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31_days2006-04-11 11:58 pm
tortillafactory.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2006-04-11 11:58 pm
[11 April] [James Bond] sex, lies, and the truth
Title: sex, lies, and the truth
Day/Theme: April 11th - Meaningful violence
Series: James Bond
Character/Pairing: Bond/OFC
Rating: R for mature language, themes
Sadism means never having to say you're sorry.
A masochist is someone who likes a cold shower in the morning, so he takes a hot one.
Supersadomasochistinecrobestiality, it's when you get a hard-on making Lassie a fatality!
These are all definitions that are not recognised by the British Psychological Society, humourless bastards they are. I've found that if you spend enough time studying perversions, you learn to have a sense of humour about it.
Ed Gein, who killed women and wore their skin in strange late-night rituals because he idolised his mother, was determined unfit to stand trial by U.S. courts. If nothing else, this should give hope that the States haven't completely lost their collective minds. Me, I'm glad, of course, but every time I have to walk the streets alone at night I wish I didn't know everything that I do.
I suppose all mothers have anxiety about what will happen to their little girls. I can almost forgive Mum for filling my head with horrific visions of rape and murder since almost before I could talk; I must admit it's kept me safe. It's also kept me chaste. It's also put me here, at University, a 22-year-old virgin, studying things like auto-erotic asphyxiation and penis envy. An unhealthy obsession? Perhaps. But somebody has to understand these things.
Jeffrey Dahmer. Oh, Jeff, you bad boy, with your necrophilia and your paedophilia and your homosexuality. One of these is no longer considered a mental disorder; if you can pick it out, you win a prize!
I can see my breath against the ink-black winter sky. Why do I always do this? Why do I run errands at eleven o'clock? On foot? And think about serial killers the whole way home?
A masochist is someone who likes a cold shower in the morning, so she takes a hot one.
Shivering, I draw my coat closer around me.
The hairs on the back of my neck suddenly stand up.
Not that this is anything new.
And suddenly there are hands around my throat and I'm screaming but there's no sound and I'm lifted off my feet and I can't move and what's that horrible smell? God help me...!
The first thought that hits me as I lurch back into consciousness is that I have the world's worst hangover. But a hangover's never given me this bad of a headache; it's nearly unbearable. My whole body seems to be throbbing with it. I feel a hand on my forehead and I realise, oh God, my worst nightmares have all come true. Here I am. I'll be raped and killed, possibly already have been. Raped. Obviously not killed.
I open my eyes, which does absolutely nothing to assuage my fears. The face above mine sends a jolt of terror through me that only makes my head hurt worse, it's so harsh and cruel. Then suddenly it smiles, and I feel myself relax in spite of it all.
"Hullo," he says. It's - not a kind voice, exactly, but it's not the voice of a murderer. "Don't worry - you're safe now." He is handsome and he has a scar. Something tells me he got it in the pursuit of justice.
Thoughts of Ted Bundy, Albert de Salvo, John Wayne Gacy Jr. have melted away. I can't think of them now, not even if I try. I don't know who this man is, or what he is, or why he's rescued me, but I do know that what he says is true.
And for now, that's enough.
Day/Theme: April 11th - Meaningful violence
Series: James Bond
Character/Pairing: Bond/OFC
Rating: R for mature language, themes
Sadism means never having to say you're sorry.
A masochist is someone who likes a cold shower in the morning, so he takes a hot one.
Supersadomasochistinecrobestiality, it's when you get a hard-on making Lassie a fatality!
These are all definitions that are not recognised by the British Psychological Society, humourless bastards they are. I've found that if you spend enough time studying perversions, you learn to have a sense of humour about it.
Ed Gein, who killed women and wore their skin in strange late-night rituals because he idolised his mother, was determined unfit to stand trial by U.S. courts. If nothing else, this should give hope that the States haven't completely lost their collective minds. Me, I'm glad, of course, but every time I have to walk the streets alone at night I wish I didn't know everything that I do.
I suppose all mothers have anxiety about what will happen to their little girls. I can almost forgive Mum for filling my head with horrific visions of rape and murder since almost before I could talk; I must admit it's kept me safe. It's also kept me chaste. It's also put me here, at University, a 22-year-old virgin, studying things like auto-erotic asphyxiation and penis envy. An unhealthy obsession? Perhaps. But somebody has to understand these things.
Jeffrey Dahmer. Oh, Jeff, you bad boy, with your necrophilia and your paedophilia and your homosexuality. One of these is no longer considered a mental disorder; if you can pick it out, you win a prize!
I can see my breath against the ink-black winter sky. Why do I always do this? Why do I run errands at eleven o'clock? On foot? And think about serial killers the whole way home?
A masochist is someone who likes a cold shower in the morning, so she takes a hot one.
Shivering, I draw my coat closer around me.
The hairs on the back of my neck suddenly stand up.
Not that this is anything new.
And suddenly there are hands around my throat and I'm screaming but there's no sound and I'm lifted off my feet and I can't move and what's that horrible smell? God help me...!
The first thought that hits me as I lurch back into consciousness is that I have the world's worst hangover. But a hangover's never given me this bad of a headache; it's nearly unbearable. My whole body seems to be throbbing with it. I feel a hand on my forehead and I realise, oh God, my worst nightmares have all come true. Here I am. I'll be raped and killed, possibly already have been. Raped. Obviously not killed.
I open my eyes, which does absolutely nothing to assuage my fears. The face above mine sends a jolt of terror through me that only makes my head hurt worse, it's so harsh and cruel. Then suddenly it smiles, and I feel myself relax in spite of it all.
"Hullo," he says. It's - not a kind voice, exactly, but it's not the voice of a murderer. "Don't worry - you're safe now." He is handsome and he has a scar. Something tells me he got it in the pursuit of justice.
Thoughts of Ted Bundy, Albert de Salvo, John Wayne Gacy Jr. have melted away. I can't think of them now, not even if I try. I don't know who this man is, or what he is, or why he's rescued me, but I do know that what he says is true.
And for now, that's enough.