Marriage

14 May, 2012

It’s the sleep deprivation that breaks men.

Sleep deprivation is actually torture banned under the geneva conventions. But every married man can tell you about the arguments that drag on till the wee hours, or the insistence on “do you reeealy love me?” conversations at 11:30, and the pouting and crying if you try to avoid them. The hard route or the soft route, the goal and method is the same.

Men married to stay-at-home mums have it the worst. These mums can fight all night, send the kids off to school in the morning, and then sleep all day – ordering pizza for dinner. Hubby gets 3 hours sleep, goes to work a zombie, gets home at 7 or 8 and goes through it all over again.

It’s not a new phenomenon:

The bed that holds a wife is never free from wrangling and mutual bickerings; no sleep is to be got there! It is there that she sets upon her husband, more savage than a tigress that has lost her cubs; conscious of her own secret slips, she affects a grievance, abusing his boys, or weeping over some imagined mistress. She has an abundant supply of tears always ready in their place, awaiting her command in which fashion they should flow. ~ Satire VI, Juvenal.

Written in the late 1st or early 2nd century – after Jesus, but before Christianity became a thing. I’ll bet there are older examples.

So when you see a herb husband on the street or in a shop going yes dear, of course dear, whatever you say dear – have a little pity and understanding. You’re seeing a man that knows that if he doesn’t knuckle under, the nagging will fucking start, and will go all night for days or weeks on end. These days, even the threat of it is enough to keep him in line. When you crave sleep, you crave it desperately – more than food when you are hungry. You can go for a month without food. Only a few days without sleep.

Married? Have live-in girlfriend? Think about it. Sleep deprivation – how far along the program has she taken you?


Annette, part II

21 April, 2012

Guess who was at the Holy Grail last night? Annette, of course. I remembered her on account of being treated so incredibly shoddily last time.

I noticed her because when you are 45 you tend to filter out the 20-somethings, leaving only the one (sometimes two) suitably aged women there. She was doing exactly the same thing to some other shmuck that she had one to me – dragged the guy by his wrist out onto the dance floor, and then danced with someone else.

He was very unlike me, physically. I’m shortish, pot belly, bitch tits, hairy, pale, and with twiglike arms. This guy was built like a tree trunk – arms like fucking clubs. Substantially grey. Late middle aged lumberjack. I spoke to him, cause I have been reading on the ‘net how us guys gots to stick together.

He was very drunk. “That chick”, I pointed at her, “pulling you onto the floor and dancing with someone else: she did that to me a couple of months ago.” He replied … well, frankly I’m not sure what. It was to the effect of how he had more self-respect than to fuck her, anyway. (Annette is a slightly pudgy used to be pretty middle aged woman. She has a waist, but only just. I mean: I’d do her. But I’m me.)

Fair enough.

Few minutes latter, she was dragging him onto the floor again by the wrist. “You fucking pussy”, I thought to myself. “Still, if he gets laid – he’s getting laid and I’m not.”

I drank. Later, Annette shmoozed Tim, the manager, blocking the door with her frame and her enormous fucking handbag. Seriously – It was bigger than her. What the fuck? I manage to carry everything in a wallet and a couple of pockets. I think they keep a few spare pairs of shoes in ’em. Just in case.

There’s a few girls that like her are not in hospitality but like to hang around the business owner and managers: Toni, Vonne. They are women with investments, with their own businesses. Naturally, they gravitate to the company of investors and business owners like themselves to talk about things they have in common. Except – obviously – Ian runs millions of dollars worth of business with with $100K in inventory (just guessing), commercial premises, and a dozen or more employees. Not quite the same thing as mixing up aromatherapy candles in your back room and flogging them over the internet.

But if it makes the ladies happy to pretend, the men seem pleased to oblige them.

I drank some more. The bar closed. I watched the people leaving as I nursed my Coopers Pale, watched Annette get into a taxi alone and go – presumably – home.

Annette, if you ever read this, I have noticed that you like to try to dance with beautiful gay guys way too young for you. No-one is fooled. If you simply came out as a fag hag and got on the floor by yourself without dragging some hapless shmuck out with you for an excuse, then I would have a smidgen more respect for you.

