Do I want to fuck her?

That was quite a day. I almost forgot I had to attend a lesson at university. Then I almost forgot someone had to do a presentation during that lesson. And I also almost forgot it was the blonde Milena who was doing the presentation.

It's ten past two when I arrive in the classroom, and she has already started. She wears a grey dress, black skin-tights and yellow heels. I sit on the nearest chair and I realize she also wears a necklace, a watch and a bracelet. She's tall, she's blonde, she's from Poland and she speaks to us about Christian Dior's communication policy.
She uses Powerpoint to back her speaking. Grey slides follow one another and I can't take my eyes off her. The way she says "python bag" and "crocodile skin" is cold and sexy. She got her hair streaked and it definitely suits her. I really want to fuck her at this precise moment.

But then she doesn't look at me when she hands me the company's catalogue. A real step backwards. Even the price booklet smells like Christian Dior's Midnight Poison, and I feel I'm about to commit a crime. The crisis passes on and her voice tames me once again.
"You've probably heard of John Galliano and Kriss von Asche, she says. They both worked for Christian Dior." I don't want to hear that shit, it makes me ashamed to be myself. Plus she really sounds posh when she says that and I'm scared of posh girls.

"We import stuff from Milan, Berlin and also from Dubai", she adds. "Would you go there with me?", I ask her silently. Probably if I was John fucking Galliano. Fame and money, that's all you care for, isn't it, bitch? I keep all that for myself and she moves on to another topic. "The company offers cocktails and gives private parties, she says. All the staff is welcome to join. It's important to make the employees feel like they're part of a team." So she's really posh, then. I can visualize her strinding along the 2nd floor of some parisian private hotel, holding a glass of champagne and ignoring the guys who stare at her. I don't want to fuck her anymore.

The presentation comes to and end. She gives us a last piece of information. "Did you know Christian Dior invented the scissors for left-handers?" Mr Teacher knew. We didn't. We were too obsessed by her to really listen to anything she said. When it's all finished, Mr Teacher claps his hands and invites us to do the same.
Then he asks us if we have something to ask. I raise my hand and say: "Sorry, Milena, I'm afraid my question is totally irrelevant. But can I still ask it?"
She looks embarrased. Everybody stares at me. But she gives me her permission, and so I ask: "Do I want to fuck you?"

I looked at you

"I looked at you, you looked at me. I smiled at you, you smiled at me." Who said it was all bleak in Jim Morrison's elegiac world? Between two lines of cocain, the guy always found time to write a song or tag his name on a girl's ass.
But Jim's agenda cannot be seen as a school model. For most of us underachieving idiots, the New Year's eve party song would rather go like "I looked at her, she looked at him. I followed her, She slept with him." So what's the problem here and what are the solutions?

The problem here is that you are at Stephen Philips' party, you're drunk and thirsty for love but the targets are so many you can't fix yourself on one. And just when you think you found the right girl, she takes the hand of someone else and goes with him in the upstairs bathroom.
You're not Jim Morrison, so you can't throw your glass of whisky at her face and say "I'm gonna drink you now". You're not Bret Easton Ellis, so you can't simply walk to her and say: "Hey, I've got 543 friends waiting for me in a villa near the seaside, do you want to join?" You have to come with something else.

First tip: try reversing the lyrics. Things would be easier if it were like "She looked at me, I noticed her". Human beings are no different from other mammals: the female gives the first push (most of the time a non verbal one) and the male rushes in.
So stop striding along the rooms with a glass in your hand, and give a look around, chasing information, watching out for a sign. Unless you look like Michael from the Cherry Tree, some girl will have spotted you. But standing still is the key to get a proper view.

Second tip: don't put yourself under too much stress. It's scientifically proved that the woman knows after 3 seconds whether she finds you attractive enough to consider a body connection. All the bullshit you will say is a mere socializer. So spit it out but don't rely too much on it. As they like to put it, "it's not what he says, it's the way he says it."

Third tip: leave her alone at some part, and come back later. Competition is the name of the game. Girls usually don't like being cornered for too long. Unlike us, they like dancing, chatting and readjusting their hair in front of the mirror. Don't block the way between her and the rest of the world. The time she'll spend on her own is probably as fruitful - even more - than the time you spent chatting her up.

Fourth tip: don't go to the bathroom to jerk off. It's tantalizing to do that, to unleash the devil and get your mind back. But the devil inside you is what you need here. An apparent erection looks terrible to us, and it certainly brings us back to what we really are, but all signs of mating are welcome.

Here you are, folks. Enjoy your meal the next time you party at Stephen Philips' place, and try to tag some ass during the night. You probably won't meet me there, since I will be surfing on http://www.city-of-brides.com/profiles/ukrainian-girls/ to find a girl for my father. But bring me back a pants or two to show me your good work.

There's something about Laurence

I like Laurence. She's my friend. She's really really nice but above all, she's open-minded. She never judges anybody, or anything, unless she's dead sure the judgment is safe, and that's if 98.7% of the world population said it was. To make it short, she's the opposite of a snobbish person.

Sometimes on saturday afternoon we take a walk in the Montsouris public park. She holds my harm, I let her do so and I point my finger here and there at some nightingale singing in a tree. She finds it cute. And so the two of us walk and talk about things.

