The mark of a woman.

I can't remember the last time I got a hickey.

That ugly red bruise, like you have been hit in the neck with a high velocity squash ball.

A mark that screams teenage passion, territorial marking and mischief most recent.

Actually I can remember the last one...it was fucking yesterday.

In a moment of mock rage I suggested she just cock a leg and piss on me if she wanted to mark me...there was a pause as she considered it. A long enough pause that I regretted the suggestion.

Kite surfing, yacht racing and swimming are my only waters ports .

She knows I am a player and this is the price I have to pay. A mark to warn others off I suppose.

Talk about not playing fair.

Devil in the detail

When I was a kid, I was a geeky, Star Wars loving geek king of kid.

Sure I played with death constructing the jump of doom for my trusty BMX. I lobbed my self up and down cliff faces occasionally using a rope and some semblance of safety gear.

I always wandered way too deep into the local bushland to see just where the creek went - and all of this before the days of GPS, mobile phones and parents bubble wrapping their children.

But after all of this fun there were still action figures play war games with in the pile of dirt that was on it's way to being a four car garage.

Unfortunately it was in the home made trenches that my little problem with attention to detail came to the fore.

You see even in the pre computer enhanced, original Star Wars movie there were hundreds of Storm Troopers. Their numbers were obviously a direct response to their inability to shoot straight and see where they were going under those funky helmets.

But Storm Troopers were cool. At least they were cool until you only had one of them in your arsenal of action figures.

You could get away with one Han Solo, one Luke, one Darth Vader, one R3D2 and even one C3P0 - despite the fact that for some reason you had ended up with the 12" high version of the slightly camp gold android when the rest of the cast were only 2.5 inches tall.

All of that was forgivable because after all, there was only ever one of each character in the movie. Storm Troopers however, when all alone are as useful as tits on a bull.

So began the long cycle of paper rounds, begging, borrowing and I have to admit stealing, to build a proper army of Storm Troopers.

I would hate to think how many kids started their life of petty crime at the hands of George Lucas and the seemingly impossible task of getting enough Storm Troopers to have a proper battle.

It got the point that anyone with more than one Storm Trooper was an instant best friend for life if they could bring them over to play. Even the kid with warts and a perpetual sniffle was allowed to join in because he had three.

It was at about the critical mass of four Storm Troopers in my personal collection that disaster struck.

The second Star Wars movie was released, which we now know to be the fifth in the series because George has a problem with time dyslexia and forgot where to start the story...but I digress.

With the Empire Strikes back came a new round of characters and a re-issue of the originals. The problem was that on screen Luke was still a weedy nerd with puppy dog eyes but the action figure looked like he had been on steroids and punching out sets at the gym.

Indeed you only had to look closely to see that everyone had been cast with a six pack and biceps that would be better suited to GI Joe or Conan the Barbarian. It was just wrong. These were not our screen heroes, they were impostors.

Added to that, there were even more Storm Troopers. There were even Storm Troopers fitted out for battle in the snow. It just was not viable to build another platoon and we don't get snow in Sydney. I had to admit defeat.

I did the only thing that a young boy knows how to do best. I destroyed the lot.

Fire works were still being sold in these good old days and one by one my action figures became victims of fire, smoke and acceleration that put them into backyards far from their original home.

Only the over sized C3P0 survived. Too big to launch with all but the most expensive model rocket engines and even to my young mind, sporting the aerodynamics and mass required to randomly to kill anyone within 100 meters once in flight. He had been relegated to be bottom of the toy box long before the purge began.

I found him this week while looking through old stuff I had stored away.

Amazing how one thing can take you back.

How much is that pussy in the window?

The guide books suggest you see other parts of Holland first so that you don't get the wrong idea about the Dutch if you go straight to the red light district in Amsterdam.

Fuck that I say. Goldmember taught me everything I needed to know about these crazy Dutch basrards.

All I needed now was to do some window shopping.

