Harry_Rabbit
Really Experienced
- Joined
- Oct 17, 2002
- Posts
- 266
http://www.smh.com.au/articles/2003/02/13/1044927738266.html
I, the undesired, declare this National Casual Sex Day
February 14 2003
Valentine's Day is commercialised pap for the love-addled - and not just because I'm a bitter bunny-boiler, observes Georgia Lewis.
Oh God. It's upon us. Bloody Valentine's Day. Naturally, I think it is an overcommercialised load of codswallop where the only winners are florists, teddy bear manufacturers, dodgy lingerie stores and men who get laid on the strength of giving a crappy card, thus igniting greeting-card hormones in gullible women.
Of course, my views may be coloured by my terminally single status. It is hard to get all gooey about Valentine's Day after yet another year of personal debacles - a year which saw me dumped by both email and text message.
Tragically, I accepted an invitation to a work breakfast seminar scheduled for 7.15 today, confident that I wouldn't be cancelling at the last minute to grab an extra hour in bed with a fabulous new lover. Nope, I may as well get up and go to a goddamn seminar.
Despite this, I am not going to spend Valentine's Day wallowing in self-pity. I am not going to make myself nauseous reading the messages to Pooky-Wooky and Snuggle Bumkin that pollute today's paper.
A friend thought she might spend tonight covering herself in paper cuts and drowning in a vat of lemon juice in front of Meg Ryan videos. This is especially worrying, because she lives in Melbourne, where I thought the local lads were charming and sophisticated to compensate for the terrible weather and the stupid football code. But it is comforting to know that Sydney women don't have the monopoly on being bitter and twisted.
No, I propose that the single women of Sydney get out there and proudly disrupt this vile day rather than stay home with vodka and a vibrator. Fortunately, this Valentine's Day is a Friday, traditionally Casual Friday in many workplaces. I move that today be declared Casual Sex Friday instead. Hell, it's got to be more fun than witnessing suits attempt smart casual in a pair of nerdishly ironed chinos and a dorky polo shirt.
There are many ways to celebrate Casual Sex Friday. If that snooty cow at the next desk is the recipient of a giant bunch of flowers, take a stand. Grab the flower delivery boy, pin him to Miss Snooty's desk and shag him senseless. If that doesn't take the focus off those triffid-like roses, nothing will.
If the most homely virgin at work is delivered a teddy bear the size of a rugby player with a note from her callow Bible-study boyfriend, don't say, "Aw, how sweet" with every other sap in the office. Rush over to her and shriek, "Wow! I had no idea Warren was a plushophile."
This will be worth it for the horrified look on her face when you explain that a plushophile is a fetishist who has sex with stuffed toys.
And don't let anyone get away with staring at a Homeart-framed photo of her boyfriend with puppy eyes when she should be doing some work. This is Casual Sex Friday, remember? Pull out a poster of a shirtless David Beckham, look at it with the eyes of a woman possessed by animal lust and lick it in a lascivious manner. She'll realise that her own boyfriend, smiling goofily from the appalling frame, couldn't bend anything quite like Beckham.
By now, love-struck colleagues should have quietened down. If not, wilt their flowers with a withering stare. At 5pm, don't go home for a night in with the cat (although I must confess to being sorely tempted by TripleM's live broadcast of the Pearl Jam concert tonight. If I could find a man just like Eddie Vedder, I may lose the shrewish cynicism, until he dumps me by text message for a barmaid, of course). Grab a gaggle of your loudest single girlfriends, preferably those who could drink Oliver Reed under the table, and converge on a romantic restaurant for a rowdy girls' night out. Make sure everyone brags loudly about recent sexual exploits. Anything to drown out any marriage proposals.
The other women will look upon such behaviour with contempt. Don't be intimidated. They are just upset because their blokes didn't pop the question. Meanwhile, the blokes in the restaurant will be fiddling with rings still in their pockets because they can't find the right moment to propose - and besides, that story about a threesome in a lift that all the men heard from one of the sexy babes at big, noisy table sounded way too intriguing.
