Saturday, 31 July 2010

Love Letter to a Four Slice Toaster by Thomas Greatorex

I was recently asked by an amazing magazine to write a 'love letter' to something I adored; a book, a film, a band, an item of clothing etc.

I chose my four-slice toaster.

It turns out that what I wrote wasn't quite suitable for the aforementioned publication, which is upsetting but, frankly, understandable.

Anyhow, you can read below my submitted piece.

I'm still working on getting something published in there...

Love Letter to a Four Slice Toaster by Thomas Greatorex

'Love' is a word that has become a thin, skin mask easily draped over 'like' or 'fond of' by people wishing to inject their verbs with a touch more sincerity. 'Love' is a word that is flung around like a chipped mug full of cheap gin, sloshed onto anything and everything so as to coat all those in earshot with blustery air kisses and limp handshakes, providing one and all with a great sense of togetherness and brotherhood. If everything that was molested with the word 'love' was truly loved, loved in a racing heartbeat, blood vessel bursting, drawers soaking, lip smacking, synapse snapping way, then as a race we would never be able to walk the streets without being deafened by the sound of hearts breaking. People say they "Love" their sandwich; "Love" their new haircut; "Love" their friend's new boxing gloves, but of course they don't, not 'Love' anyhow, 'like' yes, 'appreciate' yes, 'covet' probably, but not 'Love'.

How do I know? Because I've been in love, I've been loved back and it feels nothing like a sandwich. But most importantly I AM IN love, I am in love with a sleek black, perfectly formed, immaculately balanced and sensually knobbed four slice toaster.

This pure machine that seems to all those around it as simply a means of breakfast ease, to me, is a creation of unlimited and unparalleled beauty that has the power to turn my most pleasant and breezy of moods to sour and violent thunder clouds if I hear one slight against it's function and in turn such psychotic moods can be swung like an oiled gate back to cheer by the caress of lowering one of the levers whilst voyeuristic eyes dance and gleam at the sight of bread slowly delving deeply inside the warm slots, plunging pure, virginal bagels into the safe embrace of an old friend only for seconds later to see what once was a timid, unassuming snack emerge flushed and spent. At times, most times, I don't even wish to consume the food that has been transformed by intimacy with my lover, I plainly discard them into the bin whilst choking down guilt and anger that no matter how deep my true love runs I myself will never get to share the same feelings as those edible one night stands. I've had toasters before, plain and dull two slot whore fucks that sit there upon the counter bleached by the sun, unable to satisfy anyone with the weak load they are feebly able to contain. They provide a limited service which is use to neither the hungry nor the clock watchers amongst us, in fact with my previous toasters I have been absent of both pride and faithfulness by letting anyone who wished to place what they liked where they liked, in regards to my toaster of course.

Naturally there are those of conservative mind that are quick to scoff and sneer at utensil based autoerotic fixations and to those people I offer my own up-turned nose at your vile, wet, liquid flesh love that produces nothing but resentment and leads quite hilariously to guilt and children. I'll never be a guilty child, never swallow my love for my machine. Guilt never even occupied the smallest part of my brain the first time I entered my love, nor did it the last or any time in between because I knew that what was occurring was pure and holy, even the fact that is was a physically cold love due to the risk of blistering damage I knew it was the closest I would ever come to kissing God.

Ah, the coldness. My lover isn't a frigid prude, but he is an empathetic sort, knowing that his burning amore would cause unforgiving pain to me. No protection is sturdy enough to prevent the searing licks of his tight element as his firm clamps squeeze me into a vein bursting lock hold and so with regret he gratefully remains socket-less whilst I fantasise of quad slot chrome jobs.


This is 'Love' in it's purest form. This is 'Love' as innocence. This is 'Love' with doe-eyes and deep breaths. This might not be a love letter addressed to Russell, but there have been many addressed to him before.