Wednesday, 26 August 2009

An 'O' Cult or The Brotherhood of the Bukkake

Owing to a severe case of emotional boredom, Harold Brine decided to begin a cult.
"What is the essence of your cult?" his friends would query.
"I don't know yet. I figure that as a mere detail to be filled in a later stage. All cults are essentially meaningless and arbitrary anyway. The only truths are liquid and cannot be encapsulated or purveyed by mankind."
A this somewhat pompous speech, his friends would roll their eyes and exchange incredulous glances. Harold seemed not to notice, perhaps as a result of the dark sunglasses he had taken to wearing every waking moment, regardless of the weather or time of day.

The essence of the cult occurred to Harold one brisk, bright afternoon at the end of autumn. The cult would focus around carefully orchestrated ritual sexual humiliation.
The name of the cult would be The Brotherhood of the Bukkake.
Harold was waiting on a subway train in Harlem, New York City, when the idea occurred to him. A gruesome grin spread across his face as the train drifted out of the tunnel to collect him.

Now all that remained was to recruit members. It figured that more men than women would be attracted to such a cult. This figured in perfectly with the logistics of a bukkake. In theory, only one female member was necessary.
The more men, the better, provided they were discrete and disciplined.
Worst case scenario: only a handful of men and lots more women, baying for come in vain (admittedly unlikely).

The first recruit was Harry, a nervous art student (incidentally Harold was his teacher).
Harry was anxious, passive. He seemed to be quietly seeking something. At first Harold feared he might be gay. Then he realised he was just a sensitive, somewhat effete kid.
Harold encouraged Harry to involve friends in the cult but Harry confessed that he lacked friends.
The reason he lacks friends is that he is timid and reclusive by nature, thought Harold. It's no that he's an elitist wee shite.
In the end Harold recruited a colleague, a professor of Literature by the name of Ali Grey. Harold feared that Ali saw the whole cult thing as a lark, Harold feared that Ali would upset him by not treating his cult membership with appropriate gravity.
Now it was time to recruit the first female member. The trio centered on one of Ali Grey's daughter's friends, a deceptively shy 17 year old named Alice. She had honey blonde hair, spectacles, and a studious demeanour. Harold ached to empty his jizz satchels over her petulant little face. As soon as he saw her he regarded her with a gruesome leer.
Harry regarded her with caution and misplaced reverence. He avoided looking at or speaking to her directly. He stole furtive glances at her chest. He fidgeted constantly in her presence.
Ally treated her with gentle condescension. Unfortunately he had fooled himself into thinking he had her best interests at heart by exposing her to this situation.
Without further ado, the Brotherhood of the Bukkake decided to occasion their first ritualised sexual humiliation.

It took place in Harold's apartment at dawn. A dim mist floated over the city.
Each member imbibed a cup of instant coffee. Candles were lit. The radio was tuned to static. Alice carefully removed her clothes and piled them neatly on a nearby chair. She took a deep breath and reverently knelt in the centre of the room. Harold nodded. At this signal the three assembled men removed their stiffening cocks from their jeans & began masturbating quietly. Silence except for the gentle slapping sounds of flesh on flesh. Each man formed the point of an invisible triangle round Alice. They then slowly, carefully began to circle her whilst still facing her. Alice's eyes remained closed as if she was in deep mediation which in fact she kind of was.
Harry, perhaps inevitably, was the first to climax. His orgasm was preceded by a kind of pained sound and a startled expression on his face. He moved in close to the kneeling figure of Alice and poured come on her lips and spectacles. She grimaced slightly. Harry then went and sat cross-legged on the floor to spectate the remainder of the spectacle.
Ali came next. His nostrils flared and he bared his teeth. He groaned. His ejaculation was longer and more violent than Harry's. Alice's eyes remained closed, her breathing steady. Ali bundled his penis back into his jeans and went to sit on the floor beside Harry.
Only Harold remained. He stopped circling directly in front of her, pumping furiously at his veiny cock.
"Eeeeeeeggaaaiihhhhhhh!!!" he moaned and plastered Alice's forehead and cheeks with thick, foul ejaculate. He sighed.

A brief post-bukkake meeting was held in which each member deemed the event a success, except for Alice, who remained withdrawn and solemn.

A festering sickness. A festering fucking sickness.

