Beautiful, Pretty, Gorgeous, Stunning, Cute and More

I have a theory.

This theory relates to words and the way they taste, or feel, or smell.

Some people tell me that I can use words well, and I suppose that is fairly true.

For example I know that if I happen to write out a sentence in a certain way, even if it does not make sense, say 'fingers stroking, touching, tickling, lips pressing, kissing, sucking, tongue tasting, licking, flicking, explosion of white, bursting over mouth and hands, ouring down skin, dripping, sliding, oozing', that there are certain people who will find it a little more powerful than simple words should be. They will sit, squirming in their seats, wanting to bring their hands down, to touch themselves, tease themselves. The bit that I enjoy is that they will probably be reading this at or just before work. It gives me a certain little feeling of power.

Anyway this is more about words that carry a certain feel to them, particularly the more abstract or descriptive words.

The ones I really want to focus on are the compliments. Each one describes something different to me, kind of like foods, each delicious in its own way but with its own distinct, delicious taste. Like the difference between meringue and ice cream.

Alluring - You can try to ignore them, as you can try to ignore that faint, pleasant smell that you can just catch as you breathe in, the light scent of perfume in the air. But it will drag you to it, you just have to know exactly what it smells like, what it tastes like, how it feels. Even if you know that you will not be interested in it after you have tested it, that you will find it wanting, you still have to find out for yourself and you will do anything to do so.

Beautiful - This one always feels slightly odd to me, highly rare to actually find and seems to have as much in my mind to do with personality and the way people act as anything else. It is not even always a good thing. Usually I would say that beautiful is a word to describe someone who would be commonly found attractive, to both men and women. Not necessarily inspiring lust but definitely drawing forth some form of open-mouthed awe. The sound, the smell, the colour, all something slightly elusive and difficult to describe outside my own head.

Cute - Try and deny that cute is a pink word. A challenge for you. Cute definitely feels pink in my head, and it smells of strawberries and melting sweets. It also suggests innocence, though not necessarily an incorruptible innocence, more of a naiveity. Younger women and smaller women can be best described as 'cute', though anyone with some sort of childlike aspect whether behaviour or looks could justifiably be described with this particular term. While cute is always fun I find that it either tends not to last long around me, or becomes a little grating after too long a time. It is a little like eating candyfloss, and trying to tell yourself that you are still enjoying it when your hands are sticky and the light cotton is dissolving into a thick, sickly mess.

Foxy - Generally this would probably be considered fiery and sexual, but to be honest someone that I would describe as foxy tends to be someone that I think of as sexual in a very plain way. It is hard to work out exactly how to put what I mean, but someone I would describe as foxy would be unlikely to be someone I would consider adventurous in bed. Possibly a little cinammon flavour, interesting for a while but without much variety.

Gorgeous - This has to be my favourite. You can almost taste the word as you say it. This is not a word to describe frail, fragile, whispy little beings with their square, flat bodies that belong better flitting through forests with wings than in my bedroom (not that I will turn them away). This word is rich, filling, it rolls across the tongue as it is said and clings tightly to the person described by it, their curves must be anything but girl-like. A generous, smooth roundness must be obvious in them. When this sort of person wears a figure-hugging dress you can see it clinging to every spare line of them, any you can see the knowledge in their eyes that they know exactly what you and every other man ( or potentially woman) is thinking as they look at them. It tastes of bitter chocolate, rich and almost too thick to eat, with a heady scent of fresh-spilled sweet wine and dry, burning flower petals.

Pretty - I would prefer to use pink again for this, but cute is definitely a pinker term than pretty. Pretty is so much more innocent. With cute there can be the implication of mischief, of first, fumbling, clumsy sex, or of a fake innocence that melts away along with clothes. Pretty though is exactly that, the innocence it implies is fixed. This is someone who is nice to look at, but they will not learn, they will not willingly fumble, it is hard even to picture them in such a way. There is no taste with this word, and the only scent is fresh, clean air, maybe cut grass.

Stunning - Shocking, as it should be. An electric term, the type of person who can be described as stunning is exactly that. This is the one who, whether they are your type or not, make you stop thinking for a moment and just look. It is like the shower suddenly spraying cold for a moment, taking your breath away and tearing your mind from your thoughts. They are not necessarily attractive, but there is just something about them, whether it be how they act, how they look, anything, it just drags your attention to them and holds you there for a few seconds. The taste is metal, heated metal in the air with its sharp bite at the tip of the tongue.

