruists, wishing peace without societal discord, tell us to
repress our hatred and replace it with love, a path bound
eventually for emotive explosion and breakdown. The
diametric path gives us a series of smaller explosions with
promise of emotional stability as a result of constant
expulsion of malefic urges.
Neither of these, or combinations thereof, are terribly
productive ways in which to deal with hate, as even the
moderate paths deal with the hatred only superficially and
inefficiently. I see the only way around hatred being
understanding. Upon comprehension of the object of hatred,
one is either better equipped for the constructive removal of
said object, cooly and rationally; or no longer desirous of
the removal. Either outcome is fully satisfying
altruistically. In the latter case, one must accept
simultaneously a bit of humility for having been mistaken as
well as a bit of pride for having become a bit more correct.
This leaves one emotionally balanced. The hatred is not
repressed, but transformed. The same emotional energy is
simply working in a different direction. Upon the removal of
the object, the hatred is put to work in a positive manner
instead of simply lashing out half-cocked and possibly
incorrectly.
The process is simply that of questioning: "why does
this specific situation exist?", and "what can be done to
cause this situation not to exist?". Realize that just as
for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction;
for every reaction, there is an equal and opposite cause; and
that nothing is simply either cause or effect, but everything
is both.
Love:
Ask the same questions, hope not to find answers, and
don't be disappointed when you do. If you find understanding
of the object of love, it will no longer be an object of
love, as love, similarly to hate, is a reaction to a lack of
understanding. The faster you find answers, the more
superficial the emotion. When answers come in the form of
more questions, you have a true indication of the intensity
and thoroughness of the emotion, and there is more likelyhood
that when love finally disappears, through comprehension, it
will be replaced with respect and admiration which you will
find very easy to tell yourself is the same thing.
I am sorry if it seems I have advised you to processes
that diminish or destroy emotions; I have not. Emotions,
contrary to poetic assumption, are not permanent, but
transitory (although it is certainly not impossible for them
to remain for durations exceeding a human lifetime). I
believe that the proper thing to do with emotions is to
consummate them, not to either prolong or shorten their
duration, for one is stagnation and the other repression.
Historically, extremes in emotion and reason do not
often mix. I am thus cautious of attempting to comb through
love or hate with reason. My recourses are two: to (yes,
using what reason I have) separate intellectual thought from
emotion; and to apply as little reason as possible without
ceasing to write.
It seems reasonable (sorry) to assume that emotion and
reason have nothing to do with each other. It also seems
very likely that one cannot exist with the other. They seem
capable of cohabitation within a single person, but fall upon
differing objects. Are not the things we love or hate not
the things we understand?
Hate:
Hate is one of our reactions to a lack of understanding.
We cannot hate that which we understand. Hate is our
frustration at failure to comprehend. The more we understand
something hated, the more our hatred becomes sadness or pity,
or deepens to a hatred of that which caused whatever it was
that we did not understand. In the latter case, the hatred
may increase with understanding, but the object of the hatred
has shifted.
We are given a wide range of paths for dealing with our
hatred, from the altruistic to the reactionary. The
altruists, wishing peace without societal discord, tell us to
repress our hatred and replace it with love, a path bound
eventually for emotive explosion and breakdown. The
diametric path gives us a series of smaller explosions with
promise of emotional stability as a result of constant
expulsion of malefic urges.
Neither of these, or combinations thereof, are terribly
productive ways in which to deal with hate, as even the
moderate paths deal with the hatred only superficially and
inefficiently. I see the only way around hatred being
understanding. Upon comprehension of the object of hatred,
one is either better equipped for the constructive removal of
said object, cooly and rationally; or no longer desirous of
the removal. Either outcome is fully satisfying
altruistically. In the latter case, one must accept
simultaneously a bit of humility for having been mistaken as
well as a bit of pride for having become a bit more correct.
This leaves one emotionally balanced. The hatred is not
repressed, but transformed. The same emotional energy is
simply working in a different direction. Upon the removal of
the object, the hatred is put to work in a positive manner
instead of simply lashing out half-cocked and possibly
incorrectly.
The process is simply that of questioning: "why does
this specific situation exist?", and "what can be done to
cause this situation not to exist?". Realize that just as
for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction;
for every reaction, there is an equal and opposite cause; and
that nothing is simply either cause or effect, but everything
is both.
Love:
Ask the same questions, hope not to find answers, and
don't be disappointed when you do. If you find understanding
of the object of love, it will no longer be an object of
love, as love, similarly to hate, is a reaction to a lack of
understanding. The faster you find answers, the more
superficial the emotion. When answers come in the form of
more questions, you have a true indication of the intensity
and thoroughness of the emotion, and there is more likelyhood
that when love finally disappears, through comprehension, it
will be replaced with respect and admiration which you will
find very easy to tell yourself is the same thing.
I am sorry if it seems I have advised you to processes
that diminish or destroy emotions; I have not. Emotions,
contrary to poetic assumption, are not permanent, but
transitory (although it is certainly not impossible for them
to remain for durations exceeding a human lifetime). I
believe that the proper thing to do with emotions is to
consummate them, not to either prolong or shorten their
duration, for one is stagnation and the other repression.
I Don't Believe You Anymore
I don't believe you anymore.
I don't believe your myths, your stories or your state imposed justice!
I don't believe in political correctness!
I don't believe in killing for civilization!
I don't believe in a better religion!
I don't believe in borders!
I don't believe in blue blood or elite beings!
I don't believe that one is allowed to kill for one reason, but not for another!
I don't believe that killing is right for any cause or that killers go with their own gods blessing!
I don't believe in your gods or their eternal wrath for not believing in them!
I don't believe in a justified war!
I don't believe that better, more or bigger weapons give more rights or a better justified cause!
I don't believe in leaders that advocate violence to maintain or reach their political or religious goals!
I don't believe in the innocence of humans that out of fear mongering will do whatever their leaders demand as the only right thing to do!
I don't believe that killing terrorists will avoid creating them!
I don't believe that secrecy serves the needs of mankind as a whole!
I don't believe that happiness only can be found in the pool the majority decides I can choose from!
I don't believe that if 80% of a country's population cries out for blood even with severely limited information is also enough justification to get it!
I don't believe.
I refuse to believe that humans that aren't in one or another way manipulated are the creatures of hell that others for reasons secret claim them to be!
IOW:
NO... No Mr Bush or Mr Bin Laden.. I refuse to be with either of you, I refuse that either of your so claimed causes is enough reason to destroy the world or kill people that just want to try to live a reasonable human existence with pride and honor.
Exist with pride and honor in a world that since Thomas More wrote Utopia knows how that can be achieved... The reason for why no one is living in that dream he wrote, everyone can investigate by themselves... One thing is sure though, the global populations of lower classes have nothing to lose by it.
Who does, and what are the ways keeping those populations from living that dream?
What more can a human being ask for than live the dream of having a life worth living, a job worthwhile to put one's efforts in and keeping the world livable for the generations to come.
If honor asks me to stand for this Ideal, So be it. I know I am not wrong.
For the ones that do believe, Merry Christmas...
For the ones that yearn for already so long... Peace on Earth... From this moment on in a future filled with equal Liberty and Justice for all guaranteeing more reasons to live than to die.
I don't believe your myths, your stories or your state imposed justice!
I don't believe in political correctness!
I don't believe in killing for civilization!
I don't believe in a better religion!
I don't believe in borders!
I don't believe in blue blood or elite beings!
I don't believe that one is allowed to kill for one reason, but not for another!
I don't believe that killing is right for any cause or that killers go with their own gods blessing!
I don't believe in your gods or their eternal wrath for not believing in them!
I don't believe in a justified war!
I don't believe that better, more or bigger weapons give more rights or a better justified cause!
I don't believe in leaders that advocate violence to maintain or reach their political or religious goals!
I don't believe in the innocence of humans that out of fear mongering will do whatever their leaders demand as the only right thing to do!
I don't believe that killing terrorists will avoid creating them!
I don't believe that secrecy serves the needs of mankind as a whole!
I don't believe that happiness only can be found in the pool the majority decides I can choose from!
I don't believe that if 80% of a country's population cries out for blood even with severely limited information is also enough justification to get it!
I don't believe.
I refuse to believe that humans that aren't in one or another way manipulated are the creatures of hell that others for reasons secret claim them to be!
IOW:
NO... No Mr Bush or Mr Bin Laden.. I refuse to be with either of you, I refuse that either of your so claimed causes is enough reason to destroy the world or kill people that just want to try to live a reasonable human existence with pride and honor.
Exist with pride and honor in a world that since Thomas More wrote Utopia knows how that can be achieved... The reason for why no one is living in that dream he wrote, everyone can investigate by themselves... One thing is sure though, the global populations of lower classes have nothing to lose by it.
Who does, and what are the ways keeping those populations from living that dream?
What more can a human being ask for than live the dream of having a life worth living, a job worthwhile to put one's efforts in and keeping the world livable for the generations to come.
If honor asks me to stand for this Ideal, So be it. I know I am not wrong.
For the ones that do believe, Merry Christmas...
For the ones that yearn for already so long... Peace on Earth... From this moment on in a future filled with equal Liberty and Justice for all guaranteeing more reasons to live than to die.
All about the great word FUCK
Subject FUCK
COMMENT:Out Fucking Standing
Prehaps one of the most interesting and colorful words in the
English language also is one of my personal all time favorites
the word "FUCK". It is the one magical world really like no other
word which, just by the sound alone. it can discribe pain,pleasure
hate and love . FUCK as many words in the Engiish language. takes
it's name from the German word FRICKEN.
In language,FUCK falls into many grammatical categories It can be
Used as a verb, both transitive (John FUCKED Mary)and intransitive
(Mary was FUCKED by John) it can be active verb (Mary doesn't FUCK),or
a passive verb (Mary wasn't really FUCKED ),as a adverb(Mary is FUCKING
interested'in John),and as a noun (Mary is a fine FUCK).I'm Fucking
impressed ! As you can see, there are not many words with versatility
of FUCK !
Besides it's sexual connotation this world can be used to discribe many
situation so very colorfully :
FRAUD..................I got fucked by my insurance agent.
DISMAY.................Oh,fuck it!
TROUBLE................I guess I'm fucked now.
AGRESSION..............FUCK YOU !!!
ANGER................. FUCK !!!!!!!
PASSION...............Fuck me.
CONFUSION.............What the fuck...
DIFFICULTY............I can't understand this fucking business....
DISPAIR...............Fucked again
PHILOSOPHY............Who gives a fuck ?
INCOMPETENCE..........He's fucked up
LAZINESS.............He is a fuck off
DISPLEASURE..........What the fuck's going on ?
REBELLION............Fuck it.
It can be used in the descriptive anatomy: He's really a fucking asshole]
It can be used to tell the time: It's five fucking thirty
It can be used in business: How did I get this fucking job ?
It can be used in prediction: Well I'll be fucked.
It can be used maternally: You motherfucker.
It can be used incestuously: Motherfucker
It can be used politically: Fuck Bush.
