Ik ben
Ik ben een man en woon in () en mijn beroep is .
Ik ben geboren op 01/01/1970 en ben nu dus 54 jaar jong.
Mijn hobby's zijn: .
I'm a nirvana-loving, wanna-be-grunge writer, who talks too much, I'm a girl-sniffing cunnilingus addict, I stick by my
exhibitionistisch proza
we play with the toys the gods gives us "it's better to burn out than to fade away"
04-12-2011
Margot: if it hadn't been for streets
The only way to remember the name of a
physcially unattractive woman is to sleep with her.
It's not a waterproof approach, but the
prospects of remembering the woman's name are much brighter once
you've been inside her.
And Margot is a beautiful name to
remember.
The things you said about yourself were
painful to hear.
You would sigh and say: 'Life is fair
for no one, but it's the least fair for ugly women'
I hate the word 'ugly' and never use
it, never even think it.
It's my feeble attempt at not being
superficial.
Margot, you had an obession about your
abs. 'It's the one thing I have going for me', you said.
I couldn't agree. I don't care about
abs. Abs don't do 'it' for me.
I care about long hair, big eyes and
thies.
And, not as much as I should, but
still, I care a great deal about personality.
You had a lot of that going for you, if
you hadn't cut yourself down with every other sentence that sprang
from your pitifully pale and thin lips.
But you were fun. You were such fun to
hang out with. And you were a babe magnet. A real babe magnet.
We'd go places and you'd be chatting
with a ton of good-looking girls in an instant. Maybe you didn't pose
a threat to them, but no, that can't be it, you were simply that much
fun, let's leave at that.
And ok, at first I went out with you,
primarily for that magnet quality, but seriously, there were soon so
many times the best part out of a night out was when we were slumped
back in sacks used as chairs and talking about anything. You had a
sharp, quick-witted mind and you were amazingly well-read.
'Girls like me don't get asked out
between the age of 14 and 20. So I had plenty of time to do a hell of
a lot of reading.'
'What happened after 20?'
'I realized the stunning imbecility of
waiting around for guys to ask you out to start a social life. I only
had two dates in high school. One was with a guy who wanted to figure
out if he was gay. He thought he was after our date, but no. He
hooked up with the girl next door a week later.'
'And the second?'
'The second really was gay.'
I don't really know why I waited till
then, but I kissed you. Right smack on those near invisible lips,
which seemed to have developed attractiveness out of, well, thin air.
'Is this going to be a pity fuck?', you
asked.
Talk of kill the mood...
'No,' I said, 'I really think you're
hot.'
And you really were hot. Not in a
beauty magazine kind of way. But who in a right mind cares about
those?
I saw it. Right that instant I took in
your beauty. And the old rock and roll of attraction found its
devious rhythm.
And we could have been great together.
We really couldn't have been something.
If it hadn't been for streets.
There are a lot of streets in this
world.
And couples walk those streets and get
stared at.
And I saw your beauty. But the others
wouldn't.
Evil others.
Evil me.
I never deserved a slap more than the
one you gave me when you walked out on me.
And the truth is that I miss your
unique look. It's not that you were unattractive, it's just that you
were totally different.
A bit like a sinewy Viking woman with
droopy eyes and an albino complexion.
A man-woman friendship
that ends in sex, ends well. Well, maybe it doesnt end well, but
the friendship usually ends.
We werent allowed
to have sex. We werent available, so we shared any physical
pleasure we could without resorting to sexual intercourse.
Restaurants, snack nights,
sun bathing, massages, swimming, running, cycling, windsurfing,
wrestling (a lot of wrestling), but mainly:
Alcohol (mostly cocktails
with dirty names), food (lots of red fruit and melons) and talk,
talk, talk. Talk about anything.
Also a lot of shopping for
clothes. Only sort of legitimate way I get to see your breasts.
I never had so much
fun with a girl. Wed go outside during the summer, walking arm in
arm under a UFO-sized, yellow umbrella. Telling people to step out of
the way who were already miles out of our way. Sneaking into cinemas
by the backdoor, so we wouldnt have to pay. The money we saved I
spent on cherry flavored candy for you.
I swelled with pride when
we walked the streets together. You were a pretty hot looking chicks.
A real hardbody with big steamy eyes, like a libidinous bambi.
When we did have
sex- Somewhere near the end of one of our wrestling matches.
Somewhere under your kitchen table- it didnt even feel like our
first time together. More like the 1000th
time in a three year relationship that still has fire in the belly
and gone over to the first step of kinkiness. Some biting, some mild
to medium bruising, some rough kissing that makes your lips feel like
chewed gum.
We wanted to keep the
authenticity between us intact. We figured if we started a real
relationship we would cheat on each other within the next three to
four months. Probably even sooner. So we decided to leave it at that
one time.
Back to restaurants and
all the rest.
But the ersatz activities
didnt do it any more. So we were doomed anyway.
Its better to burn
out than to fade away, you texted me.
I understood. We were that
close.
Close enough to both
realize at the same time, it was time to cherish the memories and be
forever apart.
Church bells. If the music
is not too loud, church bells accompany our every fuck.
