May 7, 2009

Inner Beauty, Cold, Sex and How They Have Nothing To Do with Each Other ... Strictly

The thing with blogs and topics for entries is that often you get a handfull of thoughts, short, small ideas during the day, even in one single moment and you'd like to work them up and talk about them and either you end up with a hectic entry (which seems to be my personal mark), or you touch only one and kinda get frustrated for not touching the others (which is why I keep four blogs simultaneously). Then, of course, there are days when there's only one topic, sometimes weeks or months... usually something in the line of "work", which for some people tend to last for long, long periods of time (years. Imagine that! Those poor bastards are usually called "public employees". It's like getting sentenced to life, but you can go home every day and get paid very well for it.), or "relationship" (again, there are degenerated people who get into this "life sentence" called "marriage". However, unlike "public employees" or "stable job", they don't go home and they don't get paid. Sentence is paid AT HOME and THEY are the ones paying! Who's as insane as to get into that? -- and if my bf is reading this and understanding, I'm probably fried --), or "friends".

Well, today I thought I'll have a "one topic" day, but unlike resourcing to work, relationship or friends, I was turning again to "Supernatural Slash", and well, since I've been delving into my new found source, the site of this Gillian, whose fiction is hard to read for being so fucking drama queen and turning every fic into some sappy "Supernatural-meets-Twilight". Dude, you know something? I'd like to read a fic or see a chapter of the Winchesters going up to Washington State and slaying the Cullens. I wouldn't even request slash or anykind of wicked or half hints, not even sex. I'd just like the Winchesters take down those fuckers and turning their glittering hides into Chinese Hello Kitty wallets.

So I did that small entry, put on the lyrics of my favorite song, went on filling my hours while waiting for a file that never arrived, a technician that never came and a call that was never made, e-mails that were never sent. Yes, people around here are so irresponsable it's amazing. So, I took the chance to fly up a "well, fuck it", and do something meanwhile, which meant me reading fics to fill the minutes otherwise spent idly. I asked permission to leave early today, since I had a schedule at the hospital. It was there where these three things came to me: "Inner Beauty", "Cold" and "Sex", and they were all in one place: the X Ray.

I had to go get my x-ray pics taken on my nose to evaluate my rhinitis, see if I'll need a surgery or not in order to breathe normally for the first time in 27 years. On the waiting room there was a printed letter size slip urging "users" to remember that that was a hospital, so people should refrain from "love scenes". Though I was perfectly alone and wasn't doing anything naughty, nor I'd the chance to do so anytime soon, I felt offended. I would have delved right there thinking about that, but I was called in to take the X rays. The room was cold. More than cold it was freezing. I pulled the pink hood sweater tighter on me, and yet cold was still getting into me. The X ray technician pranced around in a thin scrub claiming to love the chill, while there I was freezing to my bones even across my bra. The technician got all talkative about who she felt well only in the cold, and how she got sick in the warmth. Well, that got me thinking, and it got me thinking about my friend Jules.

Jules, as you may know, is hot. And I don't mean like physically hot, though he is, specially with that superb body he has, but he's... well... hot. I usually meet with him on winter, as if the snow and the cold brought me back to his side each year. I always wondered how could he dress much lightly than I did and not freeze his ass off.

"That's because I have an inner heater."

I thought he was joking, but no. Everybody in Europe has an inner heater, so they don't freeze in winter. As the seasons change their bodies adjust to the temperature either cooling them off better in summer or heating them more in winter. I'm Hungarian, I've Euro-genes as well, so where's my inner heater-cooler? This spring, for instance, I was fine during the day, weather nice and all, but at night I felt like going hypothermic. My boyfriend was fine (then again he wore jeans and not a skirt and no stockings), and I was turning into icycles. Why? Well, the answer is that I live 11 to 11,5 months in Costa Rica where weather is invariably between 19°C to 28°C. When it gets fucking hot it's 32-34°C, and when it's freezing over is 15-18°C. So yeah, I don't have spring and fall to aclimatate, but I jump from even to "holy shit! It's fucking freezing in here!".

I remember when I was at Hungary in 94-96, that after the first fall seasons were easy on me. Winter wasn't so cold, and the next summer, the season that destroys me, wasn't my personal kryponite anymore. So, yeah, I guess and I hope that I'll find my inner thermostate when I move home finally, but the question is, what the hell have I done with it now?

Being an economist, I believe my body probably was making inventory of my organic assets and when it came to the heater/cooler, it stared at it and thought: "what the fuck for?" and instead of keeping it "just in case", it must likely sold it thinking that if I need another, then I can sweep my credit card and get a brand new one. But what did I do with the heater/cooler? What did I've got in return? Well, I did lost considerable weight, it you ask me, but that can be related to age and stress levels. So where the fuck was it "invested"? My money is on an organic "energy generator running on coke" system.

Completely unrelated to the topic, but linked in space and time, and the things inside me, came the topic of Inner Beauty. Why the fuck do they call it "inner beauty"? I can't see "goodness" or "kindness" and say "yeah, it's aesthetically beautiful". Well, since these are fresh, I decided to share with you pictures of my inner beauty.

Yep, that's my skull. How often do you have a picture like that taken? Well, you look at it, yours or anyone else's and how can you say whether it is pretty or not? Often the first reaction to something you haven't seen before is "My Hyne, how awful!", but as I held my X Rays against the light I though "so lovely!". Sure, from profile my frontal teeth seem to come out a little, turning my mouth into something like a tiny beak (and Jules came to my mind and I thought I shouldn't have mocked him because his teethmarks on bread where so sharp he did seem to have a beak instead of a human mouth). My chin also edges out a bit. My nose is nowhere to be seen, so only Hyne knows how will they be able to diagnose rhinitis or anything from it. The things that struck me and made me feel so good was the beautiful, straight length of my neck, long like a swan's and so... proportionated. The sockets of my eyes, rounded ever so beautifully, large. However, what took me most was the perfect roundess of my skull. I just simply have a beautiful skull. Not an egg shaped, flat backed, dildo-like head, but a true, inspiring, Hamlet-like round skull. This picture fails a little to show that due to the "technique" I had to employ to get the picture done, but as I held the picture, I couldn't but admire how smooth, even, round and perfect it looked. My fingers itched to touch it, feel it's surface, kiss it, hug it and tell to it how much I love it.