But only a smidgen.


Whores, man. They are all whores.

26 February, 2012

Just a quick one.

At the Durham, outside area. Having a beer. Chick approaches me – not terribly bad looking. Dressed up for the night out. Hello, are you having a nice time. 30 seconds of pleasant banter.

Oh, and do you have a cigarette?

Meanwhile, over at the nudie bar in Mitchell the dancers will come over and chat to you. After slightly longer than 30 sec, they’ll ask you to get them a vodka & soda, or G&T, or some other clear drink. Unknown to you, the drink comes from the special bottle and is just water. You pay 10, the girl gets 5. That’s what you pay in a nudie bar for a few minutes chat with a mostly naked young lady.

Same thing.

Same thing.

They wants payin’, and that’s all there is to it.

Whores, man. They are all whores.


Annette @ The Durham

6 November, 2011

Odd night last night.

I think it’s because I was a touch dressed up. Pants, rather than jeans. Shiny shoes, rather than workboots (I ride a vespa – sturdy footwear is wise). 200-dollar shirt. Couple of years old, but I don’t wear it a lot so it still looks like a 200-dollar shirt.

I’m 45, growing out the facial hair. Big patch of grey on the chin, a little here and there on the cheeks. I don’t work out. Spindly arms, pot belly. 5’8 – shorter than most. Guys (here in Oz) at the bar call me “Big Fella”. It’s not a compliment. Beta – shit – Zeta male.

But Annette walks right up to me and starts attempting to talk over the music. The clothes, maybe, or the age. I was the only 40-yo in the joint. Annette – late 30s. Not a hot late-30s either. Not an american land-whale, but yeah, carrying the usual weight of a woman that age. But you can see it in her face, the feminine little chin, the confidence: she used to be cute as fuck. She used to be an 8+.

“I’m not trying to pick you up”, she yells. “Oh yes you are, babe”, I reply. Don’t know if that’s a good opener or not. Don’t care. Had my midlife crisis, been through the male menopause a few years back.

Annette buys me a drink. Interesting. We talk a little – yell above the noise. I get the impression that she is back in town for a weekend. I live in Canberra: the Big Smoke is Sydney or Melbourne. I think this particular bar, she used to be queen here 15 years ago. My, but a lot has changed! My, it’s a whole different crowd! Well, duh.

Annette drags me out on the floor. I usually hate dancing – I’m bad at it, and there’s this pin in my leg. But the crush is severe enough that it doesn’t matter: all you can do is jog up and down. Annette faces away from me.

A couple of guys are peacocking. Probably not PUAs, it’s just that every now and then there’s a fancy-dress party somewhere in the neighbourhood, and people move on to the nightlife at Green Square when they wind down. One guy is dressed as an Ace of Clubs, one as the mad hatter wearing a furry hat that makes him 7-foot tall. Annette wants it. Lesson: Mystery’s furry hat fucking *works*. It deals with the thing that many guys find most intimidating: the approach.

Stuff happens. At one point, Annette attempts to put her handbag over my head. I wave it off. “No babe,” I yell over the music, smiling (thanks to these forums, I knew to smile while I did it), “I will not hold your handbag for you while you dance with someone else. Fuck that.” I just passed a shit-test! Oh sure, I failed a whole series of others, but still – I passed one. I see a spark of respect.

But not enough. Not nearly enough. And anyway, I just don’t want it enough. She attempts to flirt with guys 10 years younger, who don’t want it either. Particularly fascinated by a couple of black guys (this is Canberra, dudes, black people here are not “niggers” in the way Americans mean it, they are exotic people often actually from Africa recently). “You don’t know me”, she drunkenly proclaims to me. “You don’t know me”. Apparently her brother is a lawyer. Apparently she – or at least he – was a big shot around there, 15 years ago. It’s Canberra babe. National capital, remember? You’ve clearly forgotten that important people are pretty thick on the ground.

