Creaming Spires

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    Same bat time, same bat place, same bat vagina. Mine, in case you’re wondering. Actually, it probably would be a bat cloaca, wouldn’t it? I don’t think bats have fannies.

    In any case, I want to talk about bats. Vampires, more particularly. Why are they all sexy again? Twilight, True Blood, everyone’s getting all moist around the collective cloaca watching pale aristocratic looking people suck each other’s blood.

    Forgive me for not lubricating up with y’all, but I presumed we’d got over this fetish with Bram Stoker et al about a hundred years ago? At least then it was openly a camp fest, a gay romp through Victorian Britain, where men penetrate each other and whoever else they want whilst wearing darling little capes. They even got to sleep through their hang-overs, thus waking up at night-time looking fabulous, those lucky bitches. I am, at this moment, very tempted to make a ‘batty boy’ joke. But I’ll resist. I am, after all, white, straight and middle class, and I don’t want a bitch-slap in Poptarts. Anyway, now erotic blood swallowing (or spitting) seems to have taken on some dubious integrity, where gobbling down someone else’s bodily fluids is understood as a deep analogy for unspoken desires, but it’s just sexy because it makes you think of blow jobs and bumming and stuff.

    Of course, Oxford students can only ‘ironically’ like Twilight, but I’ve heard Oxfordians openly extolling the artistic merits of True Blood. Let’s sum those up – Rogue from X-Men has dropped around 3 stone, discovered bleach and push-up bras, and there’s more sexy/violent scenes than you can shake a lubed-up stake at. But that is it, my friends. You just like it because you’re repressed.

    Despite your world class education, you just can’t tell that willing History Fresher that all you’d really like her to do is stick a cheeky digit up your annus horribilis. That’s why we have all this ritual. Crew dates, for instance, where huge amounts of alcohol and curry has to be consumed until there’s literally nothing left to do but clumsily get hot (luke-warm most often) and heavy. Because though we can debate the influence of Impressionism or minutely trace the philosophical development from Descartes to Kant, we are – sexually speaking – retards.
    We just can’t admit that all we want is to run around in capes and penetrate people. Or be penetrated. Or, you know, spit-roasted, for the open minded. A cloaca would certainly make that easier.

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