This is my skull, these are my X rays and this is my inner beauty. My heart, my temper... how can that be called "inner beauty"? That's my personality and my personality is, I believe, more than an inner thing. I live in them, with them, through them, so why would they be "inner"? And why would they be called "beauty"? Yes, I'm beautiful in and out, on skin and bones and I have a wonderful, unique personality and temper. And I'm narcissistic, so yeah, everything is perfect about me.

So, I see my bones, my skull and I fell in love with them, happy that one day I'll make a very beautiful corpse. And as I look at them and think about the luck I have for being me, and the luck Kari has for being able to call himself my boyfriend, I remember my friend Dragonfly, and the words she used to describe herself in her blog, pending as a curse upon us.

"Let's leave beautiful women to men without imagination."

I don't see what I should be left to men without imagination. Is it that imagination should be used only to picture an ugly hag as a pretty woman? Us, beautiful women also could benefit from the imagination of a man, particularly an artistic man, who can grasp what he sees, harness the feelings from it and reinterpretate it. Add to it, Dragonfly is beautiful, so why would she condemn herself to a life with plain fucks? And why condemn the creative to hang around the ugly?

And as beauty thins away in the topic, that slides slowly to that printed slip. Beauty. Inner beauty. Men and Women. Hot. Heat. Body heat. Sex.

So we talk about "beauty" and what's inside us, and also how our body works, and there, in a hospital, they print a tacky slip urging people to avoid "love scenes". Love scenes. But what's called a "love scene"? A kiss, a soft touch, holding hands? A grop, a playful slap, making out? Sex? No, we know or kind of know what they mean. "Love" is "Sex", and you must feel ashamed for it. Hide it, deny it, say as little as possible.

I saw a couple slowly and deeply kissing on the street. Would they be stopped and scolded at the hospital? Probably. So what's society teaching people? Because you don't see slips stuck to bulletin boards asking you not to fight, not to stage "hate scenes" at the hospital. Well, first of all, they are teaching that "love" and "sex" are the same thing. A mother holding her child, cradling it in her arms is not a "love scene". A friend holding a friend is not a "love scene". A sibling there for a sibling is not a "love scene". A love scene is people doing sexual stuff, and you should be ashamed for that.

Sex is something to be ashamed of, and since sex and love are the same thing in the eyes of society, you should be ashamed of expressing love, of feeling love. Just think of it for a moment. You can yell at someone on the street and the person will probably yell back or express anger or hate more freely, but if you walk on the street and hug your friend, or Hyne forbid, take his or her hand (worse if you two are of the same gender) your friend is likely to pull away from you and look around hoping no one saw that. Yeah, it's society and in some societies it's okay and in others it's not. You don't tell your friends you love them (often) and you hardly kiss them, unless you are a woman. I resent that, yes, and it's not the slasher talking in me, but really, why can I kiss my friends and don't care if they are guys or girls, but my guy friends have to be careful and kiss only the girls? Because love is sex.

But love is not sex for I can love and never need sex with it. Fuck I don't bang my brother, my mom, my dad and my friends and I love them. I don't bang my aunt and uncle or my grandpa and I love them. So no, love is not sex. And sex is not love. I won't tell you the number of times I have sex without feeling love. As a matter of fact, I hardly have sex and feel love at the same time. I feel lust, and yes, it has happened that I have felt love, and not always that "romantic love" either. And truth to be told, romantic love totally gets me off track in sex. It doesn't blow my fuse. So yes, sex is not love. You can love someone deeply and still have bad sex, and you can feel nothing for someone and have fucking amazing sex. Should you be ashamed? No.

You hide sex. You don't talk about it. Here people resource to coarse joking about sex in order to steam out their need to talk about it, but that's as far as they go. If men talk about sex, they are dirty, and they talk to their friends about it. If women talk about sex, they are Sex and the City-ing, and maybe seen as "revolutionary" and "modern", or "daring" or "whores". Even so, people keep a lot of things to themselves and reserve sex for very secluded places. Hotelrooms, private places, places you can close, where they can't be seen. And so things remain closed. People watch porn locked in their rooms. They don't mention it. It's kept hidden. This is brought then to the sexual relationship and people say little, hoping their desires will slowly be guessed, or keeping them hidden, feeling maybe dirty or guilty for wanting them.

Because you should be ashamed for sex.

As a former onenightstander, I know what's like to achieve freedom in the arms of men I hardly knew. Their beauty, their abandonment, their request, their confesions. I developed with them, with each of those beautiful angels, my courage to walk around naked without fear or shame, to ask, to dare, to do, to find my rhythm, reach a common ground and ask without shame running to my face. Is it possible that only those who live on the margin of society, in the sexual regard, broken loose from the control and the taboos. People shouldn't feel ashamed for being "vanilla" in bed or "red hot chilli pepper". People shouldn't be ashamed because they prefer a partner that's into role playing or master-slave games. You like to be spanked? Good! You like to play doctor? Awesome! You like it plain and simple? Great! Why should you be ashamed of?

Some get off with positions, some get off with foreplay, and there's nothing wrong about it. What's wrong is thinking that you should be ashamed of that.

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