It can be used to open doors to wonderful frendships: Let's fuck
It can be used just to enhance the meaning of a word: Beautiful fucking, or too fucking nice
fucking nice.
Now as you can see the mind fairly boggles and many more creative forms
of this most functional word come to mind. Have a Fucking nice day !
In parting I would like to leave you with this though: How can any on
be offened when you say FUCK ? Use it in your daily conversation, tell
someone the get fucked today !
COMMENT:Out Fucking Standing
Prehaps one of the most interesting and colorful words in the
English language also is one of my personal all time favorites
the word "FUCK". It is the one magical world really like no other
word which, just by the sound alone. it can discribe pain,pleasure
hate and love . FUCK as many words in the Engiish language. takes
it's name from the German word FRICKEN.
In language,FUCK falls into many grammatical categories It can be
Used as a verb, both transitive (John FUCKED Mary)and intransitive
(Mary was FUCKED by John) it can be active verb (Mary doesn't FUCK),or
a passive verb (Mary wasn't really FUCKED ),as a adverb(Mary is FUCKING
interested'in John),and as a noun (Mary is a fine FUCK).I'm Fucking
impressed ! As you can see, there are not many words with versatility
of FUCK !
Besides it's sexual connotation this world can be used to discribe many
situation so very colorfully :
FRAUD..................I got fucked by my insurance agent.
DISMAY.................Oh,fuck it!
TROUBLE................I guess I'm fucked now.
AGRESSION..............FUCK YOU !!!
ANGER................. FUCK !!!!!!!
PASSION...............Fuck me.
CONFUSION.............What the fuck...
DIFFICULTY............I can't understand this fucking business....
DISPAIR...............Fucked again
PHILOSOPHY............Who gives a fuck ?
INCOMPETENCE..........He's fucked up
LAZINESS.............He is a fuck off
DISPLEASURE..........What the fuck's going on ?
REBELLION............Fuck it.
It can be used in the descriptive anatomy: He's really a fucking asshole]
It can be used to tell the time: It's five fucking thirty
It can be used in business: How did I get this fucking job ?
It can be used in prediction: Well I'll be fucked.
It can be used maternally: You motherfucker.
It can be used incestuously: Motherfucker
It can be used politically: Fuck Bush.
It can be used to open doors to wonderful frendships: Let's fuck
It can be used just to enhance the meaning of a word: Beautiful fucking, or too fucking nice
fucking nice.
Now as you can see the mind fairly boggles and many more creative forms
of this most functional word come to mind. Have a Fucking nice day !
In parting I would like to leave you with this though: How can any on
be offened when you say FUCK ? Use it in your daily conversation, tell
someone the get fucked today !
A poem about a girl and her drug.
Disillusioned.
Reconfusioned.
Always biting.
Always hiding.
Brain wash victims.
Hug them kick 'em.
Hug them and kick them,
And love them and leave them,
But believe them.
You can't want to love me.
You can never want to stay.
Wallow while we do not realize,
I don't want you anyway!
Drop out. Plug in.
Let's see what's on.
I bla bla bla...
The problem's gone.
Just say no;
It doesn't work.
She hides inside,
A soda jerk.
And hides and loves and laughs and sings,
Vicarious to everything.
I'd love to leave her never I deceive her cleavers on her wings.
Hello.
...
Hello.
Hello?
Hello!
Hello!
HELLO!
HELLO!
HELLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
WAKE UP!
(She killed herself with a fine point gun
and forgot to pull the trigger.)
GET UP NOW!
(Although alone she sits upon
her house she bought with bricks.)
TALK THE TRUTH!
(She whispers loudly narrow thoughts
she best display.)
REVOLUTION!
(A hidden ghost she doesn't want to go away.)
...go away...
...go away?
Go ....... NOW!!!
Armies love to march and trample daisies in her head,
So this young girl destroys the world's fresh gardens made of lead,
And makes more armies. "She makes armies," like the funnies said
I don't know. Entrapped in snow, I think she's better dead.
Her road is coming up to judgement
Purgatory's on the side,
And she will find out much to late,
If golden rules she won't abide.
And I can see inside her walls she builds up,
Maze of jungle green,
So many lines are left to read,
As said they must be seen,
Because the demons can't distinguish,
And the good one's never die,
But my omnipotancey forces,
Cannot push her to the sky,
And seven cities stand before her.
Seven more lay just behind,
While banshees creep up from below her,
When she can't make up her mind,
Because her mind is full of phobias,
Of truths she's got to find,
The real road runs between her,
'Cause there ain't no other kind.
And I think someone should push her,
Down the line to find the time.
I see my melody manipulates,
A dream I thought I was mine,
But I don't know if I help her,
All I know is gonna end and be just fine.
Even if the sign ahead say's they don't want her,
She'll always be welcome,
And everything's okay.
Reconfusioned.
Always biting.
Always hiding.
Brain wash victims.
Hug them kick 'em.
Hug them and kick them,
And love them and leave them,
But believe them.
You can't want to love me.
You can never want to stay.
Wallow while we do not realize,
I don't want you anyway!
Drop out. Plug in.
Let's see what's on.
I bla bla bla...
The problem's gone.
Just say no;
It doesn't work.
She hides inside,
A soda jerk.
And hides and loves and laughs and sings,
Vicarious to everything.
I'd love to leave her never I deceive her cleavers on her wings.
Hello.
...
Hello.
Hello?
Hello!
Hello!
HELLO!
HELLO!
HELLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
WAKE UP!
(She killed herself with a fine point gun
and forgot to pull the trigger.)
GET UP NOW!
(Although alone she sits upon
her house she bought with bricks.)
TALK THE TRUTH!
(She whispers loudly narrow thoughts
she best display.)
REVOLUTION!
(A hidden ghost she doesn't want to go away.)
...go away...
...go away?
Go ....... NOW!!!
Armies love to march and trample daisies in her head,
So this young girl destroys the world's fresh gardens made of lead,
And makes more armies. "She makes armies," like the funnies said
I don't know. Entrapped in snow, I think she's better dead.
Her road is coming up to judgement
Purgatory's on the side,
And she will find out much to late,
If golden rules she won't abide.
And I can see inside her walls she builds up,
Maze of jungle green,
So many lines are left to read,
As said they must be seen,
Because the demons can't distinguish,
And the good one's never die,
But my omnipotancey forces,
Cannot push her to the sky,
And seven cities stand before her.
Seven more lay just behind,
While banshees creep up from below her,
When she can't make up her mind,
Because her mind is full of phobias,
Of truths she's got to find,
The real road runs between her,
'Cause there ain't no other kind.
And I think someone should push her,
Down the line to find the time.
I see my melody manipulates,
A dream I thought I was mine,
But I don't know if I help her,
All I know is gonna end and be just fine.
Even if the sign ahead say's they don't want her,
She'll always be welcome,
And everything's okay.
A interesting story
Gaeren was sitting on the floor, hunched up against the 'fridge
with his arms wrapped around his head when Anya returned home. She
practically danced in, swinging the bag that contained the clothing
she had bought at the Ginza but had not worn. Oblivious to his
mood, she tossed the bag into their shared sleeping-space, threw
herself down next to him and hugged him.
`Gaeren... I made it, I'm in! Class Three Operative with the
Bureau of Procuration as of next Monday...' her excited voice trailed
off as she became aware of his lack of response. `Gaeren... what's
wrong?' He pointed at the terminal, which still showed the last
message he'd read:
----------------------------------------------------------
Bureau of Economic and Trade Stabilisation 27-22-917
00.41.023
YOUR POSITION (CLASS FOUR LIAITOR) HAS BEEN
EVALUATED AS PART OF THE RESTRUCTURING AND
HAS BEEN RECLASSIFIED AS SUPERFLUOUS. PLEASE
REPORT TO THE HUMAN RESOURCES DIVISION AT YOUR
EARLIEST CONVENIENCE FOR REASSIGNMENT
for divisional head
Francine Heybert
----------------------------------------------------------
`Oh.' was all she could say. He reached out blindly with one hand
and turned the terminal off. She knew that EcoTrade was one of the
few Bureaus that had an official policy to protect neuters; outside
that Bureau, he would be treated like a second class citizen. The
only other Bureau where he might fit in would be...
`Come with me,' she said firmly, dragging him to his feet, `we are
going to have a chat with a friend.'
They discussed his options in the cab, secure in the knowledge that
the Kaelen driver wouldn't bother translating their conversation.
`It's not the drop in pay that concerns me,' he muttered. `I worked
in Agricultural for eighteen months... I got used to being treated
like sewerage, ha ha... it's just that I'll have to go back to - to
that -' the words stuck in his throat, and Anya hugged him, noting
the way that he tensed away from her, which was something she thought
he had managed to overcome. She knew that he would find her
proposal rather unorthodox, so she decided to wait until they had
reached their destination.
They sat at in a secluded booth at the rear of the Suteriik, she
sipping her drink, he moodily staring into his, as if scrying the
path of his career in the bubbles. She firmly took his hands in
hers, fixed him with a serious look and said;
`Now, I want you to think very carefully before you answer this:
have you ever considered having your preferences modified? Re-
modified, I mean.' He glanced up at her sharply, and then closed
his eyes as if against a painful memory.
`No. I don't remember why I chose Neutership; that was part of
the deal. Something happened that was sufficiently unpleasant to
warrant changing my preferences. So that I would never want
involvement with anyone. This was before the, ah,' - here he
lowered his voice - `"Kemp" affair.' She nodded, barely moving her
head... Kemp had been one of the first neuters; psychologically
unstable, she had later become one of the worst serial killers in
history, and had done a great deal of harm to the concept of
Neutership. Despite the enormous amount of evidence to the
contrary, many people - some of them influential people in the power
structure, unfortunately - regarded neuters with a degree of
suspicion. She waited until he opened his eyes, and then, keeping
her gaze directed into his, murmured:
`I want you to consider having a custom set of preferences
implanted. It's a common procedure at BuProc; they have a set, that
while it doesn't turn you into a sex maniac,' at this, Gaeren smiled
thinly - the first sign of good humour she'd seen him evince all
evening - `it makes relating to others, of either sex, well, natural.
As easy as holding hands.' She squeezed his. His smile grew wider.
She smiled back, and then noticed her friend entering. `Hey, gen,
over here!'
A young man approached their booth; shoulder length black hair with
blonde roots; stocky build; dressed in black street armour (which was
out of fashion by at least six months). Gaeren tried to read his
mood, kinesically, as he had been taught in primary school; he
realised with a degree of surprise that genesis was hiding behind a
completely blank facial mask, revealing nothing.
He turned out to be a freelance Psychochemist, specialising in
custom neurotransmitter modifications, although he was an accredited
nanosurgeon as well.
`i do the odd bit of contract work for BuProc,' he said with a
sideways glance at Anya, who grinned. `very odd, in some cases.' He
turned to face Gaeren. `if you are considering applying for a
position in BuProc, you may like to consider a few minor mods...
nothing drastic,' he added, noting the way Gaeren took this, `all we
usually do is enhance control structures that you already possess.
someone as attractive as you shouldn't need anything major.' Although
genesis had said this without a trace of warmth, Gaeren found himself
oddly moved. It had been a long time since anyone had regarded him
as anything except a dedicated, efficient worker. Gaeren slowly
nodded, and smiled.
