Romancing the lion

And the word busy was made flesh- I have, finally, finished my work assignment after a long overdue. I planned to treat myself to a book after the oppressively endless procrastination I have indulged myself into.  

So I went to the office last Saturday but only to do the dirty job– my least-favorite sin– most team leads do before the clock unforgivingly strikes twelve on a Sunday, Bloody Sunday. I wallowed in a guilt-trip but for no more than a minute. No, that isn’t the treat yet- of course. 

I found myself in a dim-lit corner outside McDonald’s down the building; my head, fornicating with the Autobiography of a Whip. The Barla would be happy to know that I was down to twenty-eight pages before the end of a journey of a thousand orgasms. She might want to kiss the same butt she has tongue-lashed for not finishing the book on time. She had been giving me piercing looks as if to scare the lust off me. 

I finished the book at home and voila, I have returned it to the library yesterday to clear The Barla’s name. She was supposed to return it two Mondays ago. 

If the book were a compact disc, it would have been scratched from rewinds and fast-forwards. It is ”very graphic” as The Barla warned me- yes, warned, as if she were my mother telling me to stay away from boys, and more importantly, their toys. 

The first few case histories were very arresting but I lost momentum in the introduction of the cults. But at least, I had been advancing fairly at midnight on Saturday until around five in the morning. Our repressed-to-deprived coffee-and-conversation pal who had the nerve to call me starved won’t believe me if I say it is because of historical and cultural allusions.  

I like History, believe me.  

See, I had to borrow it again right after returning because I want to take down notes and do further research. More importantly, though, I’d like to kiss and make up with the battered book as few pages had already been torn. I’ve got to fix it just to make sure that the proliferation of the whip specie goes a long, long, way.  

If there’s anything you can get from it sans the inevitable arousals, it is that flagellation is disturbing and at a certain degree, infectiously depressing. But as the author opined, there is nothing about man that should be held in contempt and disrepute or something to that effect. 

I highly recommend the book. I am sure that the peeping toms in you will take on a new dimension or, probably, perversion.  

Who knows?