The next meeting of the Brotherhood of the Bukkake took place under similar circumstances.
"Are we ready to commence?" asked Brother Harold.
"Aye," the others stated in unison.
And with that, Alice stripped to her underwear and knelt on the floor in the middle of the room. It was Harold who had suggested that she leave her underwear on. He had also privately suggested to Harry that he touch Alice's titties.
So the bukkake commenced. The order of climax was congruous with the first bukkake. As he ejaculated, Harry clumsily pushed his hand under Alice's bra and grasped her tit. Ali followed this example. When it came time for Harold to come, he pulled Alice's bra strap down off her shoulder and frantically mauled her exposed breast.

A post-bukkake meeting was held at a diner uptown. Harold voiced his concern that he was beginning to objectify Alice. Ali countered that what else was a bukkake but the supreme form of sexual objectifacation (sic). Harold seemed pleased with this and wrote Ali's phrase down. Harry quietly devoured a bowl of chili. Alice remained mute, withdrawn.

Alice did not show up for the next scheduled bukkake. A quandary. The three men pondered what to do. In the end they settled for a three-way circle jerk, a most unsatisfying alternative to a bukkake they all agreed afterwards.
They began to discuss the possibility that the nature of the cult may alienate any permanent female members. They proposed avenues for obtaining temporary bukkake recipients. Craigslist. Hookers. Harold promised to sort something out for the following week.

The next members to be ordained into the infamous Brotherhood of the Bukkake were a trio of lapsed feminists. They had grown disillusioned with feminist ideology and sought to distance themselves from the movement as radically as possible. Perhaps their decision to offer their faces up to the Brotherhood for spunk dousing was some form of supreme post-modern irony. This was New York City after all.
Harold was happy to have them join the Brotherhood but was faced with a problem concerning ratios.
The Brotherhood now consisted of three men and at least three women (Alice's membership status was undetermined, possibly lapsed). More men needed to be recruited urgently.

Inspired by a lucid dream that he had whilst taking a nap on a humid, drowsy afternoon, Harold decided to set out on a road trip across America to seek out more men to swell the ranks of the Brotherhood.

From New Orleans to LA Harold drove, via all the major cities en route: Houston, Austin, El Paso, Las Vegas. By the end of his journey he had convinced 30 men to regroup with him in New York.

Whilst Harold was away, Harry and Ali participated in a disastrous bukkake with the feminists. The three of them had been haughtily baying for come. Harry was flaccid from the outset, such was his state of severe intimidation. Ali managed to beat off for a while but was unable to climax, possibly due to performance pressure.

When Harold returned to New York, he gleaned an interesting fact. Harry had obtained a girlfriend.

Inevitably, Harold coaxed Harry into inviting his new girlfriend to what would be the final bukkake.
Her name was Elisa and she was the same age as Harry, ie. 20, 17 years younger than Harold and half the age of Ali.
Of the 30 men of whom Harold had been assured promise of participance, eight showed up. Two of em went limp.
So in the final count, it was a nine on one bukkake, still fairly thrilling in any case.
Harry came first, in less than ten seconds. Then he retreated to the corner of the room and watched with a haunted look in his eye as eight middle aged strangers masturbated over his shy young girlfriend.
Over the course of 15 minutes they bukkaked her mercilessly, one by one.
Harold was last man standing again. Perhaps this was because he was more of a passive masturbator throughout the procedure, taking on more of a role as master of ceremonies, goading the other men on with depraved invocations.
When all the other men were finished Harold forcefully slid his penis between Elisa's come lubricated lips and began face-fucking her shamelessly. It seemed to Ali that he was trying to vent the frustration that he felt at only managing to recruit a meagre number of participants. Elisa choked, gagged and spluttered on Harold's fat, veiny cock. As she was regurgitating his come, her cheeks streaked with tears, eyeliner, and come, Harry made a strange sound and vanished into the kitchen. He reappeared clasping a thick butcher's knife. Before anyone could intervene he lunged at Harold and stabbed him in the throat.

At Harold's wake, Ali was quietly discussing the bukkake ceremonies, Harold's death, and Harry's subsequent incarceration with a fellow colleague.
"What will you do now?" the colleague inquired.
"I'm working on a new project," Ali explained. "Actually it's more than a project... It's a philosophy, a concept, a treatise."
"What's it called?"
"The Metaphysical Bukkake."

