Jonny Cox's Blog, page 2
July 1, 2014
Objectification or Celebration?
On a late night TV news debate I watched yesterday, the 'objectification' of women was being decried as something that must be stopped. It seems an obvious point that society and the media, by which we silently mean men, should not see women as objects. But it is less obvious why men finding women attractive is 'objectification': do women not do the same? Is the TV advert of an impossibly attractive lawn mower man spraying himself with Pepsi not 'objectification', then? By admiring physical form are we condemning something or someone to being an object or are we celebrating it, or them, as attractive and desirable?
The trouble with girls is that they seem to want to be desired but not objectified, which is understandable, but it is difficult for a man to know the difference, especially when imagery of attractive women is so ubiquitous. The artwork of Tracey Emin's post coital bed recently sold for $2.5m, Facebook and Goodreads are filled with female authors using pictures of themselves to try and sell books, pop and film stars are rarely unattractive, so what are we simple blokes supposed to think?
I certainly liked to celebrate the beauty of my girlfriends (and wives), regularly taking intimate photos of them. Some were unsure at first, though whether that was because they felt objectified or uncertain of their own aesthetics was not clear. I tried to reassure them that I was taking naked pictures of them because they were beautiful, alluring, provocative, desirous and few actually refused. Indeed, most seemed quite happy to be the focus of my attention in such an obvious way.
"Take your shirt off, slowly, raise your skirt, look at the camera, release your inner porn star."
"Why did you say that? Do you secretly want to go out with a porn star," a resplendently naked and shy girlfriend once asked me as I clicked away.
"No, I don't want to go out with a porn star," I said from behind the camera, "but I do want to have sex with one."
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Trouble-Girls...
The trouble with girls is that they seem to want to be desired but not objectified, which is understandable, but it is difficult for a man to know the difference, especially when imagery of attractive women is so ubiquitous. The artwork of Tracey Emin's post coital bed recently sold for $2.5m, Facebook and Goodreads are filled with female authors using pictures of themselves to try and sell books, pop and film stars are rarely unattractive, so what are we simple blokes supposed to think?
I certainly liked to celebrate the beauty of my girlfriends (and wives), regularly taking intimate photos of them. Some were unsure at first, though whether that was because they felt objectified or uncertain of their own aesthetics was not clear. I tried to reassure them that I was taking naked pictures of them because they were beautiful, alluring, provocative, desirous and few actually refused. Indeed, most seemed quite happy to be the focus of my attention in such an obvious way.
"Take your shirt off, slowly, raise your skirt, look at the camera, release your inner porn star."
"Why did you say that? Do you secretly want to go out with a porn star," a resplendently naked and shy girlfriend once asked me as I clicked away.
"No, I don't want to go out with a porn star," I said from behind the camera, "but I do want to have sex with one."
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Trouble-Girls...
June 19, 2014
Living in the Wilderness
Many years ago when I worked for a building firm in the university holidays, I found a bible in a derelict barn. I have struggled to find faith all my life but I was drawn to the small, leather bound book because it was inscribed as a Christmas present in 1904 and I retained it as an artefact, an antique. I held it with reverence because someone had once given the Word of God as a gift, and that seemed quite precious.
I read it in lunch breaks and was compelled by the Book of Proverbs; the Song of Solomon, ancient source of wisdom. At the time, a long standing relationship had unexpectedly finished and it felt like serendipity when I read Proverbs Chapter 21, Verse 19: It is better to live in the wilderness than with an angry or contentious woman. I certainly felt like I was in an emotional wilderness so I joined the army to escape and soon found myself in a true wilderness in the jungle in Central America. That was the beginning of my trouble with girls.
A quarter of a century later, and I am still holding that bible, still dealing with the trouble with girls. Since my wife has left me, I have to buy a house with a much smaller garden and so I have given away the climbing frame, swing set, slide and trampoline that for half a decade illustrated my life with scenes of childhood. Now as I stare through the kitchen window the garden looks like the Canadian prairie; vast and empty. Indeed, it looks like a wilderness.
