"I contradict myself,
I am large, I contain multitudes."
- Walt Whitman
The
trembling & perspiring neo-conservative stiff-upper-lip
establishment-type Anglo-Irishman. On moral crusade by day, yet fallen
defiled fuckslut by night : "please dear lord forgive me, i pray my dear wife Wendy never finds out!"
We all know him, don't we? He finds guilt both immobilising
& sinfully delicious, much like gorging on a chocolate fudge cake
after recently committing to a diet (at 3am...don't all the most
deliciously deviant debauches happen at 3am?!).
Much like how Foucault
described the prudish repression of the Victorian Age paradoxically
giving rise to the most perverse & transgressive expressions of
human sexuality, he finds solace & liberation in restraint &
submission, & an escape from the daily existential grind of being
"condemned to be free".
So wrong. Yet so delicious.
It's our dirty little secret, Irish boy.
