In the name of the Cross?

Ok let's rate this as 18+. Please stop here if you're younger, which of course you won't but that's what porn sites say and under 18's probably still click on ENTER because there's nothing proving their age. As long as their parents are away. But it's no porn over here, just a bit of adult content, as in things happening in everybody's adulthood. Still, better be safe than sorry. At my age there is nothing shocking about knowing the facts of life. At 35 I should know all about sex. I guess I know something, if only a little bit. I know that sex is the way to go if you want to have babies, and even if you don't. I also know that sex really isn't everything, but is at least something. I know what are turn ons and turn offs. But one's turn on could be one's turn off. So, just to be very safe, let me write about one big turn off for me. Women and jewellery... turn on. Men and jewellery... turn off, that is, if they're not sporting a Rolex and a Bvlgari tennis bracelet, or a wedding band perhaps. Otherwise... turn off. But I seem to have a problem on my hands. You can call it off if a man is wearing a thick gold chain around his neck. I'd have no problem with that. What if he were wearing a really thin chain with a pendant cross? I would call that off too. But it seems I'm stuck, because this man has stuck to his guns. The chain stays. So does the cross. And although for him it's nothing to do with religion, perhaps it is for me. I don't hate God or Jesus. I know that Jesus died on a cross and it must have been terrible, horrible. I also think poor Jesus didn't deserve to die with so little dignity. A great man. All that's well and good. But why do we have to keep on celebrating his taken-away dignity so much as to wear it on a chain? It's unnerving. Man on top, cross dangling some millimetres away from your eyes. You could close your eyes? Wrong. Because the man insists, orders you to keep your eyes open. So you suddenly see Jesus looking at you when you're not in a position you'd want Jesus to see you. True, Jesus sees you wherever. He can see me when I'm in the bath, but I don't have a Jesus something in my bathroom. And then it's not a smiling Jesus who is watching, but one who really suffered, while you're having your bit of fun. It makes even the most brazen of girls turn very pious. So what's with these broad bare-chested men and the golden cross? They can keep it for day, but there is always a nightstand to put it safely on. I, for one, do not appreciate having it look at me. I prefer to push the fact that Jesus is watching to the back of my head. And I manage that, but not when it is so dangerously near that I could, perhaps by accident, swallow it. Wonder what the Casualty Department at Mater Dei would think of that?

Fairytale Men

I have always prided myself in never ever liking younger boys. I go for the older ones, well, my male-history-c.v. seems to be all about the old ages. It's such a nice feeling to be 18 and sitting on a 58 year old's lap. They lap up everything, they're putty, and no matter what prominent day job/profession they might have, they are suddenly puppies. I liked that feeling, sometimes perhaps too much. It was that feeling which was the big aphrodisiac, not the men themselves. And that feeling felt powerful. It must mean I liked power then, perhaps a very mild Lucrezia Borgia kind of personality. But years passed, and I bagged a Mister who isn't even a year older than me, and he's stuck fast, for almost seven years. True I thought he was older and the next one in the line for a bit (or plenty) of fun. I was shocked when he confided he was just a year older than me. And yet, he's still around, even after seven years. And I have grown to love calling him 'OLD' and referring to his childhood as 'IN YOUR DAY AND AGE' which is quite frankly also my day and age. But it's just some fun and it's so harmless. But there's another calling, I get to keep watching Alexander Rybak on YouTube and thinking he's soooo cute. And the damn Alex is just 23. God that must be close to paedophile calling. Good think he's on YouTube and will stay on YouTube. Because I like him singing about this girl he really really loved and for whom he would have done just anything... another puppy with big come-and-get-me eyes.... big sigh! Perhaps that's the attraction.... yet more power. Well having a cutie like that at your feet... bliss. And then there's Chris Noth, aptly named as Mr. Big (Sex and the City), who's not 23 but more like 45 and who keeps makes my mind go fuzzy. I have loved Mr. Big the minute he appeared on my TV set. I keep watching runs and re runs and re re runs just because I know he'll be in. So different from Rybak, he makes my heart and my something else tick. I thought he made everybody's something else tick, but my colleagues don't think much of him. Good, the less competition the better. Sadly though, I think that this one is also staying put on my TV screen. What a waste. The yet another man. He's no youngster, but behaves like one. You see he's totally delusional although he'd hit the roof if anybody even suggested that. He thinks he has it all, and he probably has quite a lot. And he's not fit like Rybak or like Mr. Big. But he doesn't care one hoot. And this is the perception I like, a perception I'd love to have. I am omnipotent, the Alpha (that's definitely it) and the Omega and people should bow to me because I am so me. That is the type of philosophy this man fondles. He fondles his ego and wants people to fondle it for him too. Problem is, he gets his way somehow or other. He has spoilt himself so rotten that perhaps people sense it and do it for him. Because although he would dismiss fairy-tales in one fell swipe, the man still believes in fairy tales. And he's got so many Tinkerbells trying competing for the role. But it's one Wendy who's bagged this Peter Pan.

Looking poor?

A good friend of mine has a brilliant habit of saying things the way they really are. I appreciate that because I'd rather know the truth than live in fairytale world. Although I like fairy-tales, especially when they're sung by Norwegian Alexander Rybak ( oh dear the boy is a sweetheart and doesn't he know it!). But this same friend can also analyse me (and other animals) in a snap. She just sizes them up with the greatest ease imaginable, or unimaginable. Very convenient, it's just like having the world wide web all in one person, except that it's better because she can laugh. And very few people can laugh like that. Fewer people can make me laugh outrageously and have me smiling for a week after that. Well ok, Joe Demicoli can do that too, I wouldn't miss him for the world, and they call me a hamalla for that. Fine with me, Demicoli stays. But my friend also stays. Intelligent creature, a woman born with brains and one who isn't afraid to show it. At least I hope so. And while I keep brainstorming myself as to why certain things happen, she types it out in a millisecond. I'm not sure whether I'm pleased or not, but it makes me stand up straight and widen my eyes ... and laugh, because she's right. So I got the wanker. And I kept wondering what it was that got me a wanker in the early hours of the morning. I did not look like a whore, I sure didn't spell sexy, for Christ's sake I looked like a mum who barely had enough money to buy the bread. You see, even I sometimes give the Bohemian look a miss, when I drag myself out of bed, dishevelled hair, dissolved make-up (and no it's not because I've been sleeping), because I am craving the damn toast. Something so innocent like toast. I kept thinking what it was for three days. My friend got it in less than 3 seconds. I looked POOR! So the effing wanker thought I'd do anything for a 100 Euro. To him I was a poor woman, young (next to his 200 years), so I was a catch. Very nice I don't think. And it's not being prudish, not one bit. Had it been Sex and the City's My Big... I'd have been in his car immediately, even forfeiting the 100 Euro. But this was no Mr. Big, so pleaseeeeeeee give me a break! My other friend, supposedly also intelligent first got pissed off that I'd been hit on, even if it was by a 200 year old, then started thinking it was funny, because, according to him I put out whore vibes out there and they get picked up. He thinks it's very very funny, and pointed out that he'd also picked up the vibe. Not funny. So bandannas spell poor now. And to think I spend close to, if not more than a 100 Euro for them. Moral of the story, never look poor, even if your purse is overflowing, or you risk getting hit on by a wanker.