A Face Odyssey

Simple is the brand I use for most of my feminine hygiene purposes. I started using Simple back in the year 2002. At the time my skin wasn't so flash. Not that it was really fucked up or anything, but I had a few blemishes. The main problem was that as I felt it was absolutely essential to shave daily I would inevitably shave over these blemishes constantly preventing them from having sufficient time to heal and disappear on their own accord. It was during the (northern) winter of 2002, early on in the year, that my former best friend Katey Lee suggested that I not only grow my beard for a period in order to give my face a chance regenerate itself, but also that I use an oil free facial wash, one that wouldn’t irritate my skin any further and establish a clearer complexion. Simple was the brand she suggested. Although the idea of growing a beard repulsed me, I took Katey Lee's advice and within two weeks the results were obvious. Once I could see through the thick bristle of my hideous growth that my face was blemish free, I didn't hesitate to remove said facial hair and revel in the beauty of my new found smooth spotless skin. I was a new person, not only did my face have the pure clean looks of a 9 year old Norwegian boy, I was able to harness the confidence that flowed from such an attractive appearance.

This morning I ran out of Simple's Softening Facial Cleansing Mousse, so I took a walk from my parents place (where I was attempting to write an essay, away from the hustle and bustle of my inner-city neighbourhood) to the Priceline at the Mt Waverley shops. Inside the store there was an array of beautification products, obviously some more effective than others, yet I knew what I wanted. I located the skincare aisle and headed directly to the Simple range, immediately I grabbed a bottle of Softening Facial Cleansing Mousse from the shelf, but as I headed toward the payment counter something within the Simple range caught my eye. I swung back around and took from the shelf a container of Age-Resisting Facial Wash. Now that I am getting older I have become quite concerned that I am losing my youthful good looks. My face is starting to show significant signs of aging and, quite frankly, I am worried that this will reduce my (already low) chances of finding a female woman to procreate with. Upon further inspecting the Simple range, it seemed that they had a series of products titled Regeneration that were specifically aimed at those consumers who were weary of the unfortunate effects of aging. As I further inspected the label on the Age-Resisting Facial Wash I read that the product's ingredients would ...help stimulate your skin's own immune system...improve skin tone and conditions...and leave the complexion visibly clearer. These were all positive attributes, I thought to myself. With this new compulsion to reverse my horrific seasoning I decided that I needed more of these products to assist with my appearance. So I also plucked from the shelves Simple's Smoothing Cleansing Scrub, and although I am not quite through my Shine Manager Moisturiser, I decided to also purchase the Replenishing Rich Moisturiser as well. I am hoping that frequent use of these products will help me to become the beautiful boy I so desperately wish to be and assist me in becoming appealing to female women.


Now it is all very well attempting to prevent blemishes and wrinkles on one's face, I mean, this is something we all have to deal with, however, unfortunately, as a man, there is one further issue that hinders my presentability. Facial hair is something I completely detest. I find it extraordinary that this apparently "civil society" that we live in tolerates such an overt display of masculinity. Not only is it an blatant demonstration of the brutish beast that lies within, but also the scratchiness of said facial hair is completely unfair to the female partners of these men. I mean, these girls are already getting a raw deal by being attracted to men, they don't need a raw face to go with it! This is why I believe it is essential for me to shave on a daily basis. Not only do I believe that it is a far more attractive look, but I also need to prove that I am actively protesting against the deplorable and selfish instincts of men. Unfortunately, however, this constant shaving comes with some untoward side-effects, namely shaving rash. Whilst I have been successful in removing any blemishes from my face that incubate beneath the skin, unfortunately I am yet to find a solution to this problem that is generated on the outer layer. So whilst I was in the Priceline I decided to search out a product that my help me overcome this problem. Now, for many years now I have not used a shaving cream. I've found that they tend to clog my pores and decrease the effectiveness of the facial washes that I use. Instead I have used said facial washes as a lubricant themselves. I have found them to be reasonably effective in this regard. However, it has become apparent that in order to prevent this shaving rash from occuring I needed a product specifically designed to deal with the problem. Luckily I was able to find Trishave's 3 in 1 Anti-Rash Shaving Crème. According to the packaging it functions as a pre-shave cleasner, provides a soothing shave and is also a moisturiser that leaves skin feeling soft and looking re-hydrated and healthy. It seems to be just what I need to solve my shaving rash problem and help me exhibit a beautiful and respectful appearance to all those who cross my path.

