The verge of pleasurable disgust

No care for the body

Overheard as I wended my way to the beach through the Maspalomas dunes, he said, “Is that a man or a woman?”, “Maybe a man,” came the response and then the conclusion, “He looks like a very fat woman.”

This is not to be disparaging, but in general men and women are not taking any care of themselves anymore, it is not a case of if you’ve got it, flaunt it; but one of whatever you have just let it droop.

It is more than an eyesore, the possible David of Michelangelo that walked the dunes is now cloaked in layers and layers of lipidinous (An adjective of lipid, if I could be excused this licence) excess, bloated and drooping almost to the ground.

Sharing the unwanted

The dunes are some sort of nudist reserve where ones reserve is taunted to the unacceptable that one is on the verge of being sick.

Halfway down, there was one man who appeared to take some care of himself and was in full view spanking the macaque; monkey would be have been overly generous, as one resisted the tendency to be indecent he beckoned as it were for one to offer a service to his lady.

Just as a wave of charitable concern was about to engulf me to allow for becoming a eunuch so that I could be castrated to help this man, I realised that even if I were Tarzan I would never be a swinger if I could help it – the revulsion of the thought allowed me to close my eyes 5 metres to the scene and close my ears to the giggling as I paced 5 metres after.

Give me oxygen

The thought crossed my mind of protuberances cosmetically enhanced by donations from Africa but what would the pleasured do with an amalgam of ebony and ivory all for the sake of the climax they once knew.

Suffer me no more the decadence of men but what people get up to on holiday leaves one completely astonished.

Back hand to the brow of a head tilted backwards, I sigh and beckon for a dose of pure oxygen.