The Cove
So, The Cove won best documentary feature at the Academy Awards.
It’s apparent just from the trailer that the movie is great. It is especially great for a dolphin hunting fanatic like me; I love hunting dolphins. I’m a dolphin eating extremist. Dolphin meat is the greatest aphrodisiac I’ve ever known, and not because it has any special chemical properties. It’s just that good I invariably become engorged while eating it.
I was once out fishing and my line got caught in a dolphin’s mouth. Those dolphins and their fondness for fish! I reeled it in with some difficulty as it thrashed about; it was obviously in a playful mood. Why we love them, I guess. Upon closer examination I realised the hook wasn’t in fact caught in its mouth. Thank goodness, my bait’s still in tact! The hook was actually caught in its eye.
So we pulled the dolphin on to the boat and extracted the hook. Now, as delightfully tasty as dolphin meat is, we couldn’t bring ourselves to slaughter and eat it. These animals are sensitive and discerning with exceeding intelligence, so naturally we decided it was better used for experimentation. Did you know that with a strong enough voltage, a dolphin can be trained to grasp a beach-ball between its flippers?
And if you cut off its tail and dorsal fin and swap them around it can still swim, kinda. Well, that’s what I’ve heard. It didn’t work with ours ’cause I accidentally sewed its tail on over the blow-hole lol.
This is What a Father of Nine Looks Like
My father isn’t quite this bad (he’s not physically aggressive or vindictive) and so he only fathers five, two of which are illegitimate and none of our family have met. I guess there’s the possibility of more illegitimate children too. My mother has said that when they’d separate (often) she nearly felt life wasn’t worth living.
(I offer this merely as anthropological observation. Don’t read this as me saying one should employ this strategy in interactions with women.)
Give the Human Devil His Due
As I listen to this, I come to understand that the metal mentality is one of the world’s great redeeming features. It’s the perfect combination of lol and extreme. (Listen from 1:00, the start is kinda boring.)
For the last year I’ve been thinking that when I have the time and resources, I’m making a black metal mockumentary. From burying themselves to make their skin more pale to sniffing dead birds so they can perform with the smell of death in their nostrils to burning down churches, there’s just too much to not have some great fun. This photo which became a favourite amongst metal fans captures everything that makes black metal great, right down to his forgetting to do up his fly:
The Potential Utility of Decorating Your Genitals
If I decorate my coronal ridge with birthstones and I fuck a chick who has vajazzled her vajizzle, will the baby be born wearing armour?
(Update: Just realised I semi ripped off a Steven Wright joke. That’s OK though, it’s for a good cause.)
Authority
I think I might have been wrong in a recent post where I discussed something like the Meaning of Life. I contended that autonomy is requisite for a flourishing life: a person can only be frustrated if their will means less than another’s whim.
But this is just me speaking. Me, and whichever thinkers or whoever have influenced my thinking. I admire such thinkers and say what I do about autonomy for the same reason: I value irreverence. Many people – I suspect most people – simply do not.
The thought of anarchy makes people uncomfortable. Shit, questions are too anarchistic for many people’s tastes. Questions imply the possibility of fallibility on the part of whichever authority established whichever idea, whatever that authority might be; perhaps tradition, culture, religion, ideology, and leaders of whichever sort.
Conservatism (I just mean the sentiment in general) is not the fear of change, but rather taking affront at challenges to dear daddy.
The idea floats around these parts that feminists are out of touch with the reality of the average woman because feminists aren’t average women. Average women desire some degree of servility, and feminists often don’t understand this and it makes their whole premise bunk.
But in actuality this is not the nature of women: it is the nature of people. Woman or not, when father is unsure we can only be in a worse place. We need an authority figure to moderate reality for us. Someone needs to feel their way through the darkness and take the first steps around unfamiliar corners where ghouls might wait with maniacally bared teeth; and we’ll be damned – we fear – if it’s us.
This is why gods and groups in whichever forms will forever remain ubiquitous. Nearly every step the race takes towards what might be called improvement is the establishment of a new authority. Every improved state requires a deity upon the podium to revere.
People do not want to be autonomous. Nothing is more comforting than an enveloping carer’s nipple to latch on to. I totally understand this and feel this way too. But the milk always turns rancid eventually.
Eyes Smaller than Belly
It’s quite annoying when I go out to get food, ask whoever’s around if they want anything from wherever I’m going, they say they don’t feel like anything then when I’m back they start trying to eat mine. If you know the person is like this, you can preempt it by buying extra even if they decline; this comes with a perverse satisfaction for me.