It is sad, of course, that there will be no horde of children in the garden, no smiling wife, but actually she had long since stopped smiling and, sad as I am, I can’t help feeling that Solomon was right.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Trouble-W...
I read it in lunch breaks and was compelled by the Book of Proverbs; the Song of Solomon, ancient source of wisdom. At the time, a long standing relationship had unexpectedly finished and it felt like serendipity when I read Proverbs Chapter 21, Verse 19: It is better to live in the wilderness than with an angry or contentious woman. I certainly felt like I was in an emotional wilderness so I joined the army to escape and soon found myself in a true wilderness in the jungle in Central America. That was the beginning of my trouble with girls.
A quarter of a century later, and I am still holding that bible, still dealing with the trouble with girls. Since my wife has left me, I have to buy a house with a much smaller garden and so I have given away the climbing frame, swing set, slide and trampoline that for half a decade illustrated my life with scenes of childhood. Now as I stare through the kitchen window the garden looks like the Canadian prairie; vast and empty. Indeed, it looks like a wilderness.
It is sad, of course, that there will be no horde of children in the garden, no smiling wife, but actually she had long since stopped smiling and, sad as I am, I can’t help feeling that Solomon was right.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Trouble-W...
June 1, 2014
Venus is a lonely place.
I spent most of the weekend hunkered down behind the sofa as we fought off marauding aliens. It is difficult to sustain effective suppressive fire in front of the defensive position when your arsenal consists of antique, contemporary and imaginary toy weapons: we were taking a lot of casualties. Fortunately, we had plenty magic revival juice so the boys could keep going. There was little chance of reviving a flagging dad, however, because the espresso machine is in the kitchen which was completely overrun by giant, flesh eating, cyclops, zombie aliens and those dudes are some bad boy spacemen.
I suggested we defend forward to execute a more fluid concept of operations, so we took the fight outside where we saw some real aliens.
"That's my friend, Gemma," said one of the boys. "She's not an alien!"
"Of course she is, she's from Venus."
"Are all girls aliens, Daddy?"
"Yes, they bring a strange fruit which makes all men sinners. Once you've tasted it you'll be forever enslaved."
"What sort of fruit?"
"It's warm and soft and they usually have two. The bigger the fruit that she offers, the more likely you are to sin."
"How do we protect ourselves?"
"There's no protection , my son, God made us vulnerable to temptation to sustain humanity. Men used to find sanctuary in old age but then The Tree of Knowledge began to bear a different fruit that was small and blue and made men susceptible to the persuasion of Eve long after is natural."
"What shall we do, then, the pop guns are not working; there's too many of them." My eldest boy looked concerned, and with good reason for the aliens at school seem to like him. I share his fear and worry about what will happen if one of my sons gets abducted by aliens. I have twice been to Venus and found it a lonely place for a man.
"Let's switch to water pistols," I said. "Aliens don't like to be squirted."
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Trouble-Girls...
I suggested we defend forward to execute a more fluid concept of operations, so we took the fight outside where we saw some real aliens.
"That's my friend, Gemma," said one of the boys. "She's not an alien!"
"Of course she is, she's from Venus."
"Are all girls aliens, Daddy?"
"Yes, they bring a strange fruit which makes all men sinners. Once you've tasted it you'll be forever enslaved."
"What sort of fruit?"
"It's warm and soft and they usually have two. The bigger the fruit that she offers, the more likely you are to sin."
"How do we protect ourselves?"
"There's no protection , my son, God made us vulnerable to temptation to sustain humanity. Men used to find sanctuary in old age but then The Tree of Knowledge began to bear a different fruit that was small and blue and made men susceptible to the persuasion of Eve long after is natural."
"What shall we do, then, the pop guns are not working; there's too many of them." My eldest boy looked concerned, and with good reason for the aliens at school seem to like him. I share his fear and worry about what will happen if one of my sons gets abducted by aliens. I have twice been to Venus and found it a lonely place for a man.
"Let's switch to water pistols," I said. "Aliens don't like to be squirted."
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Trouble-Girls...
May 26, 2014
Cleansing One's Soul.
