subject: reason nummer 273 of why i love alan cumming
mood: delighted
music: merry's computer
CPCetc: oh, borders, you did not betray me as i thought
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The following is a passage from Alan Cumming's "frighteningly fabulous" book Tommy's Tale. I am not stealing it, I just want to expose the world to its sheer magnitude of rock. Ahem.

"We hate that phrase. Making love. It disgusts us. It appalls us. We knew we would never make love to anyone. And if we ever said we had or were going to, we each had carte blanche to execute the other on the spot. Our lives would be over if we made love. We would never make love. Sure we would love, and we did, often. Especially on nights like this. And we would easily have sex, or fuck, or screw, or shaft or whatever other verb I’m not going to grapple for. Oh yes, we’d do all that and then some more. We were party boys. We had fun. But never, ever ever ever did we make love! Not with each other or anyone else. No sirree Bob.

"Making love sounds like a hobby, don't you think? Like a kit you'd buy from B&Q. It sounds like a Marks and Spencer frozen meal. It sounds like death, and if you didn't get it you were out of the picture. Anyone mentioning that dread phrase was instantly non grata, relegated to the bottom of the pile of weekend-cardigan-wearing, barbecuing, trying-for-a-family young couples that we so despised because we were scared we'd turn into them. (But the way we were going, fat chance when you think about it.)

"Nobody makes love. Love either happens or it doesn't. And if it's just a euphemism for fucking the arse off someone, then what's that all about? Why can't we be more honest, more graphic about our animal urges? Let's drop all the crap, we thought. We all fuck, we all like it, so why wrap it up in tissue paper and call it making love?

"And finally (I know I've banged on about this one--pardon the pun--a bit much early on, but it is important) what, if anything, do we actually make when we are engaged in this activity? I'll tell you...moany noises, messes on the sheets, stains on our pants. That's what. So fuck off, you love makers. May your genital organs turn to sugar icing, and your visages to those of John Boy Walton and Jane Seymour."

And I definitely snatched the last copy in Borders. And it was definitely on the top shelf where it was impossible to reach it. Go. Me. *runs away*

Kiri >^.^< ~mew.