As I sit typing this outside the library in order to steal the wi-fi, there’s some Eurotrash backpacking couple a few metres away who have so far spent the entire afternoon sucking, rucking and no doubt eventually fucking. I write this not because I’m some pervy voyeur who gets off on this sort of thing, (lame joke alert: I get off … at Central Station! Boom boom) but I’ve never seen the point of going all out with physical affection in public. Yes, the “PDAs”, as I believe the kids call it.
I think mainly this comes from I’m not one to brag about any suitors or amoureux – yes, here revealed is my gentlemanly nature when it comes to relationships, as in, “never kiss and tell”, unlike so many of my peers who would say “conquests” (seriously? Did you wage a war or climb Mount Everest? For somebody to call someone they’ve bedded a “conquest” implies that that the “bed-or” is a sex-crazed loon and the “bed-ee” was previously held in high regard for not giving in to the urges of said wastrel, but now
So many things about couples shit me.
And yes, I’m single. Hello ladies!
But it’s not out of jealousy. Far from it. The main thing that annoys me as the fervant walker and obligatory pedestrian I am is when they get in my way, what with their slowed-down, hand-holding and body-groping walking two-abreast. I’m not jealous of the fact they’ve both found somebody who’ll put up with them. I’m annoyed because they’re in my way and they’ve destroyed the beauty and grace of walking single file.
Not to mention how sad it looks when people can’t help pawing and pouring over each other like they’ve just discovered a carbon-based biped for the first time. I believe these are the “PDAs” (Public Displays of Affection, or Pretty Dull and Asinine) that the kids speak of. One of the funniest things that happened in the entire time I spent living (or rather existing) in Rockhampton was when my mate John and I were taking a postprandial stroll down the main street and some couple in front of us decided to slow us down and start grabbing for each other on the footpath. Cue John without thinking blurting out louder than was probably polite but definitely necessary: “Get your hand out of her arse, you dirty old bastard!”
It worked.
An admission: if I’m fortunate enough to be involved with someone, and I want to “sample the goods” as these tactile exhibitionists would say, I do it at home. Or somewhere a bit more private than outside the well-lit front of Brisbane Square Library or indeed outside the State Library as a friend mentioned they’d seen happen. Have they no respect for books?!
I believe I’m more subdued when it comes to these “displays” because it’s in my nature to. I can’t recall the exact placement but there’s a rather telling planetary arrangement in my natal chart that relates to relationships and that is a perfect example of my gentlemanly ways: Does Not Kiss and Tell – take note, Mr Murdoch, should I ever have the unfortunate derring-do to be involved in some sex scandal. I’m not a grass. I shall not squeal. Hey, relationships for me are like Fight Club, and we all know the number one rule of Fight Club is to – oops.
But I digress, what’s the deal with all these lame-arsed exagerations of kissing and touching that should have been left behind the bike sheds of school? It’s like all the times I’m casually perusing my Facebook feed and somebody shares (sharing ain’t caring for me in this case) one of those sickening and simpering pictures of a bunch of flowers or some blurred picture of a couple AGAIN GOING THE GROPE, and over the top is some pathetic text like: You know he loves you when he hugs you from behind.
Excuse me?
There’s another bugbear for all you sweethearts and honeybunches out there – isn’t the act of hugging from behind, indeed, holding on to and not releasing somebody from behind some horribly domesticised form of ownership? It’s basically saying that women are still chattels. Sorry, not sorry. I’d put money on the next step in that little scenario being DV and an AVO.
I’m not a prude. Nor am I repressed – indeed, you’ll never have any idea how sexually expressive you can be until you read both Henry Miller and Erica Jong (I know, I know) at the same time and there’s nobody to “lend a hand”, as it were.
There’s a time and place for going the grope, the thoughful thump and demonstrable desire – just don’t do it in front of me. Not because I think it’s shameful (indeed, I lurve nothing more than a bit of expressive exploration with someone who wants to extol the virtues of moi), but I don’t show it off. Otherwise you give me full permission to film it and sell it to one of those hokey websites that get off, but better yet PAY to have vision of any couple getting it on. Amateurswithoutborders.com or Imorataswithoutinhibitions.org.
By the way, the Eurotrash have finally left – I turned round and applauded and asked if the show was over but they pulled the old “Non-Inglese” card.
Cheeky.
The Josh Holley 
ha!. And I thought I was the only one. Once upon a century I lived in Melbourne, an can attest to the Eurotrash (which litter outside the doorway of 98% of the back/flashpackers in the CBD.
Essentially, it appears to be two distinct countries of origin (whose domains end .it and .fr) who are the worst offenders at face sucking and gropism (and also talk far too loud in groups whilst smoking ganja on the rooftops of said back/flashpackers).
The .de ‘s and .cn ‘s are still quite conservative and I don’t seem to notice the .ru ‘s as they are almost completely invisible.
Oh, and students, especially 20 something .jp ‘s who walk along with their noses pressed into their smartphones nearly getting crushed by passing trams are horrifying too. Not much use to your Tamagotchi if your cute torso is sliced cleanly in half with your intestines spilling out in a fetid heap because you haven’t noticed 4 tonnes of electrically powered steel coming through the DO NOT WALK sign.Neboken nayo!.