Putrid Modern Hell #15

by HST UK on August 28, 2011

Searching for a fuck

“I think she’s just desperate. And that can be a justification for all kinds of behaviour.”
– Jessica Walter

There are times when my levels of self-loathing steam into vapid apathy. I realize a lot of my insecurities stem from the simple fact that I am going through a dry spell at the moment. I swear there are monks who’ve had more action than me. As I sit here in my boxers typing this drivel on my laptop, with a bag of frozen peas on my right knee I realize that this isn’t the life. I should be out on the dimly lit streets ploughing broads.

Christ, it’s gotten so bad I’m saying things that only a virgin might say (or some kind of sexual predator, actually ‘I should be out on the dimly lit streets ploughing broads’ sounds mighty creepy). It’s the bag of sand moment from that Steve Carell movie. My virginity has seemingly grown back in my mind, revealed to everyone through my awkward vocabulary.

You know, I took a break for a little while from writing this and watched Lady Gaga play Radio 1’s Big Weekend in Carlisle on BBC 3. About thirty seconds into the performance I realized that I find Gaga reasonably attractive. A quarter of an hour into proceedings there is a prolonged costume change, the poor live audience are forced to endure a jazz trumpeter blow his instrument for a couple of minutes. Then Gaga comes out and talks for a bit. She’s one of those mega famous-types that are so ubiquitous; mostly through thousands of striking still magazine images, her music constantly rotated on every radio station and her outlandish high concept videos that when she opens her mouth and talks… it shatters the concept of Gaga completely. The fame hungry, approval seeking Stefani Germanotta peeps out from underneath the ridiculous costume that looks like it was created by an autistic iron welder that was breastfed by Vivienne Westwood.

Germanotta? I am now mentally picturing an Otter wearing Lederhosen.

I flick through the channels until I get to Sky Movies. The Soloist starts in five. I press the button on my remote marked ‘i’. A brief synopsis tells me that this is a film I made a mental note to see after I watched the trailer a while back. I watch a lot of film trailers on YouTube. More often than not I never see the film afterwards. Hobo with a Shotgun is a trailer I love, but a film I will likely never see, ditto Letters to Juliet.

The Soloist in a nutshell is about a LA Times journalist called Steve Lopez (played by Robert Downey Jr) who meets a homeless street musician whom he sees playing a battered cello near a statue of Beethoven close to his office. The street musician named Nathaniel Ayers (played by Jamie Foxx) suffers from schizophrenia. Lopez attempts to connect with Ayers, but struggles to understand why someone so talented cannot utilize his abilities as a musician to turn his life around, yet at the same time as a journalist he realizes that Ayers’ life story is pure award winning gold. Catherine Keener also plays Lopez’s estranged ex-wife in the film, I find Keener reasonably attractive. She’s not too shabby for an older bird. Based on a true story the film in my opinion judders around the halfway point due to a crappy edit; though Foxx and Downey Jr’s performances are first class.

When the film finished and the credits began to roll I felt inspired to go out and make a change. I wanted to help the homeless and care for the mentally ill. I got as far as the fridge, and then realized that I have neither the time nor the money to train to be a carer, and as for the homeless, I give to charity. Five quid direct debit donation a month, and every six months or so I take a bag of unwanted junk down to the charity shop. I do my bit.

Besides I’ve got bigger fish to fry. Screw helping others, I need to help myself.

Thinking aloud (which is always a dangerous thing for me to do) I mentioned to my colleagues at work that I was considering hooking up with a foreign bride. The idea seems to be following me. Throughout my working day I see a lot of grey haired, pot-bellied middle aged men with reasonably attractive Thai brides. Though thinking about it, Europe is a closer, cheaper option, if I get myself a smart suit, hop on board an Easy Jet flight to somewhere in Eastern Europe and hit a club then it is quite possible with the help of my Englishness that I could snare a wife.

I’ve set myself a deadline – by Midnight December 31st 2011 I need to get laid. If I don’t then I will look for a ball and chain.

Because the quest for sex is largely unfulfilling part of me thinks I should forget the deadline and get on with hunting for a life partner. But how on earth does ordering a bride work? Is there a try before you buy offer? Can you return the bride within the first ninety days? Is this legal or ethical? What the hell am I doing even contemplating this?

When men get desperate they radiate creepiness. Writing this makes me squirm, it’s as if someone picked the dirt from their nails and mixed it into my pesto.

I’m sitting here in my boxers, typing these words on my laptop. That’s the problem. I need to throw on some clothes and get out of the house, head down to the pub and attempt to recapture the glory years when I made the women wet, and I worked up a sweat in seven satisfactory moments of bumping and groaning. There are still dirty tarts out there, still many tight ladders left to climb. It’s either that or I think again about my 2011 deadline.


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