Well the silence around here is deafening.
Still, I must admonish the court.
I’m about to do something incredibly rare.
I will use this blog as a platform upon which to make a point, and beyond that, maybe even volunteer some lucidity.
I might actually make sense!
Please disregard the ultra cheesy photochopping below. The technique certainly leaves much to be desired. I’m only asking you to use your imagination. While I attempt to make a point.
Suspend your disbelief for a few minutes (besides, isn’t that a requirement when reading Phoenixism??). Just go with it. Go with my flow.
Do not let the slightest bit of logic ruin this post.
Logic clouds the mind, thus spoke Phoenxism!
Say you’re at your favorite spot to hit up chicks and score one night stands. You know, the club, the bar, the casino…but in this case, let’s say it’s a Catholic Singles dance. Substitute your sexual haven, whatever or wherever it is you find respite from the lonely torment that is your fucked up shut-in life.
You’re there, scoping out the room. The off-hours middle school auditorium, during the day home to a bunch of 13-year-olds who probably get more action than you’ll get tonight or in all the CS dances you’ve attended in the last 12 months.
Scoping it out for your next victim.
Because let’s face it. Any woman who obliges to spread ’em for you is most certainly a victim. In varying degrees of desperation.
You’re on the prowl. Victims of low standards!! That’s why we love them singles mixers, isn’t it??
And while the extremely subpar cover band launches into a rendition of George Michael’s Careless Whispers, you see her.
Standing at the edge of the dance floor. Swaying to George’s falsetto.
She catches your eye and you cannot release her stare.
You are slammed with conflicting emotions of desire and repulsion.
I never had one, but I imagine the emotion would be similar to what you would experience if you walked in on your nude sister as she dries the warm shower water from her glistening body in the steamy bathroom.
You know, that.
So you see this chick and she turns.
And you both stare at each other.
Neither of you can turn away. There is no releasing this lustful glare.
She smiles at you.
Your lips quiver and attempt a faint acknowledgement of a smile, the same way you would smile at a cop after he tells you to have a nice day after handing you a speeding ticket.
You cannot look away.
And she can’t either.
You are both entranced.
She begins to walk toward you!!
A shudder runs the length of your spine.
She approaches, closer, and her face…doesn’t change.
That face…it is not a function of the dim lights or the flashing strobes or gut-wrenching live “music” performance.
She looks the same close up.
Just…larger. The perspective, closer, larger, that mug.
It fills your vision now as she steps up to within a foot of your face and says, “Hi!”
This is certainly what they call a Predicament.
This cover band needs to change tunes.
They should do some Clash.
Perfect for the moment would be “Should I Stay or Should I Go?”
Do you stay or do you go?
Do you tap that or do you scamper away like a cockroach running from the bathroom light at 2:30 in the morning?
I think it’s unfair to portray this in a black or white context.
Like everything else, there is a spectrum, a range, of grays. I imagine most guys would scamper.
I am slightly ashamed to admit I would stay.
Especially with enough Belvedere martinis coursing through my bloodstream. In fact, the minute this fine specimen comes and chats me up and it’s obvious I’m getting some of that good stuff tonight, I might just double my vodka intake in the next 5 minutes because blindness is the only way I could perform to her delight with such undiluted attention.
I’m a body guy.
Yes, the face is disturbing.
But my God, look at those tits; those hips. Yeah, as much we joke about it, I think it’s high time someone puts the potato sack to the test.
I wonder how she would handle that request?
“Before we start, can I do something?”
“What?” she asks slyly, intrigue lighting up those bulging eyes.
“I’d like to…cover your head with this. Would that be OK?” I might dare as I pull out the heavy sack.
And let the shit hit the fan.
Before executing this plan, I would need to formulate an escape plan. A quick one.
For she may very well be capable of breathing fire from that crevice of a mouth. In fact, I would not put it past her.
Run Forrest run!
Maybe I can find my sister just in time before she gets dressed.