We are sharing two rooms
in an old house, right next to a small church. You fantasize about
doing it in the backyard or in those box-like cabinets where people
come to confess their sins. There are videocameras hidden in every
corner of the church, so we end up not doing it. Standing naked for
one second in our doorway, is about as far as you go, acting out your
exhibitionism.
Sex is still relatively
new, a bit newer to me than to you, but still new enough to you, to
make even doggy style sort of experimental. Im really not used to
being so intimate with a girl. So it sort of feels like you are boy,
only way prettier, with breasts and no penis. I have no idea how to
handle whats going on.
You break up every routine
I have. I used to go running 12 kms every other morning. I dont do
that any more. Sleeping in and having sex with you, beats the hell
out of getting up at 6am to go and run ten laps around a park.
Your blue eyes and black
hair will be on my wish list for years to come after you are gone.
Thats past now. I buried you, in a way, when I buried the little
boy inside me. His death knell started echoing when I met you. I
didnt realize it then. Though the song in the background No way
back, felt like some kind of adrenaline filled omen.
Most first loves have to
die too. Or at least be destroyed at some point, before they can be
allowed to be reignited. Our love died. Mainly because I thought any
pretty looking girl was exactly like you. And so pretty looking girls
should have been interchangeable. Nope. They werent.
So our path didnt lead
to church bells and two whispered I dos.
You did break my autistic
patterns. I still dont know if thats such a good thing. It gave
me the strange and rather self-sabotaging association that a
disciplined life cant be combined with great sex.
I should mention the
obvious part: you left me because you couldnt stand my ongoing
self-analysis any more. I dont blame you.
If a relationship depended
on sex and sex alone, wed still be together.
the female alphabet: Jess: towering goddess of feminity
I like your firm back,
your broad American football shoulders, the length of your shiny
brown hair. And though your eyes are a bit small, they burn brightly
like glistening chestnuts. Your legs look slim in pants, but are full
and round naked. The red lipstick on your lips a blazing fire made of
flesh.
You are highly sensitive
and cant watch drama movies for fear you will break down and cry.
You cry often enough, Ive come to see the inflationary rate of
your tears. Theres no sadness in your crying, only the joy of
living. With wet cheeks you have the mesmerizing beauty of a sad
sea-green mermaid. By the way, you look the hottest, with your
sea-green blouse and fiery red skirt.
Sex with you is only
perfect if you end up bruised, with islands of blue and purple
marking the spots where I claimed you. Youre an easy comer. And
youre an animal. A ferocious glutton. If it gives you pleasure,
you have no limits. Its a miracle youre still so thin. And its
a miracle you havent dwarfed me and locked me back in your womb.
You are that excessive.
When you are with friends,
you look like you havent been socialized yet. An eternal teenager,
ever the playground outcast, your ways are studied, non-spontaneous
and crude. You give boys slaps on the backs that twist their collar
bones.
And maybe for that
exact reason, you make such a lasting impression on people. Men
around you, are either too intimidated by your looks to approach, or
they turn into little school boys who play the equivalent of pulling
your hair, with their verbal teasing. Sexual tension behind every
tiny insult they throw at you.
You are everything I could
ask for in a woman. Your height dwarfs me, you are a divinely soft
retreat from the scary outside world, in your arms its suddenly ok
to have a fear of life, all I have to do is cover you in continuous
caresses, youre a natural axiolytic with breasts. Tiny breasts in
comparison to your height, which arouses me all the more. They look
like perfect sculptures with no risk of ever sagging.
Transcendental. Bi-polar
opposites attract, goes the song in the background. I never
thought my weaknesses could turn on a woman. I crawl in your pantzer
and you close the steel vaults behind me. I love the feel of your
protective pincers in the skin of my neck. And you relish the
security that I could never hurt you. A feeling you find
contradicting, because: I am never attracted to sweet boys. Maybe
its because Im the only one with whom your sweetness is not
pretended.
A goddess. A monotheistic
goddess. My Isis, your Osiris. You keep me on a tight leash. No
glancing at other women allowed. Granted the fruit of your gifts, I
will subject myself to you, to you and no other. Or you will shun me
and leave me to dry on the beach in the hot callous sand.
You text me about 150
times a day. It drives anyone around me crazy. Im unable to hold
any kind of coherent conversation with anyone any more. Up until the
point that people dont want to meet up with me if you are not
there in body and spirit, so at least we arent texting.
You are about an inch
taller than me. Its strangely soothing. And subversively
pleasurable. People frown at our height difference. Whoever made up
conventional male-female roles was a dreadful bore. You wear high
heels on purpose to make it even worse. Normally , you were
comfortable, sneaker-like shoes.
For months on end we are
locked inside each other. And when we wake up, its like arising
from an opium dream. Eyes still misty and vision still blurry. Head
and body slightly numb.
Last week weve agreed
to have children.
And maybe, just maybe Ill
ask you to marry me.
If you dont beat me to
it, though I think well adhere to tradition in that respect.
You read and criticize
everything I write, except this female Alphabet.
Why do you have to do
that? I at least hope it has some commercial value for a change.