I, the undesired, declare this National Casual Sex Day
February 14 2003
Valentine's Day is commercialised pap for the love-addled - and not just because I'm a bitter bunny-boiler, observes Georgia Lewis.
Oh God. It's upon us. Bloody Valentine's Day. Naturally, I think it is an overcommercialised load of codswallop where the only winners are florists, teddy bear manufacturers, dodgy lingerie stores and men who get laid on the strength of giving a crappy card, thus igniting greeting-card hormones in gullible women.
Of course, my views may be coloured by my terminally single status. It is hard to get all gooey about Valentine's Day after yet another year of personal debacles - a year which saw me dumped by both email and text message.
Tragically, I accepted an invitation to a work breakfast seminar scheduled for 7.15 today, confident that I wouldn't be cancelling at the last minute to grab an extra hour in bed with a fabulous new lover. Nope, I may as well get up and go to a goddamn seminar.
Despite this, I am not going to spend Valentine's Day wallowing in self-pity. I am not going to make myself nauseous reading the messages to Pooky-Wooky and Snuggle Bumkin that pollute today's paper.
A friend thought she might spend tonight covering herself in paper cuts and drowning in a vat of lemon juice in front of Meg Ryan videos. This is especially worrying, because she lives in Melbourne, where I thought the local lads were charming and sophisticated to compensate for the terrible weather and the stupid football code. But it is comforting to know that Sydney women don't have the monopoly on being bitter and twisted.
No, I propose that the single women of Sydney get out there and proudly disrupt this vile day rather than stay home with vodka and a vibrator. Fortunately, this Valentine's Day is a Friday, traditionally Casual Friday in many workplaces. I move that today be declared Casual Sex Friday instead. Hell, it's got to be more fun than witnessing suits attempt smart casual in a pair of nerdishly ironed chinos and a dorky polo shirt.
There are many ways to celebrate Casual Sex Friday. If that snooty cow at the next desk is the recipient of a giant bunch of flowers, take a stand. Grab the flower delivery boy, pin him to Miss Snooty's desk and shag him senseless. If that doesn't take the focus off those triffid-like roses, nothing will.
If the most homely virgin at work is delivered a teddy bear the size of a rugby player with a note from her callow Bible-study boyfriend, don't say, "Aw, how sweet" with every other sap in the office. Rush over to her and shriek, "Wow! I had no idea Warren was a plushophile."
This will be worth it for the horrified look on her face when you explain that a plushophile is a fetishist who has sex with stuffed toys.
And don't let anyone get away with staring at a Homeart-framed photo of her boyfriend with puppy eyes when she should be doing some work. This is Casual Sex Friday, remember? Pull out a poster of a shirtless David Beckham, look at it with the eyes of a woman possessed by animal lust and lick it in a lascivious manner. She'll realise that her own boyfriend, smiling goofily from the appalling frame, couldn't bend anything quite like Beckham.
By now, love-struck colleagues should have quietened down. If not, wilt their flowers with a withering stare. At 5pm, don't go home for a night in with the cat (although I must confess to being sorely tempted by TripleM's live broadcast of the Pearl Jam concert tonight. If I could find a man just like Eddie Vedder, I may lose the shrewish cynicism, until he dumps me by text message for a barmaid, of course). Grab a gaggle of your loudest single girlfriends, preferably those who could drink Oliver Reed under the table, and converge on a romantic restaurant for a rowdy girls' night out. Make sure everyone brags loudly about recent sexual exploits. Anything to drown out any marriage proposals.
The other women will look upon such behaviour with contempt. Don't be intimidated. They are just upset because their blokes didn't pop the question. Meanwhile, the blokes in the restaurant will be fiddling with rings still in their pockets because they can't find the right moment to propose - and besides, that story about a threesome in a lift that all the men heard from one of the sexy babes at big, noisy table sounded way too intriguing.
