Johnnersintheraw's Blog

April 30, 2010

Johnners on ‘How to Mangle Your Life’ – Part I (All About Sex and Rampant Gonads)

Filed under: Comedy,Comedy Rants,Rancid Comedy,Really Dumb,Twisted Fables,Uncategorized — johnnersintheraw @ 5:39 am

Before I launch into this turgid sinkhole of a pity-party, let me get a couple of things straight.  I have a grand fucking life, and don’t you forget it!  I am ferocious.  I am angry.  I am a fucking mess.  And I am one of the gloriously lucky few.  Although I never really seem to get anywhere by the prevailing standards imposed upon us the fucking pointy-head dickhead nabobs, I have seen things and done things and gone places and stubbed my fucking toes and fallen down and gotten back up again while most people are still reading the instructions and following the rule book. And not going anywhere before first looking it up on the CIA website.  I am an arrogant piece of shite; I have never even opened a rule book.  In fact, I don’t even know what a rule book looks like, which means I wouldn’t recognise one if I saw one.  I have fallen in love every single day of my life, and the day I do not fall in love, will be the day I know what hell is.  What else do I feel like sharing with you?  Nothing, because I don’t share anything and I surround myself with a wall so that others dare not share with me. So there!  I always end up with an empty seat beside me on the bus, even when the bus is so packed people are spilling out the windows. I routinely tell people to fuck off, especially when they are trying to be helpful and make life easier for me.  I don’t suffer fools gladly, and since I myself am one of God’s natural fools, I don’t suffer myself either.  In other words, I am an equal-opportunity twat.  I am incredibly, unspeakably selfish and, no, people don’t particularly like me and they tend not to return my calls. And I am a loner.  And if others don’t like my company, tough shit; because I like it just fine. I can fight with myself and don’t take it personally. I can put on a good ‘caring’ face with the best of them, but so fucking what?  In the end, a ‘caring face’ isn’t worth the price of a ticket.

I am both a fuckup and a storyteller.  Words are my only world and I spin them endlessly, world without end.  I cannot do anything else.  I have no real ability, and there is nothing I want.  For if it is there for me, it is mine.  And if it’s not, it’s not mine to have?   I’m out the door.  And if there is one thing I have learned, it is never ever to go back, because whatever was there isn’t there anymore.

Gawd, I’m sounding more and more like Oprah Winfrey.  But, unfortunately, when I speak, I sound like Margaret Thatcher (only posher) delivering a party political broadcast.

Now if I could really do anything, things might be different, but then I wouldn’t be me, would I?  So let us cut to the chase.  Is what I am going to write profoundly personal or is it a pile of stinking, self-serving shit? Will it put me in a bad light?  And if it does, will I even notice?  And will I care?  One thing I do know is this: It’s one thing to talk about your sorrows on the stage; on can always find a way to make it funny.  Writing it down, however, is not the same as talking it; it’s more risky – it leaves tell-tale evidence that’ll bite you on the butt when you least expect it.  In ranting on stage, there’s always the audience against which to bounce your humiliations and your pains.  They absorb a lot of the roughest bits, even if they don’t always realise it.  Because, when it comes to it, even a hostile crowd is your partner and your fuck-buddy for however many minutes it lasts, and even when they are hurling insults, baby, you are still sharing their body.  It’s just you and your audience and your inner demons, and all you’re doing is sending a bunch of abstract sounds into the stratosphere where they will eventually vanish into the empty spaces between the particles of dust (now, don’t fucking  tell me I’m not profound).  But, as I’ve said before, as soon as you write anything down, it is there on paper or on a computer disk, and somehow it is reduced to black and white and fact or fallacy.  But that is the risk a writer or story-teller takes.

But let us stop going around in circles, and just get on with it?  Are you sitting comfortably?  Are you ready for some of Johnner’s petty humiliations?  Well, ready or not, here they come.  And this is in the nature of a warning label:   Everything I write is a part of me and a part of my comedy.  And it is a fucking comedy, and don’t you forget it. Every word I write, every utterance I make, is disgorged from the foetid womb of my petulant, thoughtless Uriah Heepish self.  I love my comedy perhaps better than I love anything else.  To put it bluntly, it is the child I shall never have.  And if this it is always not particularly funny, remember this: there is nothing that says comedy has to make you laugh.

I really wish I could honestly say that writing the following will wreak havoc to my tender psyche, but I won’t.  My life is not the Oprah Winfrey Show (even if from time to time I seem to channel her essence).  And, yes, I may well be tempted to feel sorry for myself, but in the end, it’s only fucking words.  If parts of my life have been traumatic, so what?   As long as I have a roof over my head and food for my stomach, my little traumas are but a grain of sand in the desert of creation, aren’t they?  Why should I allow my memories to suck me down into a maelstrom of despair?  No reason at all (except that I really did enjoy writing that sentence)….