`Okay.'
The next day: after a morning wasted in boredom at Human Resources,
he found himself walking down a brightly-lit hall, looking for
genesis' office. This was a government building; not the sort of
location for what he believed to be a clandestine biomod operation.
He located it, between a psychodentist (stern sharp white walls and
black plastic on chrome furnishings) and a traditional tattoo parlour
(walls completely covered with ornate designs, well-worn brown
leather couches with giggling teenagers sprawled on them).
genesis was standing behind his secretary, looking over her
shoulder as she manipulated data on a holoterminal, occasionally
pointing into the focus to highlight a feature of what appeared to
be a tailored enzyme. Gaeren regarded her objectively; what remained
of his original preferences told him that she was attractive,
although he felt nothing; yet, the longer he gazed at her, the more
attractive she seemed. She looked up, fixing him with a warm smile
and brilliant green eyes, brushing a strand of copper-red hair from
her eyes. He smiled with as much conviction as his apprehensive mood
would allow; as genesis looked up and fixed him with the most
predatory look he had ever seen, his smile froze. genesis grinned
and held out his hand.
`pardon me... i have this theory about reactivity and shock... I
like to try it out on as wide a social cross-section as i can.' His
secretary elbowed him in the ribs. He gestured towards the rear
office. `If you'd like to follow me...'
The back room of genesis' office was dominated by a huge reclining
chair, soft black leather, liberally detailed with broad black straps
and chrome buckles. Noting Gaeren's wide-eyed look, genesis smiled.
`it's mostly for show... it isn't really necessary to hold the
patient down all *that* securely during nanosurgery, and the
preference-mapping is all done via tagged SN-K-RNA...' He indicated
that Gaeren should disrobe and sit down in the chair. The black
leather was cold against his buttocks and back as he lay down; it
writhed against him, creaking slightly and molding itself to him.
genesis admired the way that Gaeren's office-white skin was offset by
the black leather as he buckled the straps across his chest, arms,
waist, thighs and ankles. A remotely activated control swivelled the
chair around, stretching him out flat on his back; a delicate web of
scanner-grids, resembling the skeletal veins of decayed leaves, moved
into place around his temples and a soft hum tickled his ears, almost
below the threshold of perception. genesis appeared next to him and
pressed the cold, wet tip of an infuser against his neck. Gaeren
imagined streams of strange chemicals seeping through the surface of
his skin, snaking around and searching out his blood-vessels. `now,
if you would be as good as to remain as still as possible for the
next minute or so... uh-huh...' genesis moved out of view, and Gaeren
closed his eyes. He felt oddly relaxed, and lost track of time; he
snapped out of his dreamy daze when the end of the chair separated,
spreading his legs, and a support curved up from underneath against
his testicles, pushing his genitalia up. A respirator-mask on the
end of a robot arm whirred into position over his face, hovering a
few centimetres away. `take a few belts of that.' genesis advised.
The mask lowered, pressing over his mouth and nose. He inhaled
deeply, feeling the straps against his chest as he did so. The mask
lifted, and he suddenly felt invigorated, as if he had been
half-suffocated and had then got a breath of fresh air. He flexed
his arms and legs against the straps, experiencing an unfamiliar
feeling in the pit of his stomach, a tickling lower down. He glanced
down to see genesis wielding something like an old-fashioned
dentist's drill with a blunt, conical chrome end. He took the end of
Gaeren's flaccid penis, drawing it out, and painted it with cold blue
fluid from a jar proffered by a second mechanical arm. He stretched
it almost to the point where it was uncomfortable, coating it
thoroughly. He seemed to be waiting for something to happen; after a
minute or so, he sighed and activated a control with his foot. The
conical drill-device emitted a tooth-jarring hum; genesis held it
like a pen and slowly drew two careful strokes along the under-sides
of Gaeren's penis from just underneath the head to where the base
vanished into a mat of soft pubic hair. He could feel the strokes as
a pair of warm trails that sent waves of heat through him.
`what i'm doing is probably unnecessary,' genesis reassured him,
`but in four years of this business, i haven't met one guy who didn't
have a complex about the size of his dick. for someone such as
yourself, coming out from an extended period under a repressive
preference modification, it will help shore up your psyche...'
Another device whirred down from the ceiling; a bulbous, clear
plastic tube that swallowed his still-soft penis, the end pressing
into his groin, forming a seal there. It filled with the clear blue
fluid that genesis had painted him with before; he could feel it
swirling around in the tube, gently bumping his penis from side to
side within it.
`The preference modification?' Gaeren enquired.
`you've had it. that infuser and the scanners - i used my custom
variety of structured K-RNA, so it should take effect in the next 48
hours.' The blue fluid in the tube drained away, and the tube's
mouth widened, releasing his penis to flop against his belly. genesis
unbuckled the straps around Gaeren's arms and chest, allowing him to
sit up on the reclining seat, and handed him a towel. He wrapped it
around his penis, which was slightly sore, the towel absorbing the
remaining fluid.
`Why the straps?' genesis smiled.
`i once saw a guy having this procedure done, unrestrained. the
diffuser - ' he gestured to the chrome-conical device - ` almost took
the end of his dick off. can get very messy, if it isn't carefully
applied.' genesis handed him his clothes, and with a trace of heated
sensuality - the only emotion Gaeren could ever recall him show -
added; `besides, you looked so... so *innocent*, strapped down like
that...'
Anya was still at work when he arrived at their flat, feeling no
better or worse than before. He sat on their small couch, staring
off into space for a moment, rubbing his hand over his collarbone
through the open neck of his jumper, then moved to sit behind their
terminal and keyed a sequence that he had not needed for six years.
Within moments, he was connected to `Leosha', an artificially-
intelligent `X-Rated On-Line Chat' system. `She' certainly knew her
job; objectively, he could see the emotional hooks and catches in her
responses that were designed to arouse; physically, he felt nothing.
He kept it up for ten minutes before admitting defeat; gracefully
signed off, got undressed and showered in their tiny bathroom-space.
Towelling himself dry, he regarded his flaccid penis, which had two
angry red marks along the underside.
`Useless.' he muttered. Naked, he lay down on the mattress in
their sleeping-space, his feet raised on a pile of bedclothes,
intending to gather the strength for the next day's visit to Human
Resources; he dozed fitfully, and then fell asleep.
Anya came home about an hour later, finding him curled around the
pillow on the mattress, his features graced by an expression of
serene unconcern. There was a message for her on the terminal, from
genesis. She returned the call, but his office was unattended; his
office system took the call.
`Genesis left some sub-conscious control routines for Gaeren to
assimilate as soon as possible' it told her. The routines were
appended to the message; Anya copied them to their home system and
signalled to genesis' office that she had received them.
`No time like the present,' she murmured, stroking Gaeren's
forehead, ruffling his soft, light-brown hair. She gently clipped a
sound-button to his ear, patching it to the home system. After
checking the sound-levels, she started the routines, ensuring that
they would be assimilated into his sub-conscious control (which every
citizen had installed, as a child). She wondered what genesis was
giving him as he stirred in his sleep, frowning slightly.
He dreamed that he was lost in a dimly-lit, deserted
building, hundreds of dusty corridors leading to hundreds of
other dusty corridors; trails of cobwebs spanning the
doorways, his feet raising a short trail of dust. He could
sense, somewhere in the distance, a murmuring crowd of people,
rushing along; he was unsure if they were avoiding him or not.
He had no idea where he was headed, but he kept on, regardless.
Just beyond the edge of comprehension, he could hear a soothing,
female voice, directing him. He couldn't make out the words,
but slowly, his sense of helplessness was replaced by a
euphoric feeling of confidence; moving faster, he pushed open
creaking doors, marched down corridors lit by fading
bioluminescent strips, until he reached what he knew to be
his destination: the final door. He paused before it - and it
swung open of its own accord. Inside-
He awoke with a start, staring at the ceiling, realising that he
was holding his breath. He released it slowly through his nostrils,
and lay there for a moment, somewhat dazed, aware that he had been
dreaming and trying desperately to pick up the traces. Whatever had
happened, he felt more confident and self-possessed, less concerned
about having to scratch for a position at Human Resources.
He sat up, just as Anya emerged from their phone-booth-sized shower
recess, wrapping a towel around her waist; with a rush, he remembered
the day's events; that he was in line for a position with BuProc.
The subconscious routines that genesis had sent kicked in with an
almost tactual `click'. She gave him an amused look as he sat there
shivering, his mouth gaping; she reached over and gently closed his
loose jaw with her index finger, her touch lingering there for a
moment, long enough for him to react, to reach up and tightly grip
her hand in his. Their eyes met, and she felt a thrill as she
observed his pupils dilate. Slowly, their gaze remaining unbroken,
an axis that held them enthralled, she sat next to him on the bed.
He felt something smooth and almost inhuman in the way his neck
muscles moved to maintain the visual contact that locked them
together. Her pupils, now, were dilated also; it was a standard
BuProc trick, something she had learned even before joining BuProc,
but being unaware of this, unaware even that he was doing it in
return, the effect hit Gaeren strongly. He was peripherally aware of
his heartbeat thumping painfully as she settled down on the soft
mattress, shifting closer to him until she was pressed up against
him, their eyes still gazing into the depths of each other's. Anya
was conscious of the high level of trust that their relationship
encompassed, and initially, she didn't want to do anything to imperil
it by making the first move. She did, however, give him as much
subliminal encouragement as she could, settling down slightly into
the mattress so that she could raise her eyes to meet his, knowing
that most males reacted favourably to this tactic. Slowly, his face
moved closer to hers, his mouth open a fraction, his nostrils
quivering fractionally as her scent wafted up. Unable to restrain
herself any longer, Anya tentatively slipped her arm around his
waist, her fingers spread out against the small of his back, pulling
him even closer to her. She sighed as he returned her embrace,
crushing her to his naked chest, his quivering fingers digging into
her shoulder-muscles. The feeling of her collar-bone rubbing against
his, her breasts pressed against him, her cheek resting on his, their
thighs touching from hip to knee, triggered one of genesis' recently
installed routines; the elated feeling of confidence surged through
him and he slowly pushed her back against the bed-clothes wadded at
one end of the bed. He pulled away slightly, thrilling as their eyes
made contact again, pupils dilating until his irises had almost
completely vanished. He practically pounced on her, their mouths
meeting hungrily; he felt the stirring of an emotion that he thought
he'd left behind long ago: the wild assurance of the predator that
has cornered its prey. The primal strength of it overwhelmed him
momentarily, washing over him like a wave, leaving him with an acute
sense of what he once called `Primate Anger': the feeling that this
was *HIS* mate that he was crouched over, and if anyone else even
*LOOKED* at her, he'd tear their throat out with his bare teeth. The
intensity shocked him into self-consciousness; he resumed his
ministrations with a barely perceptible pause, but with a completely
different resolve: he would bring her to orgasm as quickly as
possible; submissive to her needs, with a complete disregard for his
own pleasure.
