All my ephiphanies arrive too late. Tomorrow I will probably have one about a blogs being so 2003 and shut this one down. My brother Michael is super smart and perceptive, so he will probably not have to start alot of sentences with the phrase, “In hindsight…” like I do. My most acute ephiphanies occur shortly after getting into a taxi to go back to a guys place. Out from under the lights of the nightclub, away from the buzz of the adrenaline rush, it is not so much that they are less physically attractive than they seemed, although that can be the case too, it is just that you know from some mannerism or some conversational tell, that this is going to be a lousy fuck.

What does one do in such situations? I mean the taxi is off to your designated shag pad, one cannot fling oneself out on the tarmac in an effort to escape. After such a big come on, one now feels that rubbing his cock and dry humping him on the dance floor may not have been so wise; an expectation is there and one feels obliged to meet it. Strains of optimism play through your thoughts intermittently that he will pass out or succumb to brewer’s droop, and various increasingly outlandish schemes play through your head of how you might get out of it (Hmm..maybe I can make myself sick or tell him I am the daughter of a Maffia don). So now it becomes a self fulfilling prophecy right? He could have been the most proficient fuck maestro in the Western hemisphere, capable of conducting symphonic orgasms on a Beethovian scale, but no, now you are just not going to feel the moment. The irreversible decline of expectations becomes terminal after a certain point and cudgels your libido to death in a dark corner, leaving it whimpering there for a few days.

I mean, during such moments as he hovers above me (always above), I find my heart is often not even in faking orgasm, at which, sadly, I am quite proficient and also that my mind wanders through a rollcall of all the guys I could have pulled, even going as far as the cripples and the schoolboys. These are the worlds most tragic fucks and are one of the few times I truly reflect on what a horrible, lonely, contemptible place this world is. During one such fuck (Rob, Horbury, incredibly spotty arse but great at frenching), I had almost an out of body experience like a lucid daydream, where I was thinking about a world where everyone had these living tatoos that morphed into words during moments of inner crisis to express ones inner most feelings. These tatoos appeared only in visible places. I think it was a remembered dream, cos it sure did feel like a familiar image. It was quite freaky, and I only snapped back to it from the sound of spotty arse having an existential moment of his own between my legs.

Imagine that a world where no facades could protect are inner thoughts, our real thoughts, from being projected out for people to see. Would this be a better world? You know in some ways, I think it probably would. I reckon we would have confronted our ugliness, spitefulness and bitchiness so much sooner if we had evolved from people with no tact for whom honest expression of feeling was mandatory. One of the most frustating things about this world is peoples heightened sensitivity to offence, with the corollary being our lack of courage in expressing our feelings honestly. It seems these days that people can take offence at almost anything that is said to them; some even go looking for it, twisting statements into alternative meanings so that they can feel some self righteous outrage. The media seems to be expert now at pressing buttons that click on this primal desire for outrage, so we often externalise and project our disdain onto media created bogeymen; terrorists, immigrants, pedophiles, queers, benefit cheats, Russell Brand, baby killers; we are such faddy creatures when it comes to our projected outrage aren’t we?

Since I won’t be grounded this weekend and my lack of sharpness normally contributes to poor selection of genes from the meat market mating pool in Ikon, this tendency of mine to end up in taxis with feckless men was brought sharply into focus this week. I wondered if there might not be a marketing opportunity that would fulfill the missing ‘honesty tatoos’; perhaps, I thought, someone could sell panties that have a little strip on attached to the waistband that could contain several pre-programmed messages triggered from some kind of key fob device. Having “No dice fuckwad” scrolling round you waist in red L.E.D lights might do the trick, and one can project responsibilty onto the great Lingerie God. “Panties said no…sorry”. Or maybe a rape alarm that is really loud, enough to wake the neighbours, that pipes up with random unflattering comments in a posh voiceover man type voice: “She would have been better with the other guy.” Or the following, imagining one of those pre-recorded phone message or train announcer voices here “Your penis is….BElow average..by…foUR inches. Your chances off satisfying her are only EIGHTeen…One Eight… Percent”.

Signs in the back of taxis that ask in a bold typeface, “Are you really going to fuck him?” would be a cheaper alternative, that require you to punch either Yes or No before the taxi engine will start. Hitting Yes could also dispense novelty condoms of your choosing. Although I do have visions of getting the faulty machine where you keep punching No and… “Congratulations. You have selected Yes. Would you like Sour Cream & Chive or Cream Soda contraceptives for this evenings pleasure cruise?” I selected No you cunt! *Punch* “Congratulations. You have selected Sour Cream & Chive, please fasten your seatbelts and we will deliver you to your destination. Have an orgasmic evening.”

Of course, one would think that the those tact free tats that I mentioned earlier would be most witheringly displayed during the act of sex. Gentlemen, please imagine you are there, working those hips, kissing those nipples, whispering sweet nothings; your lady friend seems to be into it and all is right in the world, until in red glowing letters across her chest appear the words “I am faking it”. Crushing. Unless of course your own tatoo jabs in a riposte of “You should know, you are not as good as your sister was.”

X- Lon -X