But still, don’t be one of these people.
I Had Sex with a Prostitute Today
I recently posted about how my brother offered to pay for a whore for me for my twenty-first birthday (it was last Thursday). I was apprehensive, then decided I needed blog fodder ’cause I’ve been dry of ideas lately. Your thanks for my dedication to your entertainment are well received. I love my audience and won’t stop at much to make your stay at hunterhuxley.com worthwhile, even if it means needing an hour long shower while smoking a cigarette and crying in the fetal position after whichever event. I’m like Jesus, only literate.
I arrived at an apartment which turned out to be a full-blown whore-house. There are four bedrooms with four girls working simultaneously. I was greeted by “Kelly” and her shiny gold hot pants; a war-torn old puma who may well have been from propaganda posters distributed by Botox manufacturers. I was worried they set me up with her and not “Celeste,” my petite strawberry blonde vixen of twenty-five. Some bald black guy walked in and assured me that, no, I was seeing Celeste and she’d be down in a minute. “She’s just showering”…thanks. He directed me to our room.
I sat on the bed waiting. The room smelled like hundreds of people drowning in swamps of sperm whilst simultaneously getting high on mild toilet deodoriser. There were indeterminate stains of different colours on the carpet, and what were obviously cum stains on the bedspread. (I didn’t touch the bed spread, she peeled it back.) Then in she walks. Pretty much exactly what her profile suggested, although a lot of eye make-up. It was OK though, I let her off, I forgave her; she assured me her make-up wasn’t up to standard ’cause it was the fourth time she’d had to reapply it today. She expressed pleasure at my being a young guy instead of the gross old men which constitute most of her clientele.
She was very sweet and pleasant. She had a friendly smile. She undressed herself, then me, then led me in to the shower. She asked if I wanted to kiss; I declined. She proceeded to wash my back and then the rest of my body. I lathered up my hands and washed her. We got out, got on the bed, and she asked me if I wanted a blowjob. She slid on a condom and sucked away, paying special attention to my sack. I then asked her to get on her knees ’cause I’ve only once before received head while standing. I held on to her hair while she did it.
“I’m really impressed with the size of your cock.”
My cock isn’t that big at all.
I then lay on the bed and asked if she could go on top to start. She did, but in a way I’ve only seen in porn; she was on her feet and crouched down, using her legs instead of her hips to move up and down. She then turned around, and then I went on top with her legs over my shoulders and jackhammered away while she rubbed her clit for probably three minutes until I came. I then lay on my front while she massaged me for about half an hour.
The massage felt good, but the conversation was odd. She started telling me how I’m an open-minded person and should think about getting in to her line of work.
“You’d be surprised,” she exclaimed. “A guy like you could make a living easily.”
She continued, “I used to work at the Pelican Club (a well known Auckland brothel) and would make a grand per night.”
Originally I hadn’t actually booked Celeste; I had booked Tamsin, a former FHM model. She cancelled earlier in the day ’cause she was apparently sick. Celeste knew this.
“Yeah you would have been disappointed at Tamsin, she’s not as pretty as you’d think from her pictures. She approaches it all the wrong way. She’s actually up there now, but she’s just bitchy. She’ll just sometimes decide when guys get here she doesn’t even want to come down to meet them, ‘he can fuck off,’ she’ll say, ‘I don’t feel like doing anyone’.”
I replied, “well the selling point for me was that she was an FHM model.”
“Is THAT why she gets so many bookings? I’ve had plenty of offers like that but turned them down. Ugh.”
Apparently, even between whores there is room for competition and indignation.
Between subjects she’d come back to trying to justify her profession. “But yeah, I mean, this work isn’t that bad. I make such good money, and often it’s just this, just massaging. Often guys just come in and want to play with your feet for an hour. I had a guy last week who wanted me to fuck him with a strap-on for an hour; he didn’t do nothin’ to me.”
She then for some reason mentioned in passing how she gets jealous if her boyfriend even looks at porn. So I couldn’t help but ask her, “what does he think of you being in this line of work?”
“Well this is how I met him, so he can’t really complain. He used to come to the Pelican Club.”
Then, for whatever reason, she mentioned her abusive ex. “He was really violent. He used to grab me by the throat and squeeze my voice-box,” said as she lightly demonstrated on me, which made me a bit uncomfortable. She continued, “yeah I used to be a mess. My best friend killed himself when I was eighteen, then I dated a guy for two years who’d always threaten suicide so I felt I couldn’t leave him ’cause after my friend doing it, I believed it. Then I was with my violent boyfriend, and now I’m with this guy who, yeah, I don’t like that much.”