He set about his task almost mechanically, analysing the vital
signs he could sense from their intimate embrace, reviewing lines of
attack. He adjusted the angle at which their bodies crossed, pushing
her body around until she lay crosswise on the bed, her legs dangling
over the edge, her toes curling as he kissed her, touching the
carpet. She gave herself up to him, forgetting that he hadn't
experienced anything even remotely connected with sexual intercourse
for almost six years. She arched her back, pushing against him as
his mouth massaged her throat, and belatedly remembered that she had
to pace this, to refrain from the usual `bring him to the edge and
leave him there' tricks, which could cause physical damage in his
case. She sighed resignedly, gently pushed him back until he was
lying parallel to her on the mattress. She answered his slightly
hurt and questioning look by gently closing his eyes and then
brushing her lips across his eyelids, tickling the bridge of his nose
with her tongue.
`I - don't want to - rush you,' she murmured between kisses, `I
want you to - just lay back - and enjoy this, first time 'round.'
`But - I wanted to -' She stilled his protest by laying an index
finger across his lips.
`Shhh.' Her lips paused over his, regretfully passed on to trace
the tensed lines formed by the tendons of his neck, gently abrading
the ridges of his collarbone, biting a nipple as she passed it on her
way down. She slid her cheek over the taut hollow of his belly,
running her hands over his hips, sliding off the bed and firmly
pushing him back down as he tried to sit up. She consolidated her
domination of the situation by grabbing a long pillow and draping it
over his chest, patting it down for emphasis as if to say: don't
move. She then focussed her attention on his genitals.
She was consistently surprised by the differences in size evinced
by male organs in their flaccid and erect states; she had been unable
to develop an accurate and consistent rule for judging size, and
Gaeren proved to be no exception. When she gently grasped it, his
soft penis was slightly larger than her thumb and the base of her
hand. She noticed the twin red marks that ran along the underside;
she had seen them before and knew what they meant. She encircled the
base with her thumb and ring fingers, squeezing the shaft with the
other fingers; she moved his left leg aside and carefully pressed
her thumb into his perineum, just behind his balls, where the end of
his shaft merged with his body. She felt his thigh muscles tense
slightly as muscles contracted; his penis swelled, the blood trapped
by her fingers, the head swelling and pushing the abbreviated
foreskin back. She noted the pattern of notches that ridged the edge
of the foreskin, the sign of a particular childhood peer-group's
initiation rite. She squeezed with one hand and pushed with the
other again; he made an abbreviated `mnh' sound, fingers clutching
the pillow. The sensation was almost painful, as spaces that had
been vacant for a long time were filled; as his erection grew, she
kept one hand wrapped around the base and with the other, grasped the
shaft just behind the head, alternately squeezing one hand, then the
other; pumping him towards repletion. Her eyes widened slightly as
it grew... and continued to grow, her fingers barely meeting around
the base as he worked pelvic muscles; subconscious routines caused
certain blood-vessels to narrow, restricting the outflow of blood;
the head, encircled by her fingers, was the size of a small apple.
She lowered her head and ran her tongue along its underside, tasting
the droplets of fluid that appeared at the hole. Squeezing the base
and running her hand up his shaft produced more salty fluid, which
she spread about on the head with her tongue and lips. She repeated
the motion, her thumb rubbing over the veins that pulsed along the
underside of the shaft. Keeping the tip of her tongue against the
hole, she worked her lips around the apex of the blunt head,
lubricating it and gradually opening to envelop it completely. She
positioned both hands at the base of the shaft, slowly sliding one,
then the other along the shaft while sucking the head which pressed
against her tongue and pushed her jaws apart. Sensing his
approaching climax in the quivering arhythmia of his hip movements,
she drew several deep breaths through her nostrils; he arched his
back, under-used perineal muscles pumping furiously. As a surge of
hot, salty fluid flooded into the back of her throat, she swallowed
it; after about fifteen seconds, when nothing else happened, she
popped the head out of her mouth, surprised at the minimal amount of
ejaculate he had produced. Then, he cried out in pain; his penis
jerked violently, almost jumping from her hands, semen spurting from
the end to shoot over her throat and shoulders. She grabbed the
shaft and pressed her thumb into the base underneath the head, trying
to control the flow; he repressed another cry as the fluid surged
again and again, the pauses between each spasm growing until he was
straining, back arched, a choking sound coming from deep in his
throat; she stared, wide-eyed, at his penis as it shook like an
out-of-control motor and expelled an unbelievable amount of
translucent, almost clear fluid. Gaeren dropped to the mattress,
unconscious, his engorged member remaining upright for a few
moments, then slowly wilting like a time-lapse video of a dying
flower.
Anya kneeled between his legs, momentarily stunned; after checking
that he wasn't in state-shock (a condition that can arise from the
imposition of too many subliminal routines), she got some fresh
towels and mopped up the pool of semen that Gaeren had emitted. After
she stuffed the towels in the washing-machine, she returned to his
side, just as he regained consciousness.
`I hope it isn't always going to be like that.' he sighed. She
leaned over him, smiling as an absurdly strong feeling of affection
washed through her. She lowered herself to the mattress beside him;
reached over, taking his hand and dragging him closer to kiss him.
He resisted momentarily, then gave in to her, gaining interest as
the contact prolonged; before long, he was ready for another bout.
He recalled his previous intention - to bring her to a climax. His
mind filled with images; diagrams of female anatomy, timing and
response graphs; information that had been included with genesis'
sub-conscious control routines. He `stood back' within himself and
let the routines take over.
It was like watching a remote-control robot disable a terrorist's
bomb. He could feel every caress, every kiss and stroke; but it was
as if someone else decided to grasp her hands and hold her arms
outstretched; he could almost picture genesis sitting in his office,
editing the routine that would cause him to lift Anya's legs and
thrust his renewed erection in at a steep angle. His mind wandered;
it got to the point where he was so divorced from his body's actions
that he found himself idly wondering who would be in the network
Teleconference at the moment; his musings were disturbed by a cry of
distress. Abruptly, he glanced down at Anya, who was lying with her
arms outstretched, clawed fingers embedded in the surface of the
mattress, gasping and shaking as if someone was shooting electric
current through her. Her legs were tightly wrapped around his waist,
the lips of her cunt clutching his shaft as if she were afraid that
he'd escape. Her eyes opened, staring straight into his; for a
moment, he saw an expression of serene unconcern; a look as if she
had been pushed off the top of a tall building and didn't care where
she landed. Her arms lashed around his shoulders, crushing him to
her; he felt her shuddering orgasm lift them both off the mattress
momentarily. They both collapsed in a sweat-soaked, trembling heap,
gasping for breath. After a moment, she laughed weakly, tried to
lever herself up on one elbow, only to fall back again.
`We had better not do this often. I don't think I can take it.'
with his arms wrapped around his head when Anya returned home. She
practically danced in, swinging the bag that contained the clothing
she had bought at the Ginza but had not worn. Oblivious to his
mood, she tossed the bag into their shared sleeping-space, threw
herself down next to him and hugged him.
`Gaeren... I made it, I'm in! Class Three Operative with the
Bureau of Procuration as of next Monday...' her excited voice trailed
off as she became aware of his lack of response. `Gaeren... what's
wrong?' He pointed at the terminal, which still showed the last
message he'd read:
----------------------------------------------------------
Bureau of Economic and Trade Stabilisation 27-22-917
00.41.023
YOUR POSITION (CLASS FOUR LIAITOR) HAS BEEN
EVALUATED AS PART OF THE RESTRUCTURING AND
HAS BEEN RECLASSIFIED AS SUPERFLUOUS. PLEASE
REPORT TO THE HUMAN RESOURCES DIVISION AT YOUR
EARLIEST CONVENIENCE FOR REASSIGNMENT
for divisional head
Francine Heybert
----------------------------------------------------------
`Oh.' was all she could say. He reached out blindly with one hand
and turned the terminal off. She knew that EcoTrade was one of the
few Bureaus that had an official policy to protect neuters; outside
that Bureau, he would be treated like a second class citizen. The
only other Bureau where he might fit in would be...
`Come with me,' she said firmly, dragging him to his feet, `we are
going to have a chat with a friend.'
They discussed his options in the cab, secure in the knowledge that
the Kaelen driver wouldn't bother translating their conversation.
`It's not the drop in pay that concerns me,' he muttered. `I worked
in Agricultural for eighteen months... I got used to being treated
like sewerage, ha ha... it's just that I'll have to go back to - to
that -' the words stuck in his throat, and Anya hugged him, noting
the way that he tensed away from her, which was something she thought
he had managed to overcome. She knew that he would find her
proposal rather unorthodox, so she decided to wait until they had
reached their destination.
They sat at in a secluded booth at the rear of the Suteriik, she
sipping her drink, he moodily staring into his, as if scrying the
path of his career in the bubbles. She firmly took his hands in
hers, fixed him with a serious look and said;
`Now, I want you to think very carefully before you answer this:
have you ever considered having your preferences modified? Re-
modified, I mean.' He glanced up at her sharply, and then closed
his eyes as if against a painful memory.
`No. I don't remember why I chose Neutership; that was part of
the deal. Something happened that was sufficiently unpleasant to
warrant changing my preferences. So that I would never want
involvement with anyone. This was before the, ah,' - here he
lowered his voice - `"Kemp" affair.' She nodded, barely moving her
head... Kemp had been one of the first neuters; psychologically
unstable, she had later become one of the worst serial killers in
history, and had done a great deal of harm to the concept of
Neutership. Despite the enormous amount of evidence to the
contrary, many people - some of them influential people in the power
structure, unfortunately - regarded neuters with a degree of
suspicion. She waited until he opened his eyes, and then, keeping
her gaze directed into his, murmured:
`I want you to consider having a custom set of preferences
implanted. It's a common procedure at BuProc; they have a set, that
while it doesn't turn you into a sex maniac,' at this, Gaeren smiled
thinly - the first sign of good humour she'd seen him evince all
evening - `it makes relating to others, of either sex, well, natural.
As easy as holding hands.' She squeezed his. His smile grew wider.
She smiled back, and then noticed her friend entering. `Hey, gen,
over here!'
A young man approached their booth; shoulder length black hair with
blonde roots; stocky build; dressed in black street armour (which was
out of fashion by at least six months). Gaeren tried to read his
mood, kinesically, as he had been taught in primary school; he
realised with a degree of surprise that genesis was hiding behind a
completely blank facial mask, revealing nothing.
He turned out to be a freelance Psychochemist, specialising in
custom neurotransmitter modifications, although he was an accredited
nanosurgeon as well.
`i do the odd bit of contract work for BuProc,' he said with a
sideways glance at Anya, who grinned. `very odd, in some cases.' He
turned to face Gaeren. `if you are considering applying for a
position in BuProc, you may like to consider a few minor mods...
nothing drastic,' he added, noting the way Gaeren took this, `all we
usually do is enhance control structures that you already possess.
someone as attractive as you shouldn't need anything major.' Although
genesis had said this without a trace of warmth, Gaeren found himself
oddly moved. It had been a long time since anyone had regarded him
as anything except a dedicated, efficient worker. Gaeren slowly
nodded, and smiled.
