Touch Wood

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Oh Torchwood, I wish I could like you. I’m a huge Doctor Who fan (no, what? Does that make me sound like a geek? What, like there is some kind of huge geek/pervery cross over. For sereally? How come no one mentions it? (And talking of which, happy solstice, hippy types))

Also, I may have mentioned this before (you know how sometimes you lose track of what you’ve said to who) but I loved Doctor Who from a tiny age because of a scene where Peter Davidson was going to be executed. Beheaded. All kneeling and stuff. Woah and God, I do like kneeling. Real low. Forehead on the floor. Love, but… It frightens me, you know. That. How hard that fucking hits me. How deep it goes. Hate it, almost. Do not want. I push it away. Only glimpse out of the corner of my eye. It’s like the sun. It is for me. It’s too much and it overwhelms me and crushes me to bits and dust. My desires for strength and power don’t make me strong and powerful. They make me needy; make me weak. Wanting is weakness. Desire is misery. And I am nothing but a mess of desire that does not work because getting what I want destroys it.

When he kneels all I want is to be beneath him.

When he kneels, he’s my god, then.

(And this, you know, rarely flies with that average submissive man as a way to run happy times. And we haven’t even got to the fact I don’t do heels.)

Yeah, but I was writing about Torchwood. (See how I digressed off my digression into the thing this blog is mean to be about. ‘Mazin’ mind fuck.)

Yes, but really, Torchwood. Oh, if only I could like you. (Not just Doctor Who love really, also the whole British genre TV made for adults thing. Love that. So want it to be good.) Unfortunately the makers of Torchwood seem to have adopted a policy of never casting anyone with any acting ability or physical attractiveness of any kind. Which would be, you know fine, unless they were making a television program.

Oh, oopsiefuck!

Fuckers! I mean come on. It’s called television for a reason. And ‘tele’ I believe comes from the Greek for pretty looking people right in my field of

John Barrowman, for example, is apparently supposed to be some kind of version of attractiveness. But I think something must’ve gone horribly wrong because, even allowing for variations in human response, John Barrowman is about as sexually exciting as having nitric acid pipetted onto my clitoris. (And, god, you know, with my audience it is too fucking hard to find a neat metaphor to describe something sexually horrible. They’ll always be one. Or, well, with my blog a small faction. But I know you get what I mean so shut up.)

I don’t know how else to understand John Barrowman other than to assume he has some kind of super human cock sucking ability. I know that might sound like some kind of vague grazing homophobia, but it really isn’t. I just do wholly genuinely think there is no other explanation for his getting any work ever.

But the terminal unattractiveness (and intense unconvincingness – which is probably really the main problem) of John Barrowman is such a shame because he does get sort of chain up and tortured quite a lot. And normally, you know, I kind of fucking go for that.

But, just the once, I did kind of mildly enjoy this bit. (Bit, btw, is about a min and a half in.)

I seem to have lost my ability to embed things. But I’d feel dirty embedding some Torchwood anyway.

It’s probably the sideburns. Sideburns are my wolf in the woods. Nothing has made me stray off that path to grandma’s house as regularly and destructively as the right kind of facial hair. Although I never thought they were so powerful they would make me thrill to Barrowman. Even with electro torture. God.

I blame the 1970s.

Having said all this, how hot would that Edwardian-electrics thing be if Harkness was played by, well, by absolutely anyone else you can think of.

(I don’t moderate comments on this blog – mainly as a sort of high wire act – but I will delete you if you say you actually find a barefaced John Barrowman either attractive or convincing. I can do without your sort.)

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