It’s 2, 2:15 maybe. The band (Special K – good band) finishes up. Thank you and good night. She suggests another drink. I say no. She’s had enough. I’m probably not going home with her, but if I do I don’t want her so drunk she falls asleep during. I go for the close – why not? “You wanna go?” Annette shakes her head, drags me out on the dance floor again. Back to me. I fuck off, head next door to the Holy Grail. Buy a beer. Grab a chair outside, watch for her to come out and head down the path, alone. That head-shake was all I needed to see, but I am the only guy within a 500-m radius who is even potentially willing to fuck her late-30s faded hot-chick ass tonight. I’m feeling good.

She emerges, just exactly, precisely as I knew she would. I debate it briefly, but I’m not quite ready to go home. I follow. Just around the corner. She’s all unhappy. Apparently the police moved her drunk not-having-a-good-time self on. Poor little ex queen of the bar! Whose brother is a lawyer! Who was an important person around these parts, 15, maybe 20 years ago!

Misery loves company. I’ve been made miserable for years and years by exactly these people, her age cohort. Even now, she’s still trying to treat me like shit. Seeing her unhappy – not just unhappy, but shocked: drunk and bewildered, uncomprehending how these things could possibly have happened to her, realising that it’s a whole new reality – it’s a good feeling. She’s living my reality, now, the one I have lived all my life. I feel good about it. Momentarily guilty about feeling good about it, but along with Roosh I say: “You did this to me“.

I tell her to her face, “Well babe, if you want to be all unhappy and not having a good time, that’s up to you.” I head back to The Grail. Don’t expect to see her again – you know, police and all – but there she is. Dance floor again. She has the fucking front to introduce me as her brother to some black guy. Whatever. It’s after 3 and I have to start sobering up if I want to ride home. We aren’t doing anything tonight. At my age, if you want to fuck then you have to head home at 2, or preferably before.

And anyway, I’ve kinda finished, you know? I sit in a chair for a while (dangerous, because you can fall asleep that way). I think she drags me onto the floor one final time, but I just walk off as soon as her back is turned, which is pretty much straight away. Whatever – not even offended anymore. I leave, go walk around the block, as usual. Walking it off. Get back after 4, and I can see from over the far side of the carpark that they are turning the ugly lights on. I don’t go back to the bar to see if she’s still there. I get on my bike, and ride home.


A 20-year-old reminiscence

30 October, 2011

On the MGTOW sites, the talk about “the red pill”. Here’s one of mine. Please excuse the jargon.


J and I were in the church band. We shifted in together to share a flat. On a side note, It ended badly. There was a pattern in J’s life – when things got hard, he would simply quit. I lost my job, got depressed, got tough to live with. J simply walked out and left me with the lease. It’s not just women, you know.

J was, I think, an alpha-minus. Tall, good-looking. Son of a pastor, which counts for everything in christian circles. Church women are as relentlessly hypergamous as any you’ll ever meet. The all want to marry a pastor, and J was always going to be one.

(Why do they want to marry a pastor? Because the pastor’s wife gets to boss about all the other women, that that’s the most important thing in a woman’s life: their hierarchy among one another. They are not sweet and communal. They are rigidly hierarchical, more so than men understand.)

Lot of red pills. One in particular.

J married K. K is a career bitch, very much so. For her, J was a trophy husband, a pretty boy. His family reckoned that he married his mother, and they were probably right. He should have married L, but L was a smart cookie and married R, who was (*gasp*) barely even a real christian. R went on to own his own used-car business, and employed L’s brother as a used-car salesman when L’s brother’s church (by which I mean: the church that he was pastor of) collapsed. Smart cookie, as I said. She’s a country-western singer now, with a fan page, and sounds pretty good. Way better than the mousy post-adolescent squeak that she had when I knew her. Well done, L.

Anyway.

J played sax, danced. He had moves. I remember him doing one of our periodic church musical things, playing the sax, being on stage – performing. I was at the mixing desk. K was there, smugly smiling to me, nodding “Yes, and J does his little dance!”, her voice rippling with good-humoured amusement and disdain. Her man, her boy. I knew then, the contempt in which she held him. Probably still does. But there’s another red pill I had in mind when I sat down to write this.

