My Date With Tom….. Hardy

I fret all day about what to wear, which is only exacerbated by my general physical malaise.

Is turquoise still a desirable hue this summer? Do sequins still accentuate my bootleg jeans in a tasteful, yet undeniably suggestive manner? Have my thighs become the unwitting victims of afternoons on the couch with Ellen, Oprah, Maury et al?

These are the questions that haunt me throughout an already fraught day, culminating ultimately in tears cascading down my rouge cheeks, terminating upon my loafers as I rock gently on the latrine. A gentle breeze slithers between the window and its frame, caressing my glistening brow; I know peace.

Stimulants are avoided like the coagulant plague they surely are, lest my bladder becomes a foundry of broken dreams and my pores a gelatinous sieve. Electrolyte-Gasms and Vita-Fests shriek at me from shelves and vending machines as I ghost past; solidarity becomes me in the face of such a treat that is Tom…. Hardy.

Dusk descends on all I know. I bathe slowly, allowing the billowing water to course from my eager lips onto every sinew – a gentle mist hangs in the loft, crowning the desire to be both alluring and yet aloof.

Flattering attire is at a premium, however after much preening and the letting of approximately 43 millilitres of velvet anguish, I decree that a powder-blue skivvy, allied to cream corduroy slacks will be my vehicle; the clean pastels balancing delicately abreast an otherwise formless figure. Italian leather adorns my feet, the soles a bracing force amidst the levity of the situation.

19:32 – the urgency radiates unto me from the fabricated precipice of but one global conglomerates’ trinket. A mere 28 minutes separates me from this ethereal being, this Tom…. Hardy.

I meet my reflection once more, fastidiously searching for any unwieldy blemishes and applying an extra layer of imitation cologne with which to mask both my desperation and insecurity. My hair glistens anew, the pronounced part acting as a conduit between the playfulness of the right and the staid calm of the left.

19:58 – the rapping of knuckles upon my door, a rhythmic pulse.

One more furtive glance into the mirror reveals eyes brimming with anxiety, and yet simultaneously sweltering with the thrill that lies just beyond the keyhole. A swagger materialises from a place unknown, and suddenly he is there.

The pale glow of a distant moon in conjunction with the filament of decades long-gone reveals the muscular presence that has graced many departures from reality; a gentle fragrance speaks to me in tongues previously unheard. The gentle, yet definite timbre of a man enraptures me; it is time.

A hint of light-stubble accentuates what I hope to be the first of many embraces; a kiss most delicious nestles upon my swooning cheek and suddenly I find myself riding shotgun in the cockpit of a cultured Western-European saloon.

Positive tension hangs in the cool night air as we waft towards our destination – a quaint, yet elaborate Somali restaurant on the outskirts of this suburban enclave. Talk of current weather progressively evolves into anecdotes of working life and meal-preferences for the evening, imbued with a sense of subverted longing.

We arrive at our destination already intoxicated by the simple economy of our being; the neon-livery of the facade illuminates the asphalt with a beautiful melancholy, which is at once at odds with the vibe, yet also provides a counterpoint to the flight-of-fancy I am so near to undertaking in the thrall of this Tom…. Hardy.

Refreshments are served, and finally I am able to take stock of this tremendous privilege I have been afforded. I examine the object of my desire: his hair a perfect tapestry of fine-breeding and incessant grooming; his jaw seemingly carved from a hybrid formation of fine-clay and limestone; the fullness of his lips serves as a potent reminder that his flesh transcends that of mere touch and sensation; a quiet menace whispers from his hulking torso, suggesting a lover of both tremendous strength and instinct. I remain fixated by the gunmetal of his eyes as he holds my gaze for what seems like an eternity, my defences now spayed.

Hot meats accompany seasonal vegetables, a plethora of grains are on hand to facilitate eclectic tastes. Another glass of Merlot passes our collective palates as talk shifts to his experiences as a boy; a happy childhood is shared, although flecks of sadness garnish snippets at times. A love of family is expressed with a smile that instantly disarms me, providing a platform for reflection that is met with empathy – a crease of understanding develops upon this most stunning of faces and I have inevitably plunged irretrievably into a love sought for so long, but that which seemed unlikely only hours ago.

A bridge is crossed, emotional shields have been discarded and I now find my right hand warmly enveloped in that of his left and hence time and space have lost all meaning. Our waiter for the evening – a lovely young man shorn of his wife and children for some time – produces a bill which suggests that it is time to depart.

The journey back is sombre – a formality after the raw honesty of the preceding hours, however a comforting solace emanates from my partner and once more my hand rests within his, the other prompting the steering wheel as we traverse the barren streets that earlier boasted the throng of the young and adventurous.

I cannot deny the passion that burns under the numerous folds of my being, his musk spicing that which I fear will remain unrequited. However disappointment becomes elation when we arrive at my abode; my tendons race as this gentleman escorts me to my door. This Tom…. Hardy.

The metallic symphony of my key piercing the lock is met with a look that induces rains over Northern Africa and I invite him inside.

