“May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you’re wonderful, and don’t forget to make some art — write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the next year, you surprise yourself.”—
If they had had an LJ kinkmeme in Victorian times, it wouldve been a billboard hidden in an inconspicuous London alleyway, with veiled figures pinning on pieces of paper with lewd suggetions for short stories written upon them.
And Oscar Wilde would’ve started a big scandal by walking into the alley proud and unveiled, surrounded by rentboys and pinning a up a sign that said in massive letters, “SHERLOCK HOLMES LIKES IT UP THE ARSE”.
So, flies. Flies are an annoying thing, I think we can agree on. They buzz around, they tend to be associated with disease and filth, and are all around sort of pests. It’s why we have a business dedicated entirely to getting rid of flies when they’re too plentiful. Flies, gnats, mosquitoes, the like—all fairly annoying.
Now, pretend that I’m a sharpshooter. I can kill a fly, with a gun, from a hundred feet away.
Now, say that I have a gun pointed at you at all times. I follow you around, hand steady, wherever you go. Bedroom? Work? Bathroom? I’m there, with the gun.
"I’m not going to shoot you," I say. "I’m only going to shoot a fly if it gets close to you. It’s for your own good—as well as everybody else around you."
Now, maybe I’m not the sharpshooter I used to be. Maybe my aim is off when I shoot a fly near you. Or maybe I mistake a blotch on your skin for a fly.
Or maybe I’m very good at my job, and I have absolutely no intention of misusing this power I have.
Either way, I’m fairly sure that you wouldn’t want me pointing that gun at you.