Love For Sure

I woke at 6.30am as usual. My internal alarm never fails. No matter what time I go to sleep, I always wake at 6.30am. This doesn't mean I arise at this time. Often I find myself drifting off back to sleep for another hour or so, but there's something within my psyche that requires that I be conscious at this hour of the day. As I gained my wits, I felt my left arm was wrapped around Sarah's abdomen and my face buried into the back of her neck. The smell of the vanilla scented moisturiser we both use combined with her own unique aroma filled my nostrils as I took my first deep breath of the morning. I felt comfortable and happy. This is always my favourite part of the day, waking up, at 6.30am, feeling Sarah next to me and realising that I am in love. As Sarah awoke she turned to lie on her back and twisted her neck towards me. We kissed tenderly and I lingered on her bottom lip for a few seconds in order to savour the experience. "Jag älska dig så mycket" I said sweetly as we nuzzled our noses together. "Jag älska dig också" she replied with a grin. We giggled, made cooing noises and held each other tight.

It is approaching two years since her and I met and became inseparable. It was the (northern) summer of 2006 and I was in a pretty raw funk. My move to Stockholm was proving very unsuccessful. I would spent my days lying around in my hostel bed, pinning for my loved ones back in Melbourne and feeling completely at a loss with life. One day, in order to prevent further moping, I decided to go for a walk over to the Pet Sounds record store in Södermalm. The romantic fantasy of meeting someone in a record store was an idea I'd never tired of, and at that time I was desperate to meet someone, anyone. As I was flicking my way through the racks of obscure Swedish pop and modern day indie classics I noticed that a cute young girl had entered the store with a small box of cds. Although I couldn't make out all of the conversation she was having with the guy behind the counter, it was obvious that the cds in the box were of music that she had made herself and that she was hoping that the store would stock some of them. I decided I would approach her and inquire about her music, it was the most obvious ice-breaker. I was hoping that the flattery she would feel upon having someone ask about her art would cancel out the creepiness she would normal experience upon being approached by a stranger.

"Ursäkta mig, talar du engelska?", I said, knowing that my limited Swedish would struggle in a proper conversation, "Ja, I do" she replied shyly. From her initial demeanour it was obvious that in order for this conversation to blossom I would have to do a lot of the work. This was not something I was accustomed to, but if I was hoping to make a connection with this girl I was going to have to make the effort. I asked her if that was her own music in the box she was carrying. She replied in the affirmative and I proceeded to ask numerous questions about the her music. She was a modest about the details, but I managed to get out of her that she made bedroom electro-pop under the name Action Biker. Just as I thought the conversation was starting to dissolve, and she would make her excuses to leave, to my surprise she started to ask questions of me: Where was I form, what was I doing in Stockholm? Then when I mentioned that I was having trouble finding a place to live she somewhat astonishingly enthused "You can come stay with me!" She told me there was a spare room in her flat in Gamla Stan. She said the flat belonged to her grandparents, but the confined spaces and cobbled stoned streets of the old town had become too difficult for them to negotiate in their mature age. So they'd decided to move out to Västerås and leave the flat to Sarah at a cheap rent. "I'm sure they wouldn't mind if you moved in.", Sarah said, "there's definitely the space, and I think they'd take pity on a lost foreigner." I was a little taken back by how she could make an offer after such a limited conversation and I gushed "Are you sure?" several times. "Yes, of course", she said, "you are nice!" As if that was reason enough.

The flat was on the top floor of a building down the south end of Prästgatan, near the old parsonage for the German church. The flat had three bedrooms, one of which was, obviously, Sarah's, another of which she had set up a small home recording studio and the third that, for an initial period, became mine. Becoming acquainted with my new surroundings was a delight. The medieval architecture and confined cobbled streets were a vastly different environment to what I had been used to living in Melbourne. For the first few days after I moved into the flat I would just wander aimless around Gamla Stan, exploring the streets and alleys. And with Sarah having visited her grandparents frequently whilst growing up, I also had the advantage of her intimate knowledge of the island's nooks and crannies. We would eat lunch in cool little cafés and tea rooms or visit secluded and hip basement bars at night. Our rapport was developing and we were growing fond of each other's company, furthermore, I was starting to enjoy myself in Stockholm after I initially disliked the place due feeling unable to engage with it.

One day whilst out exploring the neighbourhood, skipping down the alleyway of Nygränd, I noticed a Help Wanted sign in the window of a restaurant. Although I couldn't read all of the text, I could make out that they were looking for a dishwasher. Washing dishes was hardly what I came to Stockholm for, but I decided that I needed the money and that I would apply. The restaurant was called Fem Små Hus, served a combination of Swedish and French cuisine and apparently had quite a reputation amongst Stockholm's culinary critics (they'd plastered their dinning room walls with awards and positive reviews). It wasn't the most ideal job, especially for a vegetarian, but without a fluent knowledge of Swedish my options were very limited. And besides, I told myself, a job such as this would build character. Keep me connected to the proletariat whilst I was pursuing my bourgeious dreams of becoming a writer.