`Okay.'
The next day: after a morning wasted in boredom at Human Resources,
he found himself walking down a brightly-lit hall, looking for
genesis' office. This was a government building; not the sort of
location for what he believed to be a clandestine biomod operation.
He located it, between a psychodentist (stern sharp white walls and
black plastic on chrome furnishings) and a traditional tattoo parlour
(walls completely covered with ornate designs, well-worn brown
leather couches with giggling teenagers sprawled on them).
genesis was standing behind his secretary, looking over her
shoulder as she manipulated data on a holoterminal, occasionally
pointing into the focus to highlight a feature of what appeared to
be a tailored enzyme. Gaeren regarded her objectively; what remained
of his original preferences told him that she was attractive,
although he felt nothing; yet, the longer he gazed at her, the more
attractive she seemed. She looked up, fixing him with a warm smile
and brilliant green eyes, brushing a strand of copper-red hair from
her eyes. He smiled with as much conviction as his apprehensive mood
would allow; as genesis looked up and fixed him with the most
predatory look he had ever seen, his smile froze. genesis grinned
and held out his hand.
`pardon me... i have this theory about reactivity and shock... I
like to try it out on as wide a social cross-section as i can.' His
secretary elbowed him in the ribs. He gestured towards the rear
office. `If you'd like to follow me...'
The back room of genesis' office was dominated by a huge reclining
chair, soft black leather, liberally detailed with broad black straps
and chrome buckles. Noting Gaeren's wide-eyed look, genesis smiled.
`it's mostly for show... it isn't really necessary to hold the
patient down all *that* securely during nanosurgery, and the
preference-mapping is all done via tagged SN-K-RNA...' He indicated
that Gaeren should disrobe and sit down in the chair. The black
leather was cold against his buttocks and back as he lay down; it
writhed against him, creaking slightly and molding itself to him.
genesis admired the way that Gaeren's office-white skin was offset by
the black leather as he buckled the straps across his chest, arms,
waist, thighs and ankles. A remotely activated control swivelled the
chair around, stretching him out flat on his back; a delicate web of
scanner-grids, resembling the skeletal veins of decayed leaves, moved
into place around his temples and a soft hum tickled his ears, almost
below the threshold of perception. genesis appeared next to him and
pressed the cold, wet tip of an infuser against his neck. Gaeren
imagined streams of strange chemicals seeping through the surface of
his skin, snaking around and searching out his blood-vessels. `now,
if you would be as good as to remain as still as possible for the
next minute or so... uh-huh...' genesis moved out of view, and Gaeren
closed his eyes. He felt oddly relaxed, and lost track of time; he
snapped out of his dreamy daze when the end of the chair separated,
spreading his legs, and a support curved up from underneath against
his testicles, pushing his genitalia up. A respirator-mask on the
end of a robot arm whirred into position over his face, hovering a
few centimetres away. `take a few belts of that.' genesis advised.
The mask lowered, pressing over his mouth and nose. He inhaled
deeply, feeling the straps against his chest as he did so. The mask
lifted, and he suddenly felt invigorated, as if he had been
half-suffocated and had then got a breath of fresh air. He flexed
his arms and legs against the straps, experiencing an unfamiliar
feeling in the pit of his stomach, a tickling lower down. He glanced
down to see genesis wielding something like an old-fashioned
dentist's drill with a blunt, conical chrome end. He took the end of
Gaeren's flaccid penis, drawing it out, and painted it with cold blue
fluid from a jar proffered by a second mechanical arm. He stretched
it almost to the point where it was uncomfortable, coating it
thoroughly. He seemed to be waiting for something to happen; after a
minute or so, he sighed and activated a control with his foot. The
conical drill-device emitted a tooth-jarring hum; genesis held it
like a pen and slowly drew two careful strokes along the under-sides
of Gaeren's penis from just underneath the head to where the base
vanished into a mat of soft pubic hair. He could feel the strokes as
a pair of warm trails that sent waves of heat through him.
`what i'm doing is probably unnecessary,' genesis reassured him,
`but in four years of this business, i haven't met one guy who didn't
have a complex about the size of his dick. for someone such as
yourself, coming out from an extended period under a repressive
preference modification, it will help shore up your psyche...'
Another device whirred down from the ceiling; a bulbous, clear
plastic tube that swallowed his still-soft penis, the end pressing
into his groin, forming a seal there. It filled with the clear blue
fluid that genesis had painted him with before; he could feel it
swirling around in the tube, gently bumping his penis from side to
side within it.
`The preference modification?' Gaeren enquired.
`you've had it. that infuser and the scanners - i used my custom
variety of structured K-RNA, so it should take effect in the next 48
hours.' The blue fluid in the tube drained away, and the tube's
mouth widened, releasing his penis to flop against his belly. genesis
unbuckled the straps around Gaeren's arms and chest, allowing him to
sit up on the reclining seat, and handed him a towel. He wrapped it
around his penis, which was slightly sore, the towel absorbing the
remaining fluid.
`Why the straps?' genesis smiled.
`i once saw a guy having this procedure done, unrestrained. the
diffuser - ' he gestured to the chrome-conical device - ` almost took
the end of his dick off. can get very messy, if it isn't carefully
applied.' genesis handed him his clothes, and with a trace of heated
sensuality - the only emotion Gaeren could ever recall him show -
added; `besides, you looked so... so *innocent*, strapped down like
that...'
Anya was still at work when he arrived at their flat, feeling no
better or worse than before. He sat on their small couch, staring
off into space for a moment, rubbing his hand over his collarbone
through the open neck of his jumper, then moved to sit behind their
terminal and keyed a sequence that he had not needed for six years.
Within moments, he was connected to `Leosha', an artificially-
intelligent `X-Rated On-Line Chat' system. `She' certainly knew her
job; objectively, he could see the emotional hooks and catches in her
responses that were designed to arouse; physically, he felt nothing.
He kept it up for ten minutes before admitting defeat; gracefully
signed off, got undressed and showered in their tiny bathroom-space.
Towelling himself dry, he regarded his flaccid penis, which had two
angry red marks along the underside.
`Useless.' he muttered. Naked, he lay down on the mattress in
their sleeping-space, his feet raised on a pile of bedclothes,
intending to gather the strength for the next day's visit to Human
Resources; he dozed fitfully, and then fell asleep.
Anya came home about an hour later, finding him curled around the
pillow on the mattress, his features graced by an expression of
serene unconcern. There was a message for her on the terminal, from
genesis. She returned the call, but his office was unattended; his
office system took the call.
`Genesis left some sub-conscious control routines for Gaeren to
assimilate as soon as possible' it told her. The routines were
appended to the message; Anya copied them to their home system and
signalled to genesis' office that she had received them.
`No time like the present,' she murmured, stroking Gaeren's
forehead, ruffling his soft, light-brown hair. She gently clipped a
sound-button to his ear, patching it to the home system. After
checking the sound-levels, she started the routines, ensuring that
they would be assimilated into his sub-conscious control (which every
citizen had installed, as a child). She wondered what genesis was
giving him as he stirred in his sleep, frowning slightly.
He dreamed that he was lost in a dimly-lit, deserted
building, hundreds of dusty corridors leading to hundreds of
other dusty corridors; trails of cobwebs spanning the
doorways, his feet raising a short trail of dust. He could
sense, somewhere in the distance, a murmuring crowd of people,
rushing along; he was unsure if they were avoiding him or not.
He had no idea where he was headed, but he kept on, regardless.
Just beyond the edge of comprehension, he could hear a soothing,
female voice, directing him. He couldn't make out the words,
but slowly, his sense of helplessness was replaced by a
euphoric feeling of confidence; moving faster, he pushed open
creaking doors, marched down corridors lit by fading
bioluminescent strips, until he reached what he knew to be
his destination: the final door. He paused before it - and it
swung open of its own accord. Inside-
He awoke with a start, staring at the ceiling, realising that he
was holding his breath. He released it slowly through his nostrils,
and lay there for a moment, somewhat dazed, aware that he had been
dreaming and trying desperately to pick up the traces. Whatever had
happened, he felt more confident and self-possessed, less concerned
about having to scratch for a position at Human Resources.
He sat up, just as Anya emerged from their phone-booth-sized shower
recess, wrapping a towel around her waist; with a rush, he remembered
the day's events; that he was in line for a position with BuProc.
The subconscious routines that genesis had sent kicked in with an
almost tactual `click'. She gave him an amused look as he sat there
shivering, his mouth gaping; she reached over and gently closed his
loose jaw with her index finger, her touch lingering there for a
moment, long enough for him to react, to reach up and tightly grip
her hand in his. Their eyes met, and she felt a thrill as she
observed his pupils dilate. Slowly, their gaze remaining unbroken,
an axis that held them enthralled, she sat next to him on the bed.
He felt something smooth and almost inhuman in the way his neck
muscles moved to maintain the visual contact that locked them
together. Her pupils, now, were dilated also; it was a standard
BuProc trick, something she had learned even before joining BuProc,
but being unaware of this, unaware even that he was doing it in
return, the effect hit Gaeren strongly. He was peripherally aware of
his heartbeat thumping painfully as she settled down on the soft
mattress, shifting closer to him until she was pressed up against
him, their eyes still gazing into the depths of each other's. Anya
was conscious of the high level of trust that their relationship
encompassed, and initially, she didn't want to do anything to imperil
it by making the first move. She did, however, give him as much
subliminal encouragement as she could, settling down slightly into
the mattress so that she could raise her eyes to meet his, knowing
that most males reacted favourably to this tactic. Slowly, his face
moved closer to hers, his mouth open a fraction, his nostrils
quivering fractionally as her scent wafted up. Unable to restrain
herself any longer, Anya tentatively slipped her arm around his
waist, her fingers spread out against the small of his back, pulling
him even closer to her. She sighed as he returned her embrace,
crushing her to his naked chest, his quivering fingers digging into
her shoulder-muscles. The feeling of her collar-bone rubbing against
his, her breasts pressed against him, her cheek resting on his, their
thighs touching from hip to knee, triggered one of genesis' recently
installed routines; the elated feeling of confidence surged through
him and he slowly pushed her back against the bed-clothes wadded at
one end of the bed. He pulled away slightly, thrilling as their eyes
made contact again, pupils dilating until his irises had almost
completely vanished. He practically pounced on her, their mouths
meeting hungrily; he felt the stirring of an emotion that he thought
he'd left behind long ago: the wild assurance of the predator that
has cornered its prey. The primal strength of it overwhelmed him
momentarily, washing over him like a wave, leaving him with an acute
sense of what he once called `Primate Anger': the feeling that this
was *HIS* mate that he was crouched over, and if anyone else even
*LOOKED* at her, he'd tear their throat out with his bare teeth. The
intensity shocked him into self-consciousness; he resumed his
ministrations with a barely perceptible pause, but with a completely
different resolve: he would bring her to orgasm as quickly as
possible; submissive to her needs, with a complete disregard for his
own pleasure.