Weak Sunlight

Drinking coffee
I am bathed in weak sunlight
The dog sniffs my knee
nuzzles at my thigh
He wants me
to throw his red rubber
frisbee so that he might
gallop after it

Autumnal Hues

I notice another fragment of myself
peaceful, painted in the melancholy hues
of autumn
my eyes are burning cinders
& I relish the end of summer's
dusky despair
where all too often I became morose
my skin too tight

A cool breeze displaces pregnant summer
thunder clouds
under blank skies my mind is blank
& awe seeps in quietly,

I hear the distant murmur of winter
and am glad;
I want to freeze my thoughts
not stifle them
in my stagnant mind
when I thaw them I'll pour them
on yr earlobes
allow them to trickle
down yr neck
to pool in yr collarbone


I diminish
the volume lest
I become re-agitated
as last night
I tortured my boredom
w/ a scalding bath

in a more placid frame
of mind I intend
to read and write
such times as I have
accumulated psychic

Washing Line

My father totters
over the moist grass, removes
a patterned quilt
from the washing line
as the dog watches
& I watch

I am on a train at the speed of dream


Reality is gruesome
An infinitely refracted nightmare
imbued with debilitating
sorrow and loss

The awakened gain only madness
in an instant
reality is a placid dream
like drifting mists
of subtle euphoria
and we wait again
for the black

In conclusion
reality is an ineffable consensus
of shared horror & glory
& all truths & meanings
are fleeting
The sky administers electric shocks of glory
or horror
depending on absurd chemical whims

each peak of elation
has a contrary pit
of despair

My mind plummets
when the gripping fingers
of an ominous maniac
let go


My infinitely tangled hair is a source
of constant distraction
& dissatisfaction
& my hairdressers I
fear each other
for reasons beyond
our respective comprehension
yet ruefully
I have made an appointment
for next week
to quell this madness
To escape
madness & meaninglessness
To eradicate anxiety
We pursue
impossible harmony
or else stupefaction

Instant coffee & nocturnal walks could be
the ingredients
for becoming some sort of guru

Thursday Night Anguish

A tender agony
grips me
the couch is no longer comfortable
the TV beams tedious inanity
the books seem irrelevant

in short, my psyche implodes
that's all.
And I find gnawing peace
at the bottom of a wine bottle,
in a chasm of psychic stupefaction
like so many
before me.

Tuesday, 25 August 2009

Art Teacher on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown

This is the story of an art teacher who develops an unfortunate addiction to sadistic pornography. James had been teaching at St Leonards' Academy for about a decade. He was an enthusiastic, affable sort of fellow. Well liked amongst pupils and staff. No-one could have guessed his terrible secret.
His terrible secret was this: he was sexually enthused by internet pornography that was, to put it bluntly, borderline gruesome.
He arrived home on an overcast afternoon. His wife was just leaving the house to walk the dog as he parked on the driveway. This was good. This meant he could watch the videos with the volume turned up. A feint drizzle was just beginning to descend.
'Infinite Humiliation.' 'Gratuitous Cruelty.' 'Epic Bukkake.' These were the search terms he ran at I won't delve into the sick content of the filth he enjoyed. I am opposed to describing such vile depravity on principle. What's more, I fear I may become aroused during the process of description and develop what is known as 'a boner.' And that would unsettle me.
After finding and settling on a particularly nasty clip he began engaging in the time honoured form of self-abuse. He quickly climaxed, rendering his plaid shirt sodden with semen. He hurriedly unbuttoned it and bundled it into the washing machine.
Then he went and sat on the sofa in the living room and gazed at the blank switched off TV screen. He felt dejected, a worn-out husk of a man. His life felt like some kind of meaningless farce. He wanted to inflict severe burns on a shy teen.

His pupils began to notice his affable, enthusiastic demeanour deteriorate. It happened gradually but his pupils were the first to observe it, before the other staff.
They sensed his agitation, his extreme mood swings. They sensed something was awry without being able to articulate what exactly it was. Somehow they gleaned the festering sickness that was devouring him.
James began disappearing to the toilets up to nine times a day to masturbate. These sessions were short, frenzied, and increasingly without sensation. He would splatter his spunk on the cubicle door, clinging to monstrous thoughts of the pretty, popular 15 year old girls he taught. Often after the deed, he would gnaw his knuckle, stifling anguished sobs.
Part of him wanted to be a good man, it really did. What had triggered this senseless unpleasantness? Was he inherently bored with the stable plateau his life had reached?