Twisted Little Trophy Cabinet

Firstly I want to clarify that this little selection of trophies, a few of which I am going to let you all see, was not gathered deliberately. It just seems that when various people of the female persuasion visit me they either bring some sort of gift, or leave things behind. Often this is not deliberate, but those things keep on being forgotten, so I generally throw them into a lost property box.

That sounds a little odd I know. But the last thing someone needs to find in the middle of sex is another girl's underwear, or something else along those lines. And because the stuff is kept in this box it is often never collected, since the box is kept carefully locked, it tends to accumulate. I suppose eventually I just started to think of it as a collection of momentos, kind of like a photo album. Yes, there is a photo album in there. No, you cannot see it. Not unless you are visiting in person and give me a very good reason.

But because people have mentioned that I seem to be drifting more and more towards the sad blogger state, I thought I might include some of my memories and the things linked to them. So first we have the Book. This was my first gift from a female, at least the first from someone I was intimate with. It also doubles as my photo album. I know I said you could not see it, but you cannot see inside it. How does that sound instead? It became a photo album, or rather an intimate memories book, at her own request before things went bad. Lots of very fond memories in here, and not just of her.

A classic trophy of course, underwear. Before it goes in the box it is always washed, I have no interest in the dirty underwear thing, but what else am I meant to do when people leave it behind? Throw it away. I chuck it in the wash, then into the box it goes. Simple as that. No, I do not take it out and smell it or play with it or anything like that. I barely remember whose is whose except in the cases where they wrote their names in and asked me to keep them. In fact if anyone wants to buy any, I am sure we could work something out. I need the money.

I have about four lighters, mainly zippos though this one is actually a British make. One of them was left behind here and I did not see the girl again. The other three were gifts, though this is the one I actually use and my favourite. Nicely engraved with the name that most people use for me, guess it if you can. On a related note I also have a couple of cigarette cases which are kept in there, and one which I carry with me when I'm going through a smoking phase.

This little thing was left behind by a rather curvy goth girl I brought home one night. She had several of them, and this one was sharpened. That was a very interesting night, and I still have a few scars from it. These are the good type of scars, not the bad kind, and everyone had good, safe, messy fun.

Handcuffs are yet another cliche, but fun all the same. I actually prefer a good pair of leather handcuffs or restraints to this cheap metal kind, so when I got bought some better toys then the older ones get chucked into the box or given away as presents. If I remember correctly these ones were bought by one of the people I lived with at university. If this is the right pair then some of you will probably want to know that yes, I did spend a night in these at the mercy of those I was living with. However most of you probably are not interested in that.

This is exactly what it looks like, a cigar in a cigar case. It was bought for me when someone found out that I was due to be an uncle, and I was under orders to smoke it on the birth date. As it happened I completely forgot in the madness around then, though I will use it at some point, but the cigar case has been much used and abused since it was bought for me. The stuffed toy opposite was made for me by a recent girlfriend. A lovely girl who I am still friends with, though with no benefits attached. As a moment of smugness she is now busily advancing her modelling career, and was quite possibly the most stunningly beautiful girl I have ever dated, or had in bed with me. There is no offense in that comment meant to anyone, but as the classical definition of the word beauty, she most certainly was. I will do a post explaining my definitions of words tomorrow I think. And the last picture was a recent present from one particular girl, Miss Complicated in fact, which she just thought I might like for Halloween.

American Integrity in Film-Making

Recently I saw a film, The Dark is Rising. This is yet another film made in America and based on a British book.

Now the worst bit is I know that America is capable of doing these well. Take the Chronicles of Narnia for instant, a most excellent piece of cinema entertainment. So why do I feel such an urge to crucify the director of this new film? That may be a slight exaggeration. In fact I would simply like to beat him into a small bloody mess.

I have several grievances here. Firstly why is it so difficult to use the original concept from the book, that Will Staunton, and his family, were all British? Why do you have to instead arrange it, awkwardly, so that they have recently arrived from America where they have lived for generations. It is also quite obvious that your research never included visiting a British school, nor anything else requiring more than a ten second walk through London.

And why is it suddenly set in London?

Okay, I could have gritted my teeth and accepted that. I can put up with the massive nationalistic insecurity that drives directors to do these things.

