Nik's Rant on Lust

This little number was uncovered by Pope John Paul George Ringo I during one of his net.wanders. It is, to put it simply, a wonderful Rant.

From: nmaack@alfred.carleton.ca (Nikolaus Maack)
Subject: Demand Satisfaction Now
Summary: I spawned the devil in june.

Lust. A lovely word indicating what? General genital desire? Naw, more specific. A yearning for fucking. A longing to be done, or undone, or perhaps done in. Lust. Makes ya see leather clad bitches with angry sneers wanting to leave bright red scars on my sensitive butt skin. Oooo baby. Maybe makes you see snarling football player types with huge boners wanting dumb cheerleaders in bars. Maybe certain scenes in 9 and a Half Weeks comes to mind. Maybe you remember the first time you had sex and really enjoyed it.
      Lust is a primal anger, but maybe it's something you have to learn and refine. Is there a natural biological yearning for sex in all of us, a drive to reproduce, a drive to get laid, or is there some learning involved? You learn to identify certain boredoms as a desire for sex. Maybe some friday night you;re sitting at home, and you're bored, and you think ``I really need to get laid.'' So you put on some duds of some sort and you wander off to your local watering hole and you buy beers for scantilly dressed women who then run off with greasy mobster types with gold chains and fast cars...
      I don't get it. I've never met anyone in a bar. The idea of seducing a woman in a place where you have to scream to be heard over the pounding syntho-electro-pop-whatever horrifies me. Yet, apparently, this sort of thing happens.
      In the university I go to, there is a pub called Olivers. Stunningly, more high school students seem to go there than university students. A meat market extraordinaire, with line-ups from hell. Why would anyone go there? Who goes there?
      The baseball cap wearing short-hair-cut guy with a sneer and a jazzy head twitch. The blondified bimbo with her hair frizzed a la electroshocked poodle and a scent of dead flowers about her. They hunt each other with spears of lust. Beer as social lubricant.
      ``Can I buy you a beer?''
      ``Hey, two more beers!''
      ``Careful where yer dancing, man, you almost hit my beer!''
      ``What kinda beer you want? Canadian? Ex?''

      Is this what happens when they go in? If I went in with them, would they sense me, like some sort of cancerous cell the body has to fight? How do I socialize differently? I dunno. Some of us, a select MANY, avoid the bar scene. It reeks of LUST, and yet it's fabricated friday night lust. Lust doesn't manifest when you have time. Lust has no schedule. It doesn't appear on the weekend because you have some spare time.
      No, lust is a yearning that appears out of no where, grabs you by the groin and nipples and drags you out in to the city street at 4am, looking for prostitutes or horny drunk people. You walk about mopishly, shifty-eyed. People avoid you. They smell it on you, like some dog pissed on you. You're marked. You never get laid when you have that scent. No one wants you when you're lust-struck. You have to be in casual screw up mode and then the men/women fall on you like bricks from a construction site.
      Maybe that's why the friday night ritual of the bar. It doesn't help to have the lust there, the scent.
      The ancient art of seduction. ``Can I buy you a beer?'' Is a sneer necessary? Perhaps. The women, I am told, cannot be aggressive, otherwise the men become frightened. Can you see it? The aggressive woman turns to you and says:
      ``Hey guy, can I buy you a beer?''
      I personally would marry the woman on the spot, but I imagine your average cud chewing male would simply wet his pants, or perhaps begin to cry. I could be wrong. I think your average bar-dweller would become confused at the breaking of the social order. It would be like letting go of a pen and instead of it hitting the floor due to gravity, it hoverred in the air.
      Somehow, the woman on the aggressive, is wrong. Women seem to be trained at birth to wait for men to make the moves. Can you imagine anything more depressing? I can't. WOMEN OF THE WORLD: don't be passive poodles. Run wild. How can it be that the woman's movement has ignored these simple social rules that seem to shape the entire world's interactions?
      Then... Then there's the ultimate mystery. The mystery that every ``nice guy'' fears and hates. Women love to date assholes. The more an asshole the better. ``Yes, he never calls, he hates my guts, he steals from blind orphans, but there's just something about him... blah blah blah''. As a terminally nice guy (``You're such a good friend, nik!'') I fear these asshole males. They are so blatantly inhuman and low, and yet... They aspire trust when they shouldn't be trusted with the responsibility of caring for a dead baby. Somehow, they would screw it up.
      I ramble. I'm a rambling man. And nothing I say is new. Blame it on spring. Blame it on lack of sleep. Blame it on GOD.
      What is love, but focussed lust? Monogamy. Point your genitals at one person and keep them focussed in that direction. Sure, look at others, but keep your genitals pointed away from them.
      Sentimentality forces us to believe that love has something to do with caring for a person, but maybe what love really is is finding someone who finds your stupidities and insanities appealing. Maybe they can simply tolerate your shit more than the shit of others. So you have this person who can put up with you, they focus their lust on you (for the most part... an affair here and there, who's gonna know?), and they say those special words that have been printed up on cue cardds in all the wonderful hollywood films:
      ``I love you.''
      ``I've never felt this way before about anyone.''
      ``You're the best in bed.''
      ``Gawd, that was amazing.''