His wife was concerned to hear him sobbing quietly as he soaked in the bath one night towards the end of summer. She pressed her head against the door to confirm she was hearing what she thought she was.
Owing to denial and a yen for preservation she decided not to bring up the matter with him.
If he needed to, he could come to her for help she reasoned.

As his students painted, James sat at his desk and watched them surreptitiously. He watched the girls.
"Precocious little cocksuckers," he murmured to himself.
He was outwardly mute, sedate. But inside he was screaming with psychosexual rage, his eyes scrunched up, his jaw clenched, his fists clenched.

That winter his turn came up to monitor detention sessions. All teachers took turns with this responsibility. By this stage, James' reputation as an amicable, easy-going teacher had diminished somewhat.
Steven and Emma were parents of Jenny, one of James' pupils. As they drove home from a parents' evening, Emma began attempting to articulate concerns about James' emotional stability. It was a cold night, frost glittered on the dark road and Steven's eyes glittered as he listened to his wife. He remained stoic and dismissed her concerns but deep down he understood she was correct. He refused to acknowledge it though for the situation was outwith his control and he wasn't a man who liked to absorb gratuitous frustration.

The detention sessions were on Wednesday afternoons. The weather was generally chilly with overcast skies and James' glum temperament perfectly matched these conditions.
He sat at his desk, deep in thought. He was mesmerised by a fantasy involving one of his pupils, a coy, pretty, self-conscious 16 year old girl. In his fantasy she was straining to affect a blase demeanour whilst a group of middle-aged, overweight men circled round her and masturbated over her. Her attempts to preserve this unphased demeanour were failing; it was increasingly apparent that she was repulsed and frightened by what was occurring to her.
This was the part of the fantasy that James relished the most: her innocent face shocked into blankness, the tears forming in her doe eyes.

Tears set to mingle with thick, caffeine laced, odious semen. The realisation that this was his favourite part of the fantasy triggered feelings of profound self-loathing within James.

He also felt thrilled and giddy. He would mull over this fantasy for hours without resorting to masturbation and the inevitable post-climax black hole shame.

James began finding increasingly tneous excuses to keep shy, pretty girls behind after class. If they were well behaved it was to discuss their work with them and encourage their talent. If they were poorly behaved James leapt on the slightest excuse to detain them.

He would then indulge in fantasies of fondling these girls, of commanding them to perform unspeakable, humiliating acts upon him.

He managed to resist the impulse to actualise these fantasies until one rainy afternoon towards the beginning of spring. He had detained Rebecca Pullen, a sullen 15 year old, for chewing gum in class.
After the rest of her classmates had filtered out and their echoed shouts had died away from the corridors, James mustered his nerve and placed a perspiring palm on Rebecca's shoulder. She looked up at him with a perplexed expression on her face. He grunted as he moved his hand downward to grasp her nubile breast through her sweater. Rebecca froze up, her arm stiff as James clutched at her hand, endeavouring to place it on his aching crotch.
It was at that moment that Miss Molloy happened into the classroom. Miss Molloy was a substitute art teacher who had come to inquire about lesson plans.
She observed what was happening and froze, her features swept with shock.
James turned and sprinted out the classroom and down the empty corridor, his footsteps resounding noisily. He galloped across the empty grey playground to the car park. He jumped in his car and sped home, gibbering insanely, gnawing at his knuckles.

The police apprehended him that night. It was a damp, blustery evening. James' wife answered the doorbell. Two officers in fluorescent yellow jackets stood on the step. One of them inquired about her husband's whereabouts. Before she could answer, James appeared being her looking washed out and exhausted. He was then formally arrested and charged with attempted child molestation.

James spent the night in a cell. He was subjected to intense interrogation. He was driven home in the morning and informed that he was suspended from the school pending a full investigation. James recieved this news with calmly; he was eerily serene having decided he would take his own life.

He did so at midday. His wife was absent from the house. He was ignorant of her whereabouts. He was merely grateful to be alone in the house to commit suicide.
He drew a bath of hot water and slowly lowered himself in, acclimatizing to the water temperature. The heat felt like a debilitating sickness. He sweated profusely and felt weak. He clasped a razorblade between moist, limp fingers and drew it up the veins on his wrist, opening them up. Then he swapped hands and repeated the procedure on the other wrist. The bathwater clouded red.