He set about his task almost mechanically, analysing the vital
signs he could sense from their intimate embrace, reviewing lines of
attack. He adjusted the angle at which their bodies crossed, pushing
her body around until she lay crosswise on the bed, her legs dangling
over the edge, her toes curling as he kissed her, touching the
carpet. She gave herself up to him, forgetting that he hadn't
experienced anything even remotely connected with sexual intercourse
for almost six years. She arched her back, pushing against him as
his mouth massaged her throat, and belatedly remembered that she had
to pace this, to refrain from the usual `bring him to the edge and
leave him there' tricks, which could cause physical damage in his
case. She sighed resignedly, gently pushed him back until he was
lying parallel to her on the mattress. She answered his slightly
hurt and questioning look by gently closing his eyes and then
brushing her lips across his eyelids, tickling the bridge of his nose
with her tongue.
`I - don't want to - rush you,' she murmured between kisses, `I
want you to - just lay back - and enjoy this, first time 'round.'
`But - I wanted to -' She stilled his protest by laying an index
finger across his lips.
`Shhh.' Her lips paused over his, regretfully passed on to trace
the tensed lines formed by the tendons of his neck, gently abrading
the ridges of his collarbone, biting a nipple as she passed it on her
way down. She slid her cheek over the taut hollow of his belly,
running her hands over his hips, sliding off the bed and firmly
pushing him back down as he tried to sit up. She consolidated her
domination of the situation by grabbing a long pillow and draping it
over his chest, patting it down for emphasis as if to say: don't
move. She then focussed her attention on his genitals.
She was consistently surprised by the differences in size evinced
by male organs in their flaccid and erect states; she had been unable
to develop an accurate and consistent rule for judging size, and
Gaeren proved to be no exception. When she gently grasped it, his
soft penis was slightly larger than her thumb and the base of her
hand. She noticed the twin red marks that ran along the underside;
she had seen them before and knew what they meant. She encircled the
base with her thumb and ring fingers, squeezing the shaft with the
other fingers; she moved his left leg aside and carefully pressed
her thumb into his perineum, just behind his balls, where the end of
his shaft merged with his body. She felt his thigh muscles tense
slightly as muscles contracted; his penis swelled, the blood trapped
by her fingers, the head swelling and pushing the abbreviated
foreskin back. She noted the pattern of notches that ridged the edge
of the foreskin, the sign of a particular childhood peer-group's
initiation rite. She squeezed with one hand and pushed with the
other again; he made an abbreviated `mnh' sound, fingers clutching
the pillow. The sensation was almost painful, as spaces that had
been vacant for a long time were filled; as his erection grew, she
kept one hand wrapped around the base and with the other, grasped the
shaft just behind the head, alternately squeezing one hand, then the
other; pumping him towards repletion. Her eyes widened slightly as
it grew... and continued to grow, her fingers barely meeting around
the base as he worked pelvic muscles; subconscious routines caused
certain blood-vessels to narrow, restricting the outflow of blood;
the head, encircled by her fingers, was the size of a small apple.
She lowered her head and ran her tongue along its underside, tasting
the droplets of fluid that appeared at the hole. Squeezing the base
and running her hand up his shaft produced more salty fluid, which
she spread about on the head with her tongue and lips. She repeated
the motion, her thumb rubbing over the veins that pulsed along the
underside of the shaft. Keeping the tip of her tongue against the
hole, she worked her lips around the apex of the blunt head,
lubricating it and gradually opening to envelop it completely. She
positioned both hands at the base of the shaft, slowly sliding one,
then the other along the shaft while sucking the head which pressed
against her tongue and pushed her jaws apart. Sensing his
approaching climax in the quivering arhythmia of his hip movements,
she drew several deep breaths through her nostrils; he arched his
back, under-used perineal muscles pumping furiously. As a surge of
hot, salty fluid flooded into the back of her throat, she swallowed
it; after about fifteen seconds, when nothing else happened, she
popped the head out of her mouth, surprised at the minimal amount of
ejaculate he had produced. Then, he cried out in pain; his penis
jerked violently, almost jumping from her hands, semen spurting from
the end to shoot over her throat and shoulders. She grabbed the
shaft and pressed her thumb into the base underneath the head, trying
to control the flow; he repressed another cry as the fluid surged
again and again, the pauses between each spasm growing until he was
straining, back arched, a choking sound coming from deep in his
throat; she stared, wide-eyed, at his penis as it shook like an
out-of-control motor and expelled an unbelievable amount of
translucent, almost clear fluid. Gaeren dropped to the mattress,
unconscious, his engorged member remaining upright for a few
moments, then slowly wilting like a time-lapse video of a dying
flower.
Anya kneeled between his legs, momentarily stunned; after checking
that he wasn't in state-shock (a condition that can arise from the
imposition of too many subliminal routines), she got some fresh
towels and mopped up the pool of semen that Gaeren had emitted. After
she stuffed the towels in the washing-machine, she returned to his
side, just as he regained consciousness.
`I hope it isn't always going to be like that.' he sighed. She
leaned over him, smiling as an absurdly strong feeling of affection
washed through her. She lowered herself to the mattress beside him;
reached over, taking his hand and dragging him closer to kiss him.
He resisted momentarily, then gave in to her, gaining interest as
the contact prolonged; before long, he was ready for another bout.
He recalled his previous intention - to bring her to a climax. His
mind filled with images; diagrams of female anatomy, timing and
response graphs; information that had been included with genesis'
sub-conscious control routines. He `stood back' within himself and
let the routines take over.
It was like watching a remote-control robot disable a terrorist's
bomb. He could feel every caress, every kiss and stroke; but it was
as if someone else decided to grasp her hands and hold her arms
outstretched; he could almost picture genesis sitting in his office,
editing the routine that would cause him to lift Anya's legs and
thrust his renewed erection in at a steep angle. His mind wandered;
it got to the point where he was so divorced from his body's actions
that he found himself idly wondering who would be in the network
Teleconference at the moment; his musings were disturbed by a cry of
distress. Abruptly, he glanced down at Anya, who was lying with her
arms outstretched, clawed fingers embedded in the surface of the
mattress, gasping and shaking as if someone was shooting electric
current through her. Her legs were tightly wrapped around his waist,
the lips of her cunt clutching his shaft as if she were afraid that
he'd escape. Her eyes opened, staring straight into his; for a
moment, he saw an expression of serene unconcern; a look as if she
had been pushed off the top of a tall building and didn't care where
she landed. Her arms lashed around his shoulders, crushing him to
her; he felt her shuddering orgasm lift them both off the mattress
momentarily. They both collapsed in a sweat-soaked, trembling heap,
gasping for breath. After a moment, she laughed weakly, tried to
lever herself up on one elbow, only to fall back again.
`We had better not do this often. I don't think I can take it.'
A Rant about Women
This story is taken from Answer Me! zine, issue #2, 1992 and
written by DEBBIE GOAD.
We're told that little girls are made of "sugar and spice and
everything nice." They dress in frilly pink lace. Bows and ribbons
adorn their pigtails. They're small, delicate cherubs. Maurice
Chevalier thanked heaven for little girls. He's dead! And those
fragile, sweet, petite brats he sang about grew up to be full-time
bitches. Spineless cunts.
Go now, my friend, into a ladies' room and take a deep whiff. Smell
it? It's the stench of pussy, the annoying aroma of VAGINA..
Women's genitals crank out horrible cottage-cheese like discharges.
Chicks may spend hours preening in a bathroom, but it won't mask
their rank. They baptize themselves with perfumes and squirt
douches up their gashes in an endless pursuit of sparkling-clean
femininity. The pungency of their colognes, hair sprays, nail
polishes, and skin creams smells worse than rotted corpses. But at
least these cosmetics smell better than the average rancid snatch.
When my husband first went down on me, he was shocked to find
that he wasn't taking a trip to Sea World. He asked if I was from
another planet. I had (and have) no smell. This is rarer than a
talking mule. Whenever I've sniffed my bloodiest tampons, even
ones with clots the size of egg yolks, there's no odor. I can't say the
same for my "sisters."
There's nothing worse than a room full of smelly women. With ear-
piercing voices, shrill laughs, and affected stances, they are
talentless hens shamelessly cackling their needs. These yentas hang
together in coffee klatches, feeding off gossip from their
"girlfriends." But do they truly care about one another? Hell, no!
They're battle-axes who eye each other suspiciously. They compete
more viciously than men. Women were born to claw each other's
eyes out. These wenches are not true friends and can't be trusted.
These whores congregate to discuss such vital topics as how many
carats lie in their diamond wedding band, who's pregnant, the latest
action on the soaps, their mother-in-law's lung operation, home
appliances, linoleum, breast implants, and what brand of coffee
tastes best. It's downhill from there. As they age, their brain rot
spreads. They develop cellulite, sprout hemorrhoids, hit
menopause, buy wigs, dry up and then, thank God, they finally die.
But their daughters continue the she-devil cycle.
Dumb-ass damsels in distress. Dames consider themselves victims,
yet they victimize their male counterparts. They become their man's
mommy. He's their puppet, and mommy's in control. Mommy pulls
that invisible cat-o-nine-tales out of her panties and pussy-whips
her little boy into emotional slavery. She screams out demands at
her boyfriend or husband. He passively obliges, his balls retreating
into his sac. Women are calculating hypocrites. They'll attack a man
for being a "sexist pig" while rating his butt, joking about his hair,
and measuring his desirability by his savings-account balance.
Women scom men for being isensitive and money-hungry but
chastise them if their gifts didn't cost enough. Men shouldn't take
it. But while our society has always accepted women belittling
men, it never Iterates men abusing women.
Women bitch about equality, but down deep, they still want Mr.
Testicles to pay. Clinging to their partner with eyes pleading, their
burning desire is to force lover-boy into making that costly
purchase. They use guys for jewelry, food, rent, clothes, car s,
furniture, career growth, money, flowers, homes, vacations,
everything. In return, she gives the man three minutes to ply my at
her stinking love mound.
Women believe that they're clean, pure, and godly souls. They
appear angelic, but their minds are fuming with full-blast cuntiness.
They act meek but have swallowed more loads and licked out more
assholes than there are days on the calendar.
They possess a high holy attitude about being women, as if there's
something spiritually exalted about owning a uterus. Women think
that since they ovulate, bleed every month, and have milk dripping
out of their tits, they're special. Human females are baby machines,
just like female gerbils, hippos, and vampire bats. Women have bad
taste in music, movies, and IDEAS. I've never met another female
who enlightened me. Finally, here's a chick who rejects the concept
of "sisterhood" and has the guts to say that other women are boring,
unoriginal twats. Career women, lesbians, single mothers,
feminists, nuns, punk chicks WHAT'S THE DIFFERENCE?
Though they march in protest lines, study art in Paris, and go to law
school, they inevitably lie down and give birth like the sows that
they are. When a chick tells me of her desire for a child, I punch in
a wall with my fist. But the next time some bitch tells me this, I'll
punch in her ugly face instead.
Women say they're either against abortion or pro-choice. I'm the
first woman in history to say that there should be NO choice. U
women were truly pro-choice, they'd choose to keep their fat legs
shut. But they're just talking shit when they talk about "controlling
their bodies," and they want the government (i.e., daddy) to pay for
their sloppy one -night stands. Destroy all infants, remove all
ovaries, and pay abortionists more than the president!
