Miss Makeover '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.

By on September 13, 2010

‘Ketamine! I think I found the clitoris of my brain!’
So said my friend 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 against British involvement in Afghanistan. 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 nearly K-holing in Stunners, 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.
“’It’s only a pussy, not the crown fucking jewels.’ Make a good book title, that,” says Geezer, trying to wind me up. “Then I’m going to do the sequel ‘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 bearded Galilean hippie. And he was dead right. Although whether it was worth being nailed up is open to question.

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