Miss Makeover – “IT'S ONLY A PUSSY. NOT THE CROWN FUCKING JEWELS"

By on May 14, 2010

says Geezer Hardnut, a lovable hound, the sort of shaggy-coated mongrel that shouldn’t be allowed on the bed but wins you over by being especially cute. Perhaps I’m skirting the real issue. He is indeed pretty for a big tough guy but his inner thug is never far from the surface. Which turns me on.

He’s an attack dog. One I can only just keep under control. My mother liked hooligans so maybe we’ve got more in common than I thought.

Geezer runs the provisional wing of Fathers Need Justice! (North Kent No Surrender! Branch). Yet he just can’t quit marrying people. He’s a big soppy dog with some lovable traits but why would anyone put up with this mongrel when My Man Max is around? My Man Max is not around. I should probably put that on a macro key to save me the bother of typing it so often. At least Geezer is generous with money and goodies and he’s right here, with his cropped hair, well-defined muscles and too many designer suits – the great nancy. He has some frightening tattoos dating back to his previous incarnation as a Top Boy for some Neanderthal football gang. These days he has renounced violence. Except for money. Or when taken suddenly drunk. He is a successful entrepreneur, an alternative alchemist. I’m trying to give him up. But, like his product, he’s addictive.

“Who are you getting married to this week?” I ask him, having decided his ego needs puncturing.

“You can mock. Marriage is a beautiful institution.”

“You should be in an institution,” I tell him. “How much maintenance are you paying?”

“None!” says Geezer. “Posh girls like their bit of rough. They had to pay to get rid of me.”

Of course. Geezer never loses. So he keeps telling us anyway. I’ve seen him cry over his kids. But we don’t talk about that sort of thing. Just in case it sets me off.

“So I’m just another posh girl.”

“No! You’re bloody lovely, you are. I love you.”

So he does. But right now he’s bathing in the warmth of a few double brandies. And can I compete with the blazing sunshine of his self-love? It must be nice not having to go anywhere else for romance. Just get up, look straight in the mirror and there you are: the object of your affection. You might still have to buy yourself little presents, just to keep yourself sweet. But then you can keep them all to yourself. Well, maybe he’s just young and justly confident of his fit bod and genuine machismo. (He’s a real man, and there’s not many of those about).

I only wish my mother could see us together. It might just finish her off. With any luck. The shaven head, the chunky wrist bracelet, the pumped up physique and the broken nose might indeed be a little de trop. For your average suburban snob. I don’t like his gold wrist bracelet come to think of it but it never seems the right moment to mention it. Besides, where else can you find a real man who actually likes women? Most hunks are only interested in shagging each other. Geezer’s not only well-endowed he knows what to do with it. He also loves to lick. He’s quite happy down there, listening to me squealing and screaming. It may be because he’s a control freak, and he just likes making things work – cars, computers, women – probably in that order. But, he isn’t My Man Max. And he isn’t the Honourable something or other, the sort of chinless berk my mother would prefer.

“’It’s only a pussy, not the crown fucking jewels.’ Make a good book title, that,” says Geezer, trying to wind me up. He’s all too aware that I’m a writer, no longer published and touchy about it. (Although the discovery that you could earn a book advance in a week’s sex work softened the blow somewhat.)

“What women need to know. By a man. Stop holding us to ransom. ‘It’s only a pussy. Not the crown fucking jewels.”
There is a pause. As I am giving him enough rope to hang himself with.

Geezer is on the verge of repeating his latest piece of homespun wisdom, perhaps awaiting opposition, or a tired smile and a weary ‘yeah yeah ‘.

I pour him another balloon of brandy, wiping and tidying the bar area in my kitchen as I go. I avoid my reflection in the mirror. Trying not to see the solitary, fussy old bat I am fast becoming. Even though my ex-husband rarely comes here he reserves the right to complain if it’s not neurotically tidy. Until recently I thought ketamine was a valuable evolutionary tool which would enable a link between divine entities and mankind. When I’d got over the initial thrill, which took months, I still thought the vivid visionary trances it produces were an essential Shamanic tool for exploring consciousness, both before and after death. As K is disassociative it makes the average acid trip look like a vicarage tea party. (Mong DJ voice. “Hey! It’s acid. On Acid!” )

It’s certainly the most comprehensive alternative reality system I ever discovered and I’ve tried a few. Be that as it may, if you take a substance also used as a horse tranquillizer too often your flat gets as funky as the average stables. Right now. I’m giving it up. No more three day binges for me. I didn’t buy any today.