“Let me ask you, if you don’t mind,” I requested, “would you be more turned off by a guy who beat you and hurt you regularly, or a guy who declared his undying love for you from the beginning and bombarded you with flowers and texts and calls twenty times a day?”
“Oh I’m more turned off by that [the latter], yeah. Like, I liked my violent boyfriend so much ’cause most other guys have been so nice and he pretty much was just telling me to fuck off.”
Thinking back, while we were fucking I noticed little scars on her stomach. At the time I thought nothing of it, but now I realise it was obviously from self-mutilation.
There was a knock at the door. “Ohh god I’ll have another booking now, shit. I haven’t even had a chance to like, sit down today, and earlier I had some old guy with a big beer gut. I don’t even have time to shower. I mean I will, obviously, but ugh. Anyway I’ll walk you out. [As we're walking] but yeah think about it, you could even open a place like this, you seem like an open-minded person. You’d make so much.”
“Thanks very much,” I replied, “that was nice.”
“Thanks, see you.”
Overall it actually wasn’t a bad experience. It might have been if it were out of my pocket, though. But really I felt better afterwards than I’ve felt after some one-night stands. In fact, I didn’t have any of that post-coital regret. I knew it was a business interaction, she was pleasant towards me, and it was all really pretty benign.
So if someone offers to pay for you to fuck a hooker, go with it. I don’t regret it.
Dirty Asian Girl
I’ve been getting texts from a random number in the last couple of weeks. I suspect it’s this Asian girl I was fucking last year; the number looks familiar. It would make sense that she’d start texting me now ’cause it’s quite likely she’d know I’ve been single for the last couple of weeks. (She talks to people I know.) She’s that kind of a shameless whore.
I asked “who is this?” and she (assuming it’s her) hasn’t replied. I hope it is her because she was real dirty; she had rape and incest fantasies.
Update: it’s her. I’mma try get her ’round.
The Time I Figured out the Meaning of Life and the Meaning of Death
I was sitting on my deck, looking out over the lake, listening to Ol’ Dirty Bastard on headphones because my co-residents were listening to some shit I didn’t enjoy. I decided to snort some ecstasy cut with ketamine ’cause it was free. Snorting ecstasy sucks; it was so uncomfortable I’d regretted not shelving it in my urethra. I mention this fact for atmosphere; I don’t want to give the impression I couldn’t figure these things out without chemical assistance. I like to think my practical retardation and occasional loneliness are the corollaries of some kind of brilliance – such as finding answers to questions people mostly don’t care about. (This is, of course, an exception.)
Over time I’d learned some things about what constitutes the meaningful life; partially through observing those whose lives were flourishing, partially through watching those whose lives weren’t, and partially through listening to wise people. What I knew at this point went something like this (mostly familiar to you, probably):
1. We need to belong to something grander than ourselves. This is why people are so froth-at-the-mouth passionate about religions and political causes.
3. We need autonomy. We cannot flourish where our will means less than the whims of others; we can only be frustrated.
[1] and [2] can easily clash, and I believe this accounts for much of why our race and the individual encounter so much sickness. We either strive for belonging at the expense of the individual, or we strive for individuality at the expense of belonging. How to strut this tightrope instead of plunging through the rainbow towards the deepest stalagmitic tragedy of humanity?
The answer is loving interpersonal relationships, especially of the romantic variety. Sorry to let you down. Perhaps it’d be better put this way: THIS is why love is the answer, since you already knew it was.
Love allows us to belong to something greater whilst respecting our autonomy; we are the lord as much as the lackey. Or another way to put it might be that you exchange your weakness for power over the person who holds your heart hostage.
Misery bites when the balance slips. Talking primarily about romance here, the deepest pain eviscerates us when we want to belong where we no longer can, and the most hopeless emptiness is where we want to belong nowhere. (The latter fact is often obscured by ego.)
Hooker
My brother just offered to pay for a hooker for me ’cause I’m 21. (Prostitution is legal here.) I really don’t know if I should or shouldn’t.
Have any readers fucked a hooker or know anyone who has? Can you offer advice on, basically, whether I should or shouldn’t? It would be tomorrow.
Thanks.
Fatherly Wisdom
I hung out with my father for a bit earlier in the evening, it was the first time I’d seen him in a few weeks. He brought up the girl I lost a couple of weeks ago so I had to go in to that whole story for the twentieth time. At the end of my exposition, reclined in his chair and without a hint of irony his advice was…
Yyyeah, that’s why you need three or four.
I love my dad. The world would be an unimaginably duller place for me without him.