But why throw in a love interest, and where the hell did the long-lost brother come from? Is there any particular reason that you invented these things, pulling your crap, stereotypical ideas from thin air? Any reason at all? Anything? Thought not. Maybe the original storyline is just too complex for your nursery-level mind to handle Mr Director. Maybe you should stick to making more American style films, such as Home Alone. That seems about your level. You could not seem to handle the idea of your hero having equally powerful peers, so instead you make him some sort of unique super-being, rising above the others and struggling to control his rage and angst as his powers blossom. Great story-telling there. So much better than just leaving him to focus on a world-wide struggle against the Dark which his side are doomed to lose if he is unable to find the signs. Gotta throw in the angst, have him blow up a few cars, go on, have fun.

Finally the biggest travesty of all. This is one book in a sequence called the Dark is Rising. All of these books pull in huge amounts of Celtic mythology, Arthurian legends and so on.

All of this is taken out. I suppose because any sort of history or mythology would either confuse the American audience, or offend the religious among them.

Mr Director, I have to say, you have managed to fail and dissappoint me even more than Spielberg.

Now a quick end-note to this. Some people have mentioned my blog is getting a little sad at the moment so I am asking anyone with a happy, silly, or any other idea for me to blog about to e-mail it to me. I am going through a bit of a mental block phase at the moment. I do not actually feel unhappy, but all I can think of to post about this week is my past, and frankly most of the stuff that has happened to me in the past is fairly miserable.

Another Little Piece of History

I have decided to post a little more about my past, going further back now. In a way this was how things started. I apologise for the depressing tone, and content of this post, but it is an event that is very closely connected to who I am now. It may or may not explain a lot to people, I honestly do not know, but it is something that happened to me.

Let us go back in time, to meet a very insecure, very lonely boy aged fifteen. Just starting to study for his GCSEs, never had a real girlfriend, and with no actual friends. The closest he has are a couple of people who will talk to him. Of course they join in with the standard bullying he suffers, but they at least talk to him pleasantly enough when there is no one else around.
This boy has decided, on this particular day, to go up to London purely in order to have something to do. Just for once he is doing something for himself, other than simply sitting at home and teaching himself how to touch-type, program, and in other ways make a computer sit up and beg on command. He is not going to spend the day reading, as he usually does, he is actually going to get out for once and see what happens.

So he gets to the train station, and gets on the train, and starts talking to the passenger seated next to him. She gives him her name, and they chat for a few minutes, seemingly just clicking with one another. They decide to spend the day together and do so.

In fact they also end up returning to his house afterwards, since his parents are away for business and they got on so well. It is not as if he particularly cares about school the next day, nor as though she does. They walk back from the train station holding hands, pausing occasionally to exchange nervous, first kisses. She is the same age as him, and their conversation has revealed that they are both virgins though she is on the pill for other reasons, related to her hormone balance.

They stop on the way back, taking a detour through an old graveyard. It is dark and both of them are enjoying it, their hands roaming a little more than they perhaps should. Then things start to happen.

Afterwards they are both sore, not from the sex as such but from what accompanied it. Both of them releasing their anger about the world on each other, enjoying the feelings of violence and pain that accompanies the pleasure, somehow fitting. Their clothes are largely torn, or scattered over the ground, but she finds his shirt and pulls it on. The shirt is just long enough that she looks dressed. He hunts down his trousers and pulls them on, even though the zip is broken. And together, limping a little, nursing various cuts and bruises, bites and scratches, they walk back to his house.

Four more times that night they have sex, discovering all sorts of things. After the first time they are gentle and the sex is accompanied by winces and yelps as their sore bodies press together. They cry, they hold each other, they rant against the world, they say all sorts of things that both mean for the moment but which may mean nothing in a day.

For four months this continues. They see each other, she introduces him to her friends and to what they call their coven. They begin to meet more regularly, him slipping out to go up to London and making sure he is up before dawn so that no one in his house knows.

This is his little secret, things do not hurt so much at school any more, the bullies begin to avoid him when he not only ignores their verbal jabs but also their blows. Standing up after being hit and not showing the slightest sign of pain or even upset.

Her friends, and she, are teaching him about things. All sorts of things. What bodies can do to one another, about their beliefs and the things they can do with those beliefs. Some of those still stay with him to this day though in altered form.