Police discovered his body. His wife had absconded to her sister's house where she recieved the news.
A modest Christian funeral was held for him which was well attended. After the funeral there was no wake. Attendees spoke little to each other, choosing to drive briskly home afterwards, gossiping with their families in their respective vehicles.

Rebecca Pullen remained haunted by her teacher's thwarted attempt at abuse. She grew up to become a criminal psychologist, specialising in the rehabilitation of paedophiles and serious sex offenders. Perhaps she sought to comprehend the fevered mindset of her teacher. Perhaps her career choice was a form of prolonged catharsis, engaging face to face with these men in a bid to subconsciously re-enact the encounter with her own would-be perpetrator. I don't know. Whatever the reason she had a succesful career and led a satisfying, mostly turbulent-free life. She died of natural causes at the age of 76.

James' wife fell apart completely following his death. She became increasingly shrill and neurotic, prone to bouts of hysteria. Or else she was unnervingly silent, steeped in profound misery.
In a horrible way, nothing that had happened had surprised her too much, she realised. She had sensed something awful simmering within her husband's psyche for a long time. It was simply unfortunate she lacked the constitution to confront him or even the mental facilities to admit to herself that something was deeply wrong.
She was hospitalised several times and spent the rest of her life on medication for anxiety and depression.

Tabloids nationwide ran sensationalistic headlines regarding the incident. Articles appeared in which James was termed a 'sinister beast' and a 'shameless pederast' amongst other slurs against his character. It seemed his legacy harboured no hope of redemption.
Kids gossiped fiercely in the playground right up until the end of term. In the staff room, teachers were prone to discretion, dancing awkwardly around the subject.
The summer holidays came and by the time the new school year rolled in everyone had more or less forgotten about the incident.

A fresh batch of first year students were inducted into the school. The staff roster was bolstered by the addition of new teachers in mathematics, drama, and physical education.
Jim Deirdre was the name of the new P.E. teacher. A stocky, furtive, balding man who most of the pupils as well as other teachers took an instinctive dislike to.
He stood outside the school on a cool morning at the beginning of autumn, conducting a class of adolescents in a series of stretches and warm-up exercises. One pupil in particular had registered his attention. Shonat Gowans, 13, was attractive, athletic, and popular. Jim brought her to the front of the class with the intention of using her to demonstrate some of the exercises to her classmates. This he did, moving her limbs about in various positions, dreamily observing the flash of her pale skin in the watery autumnal sunlight.
He soon developed a noticeable erection which was observed by Gary Grant, a gaunt, solemn lad. He whispered to his friends and pointed and pretty soon the whole class was aware of the insane, monstrous bulge in their teacher's shorts. Their response was unfortunate, from Jim's position at least. They scampered across the playing field, screaming hysterically. Several pupils pissed their shorts. Jim clutched at his crotch and shouted after them in an ineffectual attempt to passify them. It was too late. He curled into a foetal position on the pitch and wept intently for half an hour until he was observed by a janitor who alerted the headmaster.

A tense atmosphere pervaded the headmaster's office. It was an overcast afternoon, bruised clouds pregnant with thunder sitting in the sky. Miss Molloy, who had since replaced James as a full-time art teacher at the academy, imagined she could taste electricity in the air.
Dick Burroughs, the headmaster, was agitated. He was a man with a tendency towards surliness when agitated.
"We've got a motherfucking scandal on our hands," he fumed. "A motherfucking scandal."
The other teachers were quiet, abashed.

This incident transpired to be the first in a series of scandals that plagued St Leonard's Academy.
These scandals culminated in the death of a pupil at hands of bullies. Tom Elward was 12 years old, a quiet, reserved, dreamy child. He was thin and shy with chapped lips. He wore a balaclava to school, a measure foisted on him by his overbearing mother. The corners of his lips were perpetually encrusted with dried Marmite from his breakfast. One day in German class he pissed himself, by accident.
He was bullied relentlessly by some of his sinister, dim-witted, predatory classmates who had observed his timid, ineffectual character. They kicked his shins and flushed his packed lunch down the toilet. They threw stones at him and denigrated him in the playground. Vicious little shits that they were.
Tom internalised his upset at this malicious treatment. His frustrated rage turned into hopelessness and depression. A few teachers gleaned what was going on but they preferred not to intervene.
The bullies spread cruel gossip around his classmates. As a result of this relentless campaign of bullying Tom hung himself in his bedroom, utilising the cord of a mobile phone charger for the task.
His body was discovered by his father, an effete, fatalistic, melancholy sort of character. Tom's father cried out in startled horror.

