By Jesse Fink
Profitable Sydney-based sportswriter Jesse Fink used to be on the top of his expert occupation whilst his spouse of 10 years left him and walked into the palms of a brand new guy. in a single fell swoop he misplaced his ally, his soulmate, his kinfolk, his id. His wife's new lover even acquired his puppy. What used to be a trip of emotional salvation, own reinvention and sexual adventuring that took him from considering slicing his wrists to slumbering with hundreds of thousands of women.
Fink's look for love and enjoyment observed him bounce headlong into the freewheeling yet occasionally risky international of on-line relationship. He visited brothels and therapeutic massage parlours. He crossed the Pacific for doomed affairs with a burlesque dancer and a high-class escort.
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Additional resources for Laid Bare: One Man's Story of Sex, Love and Other Disorders
That cereal, which no one could pretend had any ambition to be eaten by adults, was represented, a decade before the arrival of the Honey Monster, by a real live bear called Jeremy. He led a busy life being photographed for the carton and filmed for television commercials until he was finally retired into private life, ending up, after a short period at Cromer Zoo, in Campertown, Dundee, where he died peacefully in his sleep in 1990. I visited him at Cromer, the first celebrity I ever saw in the flesh, or in the fur, and believe me, what the A-listingest Hollywood babe or pop idol is to a child now, Jeremy the Bear was to me then.
To have Rice Krispies when you could have Ricicles, to have Cornflakes when you could have Frosties. Who could imagine such a dull life? It was like deliberately choosing to watch the news on television or preferring to drink unsweetened tea. I lived for one thing and one thing only. C12H22O11. Perhaps this is why I should have been American, for they have sugar everywhere in the United States. In bread, in bottled water, in beef jerky, pickles, mayonnaise, mustard and salsa. Sugar, sugar, sugar.
Not a squeak. Not. A. Squeak. ' Downstairs I go and into the staffroom. A fire is blazing, and I sit down with a pile of exercise books for marking. Before I begin the business of correcting I fish the pipe from the pocket of my tweed jacket. I bring out with it a Smoker's Friend - combination pen-knife, reamer, tamper and bradawl. I fiddle and scrape and poke for a while, banging out the dottle from my previous pipeful into an ashtray and puffing down the stem like a horn player warming up his trumpet.