And then after the fourth month, he suddenly stops hearing from them. Any of them.
A few days later he receives a letter. When he opens it he realises almost immediately what it is, though his first thought is wrong. He thinks it is just a goodbye letter, and in a way it is. The girl has said goodbye to everything, for reasons that he can understand. He has no wish to follow, despite the fact that his heart feels broken, and for a long time he becomes little more than a hollow shell, or so he feels, going through life and just trying to get by. He has no interest in anything other than getting through to the next day and hoping it will hold something that will bring him out of his fugue.

Years later he realises that he has healed, put himself back together and recovered from the hurt he received, though changed for the experience. He still has the scars she left him with, physical and emotional, but they are just scars now rather than open wounds and he can carry on. It took learning to hate someone he once loved, being abused, being homeless, and various other tragedies to do it but now he is able to deal with things again and he turns the tables.

Bloody Annoying Complications

Bloody bastard fucking annoying inconvenient pissing emotions!

I really need less of these. Please excuse the language.

So Miss Complicated, who I have obviously mentioned before, is now pouring out her worries and woes upon me. She is, as I have said, funny, cute, witty, intelligent, and generally my type. She is also the only person I have ever found who can engage me in a geniune debate about politics. This is actually an important skill for someone to have.

The problem is that all of her worries and woes are pretty much identical to the ones I had at her age. Seriously, this girl looks like she might actually be turning out the same way I did except as a female equivalent.

For anyone wondering this is a bad thing^TM. Anyone questioning this would best be informed that I have grown into a person with massive, massive phobias of commitment and being alone, not to mention all sorts of other quirks and personality traits which I would be much better off without.

Unfortunately I remember being at the same stage as she is, and someone trying to do for me exactly what I am trying to do for her. It failed miserably, and this is going the same way. Have to make an effort though.

So to summarise, at the moment I am highly messed up due to having actual feelings for Miss Complicated, which I am sure are due to her unnattainability. I need a simpler life.

Reluctantly Returning to Work

I really do hate this.

To clarify for those at different areas of the globe. Because of the shortening days it now means that I actually have to get up for work while it is still dark. I will also be returning from work as it gets dark again. No wonder people get depressed during winter.

There is some good news though, Sweetie made it down to visit Sunday evening, and left on Monday evening. Fun was had all round, from about ten minutes after I met her and we dodged into a hedge on the way home, to a little while before I dropped her off and she was toying with me in the car. Oh, and for one particular person who knows who they are, I did think of you.
My schedule for Monday was rather relaxed, involving occasionally leaving the bed in order to put on a different DVD and the occasional exhausted period of restful slumber. It was a good day. Today is not such a good day.

Other news involves me having booked plane tickets to Ireland for the last week in November, so I am off out there to see Slave then. Definitely looking forward to my week of illicit indulgence and experimentation. Doubtless there are some people who will not approve, but frankly if you really had an objection to my lack of morals I would have thought you would either have let me know by now or stopped reading.

Next month is going to be interesting budget-wise. Trying to live a decent lifestyle on half normal wages. I have a flight and holiday to pay for, a party to organise and at least partly pay for, an event to go to, rent to pay, bills to pay, and general living to do. Here is hoping I hear back from one of the full-time places I have applied to sooner rather than

On Close Runs and the Arrival of Sweetie

She is due in about an hour. I suppose I should be off soon to meet her at the station, but it is warm in bed here, and cold outside. On top of that I only got in a little while ago from the anime convention where I had a rather close run.

At these conventions it is rather common for people to walk around with free hug signs. They mean exactly what they say. You can walk up to these people, ask for a hug and get one. On occasion I do this, particularly with people who are squishy in the right places.

After a minor duel in the middle of the convention with someone I got rather suddenly glomped by someone wearing one of these signs, a rather nice someone. Apparently one of my friends had told her that I needed a hug, and she had decided a glomp was more in order. For anyone who does not know what a glomp is, it is a hug with a runup, and usually involving wrapping the legs around the waist.

This caught me somewhat by suprise, but she was cute, felt nice, and had just the right amount of squishiness. In fact enough of the right amount that I asked if I could steal her. With an affirmative answer I started to carry her, still clinging to me, out of the convention and to somewhere quieter so we could get better acquainted.

Then a little voice whispered in my ear.

Not my conscience or any crap like that. My friend whispered to me 'she's fourteen'.

I hate that bastard.

And I have just found out some very good news. Apparently my divorce is actually through. Not that I plan to get remarried, but the psychotic abusive bitch is now completely severed from me and none of my responsibility.

Plus I have a fresh bottle of Brazilian tequila. Life is good.