A desperate plea for a mercy fuck, this George Michael’s magnum opus cleverly mixes Biblical references, Sigmund Freud, Conrad Lorenz and the author’s past/present/future timeline. Ladies and gentlemen, nothing ever written even approaches the realistic/poetic depiction of one really, really wanna shoot his load. This in itself qualifies this work as the first entry in a new section of this blog: Poetry.
Instead of starting with the individual and proceeding to the universal, the author starts by stating four fundamental truths:
1. “There’s things that you know and things that you don’t”.That reminds one of the Donald Rumsfeld’s theorem: ” there are things we know we know, there are things we know we do not know, there are things we know we do not know and there are things we do not know we do not know”. Poetry, however, allows the author not to beat around the G.W. Bush, which leads one to conclude George Michael would have been a great State Secretary. Or that Donald Rumsfeld could have been a pop singer. Pick one.
2. “There are boys you can trust and girls that you don’t”. You know, girls. Necessary evil.
3. “There’s little things you hide and little things you show”, an auspicious line for what will happen in that toilet a few years down the line.
4. “Sometimes you think you gonna get it, but you don’t and that’s just the way it goes”. The author obviously tried his luck in the park on a rainy day.
After such an amount of timeless wisdom, the poem could stop there and stay in the pantheon of philosophical musing. But wait. Now it’s getting personal.
The author in the next verse expresses his difficulty to keep it all inside, starting with “I swear I won’t tease you”, which is quite a given considering he sounds like a man just out of a ten year prison sentence, and ending with the edging “Every man’s has his patience and here’s where mine ends”.
The chorus then tersely states the obvious: the man wants pussy. One presumes. Surely he must have had plenty of cock in prison? But wait, the author does not only want the sex of the ungendered person he refers to, he wants this person whole: “I want your sex, I want you, I want your sex” goes the chorus, which brings one’s literary scholar to ask oneself “Is the author considering sex like a gateway to another person’s soul, or is he reducing this person to mere genitalia?”. “I don’t need no bible, just look in my eyes” he adds. Sexy. Wanna fuck a Giddeon, anyone?
Second verse accustomes us with the author’s inner life. “Why don’t you just let me go?” he asks, maliciously omiting the key word “off”. This is the work of a true master of his craft at the peak of his creative power. Edging, again. Then goes the guilt trip “When you gonna tell me you regret it, then I feel that I love you but you still say no” says the author to the generic entity he’s speaking to.
The poet then adds information: “I’ve waiting so long baby, out in the cold”. He haven’t the code and this is winter. This is truly crual from that ungendered bitch. Desperate as he is to score tonight, George Michael, poet laureate, tries another angle: “I want your sex, I want your love, I want your sex”, he shouts in the intercom. To no avail. He said the magic word, come on! The guy is not only a freezing pair of balls without a cellphone, he wants luv!
Considering the ungendered person does not respond, the author builds a case based on reasons why he’s entitled to empty his balls. His case is biased:
1. “It”s natural”, he states. Darwin does not spin in his grave. OK.
2. “It’s chemical (let’s do it). Ahem. If it’s chemical, why would one need marketing, considering the origin of the species and shit?
3. “It’s logical”. Is one the only one to find this unsexy? It’s not exactly as if we had to repopulate the Earth on our own, hon. You just wanna fuck.
4. “Habitual”: who are you, a serial fucker creep?
5. “It”s sensual”: the author pleads. Of couse it should be sensual, but he then reverts to biblical style, strongly affirming “Sex is something that we should do (one is amused he modernises the Gospel’s “Sex is something that we shalt do). Sex has now become an imperative, which is about to become specific: “Sex is something for me and you”.
Now let’s all take a moment, should we? There is no dispute on the fact than Mr Michael is a sex God, but this is where the author transforms this particular work from empathetic manifesto to sexual losers everywhere to an infinitely more intimate piece. Surely is not to copyright sex? Because this is no vanity piece: he did it for all of us. Think Pasteur with an erection.
“Sex is natural, sex is good, not everybody does it but everybody should”, he establishes for the generations to come.The author means business. Your family, everybody at work, the ugly woman at the post office, they all should have sex because it’s natural and good. Hell, the IMF Secretary General and the Pope too. Calm down, Christine, not necessarily together.
“Sex is fun”, the author adds, and in the second most dramatic moment of the piece, he pronounces “Sex is better…one on one”, conveniently evacuating all the times it was sunny at the park.
The author suddenly realises he forgot to announce himself: what if the ungendered person up the intercom, was unaware he’s George Michael, God of Sex, and mistook in for a family member? He therefore confirms:
1. “I’m not your father”: this surely comes as a relief upstairs. Anyone has reservations about the idea of one’s father shouting “I want your sex” in the intercom, especially if Mom is out for groceries.
2. “I’m not your brother”: well, two down, then who can it be masturbating in the intercom?
3. “Talk to your sister, I am a lover”: endless possibilities open here. Did the author have more luck last time and the ungendered person’s sister being more charitable, she let him up and let the author have her sex? How many names did he try on the intercom before this one? Could the ungendered person upstairs be a scared 8 year old boy, who overheard at the breakfast table, over pancakes, that the author was the God of Sex, by his 12 year old sister?
A lot more academic work should be devoted to answer those questions but unfortunately this is too late for now: “C-c-c-c-come on”, he urges into the intercom, feeling deep inside him than his endurance has reached his limit.
Unable to mix sex and love anymore, the author reverts to dirty talk during his escalade to ejaculation. Countless works have been devoted to love, sex, and frustration, but few have conveyed so well this complex mix of feeling and obscenity: “What’s your definition of dirty baby, What do you consider pornography”, he unwittingly asks, maddened by freely flowing testosterone. Well aware he’s compromising his chances to ever go up the building, he rephrases “Don’t you know I love you till it hurts baby”, but it’s too late. “Don’t you think it’s time to have sex with me”, he screams orgasmically in the intercom.
The author pants and pull up his pants. “C-c-c-c-come on” he deplores, wiping himself in the dark, inhospitable street. He will try his luck with another building tomorrow. Or maybe the sister will be there? One is left hanging out in the cold, like the author himself. We all have been there, done that, right? Right?