sexual boredom

People seem to be searching for the weirdest things on Google. For instance, while I was trying to find out what the hell a 'Google Keyword Tool' is (You think it's self-explanatory? Yeah, just shut up.) , this said tool asked to enter a name descriptive of my webpage. Honestly, I wouldn't know how to describe it - I mean, it's neither necessary nor is it anything at all, it just is - and for want of ideas I thus typed in 'boredom'. I was offered, as a 'more specific keyword' everything ranging from 'philosophy of boredom' via 'boredom depression', 'boredom lyrics' (By the way, I know someone who writes these and seems to be serious about it. Hi Jim!), and 'beyond boredom' over to 'sexual boredom'. And now I cannot decide which would be most descriptive. The tool also named 'coworkers' and 'hate job' as search terms frequently combined with boredom. How does boredom fit in there? And should I file this thing here under 'sexual boredom'?

As far as I can see (Which is about 30 metres in all directions and even includes a tiny bit of sky), the sky is clear, the sun is shining, the air is ghastly hot, and yet rain has been falling up until three minutes ago and fierce thunder's still roaring - right above our house! We're an attraction now, we have a mini-thunderstorm. Huh - wait... Maybe I am the weather god. Yes! On thine knees, thou art not worthy of mine. Anyway.

Sexual boredom. I am tempted to say that I am totally unfamiliar with this phenomenon, but then again I'm too much of a liar already, so maybe honesty should be today's currency. I have been acquainted with sexual boredom of all kinds many times before.

I take it that many women are well aware of the existence of 'the generic/automatic fucker', thus termed not for his expertise in the field of love-making, but rather because of his firmly established routine that is not to be disrupted at any costs. Needless to say that this leads to rather unexciting moments, the fervour of which is one-side (meaning: from his side) since he is the one utterly convinced of his between-the-sheets qualities. Moreover, he is unable to bear (even the most constructive) criticism (“Honey, for a start, how about an ‘ah’ instead of ‘uh’? I always feel like I got lost in the rain-forest when you do that…”), which usually leaves his better half with a 'love him or leave him' attitude. Most of the girls I knew opted for the latter.

Then, there are those who are literally too stupid to fuck. Literally.too.stupid. It is not their fault, I guess, they are probably but a run-out model of nature - one of evolution's less successful sidesteps. I had the doubtful pleasure of having one of these specimens as my first 'real' boyfriend. Suffice it to say that my imagination and the actual (non)realisation of the act were worlds apart. In fact, after a while I thankfully preferred watching mind-numbing sit-coms instead of indulging in those other, equally mind-numbing activities. I didn't take it to heart, back then, for I thought that was the rule rather than the famous exception - it took me three years to find out I was wrong.

At the age of twenty-one, finally, I discovered that sex needn't be either something done by the book or not done at all. However, I had to put up with another problem: a male with something that might be called a rather strong cycle. Unfortunately, his is not in synch with mine, so that leaves us with about one week of the month in which ... well, you know. Anyway, that is not the worst, yet. My question is going out to all males here: Do you guys wash? I mean, thoroughly... every day? With soap and stuff like that? Because if you do, could you please drop by and convince my significant other that it really doesn't hurt or steal too much his precious time?

In my humble opinion, there are no better means to foster sexual boredom than neglecting personal hygiene. It's so nice to smell a freshly-washed, clean shaven young man. Unfortunately, in particular the young do not seem to take this soap-business all too seriously. Honestly, washing oneself is simply not optional when in a relationship - unless you have fetish for pulled-up sheets and lying back-to-face. Same goes for brushing one’s teeth.

I'm sure there are more archetypes of the human incarnation of sexual boredom, though I have to say I luckily never ran into one. And - that much I have learnt by now - if I ever do, I will make a point in running on as fast as possible, as far as possible. Because, honestly, it is simply not worth putting up with that. Probably the same goes for women, but my experiences there are next-to-nonexistent. I be excused.