Its the perfect time
for me to muse about bygones, because youre the last one.
Dont be so fucking
corny, or Ill have to tie you up for the third time today and beat
all the emo shit out of you
So you like my fledgling breasts do
you, my lecherous pedophile?
While I suck your tiny nipples, I
think:
A) You
read too much classics
B) No, I
keep cupping them to keep my hands warm, what do you think?
What do you mean, pedophile?,
I ask.
Well, you ARE a pedophile,
arent you?
What?
Im 17 and you are what? 24?
Ergo: you qualify as a pedophile.
My other three girlfriends are
adults. Im a 25 percent pedophile at best.
I hope you are kidding,
promiscuous pedophile.
I am in fact kidding. I only have
two other girlfriends. And they are mature in age, but not in spirit.
You are my first groupie. If writers
are entitled to have groupies, that is. We started emailing after you
read something on some site where exhibitionist writer types post
things to beg for attention. Sometimes it gets you exactly that. Most
of the time it gets you as much as what your writing is worth.
Nothing.
Are you naked in my bed because
of what you read there? Or in spite of what you read there?
Your self-control amazes me.
How do you mean that?
This is the third time we are
naked, and you havent tried to penetrate me.
Well, you are a virgin.
And you intend to keep me that
way? Like a toy you dont unwrap from its package? Is there some
kind of perverse pleasure behind it?
No, I just dont think I
should be the one to do it.
Why not? Am I not attractive
enough?
Im not sure if what we have will
last, so I dont want to be the first and then leave you.
Oh, so you are planning to
leave me?
I didnt say that.
But you implied it.
You sigh.
What?, I ask.
Nothing. I was just imagining
what it would be like, if you thought I was so attractive you just
had to take me. Even if you knew youd break my heart after.
Sometimes I think you read too
many 19th century classics.
When I read what you write I
start to wonder if you ever read anything at all.
Really?
Haha, ooh, got a soft spot
there.
Arent groupies supposed to
throw themselves at your feet, unconditionally and uncritically?
You know, if you would just
penetrate me and be done with it, you might actually have something
to write about.
I guess not.
Look, if you are so bloody
intent on losing your virginity, we CAN do it right now, you know.
Yes, it is a bloody intention, I
must admit.
Now I sigh.
No, it isnt, Ive never
seen it to cause any sort of bleeding.
Said the expert.
Why do you make me feel like I
am your study object?
Well, I am a psychology
student for a reason.
You should be studying
literature. Avant-garde stuff. Suits you better.
Thats like taking a course
on how to end up unemployed.
I wish I had your insight in
the dynamics of university education at your age.
Now you sound old. But
seriously now, why cant you just say you are not really that
attracted to me?
I am attracted to you.
Then penetrate me.
Fine. I will.
Why are you such a slave to
what you think I might want or not want?Look, I dont mind
psychological analysis. Its very fascinating, but its not
exactly setting a sexy mood, is it?
Ok, Ill shut up. How long
do I have to shut up?
What?
Well, how long does it take? On
average.
I grab you at your waist and pull
you on top of me.
You do it yourself, I say.
Ow, and you can wash your
hands in innocence, right? Pedophile Pilate.
This way I can be sure you
really want it.
I demand the universal right
to be passive during my first time.
I nod to my right and you slide
next to me again.
What s the big deal anyway, I
ask myself.
When you got what you came for,
apparently, you ask:
So are you going to write
about this?
Maybe you should write about
it.
I dont want to be a writer.
I want to be happy.
You are not very fond of
writers, for someone who reads as much as you do.
So if I like cars, I should
naturally like the people that build cars? One can like books without
liking their authors. How new are you to being in the writer
business?
What if I told you I already have
two girlfriends?
I would say: tell me something I
dont know already.
How do you know?
I didnt until now.
Silence.
What are they like?, you ask.
No, wait, dont tell me. They are in your latest story, right?
I nod.
I should do some research. Something
about the harem longing.
I think theres no research
needed. Every man wants to have a harem.
No, Im talking about women
longing to be with men who are already taken.
Oh that.
You are making me miss class, you
say as you give my balls a hard squeeze.
I dont think you ever started that
research.
You are a bass player in all girls
band. The lead singer is an Irish cousin of yours. You write most of
the lyrics.
I used to read them, to see if you
mentioned me anywhere.
But I dont think you did.
You wrote the only writer Ill
ever like is the one who knows he will die if he finishes a
manuscript , knows that the manuscript will never be read by anyone,
but finishes it anyway with tipex on my laptop screen.
Its still the most eloquent way
someone told me he/she didnt like me.
Ik ben William Peynsaert
Ik ben een man en woon in Erembodegem/Aalst/Gent (België) en mijn beroep is student/schrijver/whatever makes the money roll in.
Ik ben geboren op 20/03/1983 en ben nu dus 41 jaar jong.
Mijn hobby's zijn: schrijven, lezen, uitgaan, excessive drinking, cunnilingus, muziek, bestuur van verenigingen infiltreren, shockeren, teg.
muziek: Nirvana, The Foo Fighters, the pixies, ramones, rolling stones, beatles, brenda lee, the hives, the butthole sur