Change in Blog Policy- Free Love Offer!

I tap my fingers upon the desk, whilst I run my finger along my lips. Should I respond?

Should I demean myself by playing the game?

A game I never asked to play in the first place.
No, I think I'll play my own, thankyou.

Look, I ain't apologising- I have nothing to apologise for. People fall in love and get their hearts broken. It happens. Get over it. It's not a life threatening condition. And people do find when they get to know them better they may find things out about the other person they don't much like. And people aren't obliged to find reasons why they want to unplug the phone so the other person can't ring them that the other person approves of.


I'm going to be really vain and tell it like it is. I'm good company. People like to be around me. What that means, is me having your company is worth far less to me, than your having my company is to you, in an evenly matched situation. So, basically, I get to make the rules. And if you can't follow my rules, get f**ked. That's how I live my life.

And that means I get to dictate in entirity the circumstances in which you have access to my person. Don't start getting exalted ideas about your significance. Never think you're indispensable, you're not. So never bug me. Ever. Other people will forgive you, because they need you. Don't forget, I don't. So as far as I'm concerned, you're only as good as your most immediate actions. I forgive quickly, I forget never.

I have earned the right to be this arrogant. I have earned the right to make whatever decisions I choose on what relations I have with anyone. And I have earned the right to make my own rules on the subject. For the same reason I look back at the hard expression in my eyes in the mirror every morning and smile, purring 'You go, Joe. You're looking good'.

Because I have earned the right to be proud of what I see in those eyes.

I see someone who has proved themself.

You'd have envied my start, most people might think. Two parents, middle class background. Really.

It's not that simple. I hate looking back on my childhood. Hate it. Because for me, it was a comparative period of drab deadness. I was a teenager before I really learned how to enjoy life.

Because I was precocious. Highly so. And I carry with me every single problem that carries for character development.
The child who re-enacts full historical events with his lego toys. The child that reads Lord of the Rings and The Three Musketeers at ten. The child who can tell the entire history of the papacy years before he knew what female genitalia looked like.

I was a lonely child. Bloody lonely.

My Gran could reach me. Only she could.

I was a wild teenager. They called me Damian. Smallest kid in the year, dark hair, powerful eyes, known as someone you don't provoke because they'll smack you one at lightning speed.
But I learned a lot as a teenage. I learned how to connect. I learned to talk the language of people, to cross that barrier that had seemed so insurmountable when I was a child.

And I did it well. In fact, it was language I learned to excell in. Body language, posture, charm, voice control, eye control, how to just make people like you, to be able to fit in anywhere, to always have that perzazz that people don't forget.

And yes, it's like a game to me. It's something that has just become instinctive to me. But inside, behind all that, I remain that child that has no one else to talk to, who tries to figure out the Battle of Camlann (Arthur's last battle against Mordred) with his lego bricks.

That's me, and I ain't ashamed of it.

Now it must be clear to you, as it is to anyone, that the most important friendships I have date to my university years. That's when the most important bonds of my life were forged, as was I.
The only two people in the world who can really claim to 'get' me. The people who watched me metamorphose into what I am, the people who understand the full picture. The people who saw the germination of my entire patterns of thought. And note, NOTE, because this is the most important bit.
Are still in my life today.

So it was- and is- quite clearly worth it for them. I need no other value placed on my life than that.

The Baker is quite protective of me, I'll give you that. VERY protective in fact. In fact, he worries at all if I go anywhere where he can't look after me. He doesn't like to think of me being anywhere he can't intervene on my behalf.

The Chimney Sweep treats me differently. To him, I'm the kind of glamorous friend, the one he likes to quote, the one he likes to show off, the one who can be guaranteed to provide a good night.

These friendships are probably the most important things in my life. These two friendships, and many other friendships I hesitate to call lesser, because they all matter in their own way, but include some bloggers even, carry me through.

I feel that people protect me, and I feel that people need me. And that's it, really. That's all any of us need. And I've got it. So there's nothing, nothing anyone can offer me that I haven't already got, or can't get.

And I remember a time when the eyes that look back at me weren't so certain.

Shall we flash through what I remember since then? See my memories, come on.

Do I start at me lieing drunk in the street crying out her name and groping for my keys? Tame! We all been there.

The descent into alcoholism? Then pills? Wondering round the red light district in Amsterdam wondering just how many MORE you could still afford. A year long binge. On drink, drugs and casual sex. And yes, I did try Crack. And I smoked Heroin twice. And I caught a VD. And have I got kids from that period? Probably, yes.

But hey, I got through that. I got friends to thank for that.

I graduated. I got a good job in the end.

So let's see what else I remember. Drugs, yes, plenty. Women? Yes, but pretty hazy on most of the details, if you want names we won't get very far. I was pretty appalling. I really would sleep with anything. Nothing in a skirt was out of bounds. Even Arabs and Scotsmen weren't safe.


