A-grooming we shall go....

I think I might be grooming the boy in the mac store….

I think I might have been suppressing the urge to check out young men.

Then, after spending an afternoon with the lord montague, I think I may have created a resurgence….

So I went the apple store, where I more or less purchased a fully-grown twenty-three year-old. 

Being fundamentally fucked off with the inability to convert .MTS files on my mac or elsewhere without a wanging great watermark reading ‘stupid fucking twat’ across it, I thought it was time to pop by. 

The last time I went in me and twenty-three found a refurbed mac at a ridiculously low price.    And talked about our current projects.  He’s a film graduate.  He likes to service me……

But today, as I feel a slight twinge in my garters upon entry to the store, I couldn’t really remember what he looked like.  Though I knew if I found him he’d know exactly the fix that I needed.  I chose him specifically for his talents, and needed an action replay of his marvellous skills.

But I couldn’t see him, and after a quick scan of the store, I picked another young thing, who limply suggested some *background noise* to solve my fist-chewingly annoying file conversion problem. 

Not satisfied with this response, and still hungry for tech-talk, I tied my consumer leash around his tender neck and led him across the floor of kaleidoscope-eyed app thirstmongers, to a strange place by the back wall.

Where a small young boy stood, penned in by ropes.

“This is Mack”, my assistant said.  “He knows about things.”

Mack turns to me.

“Hello, how’s your documentary?!”

Score!  I have refound my orphan child.  And I intend to reclaim him.

“I was looking for you….”, I said, amongst other suggestive smut,

“I couldn’t see you - you’ve cut your hair.”

“Yes, I’ve cut all my hair off”, he says.  There’s a beat of a pause as I scan him up and down in hirsute analysis.  It appears he has helped me out by starting to groom himself….

Analysis?  Young, mild, nice.   ‘Manageable’, one might say.  “You’ll destroy him when you get your hands on him”, my husband says.

The other helper-thing shifts from foot to foot grinning.  He’s not going anywhere.

Mack calls over to a colleague.  The weird pen thing must be manned at all times.  To guard the ipods.

We joke about how you qualify to become a pen-boy, and how to get sectioned off for being bad - (mmmm, sectioned).

And we unhook his ropes and he’s free!  And after begging the new pen-boy to steal an ipod for me, me and master mack get down to business. 

Which is talking mts files, imovie set up, and the difficulty of achieving distance from your work. 

He wants to see my rushes.  Come into my rushes, film-boy, rush on in.

He’s running an imovie workshop this Friday at 10am, and invites me along.  Which forces me to remind myself that I do, in fact, have a ‘job’.   But there might be a way…..He gives me his card.  With loads of file converters scrawled over it. 

I tell him to tell ‘them’ to move the workshop to a Monday.  He says he has no control, ‘they’ do all the scheduling.

Them in HQ.  Mr Jobs’ jobbies.

He says if I can’t make it on Friday, I should come in another time and he’ll spend twenty with me.  Twenty should be just about enough…..

I leave, superhappy with my achievements, and proceed to warehouse and hennes where I purchase a plethora of filthy clothes.  I look like lady di crossed with an east end moll, pat butcher, and a teenager.  Glorious.  That’s cannes sorted…

And I am reminded that it’s thanks to the lord montague that I’m here.  Trying to pull twenty-three year olds and squeezing into size zeros. 

“oi, ‘av you shrunk?  ‘av you got that weird shrinking disease old people get?  I’m sure you used to be a porker.”

Yes, the reason I have purchased such fluffy, tight and conspicuous ludicracies is because of the lord’s shrinking comment, which has inflated both my ego and my libido. 

Extra-small, if you please.  With the clothes anyway…..

It is also the reason for me eating nothing but chewy organic corn cakes from the alternative grocers all night.

And when Samson calls me to tell me he’s eating crisps and chocolate, sloshed down with a macdonalds, I all but faint.

Shrinking disease, no sir.

Eating disorder….I’m working on it….

Grooming fetish – I’m there….