St Leonard's Academy was gaining a reputation for all the unfortunate events that seemed to be occurring there.
That summer was unseasonably rainy. During the school holidays the children were largely kept indoors. They were wont to bouts of intense boredom and listlessness.
At the end of July the rain rebated somewhat and there was a dry spell. Johnny Millhouse and his friends, Iain and Andy, drifted around the village on their BMX bikes. It was a humid day. The grinding tedium of the rainy summer had affected them all. They were more boisterous, rebellious, and destructive as a result.
They indulged in a spat of mischief which gathered in momentum. Pornographic magazines were posted though the letterboxes of elderly churchgoers. Greenhouse glass was shattered with rocks. Fires were set in the nearby woodland. Their campaign of delinquency culminated in them setting fire to their school.

Firefighters fought the blaze at St Leonard's Academy for two days at the end of which little remained of the structure other than charcoal and rubble. Eyewitness accounts led police to the door of Johnny Millhouse and his friend Iain. Sensing the gravity of the situation they immediately confessed to the crime. They did not implicate their friend Andy who hadn't been noticed at the scene and had since departed for a family holiday in Portugal. He got away with his part in the arson and developed an acute form of something like survivor's guilt as a result.
Johnny and Iain were handed over to a children's panel who were relatively lenient with them; it was clear that they hadn't intended for their forays into arson to be so successful and destructive.

Groups of kids came out to gaze wistfully at the charred remains of their former school. Some of the boys laughed. Some of the girls teared up. Mostly the kids were quiet and thoughtful, unsure what to feel. James' widow arrived at the scene as well. She had recently ceased taking her medication. She wore a flowery dress and wellington boots. Her hair was chaotic to say the least. She was generally disheveled. She wandered the school grounds mumbling to herself incoherently. Younger pupils pointed at her and laughed. The older ones were more surreptitious in their smirking.
James' widow lifted her dress and exposed herself to a frail, shy, fourteen year old boy. There were many witnesses to this obscene act which occasioned another of the deranged widow's numerous hospitalisations.

Students were divided between other schools in the region whilst a new school was being erected.
The headmaster summoned a meeting of all the heads of department. He talked about the need to instill the new school with a spirit of positivity, ecstasy, serenity, and peace. He advised them to join him in a meditation, a prayer to summon harmonious vibrations that would dispel the clouds of negativity and shit, those lingering clouds. He spoke in such a manner that that it became evident he was disengaged from reality. The assembled teachers exchanged glances signaling incredulity and wariness. The deputy head, a furtively persuasive woman, tried to convince everyone that they should have the headmaster sectioned under the mental health act.
"For the good of the children," she stressed.
Miss Molloy sensed a vested interest at work here, a tactic employed in a power struggle.
"You macabre bitch!" she screamed at the deputy.
Everyone fell silent. Someone cleared their throat. Miss Molloy was flustered and self-conscious. The deputy maintained an aloof, steely facade that was quite unnerving to observe.

This story ends, how else, but with a bukkake. Two 16 year old boys had the idea after viewing a video of such a ritual on a pornographic website. All they needed were some volunteers. Male participants were relatively easy to recruit. But the most important element was lacking: a female recipient for the humiliating come shower. In the end they settled for a papier mache effigy of one of the prettiest and most popular lassies in their class. They set it up in one of the boys' garden and then formed a circle round it. Hesitant at first, they presently began unzipping their jeans and revealing their stiffening cocks. They were careful to avert their gaze from each other, fixing their stares on the ridiculous effigy. They giggled self-consciously at first. But as the bukkake progressed they grew more solemn and purposeful. These kids were so solemn and intent the whole thing began to take on the air of a religious ceremony which, in many respects, it was. One by one they began unloading on the increasingly sodden, mushy effigy. As each boy finished, he left the arena.
Finally there was only one left. Murray Dee was 18, stocky, with a genial manner and a poor complexion. He pumped furiously at his below-average size penis, beads of sweat forming on his temple. His eyes were scrunched up in concentration.
The rest of the boys had converged in the house and were spectating this grotesque spectacle from the kitchen window.
Eventually Murray repaired to the house to join them. Cheeks red from tears, he dolefully informed them that he had been unable to come.
The assembled boys were surprisingly considerate, offering words of consolation. Murray was so grateful for their discretion and sympathy that he began to weep. He wept for hours, he continued crying long after everyone had departed. As he cried his mind was a thunderstorm of jumbled imagery and feelings. Sunlight glinting on train tracks, moments of stifling cruelty, a girl unbuttoning her shirt. These were some of the images that flashed through his mind. He wept for all the schoolchildren, all the ambiguity and awkwardness spread out across the land.
Once he had ceased sobbing he tried to light fire to the sodden effigy in his garden. But it was too damp.
He had no clue how to dispose of it before his parents got home.