J played sax. He was good – better than I ever was on guitar. After a year or two of marriage, wanted to be in a band. The friction! The drama! The issue was – simply – that K knew that J would cheat. And realistically, she was right. He was going to be having hot, nasty sex with groupies. Eventually, K put the foot down. No: J may not leave her alone in the house and play gigs till 5 in the morning. So K got a dog. A golden retriever. But no, no – not good enough. J may not leave her alone in the house with nothing but the dog for company, either. No sax playing for J.

Meh. Marriage: compromises and accommodations. Fair enough, perhaps. Maybe.

K, “career bitch”, got a very senior role at X. A role that required her often to work late. What an opportunity! What an advancement! She grabbed it with both hands and I’m sure did an excellent job. The job was legit – I don’t think she was having an affair with some man that she could respect more than she could ever respect J. The alpha-male of the site … well, he could do better than K.

Here’s the thing, though: I couldn’t help but notice that now J was alone at night with nothing but the dog for company, exactly what K said was simply not good enough for her.

And there it is. I think he understood, then, the life that he had chosen for himself.

Luckily for J, K’s brother was (probably is) a very skilled musician. They, and some other guys from church, formed a very good local band. He was permitted to gig again, with the brother-in-law there to hold his leash.

It was ages ago. K is a pastor. now – just as he was always going to be. He’s gray these days, and not just his hair. S, who I ran into the other night, told me that he looks so unhappy. He was at one of our gigs (I was in a local band for a year or two). He was so awkward! So out-of-place and uncomfortable, to be at a bar where people were drinking and hooking up and having a good time. A decade ago, he would have walked in and owned the scene.

The band he and K’s brother formed is long since a memory. But whenever I think of that song “The Sweetest Thing”, I always think of their version of it. Better than U2, IMO.


Commercial sex. The shame! The blogging!

24 October, 2011

So. Someone who I follow on facebook, linked to this – a post by one Lucy Blake about sex industry forums.

For a while, I was – ahh – active on certain blogs. Now at this point, permit me to say I’m kinda over it. I’m 45 – certifiably middle aged. Retired from the scene. I don’t know Ms Blake, have never met or booked her. But she and I are on opposite sides of a certain divide. A political one, for want of a better word.

From my side of the divide, Lucy Blake’s post in relation to punter blogs is notable in a few respects.

Firstly, the sense of entitlement. How dare these men, the “punters”, have forums! How dare they decide who does and does not post! Why: try being a worker on these forums these days! Perhaps. But try opening a mens-only health club these days, or a mens-only anything at all. Women seem to feel they have an automatic right to colonise male space – the very existence of it seems to affront them. Happily, the web is charmingly politically incorrect in this regard. Zionist or Nazi, Black Panther or KKK, punter or WL: anyone can set up a site and manage it as they see fit.

But what of the content? What dreadful discussions take place, that Ms Lucy is so excised about?

  • if we may or may not charge extras (and no we may not)
  • how much we may charge and if we have the right to charge is debated
  • threads are begun re: under what circumstances we must give refunds to clients just to make sure a bad review is pushed home to us and we feel the necessary pain if a review deemed us unworthy and our attempt to make it up to the client fell short in their opinion.
  • the color of our bagina’s is described in great detail in reviews, but people forget our height, the color of our eyes and our names
  • there are threads on how much do sex workers earn and do we have the right to earn that much considering there is no Uni Degree in hooking. Why pay someone more than $18 an hour if they don’t have a degree logic?

Awww! You’d be forgiven for missing that the WLs actually charge money for sex, that it is – in fact – a business. (Having said that: blackmail is a bad thing, and I agree that threatening a WL with a bad review in an attempt to get free extras is wrong – probably even illegal, strictly speaking. Extortion, you know.). Service providers complaining that their clients discuss money and rate: the hypocrisy leaves me speechless.

Are clients really not to discuss amongst themselves the services they pay for, and the providers that provide them? If a girl decides to charge a reasonable rate, is it wrong for the clients/punters/whatever to decide to go to her, rather than to someone more expensive? I’m sure that might be news to the few girls that do provide a fair service at a fair price, and pride themselves on doing so.

