Gay Nazi Sex Vicar in Schoolgirl Knickers Vice Disco Lawnmower Shock!
« Motions of Colour, Mixed Media, £440My kind of woman wears a minidress and drinks pints »

Linda

  Fri 2nd September 2011

Just to warn people who might be visiting for the first time, the post which begins after the picture contains a small amount of sexually explicit detail, so depending on where you are, your own sensitivities, and what company you're keeping, you might wish to exercise your judgement at this point.

Just for now though, here's one of my favourite things.

Lambic gueuze



It's been bothering me for months that I had lost contact with Linda. She's met some Swedish professor of Economics now so my always remote chances are dashed permanently. I could still fall in love with Linda like that. When we're together people think we're boyfriend and girlfriend. I want to touch her all the time but she doesn't fancy me and I stop myself from raking my splayed fingers through her hair, just to say "that was fucking funny and you're so beautiful, and the two go together." Once, we bumped into each other on a blank Sunday morning, surprised to see each other. A car drew up and a man with a German accent stopped to asked us directions to the police station. As the car moved off, Linda said "Why, are you going to apologise for the Holocaust?"

We haven't been in touch since a night when I turned up, already drunk, to a post-work drink with her and Naomi. Naomi, like Linda, is a university lecturer. I spent most of the hour we were together letting forth a volley of disdain for the course in psychotherapy upon which Naomi was about to embark. I was aware of the bigotry in my voice, and how unreining myself overuled in the moment my sense of the damage it would cause to our friendships. I left for somewhere else, where the jovial ease of the chat was insufficient to obliterate the regret I felt at having ripped up a more valuable conversation with my own words.

This was March, I think. Tonight, reading Richard Yates's Revolutionary Road in the pub, struck repeatedly with the virtuosity of the language, jotting down sentences, trying to learn from it, I started mouthing words to myself as a substitute for someone coming up and saying "Hello looby," or "Revolutionary Road, what a great novel." I half wrote a text to Denise, presenting my sober self rather than the night-time one of her arse, my cock, her white underwear, her long ginger hair disarrayed by sex over the curve of her back, the imagined deliciousness of her cunt made slippery for fucking with the slow repeated stroking of my middle finger and my tongue. But I didn't want sex, I wanted to resolve the estrangement from Linda that has been nagging me for months.

"Linda I know I was a bit of a twat when we were last out but I was just wondering whether you were at a loose end tonight."

To my surprise she replied straight away. She's usually in Helsinki or Melbourne or somewhere. She's out for dinner tonight in Lancaster with the fucking Swedish bastard Professor and an unnamed colleague, and will alert me if they're going for a drink later. I feel taut, glancing at my phone, wanting to go to bed, wanting to wank thinking of having sex with a compliant Denise, waiting for Linda to ring, not knowing how it will work with someone I envy present, who will no doubt have expert bilingual manners.

4 comments

Comment from: Tony [Visitor]

See you have given up on the password protection.
Reckon this one is X rated but at least we had the warning.
By the way great to see you like the vinegar.Lol

Tue 6th September 2011 @ 07:00
Comment from: [Member]

Well, I know you can handle it Tony :) The St Louis gueuze is actually one of the sweeter ones. The Cantillon ones - they *were* dry. Anyway let’s not taunt ourselves with such images. See you w/e after next in sunny (cough) Lancashire!

Tue 6th September 2011 @ 10:45

Your willingness to make your inner sexual torment public is admirable. I don’t have the guts to do it. Also, I refuse to read “Revolutionary Road.” I’m fear it will hit too close to home.

Tue 6th September 2011 @ 12:00
Comment from: [Member]

Thanks Unbearable. It’s only public in as far as it reaches a tiny audience in a fairly mediated form, but thank you anyway.

Revolutionary Road does hit home very hard. I let out a huge sigh when I finished it. It’s really a tremendous book. I’ve never been married and have no desire ever to do so, but you don’t have to be married to find the way that Yates lays bare the the myriad lies (often with the best of intentions) that we tell to the people closest to us, very affecting and worrying.

Just one last point as well, it’s in no way a period piece. There’s no possibility of making it innocuous by saying “Oh well that was late 50s America, it’s all changed now". Oh no no no, the same things, the same versions of the same lines, are still in common currency.

Tue 6th September 2011 @ 12:20


Form is loading...

looby, n.; pl. loobies. A lout; an awkward, stupid, clownish person


M / 56 / Bristol, "the most beautiful, interesting and distinguished city in England" -- John Betjeman [1961, source eludes me].

"Looby is a left-wing intellectual who is obsessed with a) women's clothes and b) tits." -- Joy of Bex.

WLTM literate woman, 40-65. Must have nice tits, a PhD, and an mdma factory in the shed, although the first on its own will do in the short term.


There are plenty of bastards who drink moderately. Of course, I don't consider them to be people. They are not our comrades.
Sergei Korovin, quoted in Pavel Krusanov, The Blue Book of the Alcoholic

I am here to change my life. I am here to force myself to change my life.
Chinese man I met during Freshers Week at Lancaster University, 2008

The more democratised art becomes, the more we recognise in it our own mediocrity.
James Meek

Tell me, why is it that even when we are enjoying music, for instance, or a beautiful evening, or a conversation in agreeable company, it all seems no more than a hint of some infinite felicity existing apart somewhere, rather than actual happiness – such, I mean, as we ourselves can really possess?
Turgenev, Fathers and Sons

I hate the iPod; I hate the idea that music is such a personal thing that you can just stick some earplugs in your ears and have an experience with music. Music is a social phenomenon.
Jeremy Wagner

La vie poetique has its pleasures, and readings--ideally a long way from home--are one of them. I can pretend to be George Szirtes.
George Szirtes

Using words well is a social virtue. Use 'fortuitous' once more to mean 'fortunate' and you move an English word another step towards the dustbin. If your mistake took hold, no-one who valued clarity would be able to use the word again.
John Whale

One good thing about being a Marxist is that you don't have to pretend to like work.
Terry Eagleton, What Is A Novel?, Lancaster University, 1 Feb 2010

The working man is a fucking loser.
Mick, The Golden Lion, Lancaster, 21 Mar 2011

The Comfort of Strangers

23.1.16: Big clearout of the defunct and dormant and dull
16.1.19: Further pruning

If your comment box looks like this, I'm afraid I sometimes can't be bothered with all that palarver just to leave a comment.

63 mago
Another Angry Voice
the asshat lounge
Clutter From The Gutter
Crinklybee
Eryl Shields Ink
Exile on Pain Street
Fat Man On A Keyboard
gairnet provides: press of blll defunct, but retained for its quality
George Szirtes ditto
Guitars and Life
Infomaniac [NSFW]
The Joy of Bex
Laudator Temporis Acti
London's Singing Organ-Grinder
The Most Difficult Thing Ever
Quillette
Strange Flowers
Trailer Park Refugee
Wonky Words

"Just sit still and listen" - woman to teenage girl at Elliott Carter weekend, London 2006

5:4
Bristol New Music
Desiring Progress Collection of links only
Golden Pages for Musicologists
Lauren Redhead
NewMusicBox
The Rambler
Resonance FM
Sequenza 21
Sound and Music
Talking Musicology defunct, but retained


  XML Feeds

Open-source blog
 

©2020 by looby. Don't steal anything or you'll have a 9st arts graduate to deal with.

Contact | Help | b2evo skins by Asevo | b2evolution CMS