I was never a bitch and never will be. I'm full of hate on the outside,
but inside there's a heart of gold. With most women, it's the other
way around. Unlike the others, there's no pose here. Besides having
neither a matemal instinct nor vaginal odor, I'm brutally honest.
That's a trait other women can't tolerate. When confronted with
honesty, they run away screaming. I smile when I'm amused, not to
pry something out of a man. I say what I think, not what my
girlfriends expect me to say. Why can't they all be like me?
Because their genitals breed weakness! A cunt is a cunt is a cunt.
Your mother was a cunt, her mother was a cunt, and all your little
girls will be cunts. Shave your head, cut off your tits, sew up your
crotch, and then give me a call.
written by DEBBIE GOAD.
We're told that little girls are made of "sugar and spice and
everything nice." They dress in frilly pink lace. Bows and ribbons
adorn their pigtails. They're small, delicate cherubs. Maurice
Chevalier thanked heaven for little girls. He's dead! And those
fragile, sweet, petite brats he sang about grew up to be full-time
bitches. Spineless cunts.
Go now, my friend, into a ladies' room and take a deep whiff. Smell
it? It's the stench of pussy, the annoying aroma of VAGINA..
Women's genitals crank out horrible cottage-cheese like discharges.
Chicks may spend hours preening in a bathroom, but it won't mask
their rank. They baptize themselves with perfumes and squirt
douches up their gashes in an endless pursuit of sparkling-clean
femininity. The pungency of their colognes, hair sprays, nail
polishes, and skin creams smells worse than rotted corpses. But at
least these cosmetics smell better than the average rancid snatch.
When my husband first went down on me, he was shocked to find
that he wasn't taking a trip to Sea World. He asked if I was from
another planet. I had (and have) no smell. This is rarer than a
talking mule. Whenever I've sniffed my bloodiest tampons, even
ones with clots the size of egg yolks, there's no odor. I can't say the
same for my "sisters."
There's nothing worse than a room full of smelly women. With ear-
piercing voices, shrill laughs, and affected stances, they are
talentless hens shamelessly cackling their needs. These yentas hang
together in coffee klatches, feeding off gossip from their
"girlfriends." But do they truly care about one another? Hell, no!
They're battle-axes who eye each other suspiciously. They compete
more viciously than men. Women were born to claw each other's
eyes out. These wenches are not true friends and can't be trusted.
These whores congregate to discuss such vital topics as how many
carats lie in their diamond wedding band, who's pregnant, the latest
action on the soaps, their mother-in-law's lung operation, home
appliances, linoleum, breast implants, and what brand of coffee
tastes best. It's downhill from there. As they age, their brain rot
spreads. They develop cellulite, sprout hemorrhoids, hit
menopause, buy wigs, dry up and then, thank God, they finally die.
But their daughters continue the she-devil cycle.
Dumb-ass damsels in distress. Dames consider themselves victims,
yet they victimize their male counterparts. They become their man's
mommy. He's their puppet, and mommy's in control. Mommy pulls
that invisible cat-o-nine-tales out of her panties and pussy-whips
her little boy into emotional slavery. She screams out demands at
her boyfriend or husband. He passively obliges, his balls retreating
into his sac. Women are calculating hypocrites. They'll attack a man
for being a "sexist pig" while rating his butt, joking about his hair,
and measuring his desirability by his savings-account balance.
Women scom men for being isensitive and money-hungry but
chastise them if their gifts didn't cost enough. Men shouldn't take
it. But while our society has always accepted women belittling
men, it never Iterates men abusing women.
Women bitch about equality, but down deep, they still want Mr.
Testicles to pay. Clinging to their partner with eyes pleading, their
burning desire is to force lover-boy into making that costly
purchase. They use guys for jewelry, food, rent, clothes, car s,
furniture, career growth, money, flowers, homes, vacations,
everything. In return, she gives the man three minutes to ply my at
her stinking love mound.
Women believe that they're clean, pure, and godly souls. They
appear angelic, but their minds are fuming with full-blast cuntiness.
They act meek but have swallowed more loads and licked out more
assholes than there are days on the calendar.
They possess a high holy attitude about being women, as if there's
something spiritually exalted about owning a uterus. Women think
that since they ovulate, bleed every month, and have milk dripping
out of their tits, they're special. Human females are baby machines,
just like female gerbils, hippos, and vampire bats. Women have bad
taste in music, movies, and IDEAS. I've never met another female
who enlightened me. Finally, here's a chick who rejects the concept
of "sisterhood" and has the guts to say that other women are boring,
unoriginal twats. Career women, lesbians, single mothers,
feminists, nuns, punk chicks WHAT'S THE DIFFERENCE?
Though they march in protest lines, study art in Paris, and go to law
school, they inevitably lie down and give birth like the sows that
they are. When a chick tells me of her desire for a child, I punch in
a wall with my fist. But the next time some bitch tells me this, I'll
punch in her ugly face instead.
Women say they're either against abortion or pro-choice. I'm the
first woman in history to say that there should be NO choice. U
women were truly pro-choice, they'd choose to keep their fat legs
shut. But they're just talking shit when they talk about "controlling
their bodies," and they want the government (i.e., daddy) to pay for
their sloppy one -night stands. Destroy all infants, remove all
ovaries, and pay abortionists more than the president!
I was never a bitch and never will be. I'm full of hate on the outside,
but inside there's a heart of gold. With most women, it's the other
way around. Unlike the others, there's no pose here. Besides having
neither a matemal instinct nor vaginal odor, I'm brutally honest.
That's a trait other women can't tolerate. When confronted with
honesty, they run away screaming. I smile when I'm amused, not to
pry something out of a man. I say what I think, not what my
girlfriends expect me to say. Why can't they all be like me?
Because their genitals breed weakness! A cunt is a cunt is a cunt.
Your mother was a cunt, her mother was a cunt, and all your little
girls will be cunts. Shave your head, cut off your tits, sew up your
crotch, and then give me a call.
A Question
How do you react when you see someone in pain?
It’s just a question. Humor me, please.
I’m curious because I’ve been consumed of late with this crazy, and I’d like very much for someone to prove me wrong.
I don’t know when it all started to coalesce within my head, but the furtive rustlings of this burgeoning young madness have been with me for a number of days now. Sleep is restless when it comes at all…those who know me well enough can attest to the fact that that’s nothing new to me. Sleep has always been a precious commodity in my world. Sleep. Sleep is what I need. Sleep is the magical panacea for all that ails us, you know? It’s no small wonder to me that so many people have succumbed to the allure of chasing fantastic dreams in the smoke filled opium dens of the world. But, I digress. Forgive me.
See, I guess it all started some number of days ago with the acknowledgement of some very bad news concerning the health of someone close to me. Or no, maybe it started long before that. I’m unsure of the details, but I beg that you’ll try to follow me in this senseless rant for a moment longer. I’ve a question to ask or a statement to make, or something. Something.
Maybe it started somewhere in the details of what I spend my time doing, most of the day long, week after week. I work in a catholic hospital at the moment and take care of all manner of suffering people, many of them old and not long for this world. It’s hard work to be sure, hard in ways that don’t immediately present themselves to the mind. Some notable few of the people under my care are three priests of the faith, one monsignor, and a bishop of the church, all of them elderly and in their dying times. For the past few weeks, I’ve cared for these people in ways that transcend the boundaries of simple duty. More than that, I’ve watched them, stood by them. I’ve held their hands during moments of trembling weakness and listened to them weep their fears and regrets to me. Questions arise here. Many intractable questions arise and I’m frighteningly short on comfortable answers.
See, it occurs to me that we hurt. People, as a general rule, suffer. Surely, there are places in the world where people suffer more profoundly than others, yet to a degree we all must face the same terrible milestones in our lives (such as the passing of loved ones), and even our very existences must ultimately end in a similar fear. We die alone. Even crowded around with family (a sight that I have yet to see four years into hospital service), each and every one of us passes through that veil utterly alone. We know this for fact. What’s more, whether clergy, paupers, or princes, there are no reprieves. That lonely old bishop dying huddled and frightened in his dimly lit room is dying from the same cancer that’s eating at the guts of the housewife up the hall. And there’s nothing either he, with his hotline to God, or I, girded with the cutting edge of medical science, can do to alter that course. Nothing.
(But I, at least, can ease their pain.)
And so, flowing into this great sweepingly nonsensical tangent of thought, I’m drawn to consider the pangs and angst of adolescence, the sensation of awakening within our guts of this great, primal fear that comes with the realization that death is streaking toward each of us with every ticking second. I think that to some extent we’ve all faced this early in our adulthood. For the most part, acknowledgement of this fear is severely downplayed from a social perspective. I mean, there’s a great deal of literature out there dealing with teen pregnancy and similar pap, but where are the pamphlets for the kids all caught up in the futility of living? Is that what we turn to religion for? Is that acceptable? What I’m saying is that this terrible fear and sense of futility are real issues, real feelings that carry real consequences and deserve some tangible degree of attention…and they’re never really socially acknowledged or properly dealt with. Selling someone on a grand cosmic fairytale is not a reasonable form of alternative therapy in my opinion.
Right now, I think we’re living in a seriously fucked-up world with far too many people effectively pretending that everything’s running along perfectly smoothly, perfectly happily. Answers for the hardest questions simply materialize out of thin air and come far too implausibly and easily, while answers to comparatively simple questions seem all but unanswerable. Instead of actually lending of ourselves, we dissemble to one another. Popes and priests, warlocks and shamans, Gods and Devils, we’ve a countless thousand names and titles for those we’ve elected to mediate the sacred mysteries that were never really all that sacred or mysterious to begin with. To be sure, what we empirically know of our world, that deep-down unshakable truth that no amount of self-directed prevarication can completely conceal, is bereft of mercy and compassion. We know that the immalleable fabric of reality shows no proclivities toward striking bargains with us any time soon. Still, we continue to kneel before our collected effigies and to whisper our desperations into the shadows of our midnight bedrooms rather than strike out and provide that much needed compassion to one another, ourselves.
So, I ask you what you do when you see someone in pain, because I’m trying to find the thread that ties the logic of reality together with the illogic of religion and the social repression of our fears. I’m beginning to think that our inability to grant ease or exhibit understanding to those around us, our general uncomfortability with recognizing fear or pain in the eyes of our neighbors, is a source of serious social ailment in our foundering world. We crawl out of our lonely little cubicles every morning at precisely 8:15 am and hurry across highways in our tiny metallic boxes so that we can stuff ourselves into different cubicles by 9:00 am, all the while working diligently to affect a pretense of strength and impassivity in everything we do. We are peculiarly embarrassed at the sight of someone crying, usually widening our path to avoid them, or pretending that we completely fail to see them. Why? It’s a crazy world, I know, but even in a crazy world this utterly fails to make sense to me. What great and terrible tragedy would result from lending a shoulder or a comforting word…something horrible like a brotherhood of man?