"Sandra took me to this rap concert, I say. I don't like rap all right. But this band really sucked."
"You can't say that, she replies. I'm sure people in the audience liked it, plus I think that every form of art deserves credit."

We get by the river and linger on the bridge. I look at her and say: "Michel's been nasty to Elise. He cheats on her every friday night. And he beats her up as well."
She gives a yawn and answers: "People shouldn't be too harsh on him. He must have some personal problems and that's the reason why he does that. We never really know what's going on behind the doors, do we?"

We lay for a while on the grass. Children play football around us. Shady ideas cross my mind. "I wonder whether islamist terrorists are real muslims, cos' if it's so, that's really scary." She gives me one of her funny looks and says: "We should read the Coran. Maybe we would understand better about them."

We reach the exit gate and step in the avenue. "I can't understand a god damned thing about modern art. It's like this Pierre Soulages guy. 200 paintings colored in black and white. No shapes. No variation. Can you imagine that?"
"Come on, Pierre, she replies. How many modern art exhibitions have you been to? It takes time to appreciate it."

We beg eachother goodbye in front of the bus stop. We get along so fine it's a mistery we never kissed. I add a final word: "By the way I changed my window shades. You know, the orange ones. I replaced them with blue ones." She stares at me angrily and says: "How could you possibly do that? It doesn't suit your apartment at all. Blue goes with white, don't you know that?"

I didn't know that, no. But I know there is something about Laurence...

Sex and exploration

I will come here with the first serious new theory of the 21th century: you can't know a girl unless you fucked her.

You can fuck a girl and still not know her, but it is nevertheless a prerequisite. All that will or has been said against it is irrelevant, and can from now on be classified along with the other eunuch fantasies such as platonic love and lustless friendship. All this nonsense has been invented by girls who, out of remorse, wanted to help guys they didn't fancy to get over their disappointment. It's been taken over by overshy or overugly chaps who never could get their hand on a girl and still wanted to have their say on the matter.

But the time has come to face the truth. Your ex-girlfriends and your current one are the only females you really know. Your mother will always be mystery to you and only your father can give you clues to understand why she drinks whisky after work or cries in front of a dead dog. The case of your sister is no different, and you just have to focuse on feeding the sexual repression process to keep yourself out of trouble.

Just consider the true meaning of the syntagm "Women I've known" (like when your father tells you: "out of all the women I've known, your mother is the worse in bed"). The verb "to know" here is only commutable with the verb "to fuck". But it's even more subtle than that. "To know" in this context includes the whole process of exploration, which necessarily contains (but is not limited to) the "fuck" part.

Philosophy, as often, offers a back-up to linguistics. The concept of intimacy rests on the non-separability of the human being who is at all times body and soul. Michel Foucault reminds us in his masterpiece "Surveiller et punir" that torture in the Middle-age, and long after that, aimed at purging the soul by inflicting pain to the body.
The body is a tunnel that leads to the soul and there are no spiritual experiences which aren't based on softing (or hardening) the bony part of yourself to make way for the immaterial. Whether it is silence or starvation, reclusion or mass-gathering, all religions set down-to-the-ground rules to make the magic happen.

The exploration of woman is no different from the quest for God: it's beautiful and vain, and it implies a bidimensional approach.

Living on the edge: Kettering, England

If you travel to Europe, don't ever go to England. Everybody knows why. And if you travel to England, don't ever go to Kettering. I'm pretty sure not everyone knows why. Well, here is why:

This town of the East Midlands was once the capital of shoes manufacturing. Winston Churchill got his shoes from a Kettering store. It's now the capital of binge drinking, pissing on the street and slaying as many folks from Corby in one night as possible. What is Corby? Another crap town of the East Midlands. In fact there are so many crap towns around that you wonder whether it's a joke.

First thing: people there are even more racist than I am. You just have to speak with a slight accent and you're seen as some Polish scum ass looking for his dog. If you're Indian, keep in your off-licence store and don't go out at nightfall; stand behind your till, serve them drinks and cigarettes and don't forget to say cheers. The white zombies like violence and politeness as well. If you're black, make sure you're 10 feet tall and even then, always carry a gun with you.

Next thing: girls are violent. They ran out of control a decade ago after the virus was spread and cannot be stopped by any means but one: alcoholic coma. As soon as they start drinking, girls there live in a world of their own. They wear mini skirts in january, vomit in the streets all year long, bark at taxi drivers who won't take them in, boys who want to screw them, boys who don't want to screw them, police officers etc... Some have been seen assaulting guys with their fists and stiletto heels. A real nightmare.

Third thing: kids are mad. All of them. They probably would outclass my own father in a fast drinking contest and my father isn't exactly a quaker. And when it comes to verbal abuse, the local thugs know so many words they could edit a dictionnary. I learned English there. I really did.

So here it is: the crappiest place on earth. Ugly food and ugly people, all white trash addicted to chaos waiting for the Stranger to show himself and get beaten to death. I definitely suspect this place to be an object of experimentation by the british government. If it isn't, please terrorists crash a few planes on it.