Making the most of existing connections, I spent the majority of the day cruising from pub to pub in a mates boat before setting in and waiting for dark to fall and the gawking familys to finish their tour of the red light district.

With darkness not really kicking in until 11pm, it was a lot of beer before the night life really got going.

Walking the streets of the Rossebuurt felt safe and clean. The sex shops were like any other in the world with the only advantage to making a purchase here being the joy of a bag search in Sydney when coming home.

The scene from Fight Club about "the vibrator, not your vibrator...." when discussing humming luggage came to mind.

The icons of the red light district are the prostitutes in the windows.

Most look sad and tired. They stand and bounce and jiggle with cigarette in hand, swim suite or knickers glowing with the red hue of the neon lights.

Every now and then one will tap their window,wink and beckon but nothing about it felt sexy or appealing.

Just when I thought it was time to head back to a pub and seek out more interesting and fully clothed company for the night, I saw a face that actually stopped me in my tracks.

She looked familiar in some way and in my brief pause she obviously thought she had a customer.

She opened her glass door and asked if I liked what I saw.

"Actually,for a moment I thought I knew you."
"Well,you always can get to know me..."
"Yeah, I suppose that is how it works"

I grinned back like an idiot. Her smile felt genuine and held me for a moment longer.

I don't really know how but as she leaned against the door frame we got chatting. Early on I made it clear I was not buying but she did not care, she was up for a chat.

She was smart, educated and well travelled. She had worked at home and came here for a change and some quick cash.

Tourists were stopping to watch. Curious if they were going to see a John walk through the door, to see what happens next.

After a while I quipped that I should let her get back to work, she smiled and thanked me for the chat.

The smile made me melt a little more and wonder what her future held.

Back in a pub later that night, a bunch of English girls were making a ton of noise. It became obvious that a dare was being organised and I was part of it.

Eventually the looser approached.

"We saw you talking to the hooker...did you do IT?"
"Ha ha, no she is my sister, I was just checking on her" I replied.

Needless to say that got me to their table with another pint of beer and that is about all I remember from the night.

Digital monkey

I am the first to admit that I am a geek and early adopter of technology. I would however say that I tend to watch, wait and research a product until I know it will do what i need and in a fashion that meets my expectations.

This post for example is being written on my new phone, the HTC Magic while I sit at the airport ready for another jaunt to Europe.

Some have dubbed it the iPhone killer, for me it was more that it was an open architecture operating system and not locked down like the Apple offering.

You see I am all about choice. Having the option to to do as I please is everything and the older I get the more important that seems to be.

Clever things along with clever people make me happy and as such I tend to seek them out.

Choice however seems to be expensive. Yet another relationship has crashed and burned because I can't slowdown. It is a bit harsh to say she could not keep up so I will keep that thought to myself for now....

Anyhow, life is full and my flight is being called. I am on the lookout again for female fun so we will see what Europe has on offer...

I'm a half twit

In the interests of riding another techno fad wave face first into the shallow shore break of the internasty I have joined Twatter to find out what all the fuss is about.

So far it seems that the number of people on it does not match the hype and surprise, surprise, the updates are just as banal and silly as those on crackbook.

Despite all this, I shall persist for a little while longer as I can at least get a blow by blow update of how many Johns have passed through the Shrinking Kitty poon shop in the past five minutes.

With the amount of creative energy I have right now, 160 characters is probably the perfect length for me to express myself in too.

Come tweet my twateer here : http://twitter.com/Josh_Monkey

I don't understand.

I have a dance partner and a lover.

One was born about the time I finished school and knows none of my silly music, life or film references.

She has an eternity of growing up to do, none of which I want to carry her through.

She is slim and petite but almost too much so for my carnal tastes.

She lacks the self assured sexuality I desire despite being able to turn on just enough to make the judges happy. Especially the dirty old ones that enjoy rolling their eyes over her naked navel.