I remember settling down- at twenty two. I remember why it was a stupid idea. It had pros and cons. The copious amount of what's now known as dogging, good. Being regularly battered black and blue for alleged infidelities, less good. The abortion, decidedly not a good memory. Since then I have been perpetually broody. I mean, seriously broody. When I see a baby I get as gooey as women are stereotypically supposed to do. Whatever people say, he was my son and I love him.

And after that I vowed 'Never again'.

This would have been about my prime. Telecomms boom. Earned good money then. Spent it all on Sex and Drugs. Though I say it myself, if I'd seen myself out and about back then, I'd have turned gay just to sleep with myself. I was pretty as hell. Like a little dryad. Little black curls( I dyed my hair), wrapping round those wide, innocent yet knowing eyes. And a 28 inch waist. I looked good in tight jeans.

Though I think I still look OK now...



The 'Joe the Ho' days. Yes, that IS what they called me. And I LOVED it. I was. A dirty little ho. I'd even lead gay blokes on, just for fun. Because everyone thought I was 'cute'. That was the word. Not handsome, not manly, not gorgeous. Cute. That's the card I played. The cute card.

When I got arrested the arresting officer said 'They'll just LOVE you in prison'.

Well, surprisingly I made it through two years with my sphincter intact. A fact of which I'm quite proud. Like a lot of things about prison. I'm certainly not ashamed of the way I handled myself in there. I got through, I never got intimidated, expect by screws, I held my own, I even worked my way to having my own office and my own set of keys to the building I was responsible for. And I worked in a Samaritan role hearing prisoner's problems.

Don't think it was a walk in the park. Do you think I'll ever forget sharing a six by eight foot locked room which is a freezer in the winter and a kettle in the summer, sharing an open toilet two feet away from both of you?

The clanging doors, the constant howling and screaming, the perpetual smell of piss and sweat, the distrust, the tense undercurrent, the dirt, the inhumanity, the squalor, both physical and psychological.

You try coping with the fact that the guy you chatted to about your ex with for five months just turned out to be a kiddy fiddler who kidnapped six children. You try dealing with the sense you have inside of having looked into the eyes of Satan without knowing.

You try sitting at your desk with your hands clasped, your face unreadable as you hear some of the things I had to listen to.

You try watching as you get to witness first hand a fellow prisoner developing a psychosis where he actually believes Satan has come to the prison specially to get HIM. And the chaplain is in on it. As was I, I guess.

And try walking back out. Try coming back to the real world. Try standing in a pub again. Try holding a woman tight again, try caressing her, loving her, feeling her warmth, when for so long, just hearing the word sex has made you want to throw up, because the only association you have with sex is the filth you have heard.

I can still be very frigid in bed. Still. I really find it hard to connect sexual feelings with feelings of love and warmth. It's something I seem to have lost. I find it easy to have sex with total strangers, but I don't think I could manage it, seriously, with someone I had feelings for. I really haven't tried it since about 2003.

In fact, I've only been to bed with nine people period, since 2006.

But hey, I've got on with life. I've bounced back. And here I am, good job, nice flat, and most importantly people who matter to me. The Baker and I going out for a beer most weekends, with a baby, my adoptive niece, the mother of whom is my ex-flatmate and also a close personal friend. The Chimney Sweep near enough for us to see eachother at least once a month, if not more. Life is good. Life is change.

And I look in the mirror and I like what I see. It's been a long journey, but worth the ride every step of the way. Because they ain't beaten me down yet. Nothing they did to me has conquered me. I am proud of the look in my eyes, because it is the look of a man who knows he has proved to himself that he is every inch the sort of person he is proud to be.

Because he looks at the proof. He looks back at his life, and he looks at where he is, and he's proud that after all that, he just looks at the faces of his two best mates as soon as they spot him, to KNOW, to KNOW, that people who KNOW him, will fight to the death for him.

Because they respect him.

That's the point. I know damn well what they think of me in most of the pubs I drink at. They don't think I'm respectable. I'm known for being a relatively easy lay, for putting good money behind the bar, but rarely causing a problem (and if I do, its usually getting off with someone else's girlfriend in which case the other party usually gets evicted), for sometimes being clearly under the influence of things other than alcohol, for being a good market for off the back of the lorry goods, for generally being right on football bets, for knowing the answer to most trivia questions and for getting quite vocally animated about how the system is screwing with people's minds and why we should all practise Free Love. And for knowing people. I'm known at all the pubs I drink at. As in, a valued customer.

I'm quite clearly not respectable, but respectED. That's the difference. A judge is respectable. So is a barrister. But they're not respected in the Star & Garter. Nor will they ever be. Popular sentiment sees judges as involved in sinister child sex rings. The average Star punter is quite happy to shake hands and buy a drink for me knowing damn well I served time for Ecstasy supply. They'd spit in the pint of a judge.

