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Archive for June, 2017

Manchester: 26/05/2017

Four days since the bomb and the helicopters and sirens haven’t let up. My flat is right in the eye of the storm, calm (no-one arrested on this estate) but on every side, the cops are seizing suspects: moss side, withington, fallowfield….most of the time the chopper is directly overhead.  Two days i ago a cop van blazed past the flat and i leapt on my bike and arrived too late to see them dragging a suspect from his house ten minutes from me, the street roped off and the school evacuated, teachers chatting by the police tape cordon. 

The day of the obscenity i was in macclesfield, having sex with the ugliest man i’ve ever been with. I came home, got rose from school, and when she was tucked up and in bed i heard the sirens and assumed it was gang stuff, related to the shooting on the next street the night before. I was chatting to the Elf online, and she told me what had happened- the news on my doorstep, flashed to me via indiana.

But its too soon to add my spoonful to the tidal wave of outrage and inanity on this horrible thing. The elections on its way, im hoping to canvas…but fuck that too, ive nothing to say about it here.

Nor do i care to talk about the loneliness and the isolation and the boredom of these last couple of weeks, mums lung scare, Mila’s miscarriage, or any of the other events of this hateful month.

But I have to write about SOMETHING. I’ve not been on wordpress for….too long. A writer needs to write, and rather than wade into current events i’m going back in time. Here’s a little story from the notebooks, rough and around the edges and nasty as you like. Not exactly a true story this time…but not exactly lies, either.

A little on the long side but hey, it can’t all be haikus….we’re working up to a novel here. And i promise, its plenty dirty. Just the way you like it.

FANTASM

Imagine seeing your daughter in  a porno. I’m sure its happening, more and more:

His hands fumbled for the decanter…whiskey! He must have whiskey.

Okay no decanter, it was just a bottle of bells left over from christmas….but it will have to do…anything to sear the image from his mind.

He’d stumbled on it by accident,of course,  just one more clip swimming out of the mirk as he idly tapped in his search terms. Milf, gangbang slut, etc.  She was an adult you understand, way past twenty and, by the looks of things, working in a fairly respectable part of the industry. I mean, the lighting was professional, so…

He hadn’t lingered long, once it clicked in his head who that oddly familiar face was on that unfamiliar naked body, squirming- apparently happily- amongst that crowd of excitable young guys. But he’d been frozen with  does-not-compute confusion long enough to glimpse ‘what no father should ever have to see’ .

To be clear: It didn’t turn him on, though he’d half feared it would-  not because he had the slightest confusion about the appropriate role of a father. I’m a reliable narrator, kids, and i’m telling you, this woman hadn’t suffered a days abuse in her happy and supportive childhood. But here she was, ‘expressing herself’ on screen, and in that frozen moment of astonishment he briefly panicked that he’d have some kind of an automatic, animal response, against his will, the flesh rising even as his stomach churned. But no. It didn’t accidentally do it for him, though everything about it was so much the things he’d gotten off to before, a thousand times, with a thousand different women- whether watching it on a screen, or there in the thick of it, for real. Our guy passed the test- his own arousal, was a million miles from his mind.

He wasn’t moralistic. If that’s what the kid wants…so long as she’s safe and happy… He was no hypocrite. And god knows he himself had been about as bad as a libertine can get, even before the days when the internet let the cat out of the bag, revealing a world of pervs to itself, like an endlessly repeating, endlessly distorting hall of mirrors.

But no, he wished her luck, now that he knew. Go ahead, kid, express yourself. I did. Just be sure and get your PREP.

Nor did he wonder where he’d gone wrong. She didn’t need money, she wasn’t on drugs or haunted by eating disorders. This was just a healthy young woman, full of hormones, experiencing herself in a way now as socially acceptable as open gayness or interracial dating  or anything else.