  • there are threads on how to get laid for free on adult dating sites on a site sex workers are paying to advertise on

The faux outrage! So many kinds of wrong, it is hard to keep track. Whinging about men trying to get laid for free on a dating site, and not a wisp of recognition that if a site is a dating site, then using it to hook clients for commercial sex is at least as morally wrong. (See Deuce Bigalow for a very fine explanation).

[ed: I misread this – yeah, that’s kinda in bad taste. Like talking up Holdens on a we love Fords site.]

[ed ed: But then again, if the outrage is “OMG, there people that take my money to advertise are turning around and undermining my business!”, you know what to do: stop giving them your money. Ms Blake’s concern is a little misplaced, anyway: men who are happy to pay for sex do not have the time or inclination to dip their toes into “Plenty of Fat”, or the others. Prostitutes provide something that is difficult to get elsewhere.]

Speaking of which:

I am constantly stunned how men on forums are so outraged that their rights blah blah blah are being impinged upon.

Jesus. There’s none so blind as they who will not see. Ms Blake’s post is one long rant on the moral rights and wrongs of how men conduct themselves by – you know – talking with one another online and how it impinges her rights.

Sigh. What else do we have? More of the same, I’m sure, but I’ll look though it:

our PMs and posts are taken across forums without our permission, twisted and used against us. If we try and defend ourselves or another worker, we have a new areshole kindly kicked open for us.

Shock horror! People quote your words back at you! Is nothing sacred? Although fair enough: PMs are a bit of a gray area. Almost as bad as a girl repeating apres-sex pillow talk to another girl (*cough* Tess Ryan *cough*. Why yes, I am still dirty over it.)

Most forums ONLY have male Mods who are not sex workers and if there are female Mods, they are treated as tokenistic at best.

Basically we are contained, we are denied access to information, sex workers have no space to organize within hidden forums like punters do, and we have no authority or decision making ability.

If you want to rip any community apart, if you want to disempower what do you do?
You form a cool group or ruling class and give them all the perceived and real power. Conditioning from the time we are born tells us we want to be a part of the cool group or ruling class – aka hidden punter only forums

A) Bawww! Mum! The boys won’t let me in the clubhouse! I been silenced! I been contained! I got no authoritah!

A.1) It isn’t my fault I’m petty! I’m not responsible for my own attitudes – I been conditioned! Conditioned like a lab rat – a lab rat I say! – to want to be cool!

A.2) And incidentally, when the men do anything it’s automatically a “ruling class”. Because they are men. (Thanks for the backhanded compliment. Or is it simply that Ms Blake feels that anything women do is automatically shit?)

B) Yeeees – I’m sure it’s only fair that if men get together to discuss WLs, then WLs must be allowed to monitor and censor their conversations. Yes, censor is the correct word to use. Ms Blake wants girls to be mods – not simply to be able to read posts, but able to close and delete them. That’s what being a mod, as opposed to a regular user, is about. Her complaint is precisely that she is “slienced” by not having the power to silence others. There’s a lot of that kind of thinking on the web and elsewhere.

(Oh Encyclopaedia Dramatica! How I miss you! Only you would dare say “Jews” at this juncture, although here in Oz we have other prejudices. How I miss your opinions on Aboriginals, and pretty much everything else.)

Again, the hypocrisy. And the stupid. How stupid? “sex workers have no space to organize within hidden forums like punters do” Well: start your own bloody website, then, Ms Incapable, Ms “I been silenced unless the big, strong men-folk make space for me on their forums, and let me mod their threads”. You need a) a domain name, b) an internet connection, c) a ‘puter, and d) some free software.

