Erection Of The Figurehead

She is a classic, a beautiful ship sinking on the high seas of despair, a mermaid, he a sober pirate, his boat, but not his rules, drunk on anger, still hanging in the balance amidst many erections.

A LITTLE BIT OF CONTEXT …

Figurehead is a carving, typically a bust or a full-length figure, set at the prow of an old-fashioned sailing ship.

Figurehead is a nominal leader or head without real power.

Erection? No comment!

Pirate is a person who attacks and robs ships at sea.

Pirate is a person who appropriates or reproduces the work of another for profit without permission, usually in contravention of patent or copyright.

Pirate is a man searching around for casual sex.

Mermaid is a fictitious or mythical half-human sea creature with the head and trunk of a woman and the tail of a fish, conventionally depicted as beautiful and with long flowing golden hair. Mermaids are sometimes associated with perilous events such as floods, storms, shipwrecks, and drownings. In other folk traditions (or sometimes within the same traditions), they can be benevolent or beneficent, bestowing boons or falling in love with humans. Mermaids are often depicted as having magical powers. Magic powers allow one to manipulate the elements and defy the laws of physics. There are all kinds of magic powers: Mind-reading, flying, invisibility, shapeshifting, controlling nature, and many more.

What does a mermaid symbolize in literature?

Although she is beautiful, mysterious, and seductive, the mermaid is also a symbol and agent of death. The mermaid's connection to the siren strengthens her connection with death. Sirens, in bird-form, look much like the harpies. The story of the Sirens has inspired writers, poets, and artists for millennia. But somewhere along the way their form was confused. Today, Sirens are almost always represented as voluptuous mermaids, whose beauty and sexuality lure men to their deaths. But the Classical Greeks understood the Sirens differently: as bird-women, creatures that Mediterranean cultures traditionally associated with hidden knowledge.

Spiritually gliding, Mermaid Spirit appears linked heavily to uniqueness and non-conformity. Being female, the symbolism and meaning of the Mermaid ties to the Sacred Feminine, specifically Goddesses like Venus who rules love, and the Sea Goddesses like Calypso. This is not a woman who can be tamed.

It is said mermaids were usually dangerous to humans. Their gifts brought misfortune and could cause disasters. They sometimes lured mortals to death by drowning or enticed young people to live with them underwater. Whoops! Aquamam, Ember Hurt?

Exclamation: aargh

• used as an expression of anguish, horror, rage, or other strong emotion, often with humorous intent.

• "now they're talking about putting up taxes—aargh!"

The mermaid effect, coined by the sitcom How I Met Your Mother, states that, the more time a man spends with a woman, the more he'll find her sexually attractive–even if he initially finds her unattractive. The getting-old pirate Johnny got this too late.

I loved dreams. In dreams your liveliness never needs to seek to express itself as anti-social wildness. I loved a woman. I did love her. There are always reasons for loving and being loved in this fucking good world. The first thing we can see about a woman is her body. So the notion is bodily. First I loved her simply because I loved her body, and because I thought she loved me too. Love is a flowing river which can divide itself into many streams due to the power of tides, or it can also get dry.

Consciousness penetrates, ah ah ah, so far into emotions that love follows calculations and reflections. Of course, there's a free choice which can be, however, dicktated by economic pressure, ( we're living in the 21st century, or in the twenteeth thirst one !!! ), which is based on awareness or unawareness, knowledge and intelligence, or simply falling romantically in love without thinking of the consequences. No graphic content, no hardcore, please?

Look, I had money. It's a society that stresses formality over informality. So I was formal. Intimate physical contacts, when not totally denied, are to be minimized. At best hands may meet. Faces may be turned toward or away from other faces. No other limbs are permitted to have any connection in public. To be shown dresses than bodies, public greetings than private embraces. It was a fake world and still is, which is kind of boring. And, by nature, I was prone to a good deal of blushing at it. It was a sort of erection of my head. Erection Of The Figurehead. Something like watching porno, but the people wore winter clothes to show and stress their formality and morals. How funny!

Fook, without experience - no reason, without impression - no experience, without giving yourself up at stake - no experience, and so on. I wanted to be an absolutely experienced fool to remain somewhat wise as I am given by nature. I do suppose. It's apt to overlook. Having realized this, my theory, I started my studies. I didn't care about what I would learn. What I needed was a Ph.D. to get through. That mattered. I didn't read books, but I knew what was there. Thieves!!! A sea of thieves.

Well, yes, Benjamin Simple, by the way, it's me, aged 30, started his studies of philosophy and psychology because I needed some official higher education. What the hell!? As I got, I had to, through the available literature I grew angry more and more with many philosophers. I screamed, yelled, whatever, and cursed at the sentences. They, assholes, took my words out of my tongue as my eyes grazed their pages. Sometimes I even tore the books apart. They were for free anyway. And I didn't care.