      We run through these routines like rats through a maze. I don't remember how many relationships I've had. Enough. And each time I run through one the same god damned lines keep coming up. How often am I expected to repeat this crap? Can't we change the routine somehow?
      ``You're kinda special, but let's face facts, I'm here because I'm lonely.''
      ``Darling, you're lousy in bed, but I love you anyway.''
      ``Sex with you is like pealing an orange with a spoon. Juice sprays everywhere, and the job never really gets done.''

      And so on. Kill the routines. Their old hat. Their gags. Who can take them seriously after having been through three or four love affairs? Same dull plodding love. Focussed lust for the sake of a regular lay.
      God the cynicism just drips out of me like blood, doesn't it? You'd think I was utterly jaded.
      I've come to a few conclusions. Brace yourself.

1) Everyone is insane.: Ever single person on the face of the earth is out of their mind. They roam about, doing their own psychotic dance, and they either know they're crazy, or they think they are the NORM. The people who think they are the norm are twice as crazy as those of us who know they're loopy.
2) Monogamy doesn't work.: You can commit to someone, but it seems that only the most shallow of people can commit for more than a year without problems.
3) Polyamory doesn't work.: Everyone gets jealous. Everyone hates everyone else. Everyone has their own insane version of what is right and acceptable and what is wrong.
4) The only place where you can have a perfect romance is in a dream.: And even there, you must eventually wake up.

      A jaded cynical rant. Babble babble babble. I love it.
      You wanna find love? Slip that mask on. Smile for the camera. Read that script. You'll always be alone. You'll always be trapped in your skin. You never can know someone. People are always changing, surprising you with new chunks of mind. You can THINK you know, but you never know. To love, to lust, is to want to possess. If you love someone in the sense that you interact with them, and they are free and you are free, then sex becomes a boring, sterile activity meaning nothing. For good sex, you have to WANT.
      Trust is impossible. Seeing how everyone has their own insanity, how can you possibly trust your loved one? Eventually they'll skin the family dog, or scraytch your favorite record, or shatter your heart into a million fragments.
      Best to hide in a closet and never come out. Board the door shut from the inside. Trust and speak to no one. Reveal no secrets. Fill your eye sockets with hot lead so you never have to see. Fill your ears with wax. Fill your throat with cotton. Conceal yourself.
      Or... Or, revel in the insanity. Know it's all temporary. Lie to yourself. If I weren't down and tired, I would be able to say more on this matter, but I'll try anyway...
      Insanity and random anarchy and chaos can be good. Scary, but good. What greatness it is to find a person you connect with because then there's just the two of you and the rest of the world can just DIE and you wouldn't care.... Love can't exist in a society for long. If only you found your soul mate and then touched each other and cancelled out, vanishing to some better place where the two of you screw and eat and play pinball together for ever...
      And on and on.
      Perhaps I will go have a little lie down now.
      Kudos to anyone who managed to read this far. As a reward, I will now write a graphic sexual scene involving a woman, a man, and a truck load of lizards.
      ``Her nipples were like iron spikes, and he lowered the lizard down into her gaping vagina. She moaned, and he moaned and the lizard made a lizard-like moan.''
      Pretty steamy, huh?