Shredding photos of ex-wives is a habit that I am trying to break. Not the shredding bit, that's quite good fun, it's the collecting of ex-wives bit which I'm hoping to give up; it's emotionally and financially exhausting.
I tend to shred the pictures feet first, hoping it will hurt more. I considered burning them and the connotations of burning witches seemed very apt, but, ultimately, a little old fashioned. Besides, there's something very satisfying about the loud buzz of the shredder and the grinding noise that is associated with the soul cleansing despatch of the nagging, presumptuous, parasitic woman that once was the focus of your life.
Inevitably, though, it is also quite sad to render into pieces that which once seemed so whole; if only for a short while. A photograph is usually a happy memory, a smiling face or a shared experience that once you wanted to remember into old age. This is especially true of pictures of family. Pictures in which your children look happy and safe between their parents, between the love that they assumed would always be there to protect them, not expecting that their mother would tear it up because she had taken what she wanted from marriage and found that the reality of sustaining a relationship required more commitment than she was prepared to give.
So I turn to the machine and press the switch. The teeth tug at the photo, eager to do my bidding, to purge the sense of loss that she caused. It's cathartic, it's liberating, it's a worth another book. Grind, grind, grind. I feed the pictures in one after the other: a relentless purging of mind, of soul, of spirit.
"Work for me my lover, free me from these shackles!"
Too much coffee again?
http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Trouble-W...
I tend to shred the pictures feet first, hoping it will hurt more. I considered burning them and the connotations of burning witches seemed very apt, but, ultimately, a little old fashioned. Besides, there's something very satisfying about the loud buzz of the shredder and the grinding noise that is associated with the soul cleansing despatch of the nagging, presumptuous, parasitic woman that once was the focus of your life.
Inevitably, though, it is also quite sad to render into pieces that which once seemed so whole; if only for a short while. A photograph is usually a happy memory, a smiling face or a shared experience that once you wanted to remember into old age. This is especially true of pictures of family. Pictures in which your children look happy and safe between their parents, between the love that they assumed would always be there to protect them, not expecting that their mother would tear it up because she had taken what she wanted from marriage and found that the reality of sustaining a relationship required more commitment than she was prepared to give.
So I turn to the machine and press the switch. The teeth tug at the photo, eager to do my bidding, to purge the sense of loss that she caused. It's cathartic, it's liberating, it's a worth another book. Grind, grind, grind. I feed the pictures in one after the other: a relentless purging of mind, of soul, of spirit.
"Work for me my lover, free me from these shackles!"
Too much coffee again?
http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Trouble-W...
May 23, 2014
The beauty of Spring
The riot of spring colour that burst into life around my home a few weeks ago has muted into summer green. I miss the deep scarlet, pink and white of the apple, cherry and hawthorn trees that grace my avenue for a few weeks every year; nature is relentless in its need to progress the cycle of life.
I also lament the absence of bright yellow fields of rape which so gloriously coloured the pastoral landscape in which I am so lucky to live. I grew up in Yorkshire and always assumed I would grow old there after the Army Bitch had finally cast me aside, but life has not played out that way for me and I have settled in rural Bedfordshire.
The golden fields of rape are perhaps the most dramatic example of Bedfordshire's natural charms and driving along the country lanes in late Spring can feel like you are cruising on a sea of honey. It's an evocative journey and the gentle rolling of low hills feels like the pitch of waves of gold: indeed, it reminds me of the Yorkshire landscape for which I still secretly yearn.
Inevitably, though, there is more to it than rekindled memories of forgotten landscapes. There is also the indelible mental image of a woman wandering through such golden vistas with all the naked insouciance of Eve, newly emboldened by the forbidden fruit. These were pictures I saw in a magazine when I was on the edge of manhood, the sort of magazine that teenage boys obtain from illicit sources and then retain to cherish in quiet moments. The woman walked with brazen arrogance, promising so much but remaining beyond the hope of even the strongest imagination. As she walked through the fields, the golden petals caressed her thighs, like so many tormented men knelt down to beseech her for release. She ignored them all.