The Age of Irony, Again
This comedy bit/poem is an entertaining presentation of something along the lines of what I was talking about in my post The Age of Irony.
(Via Roger Ebert.)
Slut
I’m not sure if I’m stating the obvious here – I don’t think I am – but people generally seem confused (without realising it) about sluttiness.
There are three main ways I can think of that people approach the idea of female licentiousness. The first position, which is highly patriarchal and one of hypocrisy, is that sluttiness is immoral. The second, which is the feminist type position, is that there should be no double standard whatsoever and it’s a terrible injustice that women have had to suffer the shame they have over the centuries. The third, still unnecessarily patriarchal, is that sluttiness ought to be shamed, yet it mightn’t necessarily be immoral.
None of these positions are quite right.
Sluttiness is not immoral since there’s nothing inherently harmful about it. If a woman wants to fuck around yet she’s completely honest about it and everyone she’s involved with knows where they stand, that’s her right and it’s nobody’s business but her’s and those she fucks. For this reason it also ought not to be shamed. (As many around this corner of the blogosphere have noticed and discussed, there does seem to be a correlation between licentiousness in women and other personality defects. This still doesn’t mean there is anything inherently wrong with sluttiness though.)
However, it’s not quite right to disapprove of the double-standard either. Men are generally not so attracted to sluts, and this needs no justification. Many men try to justify it, but they’re only seeking to justify a visceral aversion. I am turned off by sluts, but I have no principled reason for this aversion. This is OK though. I am also turned off by ugly women and fat women, as guys typically are. We generally don’t think this needs any justification; these are just sexual preferences ingrained in men by thousands of years of evolution. So it’s completely acceptable that men are more selective when it comes to the issue of a prospect’s sexual history. We can’t help what we find attractive and what we don’t.
The implication for women is that they should react to it exactly how they react to the typical male’s dislike of corpulence or ugliness. That is to say try keeping your notch-count down, just how you try keeping yourself slimmer and prettier. Like I said, there’s no moral obligation for you to fuck around less, just like how there’s no moral obligation to maintain your physical appearance. But in just the way you can’t reasonably expect to be taken as seriously as a sexual prospect if you’re fatter or uglier – or a male can’t expect to be taken as seriously if he sits around playing with himself on welfare all day (also unattractive in a female, but not to the same degree) – you can’t reasonably expect to be taken as seriously if you’re a slut.
It’s nothing personal, it’s just that we really can’t help but find it unattractive.
i’m lovin’ it
This is the Youtube homepage today:
That’s just stupid. It’s so unpleasant visiting sites with such bold advertising. A couple of adds on the side to keep the scrilla rollin’ in, sure. But Youtube’s homepage here is actually the McDonald’s homepage. And what’s with the creepy “discover the mood of the nation” shit? I’ve seen this brand of creepy advertising a bit lately; the word “happiness” on the side of Coke cans and “nothing brings people together like KFC.” I’m not sure if that’s exactly what the KFC one was, but it’s close enough. Commodities are beginning to be advertised explicitly as constituting the flourishing life. It’s not completely new, but I am noticing it more and more.
A while ago I deleted my Facebook page. As in, had it permanently deleted. There were three reasons for this. The first was that I was spending time on it doing nothing and it was weird. The second was that I didn’t like the constant being of everyone up in everyone’s biz. The third was that I had just started dating the girl you’re aware by now I’ve lamented losing, and I didn’t want to feel obliged to talk to her every time we were both online. At this stage I’d had it activated for a couple of months or so, and before that had it on and off for about a year.
I’m thinking about making a new one in the near future. For the past five or six months I’ve seen friends often enough and had a girlfriend so I was happy enough with my social life. Now that I’m single again, a huge part of that fulfillment is gone. I’d nearly say I feel lonely. (This is exacerbated by having a job where I work evenings.)
Everything social in the world is overseen by the tyranny of Facebook. Nobody sends mass “hey party at mine” texts anymore; it’s all Facebook. Even a lot of the contact between everyday friends is maintained via Facebook. I’ve pretty near fallen out of touch with a lot of people through not using it.
It’s like a cellphone. It’s annoying having to carry it and be available to everyone all the time, but the world is now such that we can’t exist without them. Facebook is the same, it seems.
Will I really have to renounce my deliciously alternative “fuck the mainstream” anti-Facebook stance? Looks like I might. Not just yet though, I don’t want my ex thinking she’s had that kind of influence over me. Maybe in a few weeks.
I also don’t have any pictures of myself. Not even ones I don’t like.