But

What shook his soul and hurt his heart and made him want to cut off his hands and bleed himself dry was that when he watched her squirm and cavort on that forty inch screen, it was like looking into a mirror. The ghost of his youth, transmogrified into female form…

Some times, he would play the dom, naked and wild eyed in the company of a woman who opened her holes for one man or twenty, grunting and roaring at the mercy of a roomful of dicks. Of course in truth the woman was in control the whole time. The men were the ones panting to keep up, eager to impress her, bending over backwards to bend her over backwards:  sometimes struggling to maintain their hard-ons, sometimes blazing fearlessly ahead, with or without Viagra or other potions and gizmos,  often just high on the sheer nasty fuckery of the whole wonderful thing.

Or sometimes he’d  go to gay town, and play the sub himself.  On his knees in the sauna with men lined up to use him like an object, hurting both holes and slapping him hard, grinding his face into their bumholes, shoving fistfuls of bollocks in his drobbling gob. All the pain of life gone away, feeling beautiful, his only complaint that they never went hard enough, or fast enough, or deep enough, or for long enough. They could have left him shaking  and exhausted on the floor and he would have been content, but men like that were hard to find. He’d have let them piss in his face if there’d been PREP back then. This was how he knew for a fact, that not all women in these wonderfully twisted scrumfucks were acting out some neurosis or using it as a form of self harm. Some of them were in straight up heaven. He knew, because he’d been in their shoes himself.

See, swingers clubs aren’t like those scenes in porn, those dungeons where hard men rule over powerless girls. The women aren’t really slaves. The drones service the queens, and even in bdsm  they always seem more afraid of the women than the other way around. Nearly always, anyway, and those twisters who come there to abuse women are weeded out quickly. So when he  was spanking some girl, or cumming in her face, or climbing on behind to bend her bum inside out, third guy in a row…it was always with the clear knowledge that she was in control. If anything, sometimes he would be the one sat feeling small and alone afterwards, with the woman he’d been slapping red and calling a slut , now satisfied and smug  and indifferent to his existence, leaving with her husband without a backward glance.

Here was the real dark side of the scene, the bit that tore the soul and ate at the  self. The loneliness of the inner self, neglected behind the mask of super sexual fuckhero.

Could he even remember what it was like, before everyone had a profile, or rather, multiple profiles, converting every desire to an algorithm?  Remember when you thought you’d invented anal sex? You were pretty sure gay guys did it, but what if you could get a girl to try? Why would she? But some girls had a look in their eye, like they’d try anything. The idea was too dark and delicious and insane  to bear…

He really didn’t blame her. In fact in a funny sort of way, it made him feel closer to her. Chip off the old block and all  that.  The  difference being, she’d been born into a world where it was all known to be normal, while had had to work it out for himself. Scouring the back pages of ‘loot’ magazine for couples, hands shaking at the wildness of it all, head full of depraved inventions he’s sure must be unique to his own crazed mind, such as the double penetration of a woman by two men at once, or the blow job so deep it made a woman gag. Would anyone in the world be crazy enough to do these things? Only one way to find out…

When the experiences come they’re always coloured by his own weird romantic nature.

Him and his best friend are both fucking the same girl so they get together one night, all three of them. It starts good but rob gets annoyed about god knows what and smashes the bedroom up, ripping the toilet seat off in a rage and hacking holes in the door with it, hurling the bookshelf through the window. Yet  for the longest time after that he longs to get the two of them together and do it all again, but for some reason, they just- don’t.

The first time he sees his girls anus all pooched out and sore from the fucking they’ve been doing all week, hes horrified, stops in his tracks, and they both sit around discussing the strange new changes to her body. When she gets drunk and fucks her ex under the Christmas tree, him lying in bed in the next room listening: he’s so excited he thinks he’s gonna have a heart attack, and when the guy leaves and she comes to join him for seconds, hes worried he may be completely crazy, even as he’s cumming in her like a, like a- monster.