Still now as I drive through the golden sea, my eyes cast around hoping to glimpse her amongst the fields, but she is never there. And now Spring has gone and with it the fields of gold, and Summer has to pass into autumn, which in turn must relinquish the land to the unforgiving Winter, before Spring returns with my hope of seeing her again.
I also lament the absence of bright yellow fields of rape which so gloriously coloured the pastoral landscape in which I am so lucky to live. I grew up in Yorkshire and always assumed I would grow old there after the Army Bitch had finally cast me aside, but life has not played out that way for me and I have settled in rural Bedfordshire.
The golden fields of rape are perhaps the most dramatic example of Bedfordshire's natural charms and driving along the country lanes in late Spring can feel like you are cruising on a sea of honey. It's an evocative journey and the gentle rolling of low hills feels like the pitch of waves of gold: indeed, it reminds me of the Yorkshire landscape for which I still secretly yearn.
Inevitably, though, there is more to it than rekindled memories of forgotten landscapes. There is also the indelible mental image of a woman wandering through such golden vistas with all the naked insouciance of Eve, newly emboldened by the forbidden fruit. These were pictures I saw in a magazine when I was on the edge of manhood, the sort of magazine that teenage boys obtain from illicit sources and then retain to cherish in quiet moments. The woman walked with brazen arrogance, promising so much but remaining beyond the hope of even the strongest imagination. As she walked through the fields, the golden petals caressed her thighs, like so many tormented men knelt down to beseech her for release. She ignored them all.
Still now as I drive through the golden sea, my eyes cast around hoping to glimpse her amongst the fields, but she is never there. And now Spring has gone and with it the fields of gold, and Summer has to pass into autumn, which in turn must relinquish the land to the unforgiving Winter, before Spring returns with my hope of seeing her again.
May 10, 2014
A Sense of Responsibility
My ex wife and I effectively had our first date at Sandals in Jamaica. We met in the harsh landscape of Southern Iraq and the disparity of our army ranks meant that we had to constrain our nascent romance to fleeting moments away from the madding crowd.
So the sense of liberation that we felt amidst the lush Caribbean Island when we eventually got away on leave was an intoxicating contrast. People smiled at our togetherness, rather than frowned at it, and we revelled in each other's company.
Every afternoon, we left the blue sea and white sand to hide in the luxury of our room and physically and emotionally explore each other after such long refrain. Jemma had taken a pair of fur covered handcuffs with her and she offered them to me with challenging submission. It was not something we had discussed, so why she had them and whether she had been restrained with them before where considerations that I had to quell as I lay her down on the bed and shackled her to the post, covering her eyes with a scarf.
Then I kissed her cheek and traced my lips around her jaw to the soft skin of her neck. I was careful to avoid her lips, not wanting to reward her with such intimacy until she had earned it. I trailed my fingertips down her sides, along the edge of her breasts, denying her nipples such embrace, across her stomach, avoiding more sensual touch and along her finely sculpted thighs.
She was still, only occasionally yielding or rising to the bait of my touch, and she was quiet; only whispers of breath or suggestions of pleasure emanating from her lips. And I was watching, waiting, trying to gauge her response, sense when she was ready for more demanding exploration but she would not tell me. The handcuffs and blindfold seemed to absolve her of that responsibility and left to me the decision of when to caress a breast, offer intimate strokes, explore with my tongue or rise above her for the final domination.
It seemed as if she would lie there forever, straining against the cuffs, waiting, anticipating, demanding more but never denying. Her appetite was unquenchable; yielding and resisting, and I could not tell whether she lay there to please me or challenge me. Did she actually like being dominated or was this act of submission a temporary gift to ensure my obedience in the wider sense?
Ultimately, my concern at the sense of responsibility that Jemma had ceded me was misjudged. After I had taken my final pleasure from her and released her from the actual and metaphorical bonds, Jemma rose up and smiled and I realised that it was me who had been dominated, subjugated to her whim, from the beginning when she had first offered me the handcuffs.
Indeed, months earlier when she had first smiled at me in Basra.
So the sense of liberation that we felt amidst the lush Caribbean Island when we eventually got away on leave was an intoxicating contrast. People smiled at our togetherness, rather than frowned at it, and we revelled in each other's company.