So. I, the weather god have spoken. No unwashed younglings for me. No unwashed anyone for me, please. And stop the frigging rain, all the flies are seeking asylum in my room. Amen.

the remains of those days

Sitting in my new, my very own room, I admire the cornflower-blue wall in front of my desk. It is my very own blue wall. I love it. In fact, I admire the whole room. Its old art-deco cupboards, the shelves full of English books, the large desk with so much space to write and scribble on, my new bed. I do nothing but admiring my room while listening to Kerrang 105.2 on the internet to feed the mixture between homesickness and its antonym - it feels strange to be 'back' and away at the same time. Although I love this room, and even though the flat and my flat mates are nice enough, I don't feel at home at all.

Anyway, I've got a brand-new room with brand-new furniture. Why is that? Well, I spent the first month in Dresden looking for this room, and then I had to wait another month until I could move in. In the meantime, my father died. Just like that, he just died. Nothing spectacular, nothing unexpected, nothing dramatic. He is just gone. And that is what scares me most.

(June, 21st. The longest day of the year: bright and sunny, the sky a perfect picture - kitsch - steel blue and still clouds. Green meadows, golden fields, forests and the silvery rails. A perfect day, soft breeze, calm. The longest day of the year. His world stopped turning, his sun set at 9:41 am. The shortest of days for my father. Why is it that death seemed further away than ever before - everything was peaceful, serene. The country looked as if it had just opened its eyes, woken from a dead and dreamless sleep. The sheer beauty overwhelmed me as I sat by the window and thought of what he would look like - pale, shrunken, asleep perhaps? I've seen dead people before. Still, it felt strange to think of him being one of them. The sun shone relentlessly all day, same as the day after. The cool of the morgue seemed unreal, the neon lights and muffled sounds inside framed what would have made a model for a surrealist painting: The metallic walls, the tiled floor, the aluminium stand on which there was a wooden box laid out with white sheets. The dimensions didn't seem in place, the walls appeared to bend. In the box, the centre of everything in this weirdest of rooms, my father. Rosy cheeks, his beard dark once again, a few bruises from the machines and autopsy. I had hoped we would enter the room separately, each having the chance to take their time and say good-bye. But they all went in together, me following meekly, trailing behind. I stayed as they all left, wanted to say a few last words, but I could feel them waiting for me. I didn't dare touch him for fear someone might notice. I found myself incapable of phrasing those words I had mulled over on the train. I still do. Even at the funeral, which was yesterday.)

So, I inherited some of his belongings - mostly books and those afore-mentioned art-deco cupboards that my siblings didn't take. I cherish the books - we shared our passion for England and the English language. So, I found myself the owner of some really old furniture. Then, me and my boyfriend went to Oschatz - a small-town somewhere in the middle of Saxony - to pick up my stuff which I had left there in an unoccupied building for the time I spent in the UK. We went downstairs to the cell where my things had been stored. A cell, yes. It was a former StaSi-building - you know, the StaSi, those guys in the GDR who spent their time observing unblemished civilians for fear they might secretly show 'corroding tendencies' (strange translations for strange phenomena) - and they held those to be interrogated in these small cells in the cellar. In one of them were my belongings: study material, furniture, a fridge, an oven, most of my clothes and my mattresses. Much to my dismay, I found that it had all gone mouldy. Bugger me! I’d never seen the likes. Long braids of lichen and mould were hanging from racks and boxes. The stench was almost unbearable. I did what I could to save at least my books and my study material, and just left the furniture and everything that was beyond cleaning right where it was.

Then to IKEA it was, where I bought shelves and a bed and in general and as usual a lot more than I had intended to buy not to mention needed. My savings have been magically multiplied by the factor 0.5, and me - I'm having a brand-new room and I'm stuck in a country which no longer feels like I could the rest of my life in it. Someone please help me obtain my degree as soon as possible, I need to get out of here.

I spend my time doing nothing. I hang around. Wait for the time to pass, again. Probably, I should prepare for my courses, which, by the way, won't start until October. I'm so out of it, and I have no motivation or intention whatsoever to do anything that others would deem sensible. I doubt sense and equally objectified feelings - they just cannot be trusted. I feel manipulated. Each and everyone is talking 'sensible' right now, and all they want is me being satisfied with what I've got and preferably doing my studies in no time so they don't have to pay for me anymore (which they don't, anyway) or get their share of the inheritance. Bless y’all, dearest of all families.