Meanwhile I give myself to my lover, expose myself to hurt and disappointment. I give her a key to my house where she can seek refuge and live in my space for a weekend, explore and find out who I am with out my censorship.

Watch my porn, read my books, check under every rock and behind every closed door to see who I am. I feel naked and probed but content that I can be so open about who I am.

A thousand kilometers distant we pour months of hard work onto the dance floor and are rewarded with results exceeding our honest expectations. The one person I wanted to share it with is not there and she is told this again and again.

Yet all this trust and love is met with jealous accusations. Twice in two weeks now.

We do spend an insane amount of time in each others company, generally in a close embrace with our sweat, blood and tears mixing. We finish each others sentences like and old married couple and could get an Olympic medal for long jump when it comes to crossing the line in our private jokes.

Yet we go home to the ones we love, know that we are not connected that way and never will be.

I need her to understand that or it will all end.

True Love

The plan was simple, dance until late, return to my place and snuggle the night away with a lazy sleep in.

Yes, it was a school night and the lazy sleep in was to be on a Friday morning but I am the boss so fuck off back to work and don't question why I am late ok?

As I gently woke from my slumber and peered through bleary eyes at the alarm clock there was a confused recognition that the numbers were much lower than they should have been. 0700? What is that all about? Where has my bed warmer run off to? What is it with female bladders and early morning toilet runs? Wonder if she is getting ready to surprise me in that way of ways? Hmmmmm, warm bed....sleepy.

"Fuck...Oh no...Fuck Fuck Fuck" she mutters from the bathroom.

Cold tiles? Splashed cold water on her self?

"You ok?"

"Nope...I am early!"

It is 7am, damn right you are early I think. Then the penny drops...the red dragon is in the house.

"So much better than being late!" I quip back.

"True, but I am not prepared. I am like clockwork and this is 24 hours early, I have nothing with me..."

I know what this means. This is that moment when I get to find out the most intimate details. The whole plugs or planks discussion, mini, maxi, regular, wings or installation thing-a-ma-jigs...

"Do you want me to run up the shops" I enquire pulling on shorts and a shirt. My sleep-in dashed on the rocks of a feminine hygiene product emergency.

The specifications are given and I depart to the nearest Coles looking every bit like a man just out of bed.

As I get out of the car I am reminded that in my haste to clothe myself I neglected to step into underpants. The reminder comes in the form of a light brush of drilled cotton shorts on the tip of my knob.

A head conversation ensues like so;

Penis: Morning!! (stretching out to greet the day)
Head: Oh damn...forgot about you...em, can we save the morning greeting for about 15 minutes?
Penis: What's happening?...hmm, like this fabric, makes me tingle (now rubbing against the inside of the shorts like a cat weaving between your legs when asking for attention)
Head: Hey! quit it. We are shopping for girly stuff, this is not the time to look aroused.
Penis: but I am aroused....look at ME! (springing to full salute)
Head: but I am not so back to sleep for a while ok?
Penis: Too late! Hey, did the check out chick just glance at me?
Head: Fuck I hope not...I must look like a total perve.
Penis: pretty sure she just saw me waving at her...
Head: I am going to beat you when we get out of here..
Penis: I love it when you talk dirty...
Head: NOT like that!
Penis: Too late, I am ready for what ever you can give me!

So there I am, with an unrestrained, attention seeking boner, be dazzled by a million colourful packets of pads and tampons and wanting to die. I make my selection and dash for the check out.

The name tag introduces her as Amy, she is as flustered and flushed in the cheeks as I am. There is a brief mental exchange between us where I exert my full jedi will on this young and impressionable mind...

Amy: Is that what I think it is???...
Me: Yep, you saw it and no I am not stealing a Salami..
Amy: Do I need to call security???..
Me: No, no need for security, this is not the boner you are looking for..
Amy: No, this is not the boner I am looking for..."$5.70 please.."

I pay and leave as fast as I can. Knob straining against my shorts as I trot to the car.

What a way to start the day.