Every afternoon, we left the blue sea and white sand to hide in the luxury of our room and physically and emotionally explore each other after such long refrain. Jemma had taken a pair of fur covered handcuffs with her and she offered them to me with challenging submission. It was not something we had discussed, so why she had them and whether she had been restrained with them before where considerations that I had to quell as I lay her down on the bed and shackled her to the post, covering her eyes with a scarf.
Then I kissed her cheek and traced my lips around her jaw to the soft skin of her neck. I was careful to avoid her lips, not wanting to reward her with such intimacy until she had earned it. I trailed my fingertips down her sides, along the edge of her breasts, denying her nipples such embrace, across her stomach, avoiding more sensual touch and along her finely sculpted thighs.
She was still, only occasionally yielding or rising to the bait of my touch, and she was quiet; only whispers of breath or suggestions of pleasure emanating from her lips. And I was watching, waiting, trying to gauge her response, sense when she was ready for more demanding exploration but she would not tell me. The handcuffs and blindfold seemed to absolve her of that responsibility and left to me the decision of when to caress a breast, offer intimate strokes, explore with my tongue or rise above her for the final domination.
It seemed as if she would lie there forever, straining against the cuffs, waiting, anticipating, demanding more but never denying. Her appetite was unquenchable; yielding and resisting, and I could not tell whether she lay there to please me or challenge me. Did she actually like being dominated or was this act of submission a temporary gift to ensure my obedience in the wider sense?
Ultimately, my concern at the sense of responsibility that Jemma had ceded me was misjudged. After I had taken my final pleasure from her and released her from the actual and metaphorical bonds, Jemma rose up and smiled and I realised that it was me who had been dominated, subjugated to her whim, from the beginning when she had first offered me the handcuffs.
Indeed, months earlier when she had first smiled at me in Basra.
May 9, 2014
April 29, 2014
A Different Kind of Story.
Trying to write a book based on your own life experiences is a rather arrogant aspiration: it assumes that other people will be interested in your actions and thoughts. I suppose when you are flying around the jungle in helicopters, SCUBA diving in warm tropical seas and sitting in Jacuzzis with French hookers, that might be a reasonable assumption to make, but when you are older and leading a more sedentary life, that might not be true.
Now, when I meet old friends, they often seem a little disappointed that I don’t regale them with stories of military adventure or amorous misadventure.
“You used to have such an interesting life, Jonny,” said a rugby playing buddy from my college years when last we met. “What happened?” I shrugged.
“I suppose I grew up.”
And that seems to be the essence of life for me now. Often, when my three beautiful sons are with their mother, the highlight of my weekend is walking the dog in the forest near my home. She is a beautiful dog and a faithful friend, but I had wanted a dog that would further define me as a soldier, as man. Perhaps a mastiff or ridgeback would have provided that depth but, inevitably, my wife’s preferences prevailed and so I ended up with a precocious blue eyed husky called Princess Panda.
As a puppy she could sit on my hand: a ball of fluff with pointy ears and sapphire blue eyes. Unfortunately, that was not her only resemblance to a Gremlin. She is also very intelligent and instinctively malevolent and I first realised that she could open the front door by herself when I discovered it swinging open one night soon after we had moved into a new house. I went out into the dark, rainy night to look for her, following the sounds of tortured squealing into a neighbour’s garden. There I saw Panda’s fluffy white tail wagging excitedly from inside the guinea pig hutch.
I had to go and introduce myself to my new neighbour and break the news that his daughter’s pet had been Panda food.
“Are you sure it was dead?” he asked. I nodded.
“It had no head.”
Maybe I’ll just tell a different kind of story.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Trouble-W...
Now, when I meet old friends, they often seem a little disappointed that I don’t regale them with stories of military adventure or amorous misadventure.
“You used to have such an interesting life, Jonny,” said a rugby playing buddy from my college years when last we met. “What happened?” I shrugged.
“I suppose I grew up.”