As a "native speaker" I didn't find it too difficult to pick up some freelance writing work for some pan-Scandinavian magazines that publish in English such as Scanorama, the inflight magazine for Scandinavian Airlines, where I'd write blurbs about Stockholm tourist attractions, and the Nordic issue of Vice Magazine who were delighted with my witty and cutting album reviews. Although my evenings were occupied with washing the remains of dairy-infused animal carcasses from pots and plates, the position had the advantage of leaving me all day to work on not only my freelance work, but also series of personal short stories that I was hoping to get published. I thought that once I was able to compile a number of quality stories I would be able to shop them around to a few publishers in the hope that one might express some interest. The idea of having a book of personal and personality based short stories was to cultivate a unique public persona for myself that I could utilise to gain some sort of leverage and repute for other subjects I may have wished to write about.

Over this time Sarah and I evolved our friendship into a familiar and meaningful bond. The logistics of our lives became intertwined and I had a comfortability in her presence that I had previously never experienced with anyone else. We shared similar ideas about culture and politics and were more than compatible with our dark and all-encompassing senses of humour. When our opinions did differ our debates were lively and robust, yet never without respect and regard for the other's point of view. I had began to believe that Sarah and I should take our relationship up an notch and express our fondness for each other in a physical fashion. Unfortunately, broaching such a subject is not the easiest of tasks. Especially for someone like myself who has some problems with the ethics of heterosexual couplings in the first place. How could I, as a man, justify intimate relations with a women? Especially, such a beautiful and amazing woman as her. Heterosexuality just doesn't seem even. It seems grossly unfair to the female participant. If I was to become sexually involved with Sarah I would be perpetuating this raw deal women have received since the beginning of time. Yet there was a undeniable fire that burned in my loins and the tension that it caused between my principled rationale and my animal instinct was becoming a source of frustration for me. I tried to sooth this stress by telling myself that, although Sarah deserved better than the ceaseless and wretched shortcomings of masculinity, at least if she were to become involved with me my hyper-awareness of men's flawed essence, and my willingness to rectify this, would go some way ensuring that she would be treated in the respectful manner that she deserved.

My concerns became redundant when one night, whilst Sarah and I were watching a documentary on Swedish emigration to North America in the 18th and 19th centuries, she leaned over and planted a kiss firmly on my lips. I couldn't help but reciprocate, yet when we separated I smiled and asked "What was that for?". "I've been wanting to do that for the longest time. I just couldn't resist any longer. I hope you don't mind?", she replied. "I'll only mind if it was just a once off" I said cheekily, and we fell back into a extended tender and passionate merging of souls. Kissing Sarah was a phenomenal mind explosion, I had never felt so good before. Despite my previous apprehension, when locked in embrace with her the idea of us being together seemed perfect. I looked at her directly and gushed "I promise to love and respect you for eternity. I know that's a rather maudlin thing to say, but it's important to me to express this sentiment. I don't want to be like other guys.". She laughed, "I know you are not like other guys. This is why I have fallen for you."

I hate having to leave our bed in the morning. I could just lie there and snuggle with Sarah for months. There is nothing that makes me more happy. Unfortunately though this morning we had to rise not long after our 6.30am wakening. Sarah had a show that night in Malmö and I had organised an interview with controversial Farose pro-independence politician Høgni Karsten Hoydal that afternoon across in Copenhagen. We had borrowed Sarah's parents car in order to drive the 6 hours south so time for snuggling was just not available. I consoled myself with the fact that I would at least get to spend the day with her in the car and that after the show that evening we would once again be able to express our affection for each other in an intimate and amorous manner. As we had one final kiss before having to arise I couldn't help thinking how wonderfully my move to Stockholm had turned out for me. My writing was going exceedingly well, with my book of personal short stories having been recently published giving me the levity and self-confidence to pursue topics of my choice. But the most important element to my happiness was the fact that I had finally found true love. Sarah and I knew that we were to be together forever and that, regardless of any of my other successes, was what I had always wanted the most.