Our lips meet almost instantly as the door clicks behind our raging bodies; the taste of his torrential mouth is a heady mixture of dark fruits and wanton fury. I am swept up in his colossal arms and whisked to the master bedroom.

The forgotten lamp in the corner still burns from 2 days ago, and illuminates the most devilish of bodies as he discards his shirt like an unwanted catalogue. Trousers, socks and underpants follow swiftly and reveal a whole that demands attention.

Words have failed, and lust is all that remains as my garments taste the rug that serves as a canvas for what will surely follow.

We make love.

Our union initially is that of two fierce panthers meeting in a jungle-clearing, sizing each other up and demanding combatant satiety from our most worthy adversary.

The taste of his neck and body overwhelms my senses, pheromones gallop wildly upon this field of carnality with no sign of abetting until one body lays prone and motionless, the collateral sacrifice of a passion so many would ignorantly decry yet welcome as the recipient were it thrust upon them.

Overpowered, I yield to his rippling mass and offer my posterior as fair game should this reach the crescendo it deserves. My mouth has known no rest, but still yearns for the divine smokiness of his rigid flesh.

The pain is sharp and instantaneous, inducing a mixed feeling of delight. Stretched to within an inch of sanity I feel his hot, moist breath tickling my inner-ear as sweat kisses my lower-back. A sauna develops within these four-walls, fuelled by Tom…. Hardy.

A mutual climax builds and materialises with tremendous force, sustained by the realisation that this is the greatest night of my life.

As I drift to sleep encapsulated within his seismic arms later in the evening, I am soothed by the hope that this could be the kaleidoscopic bloom of something beautiful.

The First, Last and Only Word on Breasts – A Tale of Love and Pendulousity (sic)

Breasts – not only the fleshy offshoots of thine being, but also a bolder statement about being not only a beast of the almighty (imagined and/or inscribed), but also a fully-functioning member of this typically perverse and yet ironically jaded society.

My own liaison with a bounty of thunderous breasts – a set to call my very own - began circa 2003 upon banishing any ideals of athleticism and indeed respectability, and thus leaping flange-first into a pit of long-projected loathing.

Little did this malnourished shell know that this would lead to a most peculiar and yet absorbing voyage into what was formerly unknown and even undesired, but that which now seems utterly essential.

To paraphrase one Tyler Durden, “self-improvement is masturbation; now self-destruction….”, and it is precisely at this point at which this humble and as-yet undiagnosed disease wishes to climb aboard with buttocks starboard, and more specifically thrust at 9 o’clock (AEST).

One cannot simply fathom at which point ones’ breasts truly sprout – not even the most neurotic of pubescent girls – however this is to be deemed a privilege, and not the flabby crucifix that so many hollow self-improvement magazines attempt to nail you to: for only $9.95 with a bonus calendar to record wistful scribbles of shit that will never be done nor even acknowledged ever again.

My own breast-ism was rather discharged upon me, albeit from behind a curtain of fried goods and glandular-abnormalities; yet this has been the very epicentre of self-content and the seed of immense pride. Indeed, without fanfare (at least from beyond the reflection) my breasts appeared and thus did the man nobody knew existed, nor asked for.

From the most chilling of winter evenings to the thorned precipice of sorrow, it is without one ounce of shame that I will attest that my milkshakes may indeed not bring all the boys to the yard – but this is not the domain of this flesh.

Indeed a breast is not merely affixed to an otherwise barren chest – but rather encrusted and hence entrusted unto an otherwise unadorned husk.

For real, it is all too easy to view be-pectoraled, slick young men traipsing about with their immaculate posture and willowy self- esteem as beacons to gyrate unto – but is this all you aspire to, young man?

Nothing but absolutely nothing fills an otherwise misguided sweat-shirt like the sculpted mass of joy that so many would quickly shun, but who have never spawned such sweet witchery , much less embraced the jiggling delight contained within. In fact, my very own breasts have brought me great comfort when the threat of weight-loss and scourge of the ignorant have simultaneously drawn near, and hence have jeopardised the very firmament of bespoken breasts and the contentment only they can provide.

I shall share this wisdom with you, breast-prodigy - for whether they are defined by the silken hair that adorns them, or simply the excellence of their perk, be sure to wear thine teats with the pride of a battle-tribe – and the ferocity that defines such things.

Should war, terminal-illness or famine be strewn across my seismic breasts like the crescendo of ill-begotten lust, I shall defy both the ravages of metabolism (lest my breast-matter detach and launch into my quivering aorta, fatally) and absurd wishes of do-gooders in order to retain that which has come to define me – and hopefully scores of other down-trodden men needlessly struggling with that which was gifted to warm by the fires of both the soul and rumpus-room, and that which should be revered in scriptures and enshrined in stone forever more.

Bare thine breasts with pride good man – seek not to suffocate their brilliance with bras nor augmentation, but rather sport them with the flair of the Caribbean.

Belief is nearly the battle in and of itself; may the sun never set upon your breasts, and may the breasts of tomorrow find their genesis in the nubs of today.