What in the hell would the world be like if one morning we all walked out of our fucking lonely overpriced boxes and actually gave pause to notice each other instead of idly shambling by in our invisible cloaks of emotional isolation? What would that moment be like? Ah, but I’d love to see it. I’d love to see this carefully cultured social selfishness melt away from the faces and minds of my people before I visit them on their deathbeds. I don’t want a brand new Hummer with five TV’s in it to distract me from reality. I don’t want bigger, faster, longer, or leaner. I don’t want to be a model. I don’t want to be rich. I’ve just got this one crazy fucking wish that one day I’m going to be able to walk up a street where people look me in the eyes instead of burying their gazes in the sidewalk cracks. I want to see a world where people aren’t ashamed to feel toward one another.
For now, I gaze squarely into the void, and the void gazes back filling me with the kind of terrible dark intensity reserved for the mad or the divinely inspired, and tonight I know enough to realize there’s little difference.
It’s just a question. Humor me, please.
I’m curious because I’ve been consumed of late with this crazy, and I’d like very much for someone to prove me wrong.
I don’t know when it all started to coalesce within my head, but the furtive rustlings of this burgeoning young madness have been with me for a number of days now. Sleep is restless when it comes at all…those who know me well enough can attest to the fact that that’s nothing new to me. Sleep has always been a precious commodity in my world. Sleep. Sleep is what I need. Sleep is the magical panacea for all that ails us, you know? It’s no small wonder to me that so many people have succumbed to the allure of chasing fantastic dreams in the smoke filled opium dens of the world. But, I digress. Forgive me.
See, I guess it all started some number of days ago with the acknowledgement of some very bad news concerning the health of someone close to me. Or no, maybe it started long before that. I’m unsure of the details, but I beg that you’ll try to follow me in this senseless rant for a moment longer. I’ve a question to ask or a statement to make, or something. Something.
Maybe it started somewhere in the details of what I spend my time doing, most of the day long, week after week. I work in a catholic hospital at the moment and take care of all manner of suffering people, many of them old and not long for this world. It’s hard work to be sure, hard in ways that don’t immediately present themselves to the mind. Some notable few of the people under my care are three priests of the faith, one monsignor, and a bishop of the church, all of them elderly and in their dying times. For the past few weeks, I’ve cared for these people in ways that transcend the boundaries of simple duty. More than that, I’ve watched them, stood by them. I’ve held their hands during moments of trembling weakness and listened to them weep their fears and regrets to me. Questions arise here. Many intractable questions arise and I’m frighteningly short on comfortable answers.
See, it occurs to me that we hurt. People, as a general rule, suffer. Surely, there are places in the world where people suffer more profoundly than others, yet to a degree we all must face the same terrible milestones in our lives (such as the passing of loved ones), and even our very existences must ultimately end in a similar fear. We die alone. Even crowded around with family (a sight that I have yet to see four years into hospital service), each and every one of us passes through that veil utterly alone. We know this for fact. What’s more, whether clergy, paupers, or princes, there are no reprieves. That lonely old bishop dying huddled and frightened in his dimly lit room is dying from the same cancer that’s eating at the guts of the housewife up the hall. And there’s nothing either he, with his hotline to God, or I, girded with the cutting edge of medical science, can do to alter that course. Nothing.
(But I, at least, can ease their pain.)
And so, flowing into this great sweepingly nonsensical tangent of thought, I’m drawn to consider the pangs and angst of adolescence, the sensation of awakening within our guts of this great, primal fear that comes with the realization that death is streaking toward each of us with every ticking second. I think that to some extent we’ve all faced this early in our adulthood. For the most part, acknowledgement of this fear is severely downplayed from a social perspective. I mean, there’s a great deal of literature out there dealing with teen pregnancy and similar pap, but where are the pamphlets for the kids all caught up in the futility of living? Is that what we turn to religion for? Is that acceptable? What I’m saying is that this terrible fear and sense of futility are real issues, real feelings that carry real consequences and deserve some tangible degree of attention…and they’re never really socially acknowledged or properly dealt with. Selling someone on a grand cosmic fairytale is not a reasonable form of alternative therapy in my opinion.
Right now, I think we’re living in a seriously fucked-up world with far too many people effectively pretending that everything’s running along perfectly smoothly, perfectly happily. Answers for the hardest questions simply materialize out of thin air and come far too implausibly and easily, while answers to comparatively simple questions seem all but unanswerable. Instead of actually lending of ourselves, we dissemble to one another. Popes and priests, warlocks and shamans, Gods and Devils, we’ve a countless thousand names and titles for those we’ve elected to mediate the sacred mysteries that were never really all that sacred or mysterious to begin with. To be sure, what we empirically know of our world, that deep-down unshakable truth that no amount of self-directed prevarication can completely conceal, is bereft of mercy and compassion. We know that the immalleable fabric of reality shows no proclivities toward striking bargains with us any time soon. Still, we continue to kneel before our collected effigies and to whisper our desperations into the shadows of our midnight bedrooms rather than strike out and provide that much needed compassion to one another, ourselves.
So, I ask you what you do when you see someone in pain, because I’m trying to find the thread that ties the logic of reality together with the illogic of religion and the social repression of our fears. I’m beginning to think that our inability to grant ease or exhibit understanding to those around us, our general uncomfortability with recognizing fear or pain in the eyes of our neighbors, is a source of serious social ailment in our foundering world. We crawl out of our lonely little cubicles every morning at precisely 8:15 am and hurry across highways in our tiny metallic boxes so that we can stuff ourselves into different cubicles by 9:00 am, all the while working diligently to affect a pretense of strength and impassivity in everything we do. We are peculiarly embarrassed at the sight of someone crying, usually widening our path to avoid them, or pretending that we completely fail to see them. Why? It’s a crazy world, I know, but even in a crazy world this utterly fails to make sense to me. What great and terrible tragedy would result from lending a shoulder or a comforting word…something horrible like a brotherhood of man?
What in the hell would the world be like if one morning we all walked out of our fucking lonely overpriced boxes and actually gave pause to notice each other instead of idly shambling by in our invisible cloaks of emotional isolation? What would that moment be like? Ah, but I’d love to see it. I’d love to see this carefully cultured social selfishness melt away from the faces and minds of my people before I visit them on their deathbeds. I don’t want a brand new Hummer with five TV’s in it to distract me from reality. I don’t want bigger, faster, longer, or leaner. I don’t want to be a model. I don’t want to be rich. I’ve just got this one crazy fucking wish that one day I’m going to be able to walk up a street where people look me in the eyes instead of burying their gazes in the sidewalk cracks. I want to see a world where people aren’t ashamed to feel toward one another.
For now, I gaze squarely into the void, and the void gazes back filling me with the kind of terrible dark intensity reserved for the mad or the divinely inspired, and tonight I know enough to realize there’s little difference.
101 ways to say no
I'd love to, but...
1 I have to floss my cat.
2 I've dedicated my life to linguini.
3 I want to spend more time with my blender.
4 the President said he might drop in.
5 the man on television told me to say tuned.
6 I've been scheduled for a karma transplant.
7 I'm staying home to work on my cottage cheese sculpture.
8 it's my parakeet's bowling night.
9 it wouldn't be fair to the other Beautiful People.
10 I'm building a pig from a kit.
11 I did my own thing and now I've got to undo it.
12 I'm enrolled in aerobic scream therapy.
13 there's a disturbance in the Force.
14 I'm doing door-to-door collecting for static cling.
15 I have to go to the post office to see if I'm still wanted.
16 I'm teaching my ferret to yodel.
17 I have to check the freshness dates on my dairy products.
18 I'm going through cherry cheesecake withdrawl.
19 I'm planning to go downtown to try on gloves.
20 my crayons all melted together.
21 I'm trying to see how long I can go without saying yes.
22 I'm in training to be a household pest.
23 I'm getting my overalls overhauled.
24 my patent is pending.
25 I'm attending the opening of my garage door.
26 I'm sandblasting my oven.
27 I'm worried about my vertical hold.
28 I'm going down to the bakery to watch the buns rise.
29 I'm being deported.
30 the grunion are running.
31 I'll be looking for a parking space.
32 my Millard Filmore Fan Club meets then.
33 the monsters haven't turned blue yet, and I have to eat more dots.
34 I'm taking punk totem pole carving.
35 I have to fluff my shower cap.
36 I'm converting my calendar watch from Julian to Gregorian.
37 I've come down with a really horrible case of something or other.
38 I made an appointment with a cuticle specialist.
39 my plot to take over the world is thickening.
40 I have to fulfill my potential.
41 I don't want to leave my comfort zone.
42 it's too close to the turn of the century.
43 I have some real hard words to look up in the dictionary.
44 my subconscious says no.
45 I'm giving nuisance lessons at a convenience store.
46 I left my body in my other clothes.
47 the last time I went, I never came back.
48 I've got a Friends of Rutabaga meeting.
49 I have to answer all of my "occupant" letters.
50 none of my socks match.
51 I have to be on the next train to Bermuda.
52 I'm having all my plants neutered.
53 people are blaming me for the Spanish-American War.
54 I changed the lock on my door and now I can't get out.
55 I'm making a home movie called "The Thing That Grew in My
Refrigerator."
56 I'm attending a perfume convention as guest sniffer.
57 my yucca plant is feeling yucky.
58 I'm touring China with a wok band.
59 my chocolate-appreciation class meets that night.
60 I never go out on days that end in "Y."
61 my mother would never let me hear the end of it.
62 I'm running off to Yugoslavia with a foreign-exchange student named
Basil Metabolism.
63 I just picked up a book called "Glue in Many Lands" and I can't put
it down.
64 I'm too old/young for that stuff.
65 I have to wash/condition/perm/curl/tease/torment my hair.
66 I have too much guilt.
67 there are important world issues that need worrying about.
68 I have to draw "Cubby" for an art scholarship.
69 I'm uncomfortable when I'm alone or with others.
70 I promised to help a friend fold road maps.
71 I feel a song coming on.
72 I'm trying to be less popular.
73 my bathroom tiles need grouting.
74 I have to bleach my hare.
75 I'm waiting to see if I'm already a winner.
76 I'm writing a love letter to Richard Simmons.
77 you know how we psychos are.
78 my favorite commercial is on TV.
79 I have to study for a blood test.
80 I'm going to be old someday.
81 I've been traded to Cincinnati.
82 I'm observing National Apathy Week.
83 I have to rotate my crops.
84 my uncle escaped again.
85 I'm up to my elbows in waxy buildup.
86 I have to knit some dust bunnies for a charity bazaar.
87 I'm having my baby shoes bronzed.
88 I have to go to court for kitty littering.
89 I'm going to count the bristles in my toothbrush.
90 I have to thaw some karate chops for dinner.
91 having fun gives me prickly heat.
92 I'm going to the Missing Persons Bureau to see if anyone is looking
for me.
93 I have to jog my memory.
94 my palm reader advised against it.
95 my Dress For Obscurity class meets then.
96 I have to stay home and see if I snore.
97 I prefer to remain an enigma.
98 I think you want the OTHER [your name] .
99 I have to sit up with a sick ant.
100 I'm trying to cut down.
101 ... well, maybe.
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