Western man has f****ed up sex


Marius Mensink, a Theatre Academy Maastricht graduate in the prime of youth, is appearing topless at the German Club tomorrow at 3pm and on Hiddingh on Wednesday 9.30pm and and Thursday 4pm.

The mark of great art is that it happens with or without you.

The performance a few minutes ago was without you, but the three of us, one oke and two young women, did not hesitate in giving Mensink a standing ovation.

Mensink is hot. Outside it’s a rainy 21 degrees, inside sweat is rivuletting down his Michael Angelo lines and between his voluminous shoulders, from under the pythons he calls biceps and lats, between his washerboard tits, down the valley of muscle we in South African tend to call our boep, over his navel and into his Fashion X underpants.

One person who won’t get no satisfaction from all of this sex is Mick Jagger.

Nor will the Fifty Shades of Grey naffs.

Because Jagger is, apparently, sex. Western sex.

But it’s stadium sex, sex that makes bankers horny and leaves us feeling we got what we want and needed, and not much more.

Mensink’s “Mick Jagger is my Nightmare” oozes sex of another kind. The sex that interests artists, that plagues and consumes creatives, that motivated hundreds of our writers to pen entries for this year’s National Arts Festival’s Short. Sharp. Series, titled “Adults Only”.

Mensink enters through this South African arts porthole. His 30-minute “dance performance” tilts more towards performance, or rather physical theatre.

And did I say the veil he creates which we must pass through is pain. Pain incarnate. That’s our way of expressing sex, love and personal politics, in order to enter the sub-conscious cavern.

The title says it all; Mick Jagger, that sex promoter who turns women into objects, who fucks them and chucks them, has invaded our artist’s den and won’t go.

As you can see, I never liked Mick Jagger. He’s a dick and his music is like an angle grinder to my ears. Give me the Dead Kennedys anyday. But I did like the way Mensink has captured Jagger’s canned essence, his bum and hips, the arms, the lips. Yes, the mouth is the best, it made me weep for all the snoek we have hooked and dragged out to drown in the air, mouths open-wide distorted rictus of death.

I craved the horror in Mensink’s eyes, his head skull-like as Mick Jagger occupies the rest of the body, limbs flailing like demented portions of pressure-injected KFC.

It was horrible and I wept for Mensink’s struggling, gagging, wailing, electric-chaired soul.

And yet, suddenly, in this dark, hazy hellish square, our hero breaks free of Hades, and for just a few minutes gyrates in slow-mo, his fabulous physique a sillouhette so profoundly erotic and celebratory that for the first time in my life, I questioned my wiring.

Now this was sexy sex for sex’s sake!


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