Then theres that weird couple he picks up at the cabaret night. The whole thing seems to be more about them toying with each others minds than any actual sex, and hes too drunk to be much use to them. As soon as the guy leaves the room, he gets horny, but when he comes back in, the ridiculous expression of terror on the guys faces gives him the shrinkies. (Years later he will recognse this as the standard ‘cuckold face’ in porno. Was the guy doing it on purpose? He’ll never know.)

But what about  that girl from the paradise factory? God, she was fantastic. As a threesome it failed utterly. The other guy, got the cuddles, held her  all night, freaked out by the whole thing, our guy squashed at the foot of the bed like a dog. But when the loser left in the morning, he got to shag that big tittie student girl for all she was worth, and for this she will always hold a place in his heart.

Spin the hands on the clock. The wide-eyed, pretty boy becomes the hatchet faced geezer. Stuff happens and  man changes. Meeting murderers. Meeting people who have had their legs smashed off, or who go on to be suicides. And then there’s the dementia wards. Where the shuffling husks of humanity live out their remaining time, their lives over but they’re bodies still walking, even as their brains unravel in their heads. Explain that, religious types. How can the personality survive death, when its already come apart long before then? Unless perhaps its being decanted to a new reality, a grain at a time. Like sand in an hourglass. Memories, loves, ideas. Picture a brain  of cake. Mice, nibbling it away. Your bodies going, too. The penis, disappears. Did you know that? The buttocks, sag like empty wind socks. Pubic hair recedes.

He has yet to meet a sexually active person with dementia. There must be some. The early onset. Imagine fucking the person you adore, as they forget who you are. Still enjoying themselves, an animal organism getting its jollies. The spunk squirts, the clit vibrates. Kisses, just as sweet. They scarcely know what’s happening- but then, that’s the way it should be.  Maybe both of you have dementia. You don’t know who you are, or who you’re fucking. You can’t remember those Shakespeare speeches you memorized, any more. Or maybe you can, but you cant remember what your name is. You cant tell your kids apart. This person you’re fucking, could be anyone. You could be anyone. Would that be so bad? At least one part of you, is still functioning.

Do you think our hero sounds like a dark person?  When he kneels down to wash the body of a crippled man, stripped before him, he wonders what the man’s cock would have been like, in life. In truth, if someone told him he had to suck off these people rather than bathe them, he’d prefer it. Why not? He’s done it to people just as ugly. And a big willy in your mouth is nice, pretty much whoever its attached to. He can relate to those hookers, who specialise in needy people. The cross-over point, between care work and sex work. All part of the service. What, I have to wash the shit off you but when you’re clean I don’t even get a shag out of it? Whats that all about? You too grandma, come on. Great grandma, even. Lets see if we can make that old clit sing again. I don’t care if you’re pissy and bitter. So long as you’re up for it. You’ve seen the blitz, raised kids in slums. That guy  fought the nazis, am i too good to suck him off?  I’m headed for the same place as you, if I don’t fall of the train before I get there.

So great grannies up for it, we’ve cleared it with the matron. The curtains are drawn but it sounds like similar things are happening with all the patients and support staff. Must be something in the coffee today! Okay Mrs Jenkins, are you ready? Of course I want to, we’re both human beings and you’re a fabulous woman. Let me check your chart for contraindications, don’t wanna strain that heart. Are you continent? I’ll stick my thumb up your arsehole if you like. Trust me, i’m good at this. And I know you’ve been around….

Of course, this never happens. You lose your job if you suck off the patients. We’re back in the bar with Bob, getting pissed thinking about his own offspring gangbanging the way he used to. She doesn’t exist, of course. I made her up. She’s a fantasm, an excuse for Bob’s little walk down memory lane, turning off down fantasy alley.

There’s no answer to all these questions, so keep on writing. Keep writing, until they break your fingers. Keep fucking, until they cut your cock off. Keep drinking while you can still find your way to the bar.

Before that bar becomes a nursing station and you become a shell and you’re stood there in your hospital gown asking the harassed sister for a pint of Guinness while she tries to do her meds round.

 

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