Incidentally, the Tories will win the next election. Hands down. Trust me, the Star & Garter opinion poll is my source. The one I do just listening to the conversation. Landlords are giving the Tories the hard sell.

Well, as I say I'm not apologising for anything. I don't have to. I'm a plain English sort of guy. As Nietzche said 'Love is a gift. It confers no rights'. Remember that.

Generally speaking, I'm fair. But there are far more important things in life than the tears of a jilted woman. I try to feel sympathetic, but do you know what, I'm not. And you know why? Because I'm madly in love with someone who will never love me but I'm big enough and man enough to love them anyway, because they mean the world to me.

That's what Inner Monkey is all about, and why it was having the chance to study less satisfactory forms of love being levelled my way provided the inspiration for the concept of Inner Reptile.

Because do you know what?

This blogger isn't going to stand up and pretend he's anything other than what he is.
I live my life by my rules.
I don't pretend otherwise. I have total contempt for almost every value that props up this system and I do not disguise it.

Nor do I apologise for my attitude to sex and relationships. In case you hadn't noticed, I believe in Free Love. I think this point might in fact, be something it's hard to miss about this blog. This means, I don't see these things the same way as people who believe in monogamy. To me 'Monogamy is Slavery' is as true as 'Property is Theft'. I will not promote monogamous relationships for the simple view, I actually believe monogamy to be an unethical position to defend.



Still, however you kind of bring home to me that in fact, the publicly stated position of this blog is a bit hazy in certain areas. You're right. It's inconsistent.

Since we've clearly established- and no one is in any doubt- that it doesn't take much to get me in to bed if you happen to drink in a pub I drink in, apart from a basically female anatomy- let's face it, I'm not picky about who I bed, it's when it comes to it lasting beyond a week I'm quite picky- then yes, the position of this blog is, you're right, inconsistent.

So I'm changing that.

From now on, same rules apply online, as apply in Real Life.

To all readers; all offers of sex will be considered on their own merits. I'm pretty bloody easy. Really. Don't be full of self doubt, trust me, if you're between twenty and forty five, are under five foot seven and are less than twelve stone, you stand a very good chance. Be black or asian, it's probably a done deal, where do you want to meet?

So to all of you. If you're ever in the Birmingham area and fancy shagging a blogger, just send me an e-mail. It won't be as exciting as you thought, I warn you. And I will expect to be bought a pint.

By the way, I will make you sign a confidentiality agreement. Just so you know. That's the rules.

Here you are! A blog that LITERALLY offers Free Love. A blog that stands by its principles.

To my critics...

Have you nothing better to do?

My mobile number's on my Facebook page by the way.;)

Now I'm just off to Boot's...You never know, I might need supplies...



To my critics; What I'm basically saying is that judgement is a terrible power to take on. Except that I really have EARNED, earned being the operative word, the right to judge. I earned it by the way I carried myself- and continue to carry myself in a life history that select moments of would make you soil your pants. I have the right to judge. I really do have the right to judge on the basis of knock on effect of attitudes. And when you have fought for your life to maintain principles against your own pain, you learn which principles matter, and which are paper principles.

Because this time, I'd face it again. I'd go through it all again for what I believe in. I'd go through the same again for the principles this blog puts forward.

Can you say that? No. Then fuck off.

As in, grow up, stop being a child and argue the points I make not on the basis of little sordid playground gossip about whether or not I kiss the girls and make them cry- I do. OK???? Or whether or not I'm partial to a line. I am. OK???? Grow up. This blog is written by a someone much more intelligent than you, but with way more personal flaws. Grow up. GROW UP. Like we all must do.

Squeaky clean people have no answers. You can't be squeaky clean and have answers. Why the hell is it so hard for people to get this? You cannot have a truly conceptual mind capable of multiple mutually separate interfaces connectable at will unless you also have a highly addictive personality. It's life. Sorry. What do you want me to do? Apologise?

Am I fuck. Do you REALLY think I'm, going to apologise for being one of those lucky bastards get to have the looks, the brains AND the charm?

I don't need to be manipulative, mate, I just AM me. I don't need to manipulate. I'm just ME. It is enough, just being me. And you'll never be, so stop trying. You'll never be me.

Because if you'd been entrusted to be me 2004-2006, I don't think you'd have got me through with an intact sphincter.

Because I don't think you're a man.

Not really.

You're not really a man. Not in my book.

And let's face it. Whose judgement is most binding in this case. Whose judgement can carry.

Who has proved themselves a man?

Merely by writing this blog at all today?

I show courage in what I believe by merely pressing the button I do now.

Pressing the button and signing the name 'Crushed' to an idenitity whose identity is no longer a secret.

But that I stand by anyway.

Because Crushed is right.