So now we are going to bludgeon you with a little raw meat.  And let us get this straight: it is my raw meat.  It is my fucking life. This is My Life!  And it is, as I’ve already said, a grand life. It is a life redolent of failure and fury and well-vented spleen.  But, my dear friends, as I shall never cease repeating, I am completely alive. And with year, my demons get sharper, more vibrant, more painful, and more outlandish.  And yes, the sex just keeps getting funnier and more complicated and stupid, and love just keeps getting more terrifying.

So let us now talk a little bit about my sex life, because that is why you are here, isn’t it? I will tell you when it began, when it went off the rails, and when it crashed completely.  And yes, there have been times when it has actually lived up to the hype and perhaps even surpassed it, but you are not fucking going to hear about those times today.  Nah-uh!  First I get to dump all my shit on your heads.  So sit back and enjoy.

To begin: I know several people (one or two who might actually be telling the truth) for whom sex has always been a ‘natural’.  They slid into it like a foot into a soft Italian leather shoe, and it just kept on getting better.  In other words, they were born confident.  And no, I’m not talking about the arrogant, machos strutters or the bullies who want to show how potent and liberated they are.  God forbid!  I’m talking about the beautiful ones who live in our fantasies, and without whom there would be no movies or poetry or literature, or even any dreams of love.  And I think everyone knows one or two of them, even if we don’t know that we know them.  And the reason we don’t know that we know them is because some of those lucky people live within almost all of us. Only we are so busy looking outwards, or looking at our circumstances, or stuck in our own fucking wretchedness, that we pass right by our own lucky person and don’t even know it. And when we do that, we miss out on the single perfect moment of our lives.  The one moment for which we were created.  Hence, my little journey.

The first year of my life was, sexually speaking, probably a lot more active than I remember it being.  After all, from the moment of birth, human beings are very sexual.  If we weren’t, we would never consciously go through all the shit we go through in order to eventually reproduce and bring forth yet another generation of idiots to crap up the world. 

Babies, as we know, have many obstacles to overcome.  First of all, they bowels and bladders are a little over-exuberant, which means that an unclothed baby wreaks havoc when left unattended on the Isfahan carpet for more than half a nanosecond.  And, although in some societies, traditional wet-nurses were supposedly adept at various techniques for soothing colicky infants and transporting them into the realms of tranquillity, we have lost that connection with nature.  And having lost touch with the natural, we take it out on our sprogs; why else would we swaddle them up to their little gills? Of course, there are practical reasons – most of which can be found in the instruction manuals, but speaking as an former baby, it occurs to me that the main reason they bundle a baby us is to prevent the poor wee things from touching themselves and putting themselves to sleep the old-fashioned way.  But then, again, we are desperately afraid that someone should actually enjoy themselves.  And since we can’t explain why, we blame God.  You remember Him?  The one who put us on earth so that she might suffer and be glad?

But now, to me.  I was a very unhappy baby.  I had a lot of allergies and cried a lot.  And I also shat more than the common or garden baby can possibly shit.  This means I was changed very, very frequently.  And although I don’t remember it consciously, some part of me does recall the joy of holding my little penis in my left hand – for I am left-handed – and pointing it to the sky and sending up a stream of golden sunshine.  And even if I don’t actually have a conscious memory of doing that, I can still hear my grandmother saying that those were the only times she ever saw me smile or heard me laugh.

A little boy has no better friend than his willy. And the one frustration I will forever hold within me is that I was never allowed to be alone with my little friend.  There was this constant refrain, “don’t touch it,” (although, to give them credit, I don’t think my parents ever told me it was ‘dirty’).   Of course, the more you are told not to do something, the more fun it is to do it.  But then, being sneaky, my folks decided to let me run around unclothed, and that put the kibosh on my whole relationship with little willy. For although I continued to tug on it every once in a while, the very ease of access caused it to lose its fascination. You know how it goes, once I had played with it a few times, and poked it into a number of potentially dangerous places, I grew bored with it.  It lost its appeal.  In the same way that my toy cars did.  And also, since by now I took him for granted, my willy was always getting in the way or getting scraped or hurt, and I have never ever been a fan of physical pain. To cite a couple of examples, you can’t really climb a tree properly when your willy is being scraped raw against the bark, and you can’t really ride your pony when you have to spend all of your time keeping your scrotum from banging against the withers.  And on and on and on.

