my hips lie
without wishing to dry my knickers on your collective radiator, gentle readers, i'm afraid it's confession time again.
yeah, so i'm a prick tease. (no, there's no such thing as a clit tease. is there a fist tease? no. i'm talking about the philosophic vulnerability of erection. blood on the bone. it's specific, ok? bi five you later).
one thing i wish more men got: wanting to make out is not the same as wanting to fuck. and you bet if i think it'll make the make out funner, i'll moan in your mouth and roll all over you on the couch. go ahead and talk me into letting you stay. i'll talk you to sleep and then happily wriggle my bum against your morning wood (oh spoonicorn, how heartbreakingly unmythical your requirements are), scamper to the bathroom and get off in the shower. sorry and all. i'd try to muster some shame for all of you concerned that i make mankind just a touch more likely to rape cats on the way home, but those sluts can take care of themselves. cat penises have little barbs in them, you know. it's a hard knock life.
besides, i've recently seen the other side of my brazenly uncompromising coin, and it's as immodest as it is corrupt. 'my hips don't lie' is the most recent output from shakira, featuring wyclef, or wyclef, featuring shakira, i can't figure which. this is a marriage of equals. not one time is wyclef's trademark incomprehensible gurgle outstripped by shakira's mournful larry the lamb (complete with overdone shanks). the video, during which our heroes wander about in what are clearly two entirely different depressingly badly-dressed warehouses, looking for one another and instead finding 1) a child in a mask and 2) some pink sheets, is also less than illuminating, but it's the song's thesis that truly grates.
'ooh baby, when you talk like that', bleats shakira, waving her arms about and humping a chair, 'you make a woman go mad. so be wise, and keep on reading the signs of my body.' 'don't fight it, don't fight it', an enthusiastic clef advises his lady love, before mugging to camera a brief linguaphone course for date rapists: 'i never really knew that she could move like this. it makes a man want to speak spanish. como se llama, bonita? mi casa, su casa, shakira, shakira'. truly, the paraclausithuron is alive and well. shit, that door is wedged wide open anyway, and that's how shakira seems to like it, if, as she states, her increasingly frenzied hips are anything to go by. stoically ignoring attempts at interruption by a child in a mask, she tells her suitor she's aware of the movement of his body, 'half animal, half man,' (possibly my least favourite moment in pop culture since Mother Knowles designed those artfully ripped jungle bikinis for destiny's child). 'i don't really know what i'm doing, but you seem to have a plan', she continues cheerfully. at this point i'm thinking that poor kid in the mask may be played by the ghost of andrea dworkin.
all together now: 'ooooh, i'm on tonight, you know my hips don't lie and i'm starting to feel it's right.' i can't even remember the rest. something about having an infection, or giving your dad an erection, or something. slore. but rilly, you guys. you guys. come on. my hips don't fucking LIE? this is bullshit! and i don't want to hear about subtlety or bodily tropes or disingenuity. there are enough of us stubborn, honest prick teases out there that you should know by now where you stand. despite low slung jeans, affection, despite even enthusiastic kissing, despite all the spanglish you can chew, despite waving arms, humping chairs, whatever, you may go home unsatisfied while i happily and guiltlessly masturbate in my bathroom. that is just how it is, mr jean. i'm sorry.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xAbNWNn5DuE&search=wyclef%20shakira
yeah, so i'm a prick tease. (no, there's no such thing as a clit tease. is there a fist tease? no. i'm talking about the philosophic vulnerability of erection. blood on the bone. it's specific, ok? bi five you later).
one thing i wish more men got: wanting to make out is not the same as wanting to fuck. and you bet if i think it'll make the make out funner, i'll moan in your mouth and roll all over you on the couch. go ahead and talk me into letting you stay. i'll talk you to sleep and then happily wriggle my bum against your morning wood (oh spoonicorn, how heartbreakingly unmythical your requirements are), scamper to the bathroom and get off in the shower. sorry and all. i'd try to muster some shame for all of you concerned that i make mankind just a touch more likely to rape cats on the way home, but those sluts can take care of themselves. cat penises have little barbs in them, you know. it's a hard knock life.
besides, i've recently seen the other side of my brazenly uncompromising coin, and it's as immodest as it is corrupt. 'my hips don't lie' is the most recent output from shakira, featuring wyclef, or wyclef, featuring shakira, i can't figure which. this is a marriage of equals. not one time is wyclef's trademark incomprehensible gurgle outstripped by shakira's mournful larry the lamb (complete with overdone shanks). the video, during which our heroes wander about in what are clearly two entirely different depressingly badly-dressed warehouses, looking for one another and instead finding 1) a child in a mask and 2) some pink sheets, is also less than illuminating, but it's the song's thesis that truly grates.
'ooh baby, when you talk like that', bleats shakira, waving her arms about and humping a chair, 'you make a woman go mad. so be wise, and keep on reading the signs of my body.' 'don't fight it, don't fight it', an enthusiastic clef advises his lady love, before mugging to camera a brief linguaphone course for date rapists: 'i never really knew that she could move like this. it makes a man want to speak spanish. como se llama, bonita? mi casa, su casa, shakira, shakira'. truly, the paraclausithuron is alive and well. shit, that door is wedged wide open anyway, and that's how shakira seems to like it, if, as she states, her increasingly frenzied hips are anything to go by. stoically ignoring attempts at interruption by a child in a mask, she tells her suitor she's aware of the movement of his body, 'half animal, half man,' (possibly my least favourite moment in pop culture since Mother Knowles designed those artfully ripped jungle bikinis for destiny's child). 'i don't really know what i'm doing, but you seem to have a plan', she continues cheerfully. at this point i'm thinking that poor kid in the mask may be played by the ghost of andrea dworkin.
all together now: 'ooooh, i'm on tonight, you know my hips don't lie and i'm starting to feel it's right.' i can't even remember the rest. something about having an infection, or giving your dad an erection, or something. slore. but rilly, you guys. you guys. come on. my hips don't fucking LIE? this is bullshit! and i don't want to hear about subtlety or bodily tropes or disingenuity. there are enough of us stubborn, honest prick teases out there that you should know by now where you stand. despite low slung jeans, affection, despite even enthusiastic kissing, despite all the spanglish you can chew, despite waving arms, humping chairs, whatever, you may go home unsatisfied while i happily and guiltlessly masturbate in my bathroom. that is just how it is, mr jean. i'm sorry.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xAbNWNn5DuE&search=wyclef%20shakira
posted by white hotel | 8:45 pm
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