I became arrogant and insensitive. This spoilt my capacities. Now I began to comprehend that my image wasn't exactly what, in disposition and talents, would suit me most. I lacked the right impulse. The constant need to be alert to the difference between appearance and dream was made clear for me from the start.

Anyway, after I had graduated from the university, I ran into Lucy, an innocent beauty, aged 18, but she was not a stupid kid any more. I mean she was already mature. For doing many things. Not that we had the same opinions about life, but truly there was almost no difference. We both had dreams which, sillily expressed, now and then came true. When staying together, we were happy, and it was not so often, I'm afraid.

You know, I worked very hard in my field and she looked after her dying mother. She was the only one left to Lucy. Lucy didn't know her father. Actually, neither that mother was her mother, though they really loved each other. Lucy was an orphan. When her step mother had died, she was hopelessly driven to despair longing for her. I tried to get her out of the distress, but it was done in vain. Out of control, no anger managment acquired, I was inclined to believe that suddenly she was opposed to me, a leader in name only. I followed her, I followed her dungeon torture chamber rampage.

Despair can drive one to madness. And every day her behavior inclined me to assume that she went mad. I had the feeling that she began to hate me for some reason, that I was to blame for her step mother's death. Even one day she pulled out a gun and kicked me lightly in the head that it bounced against the wall. I lay there on the floor and bled. A little bit, of course. A romanticized bloodbath?

She just shook her head and a cold smile drifted across her face. Then she burst into tears, clinging into my arms and sobbing her heart out. I knew nothing what to do or not. She managed to cry out. "Ben, I love you. I do. I don't know what's wrong with me. Ben, I love you. I really do." What else could I do? I calmed her down whispering nice words to her ear. I softly kissed her neck. I found my eyes wet, tears wildly running down my glowing cheeks. They must have blushed. I loved her. Yes, I did.

Anyhow, I forgot that full-of-action incident. I didn't care anymore. I loved her and she loved me. It was perfect. Just fancy - still lovers! Nostalgy sets in … Better forget such sentimentalism, it brings me down. Will I ever forgive her? Should I?

Now I'm completely out of that crazy loveaffair. We didn't see each other more than we'd done before, because we were both too busy. Now I understand in what different ways. She'd found a job in a bar as a barmaid. You know, she was unusually pretty, a mermaid. I was not jealous at all, though. I had understanding for her work and for the risks coming out of all of these things put together. Many guys, of course, went courting her, but somehow I didn't care. I was not jealous as I said. Until lately.

On a Saturday evening we were watching some porno on the video. She was opening the negligee as she spoke so that it made a contrast to the white flesh of her starving body. Lucy told me as follows:"Recently I met a nice woman, in her early forties, probably, pampered, massage-parlor-and-beauty-shop forties, which means she looked about thirty - with heavy breasts boasting large brown nipples, a deeply indented navel and a blonde privacy that had been recently barbered. She is an exciting woman with an aura of sexuality about her. It sounds so stupid."

Look, I sat there listening agape with Ben's typically idiotic look, mouthless, dead. But she found her courage to continue. "Ben, the woman was quite serious, saying she would do her best to ... so finally we had sex together. How wonderful it was! Believe me. You'll find out. Next time we could do it all the three. I suggest all together. What do you think? I personally believe you'll like her, you'll enjoy us. I'll bring her here if you, of course, have no particular objections." Thus she finished her lecture. I, a sober pirate, my boat, not my rules, was given a good lesson, indeed. Yes, and doctor Simple suddenly became a jealous lover. She served me a virtual threesome, a dish like revenge best served cold. A student was teaching a professor, the hell, the horrors …

I tried to shake off such a miserable state or quality. I really did. In vain. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me ... Once we had a terrible intimate argument. I was angry. And desperate. Oh, from that time on this kind of words often persecuted me. So much for the Spanish Inquisition, endless torture! I found myself as a very bad specialist. Something like a fake psychoanalyst with no abilities for such work. I went to pieces. A breakdown? So would-be cool, so would-be badass, I was sick and tired of all this fucking good world, fed up with everything, all those jealousies and quarrels, and the “excellent” result you already know.

“Fortunately, honcho, you prevented me from committing suicide and thus made me liven up my capacities which I have ever believed are given by nature. It's like you could already assure yourself. Now I'm trying to throw you my hand to be friends, though I hate such clichés. These are words. Right?" Simp suddenly stopped. "Now what?" I asked, carefully, obnoxiously challenging him to leave? There was a little silence. The door finally closed. I was left alone. Benjamin Simple was gone.

The rest is too complex to explain, EX PLANE, too obscene or mundane to describe, too bittersweet to digest …. yet I did erect a monument to The Figurehead, here and now! She should thank me, like meh 2, like really!

There are always reasons for loving and being loved in this fucking good world, third time is the charm.

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