A Satisfying Intercourse or a Wasted Wank Job?

Dedicated to:

To you, a friend, philosopher and guide!

It is just a routine beginning. The most atypical characteristic of all the aspiring writers or should I say pseudo-writers, you know, those hipster-types, wannabe-intellectual types. Every single story has to begin with a seemingly frustrated rant, and unless it does so, no one will take you seriously. But one thing that guys like us need to make sure is that the rant sounds like an existential one, filled with self-deprecating innuendoes, and slightly sexual, perverse overtones. That’s one thing that writers like Dostoevsky taught all of us. Yeah, yeah, I know. There’s one more reference to the great Fyodor. We can’t do without it, you see. After all, we all suffer from the ambition of wanting to be acknowledged, of wanting to be heard, regardless of what crap, inconsequential, monumentally pathetic, senseless crap we say, we want to be herd. Oops, is that a typo? I am not sure. But who cares? So, yeah, where was I? Oh yeah, I was talking about routine.

So, I was saying, writing and having sex share an amazing parallel, at least in my universe. Welcome to my universe, where everything is related to sex. I am obsessed with phallus, you see. Can’t really help, you know. I love Freud. The man pretty much cracked everything that there was to crack at that point of time. And I personally feel that most people loathe the man because of their own inability to rise above the moralistic mediocrity of their social lives. Being phallo-centric actually helps, I believe. It lends a perspective. But yeah, coming back to the actual parallel, writing is almost like sex. A good friend or a good discussion is like a woman seducing you, and the white paper could be a ripe and juicy pussy. Eventually, if it remains a pussy or turns out to be a bucket will entirely depend on your shag. So, this piece, this effort, whether it turns out to be a good bang or wasted shag will entirely depend on the end of this monstrosity.

I intend to keep this a free-writing piece, as I have, before this, on numerous occasions, tried to write humor and have failed gloriously, and this is where I tend to disagree with Capt. Manoj Pandey of LOC fame. He was another wanker who said that “Some goals are so worthy, it’s glorious even to fail”. I am not sure if the man thought of that random senseless statement from his heart or what. Because what he stated certainly doesn’t stand tall. The moment one realizes the magnanimity of the failure to do anything, it only leads one to the abyss. Think about it, if a man while in the act of banging a woman’s brains out, fails to cum, will he heave a sigh of relief, or will he, you know what I mean.

Free-writing really helps the hipster guys like us. It gives us an excuse to rant about anything and everything without worrying about the moral consequences. And this rather non-sensical stream-of-consciousness thing allows us to inject humor.

So, here I am. I am typing as I am thinking and I was thinking while I sat on my system in front of this MS Word document blank template that analogy between sex and writing and it captured my imagination. I was engulfed in it. I thought, maybe this would prove to be a good exercise to exorcise my demons, and get back to writing, something which I hadn’t done in a long, long time. If I don’t write, I tend to feel constipated. People tend to have assholes at their rear, I guess, god made me with one in my brain. I really thought that either I will end up writing something or nothing. I mean those are the only 2 possibilities that exist, right? Possibilities are always two. But the emotional responses are myriad. And this is where subjectivity fucks with your head and you sometimes feel like taking a fucking drill gun to your head and screwing your brain out like that sequence from Darren Aronofsky’s morbid mystical, psychological thriller Pi. I love that scene. This is another typical trait of guys like me. We have to quote movies, books, thinkers, and so on and so forth. Those are the selling points. It often leaves me bemused, this power of language. Now when I look back at whatever I have written so far, reminds me of what I learnt once as a student, if you can’t convince others, confuse them. Essentially in life, you will just find two kinds of people – the first kind – who can articulate, and the second kind – who can’t. Basically, both these kinds of people are duffers of the top drawer. They know nothing. The only thing that differentiates one from the other is the seductive power of language. Those who can articulate, dress up their dumbness with silken-smooth language, and those who can’t articulate fail to do that dressing up act. So, in a way, this is no different from a woman, you see. If you don’t dress a woman up, she looks like a whore; but the moment you dress her up, she looks like a trophy. And how does it matter in the social structure? Perception management, you see. The bestial instincts don’t change in both cases; but what changes is how you voice your basic need. And I assume that you are more than clever to see through the lack of any solid content in here; for if you are not, then it’s good for me. Our society needs mediocrity for the illusion of intellect to even exist. It’s a kind of a Darwinistic struggle between two existing notions of existing. The illusion of intellect survives on the actual existence of mediocrity, and in the battle of natural selection, the mediocrity wins, simply because they exist in the heard. Again is that a typo? I hope not. And this defeat in the fight for survival, leaves the intellect disillusioned, hammered to a point of no comeback, and turns the supposed intellect into a cynic, and makes it rant. And it is this rant, which makes it look so classier and is celebrated as a classic in a distant future. So, you see, there’s nothing really to it.

It is really not that bad for a creatively emasculated person like me to have written a page of absolute nonsense so far. Looks like the paper here for sure is setting a new trend, ouch, blame me for redundancy here. How can a person set an old trend? Isn’t a trend always new? But then, digressions apart and there have already been quite a few out here, in this very random, seemingly disjointed outpour of emotions, this seems to be going well. This is the thing that I truly love about the modern art. An absolutely shapeless mass is celebrated as a piece of art. How, tell me, How does it happen? Are people so scared to criticize something that doesn’t make sense? Why this hypocritical attitude? What is the reason for this hypocrisy? Is it social acceptance? I guess not. What I think is that people are scared to criticize shit, because they know they are full of it too. Noticing others’ banality makes them aware of their own, and no one wants to know that they are weak. The fear of mortality is the trigger here. Everyone knows that they come here with an expiry date. But no one wants to die before dying. And that is what drives people to kill. Oh, and I roll back to Darwin again.