What I See

I Will Truck by the Dirty Projectors is without a doubt (or hyperbole) the most extraordinary sounding song ever written in the entire universe. It is taken from the album The Getty Address, where main-man David Longstreth sings from the perspective of The Eagles' Don Henley as a Spanish conquistador going in search of the shape of love. It also has some shit about 9/11 in there, but, you know, these days what doesn't? And if that doesn't make you want to rush to your local record emporium or illegal internet downloading facility, then surely the sight of Longstreth on top of a truck warding off sword-wielding ninjas with his trusty nylon string guitar will go someway to enhancing your boring little lives. Some arsehole called James Sumner (no relation to Bernard), in wicked act of osterntation, has made clips for a good three quarters of The Getty Address (although unfortunately he's left out the album's second best track Tour Along The Potomac) giving it the air of gravity and pretension it so richly deserves. And I, in turn, have posted the clip for I Will Truck here on my blog, giving my taste in music and art the air of gravity and pretension that it so richly deserves. Emjoy:

That Joke Isn't Funny Anymore

Katy Stevens just got back from a trip to Japan. By all accounts it was a pleasant and enjoyable adventure. Having reasonably good relations with her I was fortunate enough to be presented with a gift upon her return to Melbourne. The gift was a cute little red fish bag, something she knew I would find appealing. I thanked her for her thoughtfulness and generosity. However, upon opening up the bag I was met with something a little more intriguing. Inside the bag were two penile protective sheaths, commonly used in sexual intercourse to protect the participants from pregnancy and/or disease. Now most people know I'm not the sexiest guy in town, I mean, I try super-hard with the ladies but I just can't seem to convince them that I am a worthwhile man to make love to. In light of this information, of which Katy Stevens is well aware, it became apparent that giving me a pair of condoms was her idea of a joke. A joke that I found far from amusing. I mean, it's akin to buying gloves for an armless man or one of those Magic Eye books for a blind person, some may find this sort of dark humour amusing, but I'm not one of them.

So for the first time in my life I am in possession of some hardcore sexual paraphernalia. It feels rather strange, like I'm finally moving into the adult world. As I see it there are two main issues concerning the carrying of condoms. On the one hand I'm very much of the opinion that men should be entirely responsible for whatever is discharged from their bodies, and therefore I believe that the wearing of condoms should be de rigueur for all male participants of sexual activities. So in this regard I feel like I would be a responsible and ethically vigilant man for carrying these contraceptive devices. However, on the other hand it's fairly presumptuous to not just purchase condoms, but carry them around on your person as well. I mean, only a real arsehole would leave the house every morning fully expecting that they not only deserved to be engaged in sexually intercourse, but also this expectation would most likely be met. Furthermore, in regards to my personal track record, I believe that for me to carry a condom in my wallet would not only be an extra presumptuous, but also a somewhat ludicrous, decision for me to make.

However, there is the possibility that the vibe that a man emits from carrying a condom on his person is the key factor in him being able to engage in sexual intercourse with a woman. Maybe if I started carrying one of these prophylactics with me at all times then I just might give off the confidence of a sexual active person and find that my fortunes with the ladies will change for the better. And if this does occur, well, then the joke will most definitely be on Katy Stevens.

Only Skin

It's always struck me as odd how girls can be attracted to men. I mean surely girls realise that's their bodies are much nicer than mens'? I'm not just talking vaginas vs doodles here, or the obvious appeal of boobies, I'm mostly talking about skin. Girls have lovely soft and smooth skin, men have hard and rough skin. Surely everyone agrees that the former is more appealing? This has always bugged me. I've often wondered how any girl would be able to find me attractive when my skin is less beautiful than theirs? It doesn't make any sense. Why drop yourself down a level? That's why I've always tried to look after my skin with a quality moisturiser. I can't actually comprehend how girls can be attracted to men, however the attraction of girls is completely obvious. Therefore in order to make myself attractive I believe that I need to make myself as feminine as possible. But it's not just the texture of the skin that is the problem here. There's also a little issue of hair. Body hair is not in any way appealing and I refuse to take anyone seriously who claims otherwise. I have a major issue with the way society expects females to remove their body hair yet does not expect the same of men. Why are heterosexual men allowed to touch and kiss beautiful skin, but heterosexual women aren't afforded the same privilege? That's not fair. It's just plain wrong. I must say I do approve of girls who go against this social convention and do not removal their body hair. However, due to girls having less body hair than men this form of protest doesn't quite cut it. The only real way to achieve equality in this regard is to make it socially unacceptable for men to have body hair as well, and frown upon (and deny sexual activities to) those who refuse to comply.

So in order to make myself a more attractive person, and also to express my solidarity with heterosexual females who I believe get a raw deal in the sack, for the last ten years or so I have have waxed my body hair.


I believe this is not only the most ethical thing to do in regards to showing respect to the sisterhood, but I also cannot be convinced that this doesn't make me more physically attractive. And beside these two reasons, quite frankly, I love it! I love feeling soft, smooth and luxurious. I love the sleekness of my hairless body. I love the fact that it doesn't take so long to dry myself when I hop out of the shower. And I love knowing that my body is as beautiful as it can be (at least until I can get some breast implants anyway).