Ass Over Money

I’ve never really been a material person.

That doesn’t mean I don’t understand money. I understand exactly what it takes to get it.

Money has never simply arrived for me. It has always been connected to work: getting up, going out, putting the hours in and making sure nobody can say I haven’t earned my place.

My grandmother always reminded me that I would have to work twice as hard as the white man.

And she was right.

Although, in fairness, she never warned me that I might end up working twice as hard partly because I like a white arse.

Life takes you in unexpected directions.

So I understand money. I understand what it does. Money buys comfort. It buys security. It buys freedom. It gives you the ability to deal with a problem without the problem becoming a crisis.

More importantly, money buys back your time.

That matters when you know how much work it took to earn it.

Put a suitcase full of money in front of me and, yes, I’ll take it. I’m not a fucking idiot.

But put that ass beside it?

Now we have a decision.

And I already know what I’m choosing.

There is something ridiculous about desire when you stop and examine it properly. We spend our lives giving value to things: houses, cars, watches, clothes, pieces of paper with the King printed across them.

Then the human body comes along and makes nonsense of the whole system.

And anatomically, perhaps he’s right.

Take away the desire and that is all it is. Flesh. Fat. Muscle. Two rounded extensions at the top of a pair of legs.

But desire does not see anatomy.

Desire takes those two fatty tops and turns them into architecture.

Suddenly there is shape. Weight. Movement. Proportion. The curve where the back ends and everything else begins. Something completely ordinary becomes capable of stopping thought altogether.

That is what fascinates me.

Money only has value because we all agreed that it does. A £20 note is paper carrying a collective promise. Without that agreement, it is just something colourful to fold up and lose in a pocket.

An ass requires no agreement.

I don’t need a government to guarantee its value. I don’t need a bank to store it. I don’t need a financial adviser to explain whether it represents a sensible long-term investment.

I know what I’m looking at.

Perhaps this is why materialism has never quite worked on me. I respect money because I respect the work behind it. But possessions have never been enough to make me perform wealth for other people.

I can admire an expensive car without wanting to bury my face in it. I can appreciate a well-made watch without thinking about it again three hours later.

The right ass stays with you.

It follows you into the next room.

It interrupts unrelated thoughts.

It makes you look once, look away, and then look again as if the situation might somehow have changed during the intervening four seconds.

The suitcase

Labour. Discipline. Delayed gratification. All the hours of your life converted into something you can hold.

The ass

No planning. No discipline. No delay. Nothing to calculate and nothing to explain.

Maybe that is the real choice in the image. Not sex against money. Not desire against ambition.

It is calculation against instinct.

So yes, give me comfort. Give me security. Give me enough money that life never feels unnecessarily hard. I know its value because I know what earning it costs.

But after that?

Keep the watches. Keep the labels. Keep the sports cars and the endless performance of having more simply so somebody else can see that you have it.

My grandmother told me to work twice as hard as the white man.

Apparently, I misunderstood the reward.