But what the hell, I was under the impression that I set out to write a comedy here, perhaps slapstick; but then continued references to Darwin are making me sick. I am sure it is making you sick too. Very well then, I guess, I will stop with the Darwin bit. Slapstick or is it Slap-Stick? Ah, I see Freudian tangent there. See, yet again, a phallo-centric view of the universe. It just doesn’t leave me, does it? And why should it? I mean the cornerstone of the world is a dick and a pussy, isn’t it? So, why shy away? Why not be naked? Love is free. Democracy has put a price on it. That’s why I loved David Dhawan. He made sexual innuendoes public. And there was a sense of gay abandon in the way he used sexual overtones in his slap-stick humor. Gay and abandon in one sentence. Does it really mean what it used to mean at a point of time? The social structures and language have corrupted men’s perception so much that nothing means what it meant at a point of time. The meaning of the word “Mean” has acquired multiple connotations now. At one time, it meant whatever it meant, and now, it means “being rude”. That reminds me, Women use this word a lot. They are obsessed with the word “mean”. God also doesn’t know why? As a matter of fact, he doesn’t even know why he created them. He claims, as per the Biblical stories, that she was created for the man. That’s a slavish perception. I guess even God needs a PR agency. Going by the amount of scientific agencies that has cropped up and the amount of the shit that has been thrown on him, he could use an image makeover.

But yeah, where is all this taking us? Or rather taking me? I have no clue. I thought I will write a short story about a guy attempting a short story that is humorous in tone, and it seems to be filling up pages, but the direction - ?

I guess someday, I will want to dust this short story off, and make a short film out of it. This will seem like a good, self-reflexive cinema. You know sitting there in the theater, watching a film where a writer sits in a room alone, and you never get to see his face. He doesn’t talk to anyone. He doesn’t even utter a word. The camera is still. All you can deduce is that the writer is writing. Imagine a 30-min short film, a silent film about a writer writing a short story. And the end just has the camera focus on the paper and showing you every word that has been written so; you can read the story of the film rather than listening to it. I think that will be a good experiment in cinema. Why can’t anyone think about it? Now that I have thought about it, will I do anything about it? Only time will tell. Gosh, why am I being such a fatalist? Am I really one? I guess so. I guess everyone is. Free will is anyways an overhyped thing. It is good for those philosophical discussions. Self-belief is like expecting an honest government. It exists only in dreams, hopes, and discussion rooms. Extreme pain shatters every iota of self-reliance. The only phase of life when an individual is self-reliant is post-attainment of the adulthood. The sexual awakening of an individual is the only phase of self-reliance. Masturbation is the only thing which is truly self-reliant. There’s nothing else. Even sex causes dependency. It causes the most extreme kind of dependency. And yet we want it. And we kill, we invade, and we do all sorts of acts to make sure we get it. There’s a weird sort of a connect between sex and war. These are two primal instincts that govern a man. It then is no surprise that a woman that is perceived hot is called a Bomb. Imagine; just imagine then US going on all around the world, just because they want the drilling rights. Stanley Kubrick got his basics damn right.

The stream-of-consciousness always leads one into a gutter of nothingness. Mostly, a writing of this sort is nothing more than good shag. At the end of it all, it gives the person an orgasmic release and sense of relief. But what does that amount to? Does it amount to Loss of Essence? And is that the reason why Men hate women so much? Is that the reason why Bob Kane was so cynical about Selina Kyle’s character? Are men so cynical about women primarily because they know that women have the power to rob them of their essence and leave them nowhere? Women really leave the men with a sense of worthlessness, that sense of feeling incomplete. Do men also have a similar kind of a right? I guess not. A man only loses and ends up enabling a woman reaching a stage of fruition. So, while she blossoms; a man withers away. It then in a way justifies why men feel the way they do about women. They’d rather jerk off than have an intercourse. They don’t even want the sperm to be trapped. Martyrdom is surely better. I guess this is the reason why every creative artist reaches a phase of creative menopause. First things first, it takes a lot of time and investment to conjure up something, and then to vomit it all out, like I have done here, takes away all your assimilated thoughts and leaves you with a blank slate. I wonder what is it that I am going to cook up next time I open up a blank Word document. It scares the hell out of me. There was a time when I used to love opening up a blank word doc; but now I feel scared and miserable. Perhaps, age is a factor too. When you are young, you do get aroused whenever you see a beautiful body. You want to bang every woman that crosses your line of vision. Getting a hard on is easy. But with age, while the thoughts still churn themselves up in the mind, getting it up and about is a challenge. Years of sex does leave you tired and exhausted. It leaves you a pathetic self-projection of your youthful, juicier self.

I am really not sure what this has been? I was thinking of a better title; but then I guess the monstrosity of the failure and the phallo-centric focus of this story deserves only the moniker it carries.

With humble gratitude to you, Oh reader, I sign off from this wank job of a short story!

Happy sexing your imagination up!!

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