Or just compare and discuss clients in the back room. Like you always have done. Are you seriously suggesting that there isn’t an “ugly mug” list? Of course there is! And fair enough! I can’t recall ever a client saying that it was unfair that you have your own space. I cant ever recall a client suggesting that WLs having private conversations meant that they were disempowered, or contained, or denied access to information.

ed: Speaking of which – “sex workers have no space to organize within hidden forums like punters do” is just an outright falsehood. FIA, for one, did have a WL-only forum. It’s that straightforward – they bloody did. There’s yer space to organise: as if you actually needed one on these punter-centric discussion sites. The only difference is that “The Shed” was hidden and invite-only. Why was that? Because if it weren’t, people like Ms Blake would have started up a never-ending whinge and bitchfest about its very existence. As you see here. How did they know that? Well, a lot of the guys were married.

Of course, some of the guys wanted to see what was going on in the girls room, too. They were never taken seriously – guys can respect other people’s space (and you just already know Ms Blake’s response to that, don’t you? “But, but that’s different!” – “But Mrs Mortiboy, you drank and cheated on your husband, too” “But that was different!”)

How hypocritical?

Organise, come together – join NAUWU, join Scarlet Alliance, join Vixen, join SIN, join whoever or whatever your local sex worker org is

God, do I even need to spell it out? WLs have had forums for years and years. Before there was an online world, even, they had their journals. Am I to believe that al these organisations don’t have web forums of their own? Am I to imagine that security on them is not far tighter than the punter’s forums ever were? Some guys exchange experiences on a website and suddenly the world is ending.

Accept punters are NOT your friends they are your client base and it is only going to lead to tears treating them as your friends. It’s unfair on both the sex worker and the punter to maintain the illusion of bestie bestie friends friendship.

True. I like to use the hairdresser analogy. Why do women pay hundreds of bucks for a hair job? It’s not to get differently-shaped hair at the end of it. It’s to be fussed over, to feel good for a little while. They pay for their hairdresser’s time and attention. That’s what a WL sells – she doesn’t “sell her body”. Her time and attention. A counselor or pastor sells the same. Now, you can chat to your hairdresser and be on good terms, but at the end of the day she sees you because you are paying her. Sorry guys. She probably would not be hanging out with you otherwise. And you would not be seeing her except that you can get sex without all those pesky other things that women usually require: you know – a relationship of some description.

As a parting shot:

YOU DO HAVE THE RIGHT TO EXIST AND YOU DO HAVE THE RESPONSIBILITY TO DICTATE THE TERMS OF YOUR SERVICE AND HOW OTHERS SHOULD TREAT YOU!

Christ! Someone posting on a blog is actually infringing your “right to exist”? For fuck’s sake, get over yourself.

And God, you are claiming that your clients – your clients – don’t want you to exist? Go speak to someone who has studied – for instance – law, and learn the difference between an adversarial negotiation and a hostile one. They are not the same thing.

Now as to “dictating the terms of your service”: yes. Absolutely. Not a hint of disagreement from here. This is the essence of consensual commercial sex. But remember: consent in meaningless if it is not mutual. Do a role-reversal on that sentence. That’s all that the punters are tying to achieve.


Oooh, must have been months, now!

13 February, 2011

How long has it been since I had a big ole misogynistic spew on wordpress? Since I expressed my opinion of the despicable airs they give themselves over shopping, and dancing? Since I repeated the old phrase “Mate, if they didn’t have pussy they’d be stacked ten high down at the tip!”? Since I cut loose?

Poor Dave. His fiancee dumped him. He’s been in in hospital, now he’s in pretty much continuous pain. Back at work of course. A fact of life for a man: you must work. Work or wind up a street person, especially in these economically rational times. No one will rescue you, no one will swoop in and take care of you, no – you don’t get supporting mother’s.

So Dave’s back at work. I was eavesdropping, as always. Turns out – with the chronic pain thing – that his fiancee began to notice that he just isn’t as much fun anymore. She wants to go out dancing. Cyndi let the cat out of the bag, you know: girls really do just want to have fun. Want to feel good right now, this moment. It’s your job to serve up fun. Entertainment. To make their day go zing!