Not yet anyway.

Geezer doesn’t like me on it. He can’t take the constant k-hole blackouts, the lunatic conversations, the many near death experiences, not of all which are euphoric. He’s a lightweight. Actually, he’s a control freak and they can’t be doing with time running backwards and out of body experiences before lunch. That’s why he likes his Charlie. Which doesn’t always do him a lot of good.

So why do we take it?

‘Ketamine! I think I found the clitoris of my brain!’

So said Charlotte, an exotic dancer, escort girl, masseuse, militant sex worker and Wise Woman against the War. Incidentally, we don’t say ‘witch’ any more. Only because she’s way too beautiful to be a crone. Otherwise, she’s a witch. One they haven’t got around to burning yet. She did a Tantric stripagram outside an arms dealers conference at Canary Wharf. She’s a good looking girl and I bet she stopped the traffic but the war goes on. As it always will.

Meanwhile we party. While everywhere else burns. Well, we tried marching. One million of us. And nothing happened. Perhaps we just didn’t raise enough tantric sex energy. We obviously have to go to more parties,
She once tried to turn me on to nitrous oxide, which I thought superfluous to requirements while publicly K-holing in a Limehouse dive. She’s insane. Yet even she knows how to use K in moderation and I never will.

“Thanks, babe,” says Geezer, receiving his brandy with as much grace that a naked man with a large glistening semi-hard penis can muster. And I’m dumb enough to treasure that ‘babe’. I get sloppy and sentimental when told to ‘mind the gap’ on the tube. At least somebody cares about me.

“Then I’m going to do another book,” says Geezer. “’And bumholes are tighter too.’”

Most amusing. I could say, ‘and you should know’ but then hard men can be a little touchy about situational homosexuality. More of them than you might think are bi and fighting it and some of the straight ones have experienced male rape in various prison and army settings. As rarely seen in geezer chic gangster pics. This is the secret no one wants to know. Real men like it too.

“Sounds like a great movie,” I tell him. “Who will play the bum-hole? Hugh Grant? He’s getting a bit old to play you, isn’t he?”

“Oh Har Har. No. I want Danny Dyer.”

“Who?”

“He was in The Football Factory.”

Which he made me sit through. And his other movies. Recall is swift and painful. Mr Dyer is a good actor, at least whenever playing a cockney knob who likes footie and fighting, preferably for no other reason than youthful brutishness. His characters never stop smoking, other than to take a refreshing gulp of ice cold lager or a toot. He wears jeans, trainers, zipped up cardigans and bland anoraks that inexplicably cost two hundred quid. And he’s a role model? How much stupider can New Lad culture get?

The broadsheets are always bemoaning the death of the British Film Industry. All you have to do is make a film about yobs kicking each other and you’re laughing. (sorry ‘Larfing! Having a right tin bath!’). All the way to the bank.

I look at Geezer and ponder the cultural chasm between us, much worse than the usual moat dividing men and women.
“Why are we together?” I ask. Geezer says something very rude indeed in reply. It could be interpreted as a slur upon my honour.

Oh well. I say some very rude things back and Geezer pulls my knicks down and starts doing what I want. What we both want.

“You love it. You love it, you filthy bitch.”

I don’t love this particular phrase, as it happens, but it seems to stoke Geezer up a treat. He keeps on stoking my fire. And on. He doesn’t stint himself. Or me. Once we’ve scraped ourselves back down from the ceiling there’s a lovely, long cuddle afterwards. And he says some soppy stuff he keeps for me alone.

It could be worse.

Perhaps if he was unavailable I would yearn for him and I would be in love. Like he is in love with me. Because, ultimately, I’m unavailable to him. As it is I’m bitching about a coupling that works. Love is a bitch. Is this love? Well, yes, sort of, but not while My Man Max is still a contender.

Geezer knows I’m spoken for. But he’s persistent. I’ll give him that.

I suppose I’ll miss him when the time comes. I’ll worry about that later. Sufficient to the day the troubles thereof, said some Galilean hippie. And he was dead right.

Miss Makeover is an upmarket therapist working with men who would rather be women (as long as their wives don’t find out), behaviour modification specialist, fashionista and scene fetishist.
Suki Greene as told to MarkRamsden.co.uk

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