I’m going to slide by those years of unconsciously sidling up to visitors and rubbing myself up and down against their knees – and terrifying the life out of them – because I’m not particularly proud of it (and also, of course, because I don’t want to give anybody any ideas).  But if memory serves we well, that was about the time a nanny appeared on the scene.  In other words, my parents were very aware of my rampantly odious little ways, and decided I should be watched like a hawk.

Now, this is where it started to go pear-shaped. When I was about six or seven, I found a friend.  Now, almost all little boys have their little friends, and they roughhouse and fight and race their tricycles and climb trees. And then one of them flashes his willy and the other one reciprocates. And it’s all part of growing up, and nothing more.  But this was something else.  I actually sought out someone.  He was not a member of my family; he was not a teacher; nor did he work for my father.  He was simply someone standing outside one of the paddocks looking at the mares grazing.  And I seduced him.  Of course, I never saw him again.  And I know he could have done something to prevent what followed, but I have a feeling I was so aggressive he panicked and simply froze.  The awful thing is, I do remember how much I enjoyed the experience.  And it wasn’t until several years later – when I had finally entered the age of reason – that I wished I could have taken it all back.  You see, there are no two ways about it: I did approach him.  And yes, he could have told me to fuck off, but he didn’t.  And all I can say now is, “shit!”  For it did effect my sexual development when I was an adolescent and beyond – not because I felt I had been abused, but because I knew I had seriously damaged someone else.  And I am terrified of hurting someone again, which is probably one of the reasons why I am shit when it comes to relationships.

School was great.  I loved boarding.  Everyone was wading through the morass that is puberty; everyone was miserable and rank, and everyone had perpetual erections.  The entire school stank of nocturnal discharge, and everyone used to make fun of everyone else when they were caught wanking in bed.  However, since we were all going through the same fucking shite, and all smelled of sweat and semen and were spotty from head to toe, no one paid any attention.  And, at least in my experience, no one was ever raped or gang-banged in the showers and we all stood together and became rock-solid friends or not. So anyway, I don’t have any school-related horror stories to report.  I know I was fairly promiscuous for a while, but it was mostly confined to holidays and to friends outside the school. It goes without saying that, at the beginning of the each term, we would all have a quick look to see how everyone else had developed during the holidays, but that would occupy about five minutes and that was all.  And then of course, everyone’s balls were dropping like apples in the autumn, and the world was changing accordingly.  We all got very involved with sports, and became focused on upcoming exams. Photos of girlfriends started to appear, and all of us looked to other horizons.  And while our pecks did get a jolly good workout, and even though we tried our best to wear them out, our endeavours were primarily of a solitary nature.  After all, we were growing up and everything was becoming a lot more private and more secret.

About this time I started to have a particular problem with girls.  Not with girls in general, or girls as girls, because basically, girls and women have always been my best friends – a situation that still holds (even in Egypt, where male/female friendships can be a minefield).  My problem was that, except when around horses, I became very withdrawn.  On a horse, I was fine.  On the ground, I became progressively more depressed and more difficult.  I became an outsider at school, an under-achiever and a loner.  The only time I excelled at all (when not on a horse) was when I was performing comedy parts in plays.  I really have no memory of those years; and because of that, I really do not remember a single classmate, and I doubt if anyone remembers me.

Needless to say, the pretty girls liked me OK when I was riding, because I was very good.  But as soon as I dismounted, and thought, “oh, goodie, at last,” the ones I fancied would walk right over me with their glamorous, older OE boyfriends – you know the ones I mean: blond, devilishly handsome, wide-shouldered, narrow flanked, perfect Eton crop,  flashing teeth, and a condescending sneer guaranteed to reduce someone like me to a forelock-tugging fag.  Now, I was never anyone’s fag at school (I was far too arrogant), but one look at those OE Greek Gods swanning around with the girls I’d just walloped at show-jumping or in a pony race,  and I was a puddle.  I suddenly overwhelmed with a sense of inferiority, and that terrified me. Of course, a lot of it had to do with the fact that I was gay – and I knew I was guy and that I had always been gay, that I had been actively gay. However, I desperately wanted to be one of the chaps who was everything I was not.  Let us just say it was not a good time for Johnners on the sexual front.  Or, for that matter, on any other front.

And then school ended, and life went on.  Much of the time it was better; some of the time it was really shite.  I continued to be a morose and surly bastard, and if not an actual psychopathic sociopath, I was at the very least morbidly antisocial.

And since this state of affairs lasted for some years, I am going to give it a rest.  After all, even though misery may love company (although I personally find company more boring than misery), the less written about it, the better.  After all, all you do have your own problems, and if I tell you too many of mine, you might be tempted to tell me some of yours.  And that wouldn’t be good for my happiness.  After all, I am still not Oprah Winfrey.

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