Horny

Tuesday, Aug. 17, 2004 -
Ap�sl�min ida corbalanyrtne 'ls�o rohl'daathi�m v� nen�a iroyss�rd.

During my latest hiatus from this diary, a half-dozen times I started entries, only to be interrupted by business that needed my immediate attention. The other half-dozen times I started entries, I was interrupted by the falling of my eyelids, as I dozed off over the keyboard. The other other half-dozen times I started entries, after staring blankly at the screen for twenty minutes, I was interrupted by my degeneration into my Fuckitall Demon.

(Y'all should get a pair of these for the next Be Like 'Zaziel Day. We can all degenerate together. C'mon, it'll be fun.)

My Fuckitall Demon bears a family resemblance to my Inner Curmudgeon, but he's a few steps lower on the Darwinian ladder than the Curmudgeon. If my Curmudgeon is a Neanderthal, my Fuckitall Demon would rank among the reptiles, and not a particularly high rank at that. He's not a mean or nasty demon, just a slow-moving one. He's one of the more ponderous Monitor lizards, or maybe a hornytoad.

He just wants to eat, bask in the sun, fuck, sleep someplace warm, and let the whole world go hang for a nickel.

He's a lazy partner during sex, to the point of being inert. I'm feeling a little guilty about my torpitude in the bedroom lately, a guilt mostly assuaged by the enthusiasm of my apparently satisfied bedmates.* I haven't been selfish or unwilling, but I haven't been living up to my infamous rep as the Lunch Bunch's wildly creative Hunka Hunka Burning Love Machine. I've been working from dawn to dusk, taming the suburban jungle of Southern California, and when the light becomes too dim to safely wield machines armed with blades, tines and chains, I come home, take a shower, lay naked on my bed, and let my best beloveds do wicked things to me. Fun for them, fun for me, and my Fuckitall Demon is appeased.

Yep. He's definitely a hornytoad.

<- Z - @ - D ->

* Jer and the Fiend are in Philadelphia right now, installing various pieces of the Fiend's art in the house where he hung his Chapel Doors. The Fiend phoned last night and said they'll be flying back tomorrow as scheduled. I was half-expecting them to be delayed. When the Fiend was hanging the Chapel Doors last spring, he planned for a week's work, but ended up staying for three weeks when his clients (let's call them Harry and Sandy Delfino) crossed that ill-defined line between Patrons of the Arts and Friends of the Artist. They even took the Fiend to a Smarty Party hosted by Sandy's mother, a grande dame of the local horsy set, where Erik was bored witless. He was one of the few people in America who was quietly gleeful when Smarty Jones lost the Belmont and failed to achieve the Triple Crown.

<~>
Ap�sl�min ida corbalan� 'lse nesgla ugar�-cham sa cru ogrulho bat�oltha al�mv�sde.

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