Arndt finger

I was wanting to read more about the Judith Arndt finger. I liked the idea of a cyclist's giving her rival the finger on the line for, well, I guessed, not sharing the work. I was only slightly disappointed to find that she had actually been flipping tha bird at her national federation for not picking what Eurosport quaintly describes as her "friend", and SuperCycling with almost Olde Worlde quaintness describes as her "live-in lover".

The top pick on Google caught my eye though. I wasn't sure where the "finger" came into it so I had to look. It's a page, built on the fly, of celeb skin photos and one of those erotic stories interspersed with page links. (If you visit, take care to have the popup blocker switched on and don't click any of the links for fuck's sake. And don't go there next week. There's a broken script but when it's fixed you're liable to be lost in popup hell whatever your blocker is.)

Two things are inescapable about porno stories. If you've read one, you've read them all, and they are so predictable that you could write them yourself if you could be arsed. Each involves the same dreary sequence of sex (sometimes more, sometimes less, but always equally as uninventive).

Sex can be a touch, a single touch, a kiss. It can be the way someone looks at you. It can be a promise you cannot keep on a subway train you will never take again. It can be furtive, angry, coarse, refined. It can be an expression of your self or just a cliche. It can be art or just a poorly drawn cartoon.

It can never be lassoed or made simple by circumscription with a few words. I've always had conflicting feelings about it. I like it and despise it and cannot always marry the two ideas. Some things you feel you don't want to burrow into. I wonder whether I am scared of what's there or more scared of what isn't.

Here's one of those things. Most people think they know the answer to it but I am struggling with the question. Father Luke said something about that the other day that struck me as very true. In fact, it struck me as the story of my life. I come over as a man who knows the answers, but I know them only for the trivial, the banal, the things anyone could find answers for if only they could be bothered (and I've bothered). But for anything that I really want to know, I don't even know what I want to know.

I've stopped making sense. Or I've stopped knowing what would be sensible to say. That's time to shut the fuck up, fool.

posted by Dr Zen @ 6:34 pm