As for that vaunted feminine compassion: pain that isn’t accompanied with obvious blood and pus doesn’t get much sympathy. “Yeah, he may have X, but I get period pain“. Thing is: a man living with chronic pain looks every bit like a man just kicking back and taking it easy, and nothing irritates them more. They seriously cannot bear the sight of a man – their man – lounging around and doing nothing. There’s something instinctive and primal about it. There’s always – why – so many jobs to be done. And if none are obvious, she’ll swiftly make one up.

I got the impression that the crisis came when she wanted him to put up some shelves or something. They always want something, you know. They got needs. It’s never quite enough. Of course – of course – Dave could not. I wonder if she actually came right out and said “Well, what use are you then?” or only thought it real loud. I can just picture the moment, the second she turned, that she simply wrote him off. They can do that, you know.

You see, a man loves his woman like a woman loves her children. “She can do no wrong”, as Percy Sledge put it. It’s biological: male romantic love is biological mother-love, re-routed and modified by the Y chromosome. The things that physically attract men – small, big eyes, fine hands and feet – are the same as get a female’s progesterone punping. Blokes tend to take relationship breakups hard.

But a woman loves her man like a rock-climber loves his rope. He’ll coil it, care for it, most of all continually monitor and keep an eye on it. The moment it exhibits weakness – straight in the bin. Hence the continuous stream of little jobs: always testing, always making sure. And you should hear them talk about how “betrayed” they felt when their man failed them. That’s the thing guys – they do not feel about you the same as how you feel about them. They use the same word, but the word that best describes their emotions is not “love”, but “hope”. And when it’s over, what they feel is not forlorn love, but disappointed hope. And anger at you for wasting their time, because they each know that their time is short. “Look at your watch now”, said Gwen, “you’re still a super-hot female.”. But not for long, and they know it, the ticking seconds draining away into years, conjuring forward the terrible, inevitable day when they suddenly turn invisible.

But Dave has it better than Jeff, who married and was divorced by one of ’em, poor bastard. Family court is one of the most harrowing things that one human being ever does to another, and blokes usually aren’t ready for it – the anger, the hate. They think that five, ten, fifteen years of marriage means something. No-one told em that when your woman writes you off, it simply doesn’t. Not to her. No-one ever explained to them that she never actually loved you, because they are incapable of it – they only ever love their children, their personal, intimate crotchfruit.

Speaking of which,

It’s almost enough to make you believe in synchonicity. e-Harmony (yes, I’m on a couple of matchmaking sites. So I’m a bit bipolar – sue me) matched me up with some person. I go to her profile, and guess what’s there:

Q: Who is your greatest inspiration?
A: well, I guess it’s my two kids blah blah blah

Someone please send this person a clue, and explain to her that other people feel about her kids pretty much the same as she feels about other people’s kids. “Inspiration”? Please. So some three or fifteen year-old has already achieved more with their lives than you ever will, and you aspire to emulate them? God.

Of course, the thing is that she has not really understood what the word “inspiration” means. She hasn’t actually read the question. Instead, she has read each item in the profile questionnaire as “What’s the most important thing in your entire fucking tiny world?” and to each she replies “Why, my rug-rats, what I made all by myself from my body! My life’s greatest – and come to think of it: only – achievement!”

And then, no doubt, commiserates with her friends over coffee about how there are no good men out there. Where’s the father of your kids? “Well – after fifteen years of marriage I suddenly realised that I didn’t love him anymore, so I accused him of molestoring his own children and took his house, the fucking loser. Fuck him. And so what? What about me? What I want to know is: where are all the good men, and why won’t any of them fall in love with me and commit – commit goddammit – to taking care of me and my kids for the rest of my life? Why are all the men such flakes and losers? How come all the good ones are taken?”

You can’t explain it to them. They are not able to understand, for much the same reason that you cannot explain the motions of the planets to someone who has not grasped that the earth is not the center of the universe.

Childless women are weird about their pets – animals specifically bred to be emotionally retarded (true story – you know that face licking is puppy behaviour?).

Feh. I think I’ve run out of bile quicker than usual, although I do intend to write a review for Lillith Saint Crow’s “Dante Valentine” books.

The sound track to this post has been any one of several dozen songs about how important is is to dance on a dance floor. And shop.