And that seems to be the essence of life for me now. Often, when my three beautiful sons are with their mother, the highlight of my weekend is walking the dog in the forest near my home. She is a beautiful dog and a faithful friend, but I had wanted a dog that would further define me as a soldier, as man. Perhaps a mastiff or ridgeback would have provided that depth but, inevitably, my wife’s preferences prevailed and so I ended up with a precocious blue eyed husky called Princess Panda.
As a puppy she could sit on my hand: a ball of fluff with pointy ears and sapphire blue eyes. Unfortunately, that was not her only resemblance to a Gremlin. She is also very intelligent and instinctively malevolent and I first realised that she could open the front door by herself when I discovered it swinging open one night soon after we had moved into a new house. I went out into the dark, rainy night to look for her, following the sounds of tortured squealing into a neighbour’s garden. There I saw Panda’s fluffy white tail wagging excitedly from inside the guinea pig hutch.
I had to go and introduce myself to my new neighbour and break the news that his daughter’s pet had been Panda food.
“Are you sure it was dead?” he asked. I nodded.
“It had no head.”
Maybe I’ll just tell a different kind of story.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Trouble-W...
April 25, 2014
Awkward Moments
A very senior female army officer visited our HQ this week and I was presented with an uncomfortable engagement in the mess bar. I last saw this lady over 20 years ago when we were junior officers in Belize. She accompanied a boat patrol that I led deep in the jungle along the Guatemalan border and we actually became quite close.
So, it was a little disconcerting that she was fairly offhand. She recognised me but seemingly could not actually put me into the context of her Central American adventure. Eventually I realised, at least guessed, that she was trying to remember whether I had been the bloke that she had a fling with.
"Was it you?" asked my boss cheerfully next morning.
"No, sir. If it had been me she'd have remembered." I flattered myself because she didn't remember that we had spent a week together; it was obviously not such a memorable event for her.
For me, however, that week of jungle rivers and stormy seas was in many respects the inspiration for The Trouble With Girls. Although I did not get into trouble with this particular girl, it always seemed to be hanging in the air and it struck me as bizarre that I was so far removed from normal society and yet still wondering whether I should or shouldn't try to develop our relationship. The trouble with girls is that you never know what they're thinking.
And now I had to call her ma'am; defer to her seniority and despite her rather detached attitude, I was still wondering whether I should or shouldn't.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Trouble-W...
So, it was a little disconcerting that she was fairly offhand. She recognised me but seemingly could not actually put me into the context of her Central American adventure. Eventually I realised, at least guessed, that she was trying to remember whether I had been the bloke that she had a fling with.
"Was it you?" asked my boss cheerfully next morning.
"No, sir. If it had been me she'd have remembered." I flattered myself because she didn't remember that we had spent a week together; it was obviously not such a memorable event for her.
For me, however, that week of jungle rivers and stormy seas was in many respects the inspiration for The Trouble With Girls. Although I did not get into trouble with this particular girl, it always seemed to be hanging in the air and it struck me as bizarre that I was so far removed from normal society and yet still wondering whether I should or shouldn't try to develop our relationship. The trouble with girls is that you never know what they're thinking.
And now I had to call her ma'am; defer to her seniority and despite her rather detached attitude, I was still wondering whether I should or shouldn't.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Trouble-W...
April 15, 2014
Boyhood Dreams
I saw a re-run of a 1979 episode of Top Of The Pops at the weekend and had all my pre-pubescent illusions of Kate Bush shattered. I remember her as tall, lithe, attractive and exotic and her dancing style of ballet mixed with gymnastics seemed to promise the sort of carnal delights that young teens dream of. But now her oddly gyrating exertions and obscure facial expressons made her seem a bit like a witch. It was worse than discovering there was no Santa.
And talking of witches, I was clearing out my garage at the weekend and found some old decorations from Christmas and Hallowe'en stuffed in a box and it appears that when she walked out on me, my ex-wife left her broomstick behind.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Trouble-W...
And talking of witches, I was clearing out my garage at the weekend and found some old decorations from Christmas and Hallowe'en stuffed in a box and it appears that when she walked out on me, my ex-wife left her broomstick behind.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Trouble-W...
