Sinister: Please forgive me, I know not what I do, Please forgive me, I can't stop loving you - Bryan Adams.

[Ruvi Simmons]

I have, since last writing, been accumulating, hoarding like a tired,
shivering squirrel, subject matter to include in this epistle. I would like
to declare, conclusively and without doubt, that it is going to be profound,
but I fear I would be lying. I suppose I could write about the state of
modern art, the vacuity of social interactions, or any number of other
subjects that have recently been pressing on my mind, but I am not inclined
to do so in the depths of this particular night, which is, to me, like a
rather pleasant womb of tranquility, when I can reside safe in the knowledge
that, all around me, watching, unkind eyes are slumbering with the
peacefulness of the thoughtless.

What I am inclined to write about, however, is pornography. More
specifically, just to assure any blushing virgins who may read that dread
word that I am not going to be particularly smutty, I want to write about
phone sex ads. I was flicking through a copy of Time Out earlier in the week
when I came to the Classified section. Now, I may well be remembering things
through the wistful, rose-tinted glasses of nostalgia, but I recall there
was time when phone sex ads were really rather brilliant, or at least they
were to a young boy such as I once was. They used to contain a girl in
startlingly few clothes and a wonderful, unforgettable epithet such as (and
here I am partly working from memory, partly from imagination) "I'm moist
and waiting for you" or, even more superbly, "I've just wet myself". Imagine
the effect this had on a pre-pubescent boy! They were shocking, bewildering,
and utterly fantastic. I used to gaze in wonder at these adverts, which
could be found in virtually any magazine, hoarding their shameless
proclamations in the murkier depths of my mind. Going back to the Time Out
Classified section however and, probably thankfully, away from my dubious
recollections, things have changed. Girls recline listlessly in hot pants
and lycra tops looking like they've just staggered out of a club in Romford,
or flash a vacuous smile, and alongside are such boring pieces of text as,
"A little bit of what you fancy does you good", and "Pull the hottest girls
online now!". What happened? Where are the phone numbers registered to
Guyana? I realise that in a world of loss this one is probably very minor
but, nevertheless, I mourn for the demise of the truly smutty phone sex
lines of which I was once an avowed connoiseur. And, perhaps, in its own
way, it is symbolic of something greater.

I have thought about how I may go about following up such a paragraph. I
would like you all to know that I would dearly love to atone in some way,
both for the above and the appaling subject line, but I think it beyond me
at the moment. I considered adding in a little poetry at the end, just to
elevate the tone, but I don't think that would be particularly fair the poet
I chose. The poor, dead wretch would have to endure the shame of his work
being placed alongside a meditation on phone sex; it would be profoundly
unfair. So I leave things rest, which is something I probably should have
done before embarking.

Ruvi.






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