Monday, 24 August 2009


His movements, speech and manner had the weight and assurance of a vainglorious narcissist. I studied him absently, feeling mild repulsion.
I had to acknowledge that the source of this repulsion was some form of recognition and association.

A slate sky.
"Let's see the patient."
He had been diagnosed with decidophobia, an extreme aversion to making any kind of decision.
The first time I had met him he had a haunted look in his eye and had fidgeted excessively. Now he appeared lethargic and his eyes were clouded. He was clearly heavily medicated.
"Everything's fucked," he told me. "I'm a ghost. I try to speak to people but they just look right through me. They are amused or else unnerved or else annoyed by my presence."
I nodded sympathetically.
"How do you feel you are responding to the treatment?" I queried. His mouth warped into a slack grin.
"I love these medicines. I love the ritual of daily medication. I adore sedation, tranquility. These chemicals enable me to achieve these states. Clarity, serenity, beautifully guiltless listlessness and quiet nihilism."
"Would you agree that ultimately you are an exceptionally vain man?"
"Yes, it's obvious. But there are worse traits than vanity. Gratuitous cruelty for example."
I had to concede that point. But still my opinion that this man was a turgid little shit remained undiminished.

Thursday, 20 August 2009

New Years Eve, 1994

Billy mirthfully contemplated all the medicine it had required for him to muster the patience to decorate his house. He checked his watch. His friends would be over soon. He poured himself half a glass of sparkling wine and then topped it up with orange juice. He was wearing his pajamas and a festive party hat made from pink and green tissue paper. He pinched it with his thumb and forefinger, appreciating its wrinkled texture. The doorbell sounded.
He opened the door to the brisk dusk. His lover stood on the doorstep smiling tenderly. He invited her in and took her coat.
"This house is a fucking blessing," he told her. "There was all this weird energy in the other place, I felt too unsettled to write."
She smiled politely. She didn't speak too much English. That was okay. Billy embraced her tenderly, petted her back, her hair, kissed her hair. He adored her.
"You smell great," he told her.

Gradually the rest of his friends filtered in. They brought beer or wine. They brought the threat of emotional disturbance or even complete destruction. His brother and sister arrived, both his elders. He introduced them to his recently acquired lover. They were curious to meet her after hearing her described as a 'middle aged South American.' Billy was 26. He looked at least six years younger.

He felt calm. He wasn't sure if he was quite ready to leave this place. Outside the wind stirred brittle leaves that had fallen in the autumnal dawn. All of a sudden it began teeming with rain.

He drank a lot of coffee, much like his idol, David Lynch. At least he was given to understand that Lynch was an avid coffee consumer. Unless Lynch was LYING for reasons beyond anyone's fucking comprehension.

He splashed water on his face. Jesus, calm down he told himself. He repaired to his bedroom. His lover lay on the bed, nude. He sucked her tits for a while then fucked her ass.

He returned downstairs. His friend Indigo was reading a poem she'd written entitled Ambiguity Estuary. Billy snatched the sheet of paper from her hand and threw it to the floor. Then he called her a stupid cow and told her to fuck off. Then he started dry humping her. Then her boyfriend punched Billy very hard on the chest and called him a sad little rapist. Then Billy started crying and all his friends left.
The fairy lights twinkled on and off.
The filters were in place. I had made certain of this several times, the dog watching me.
They were in place, good. We were ready to proceed. My palms perspired.
I drew the curtains. The clock on the mantlepiece registered the time as 4:02am.

Birds were beginning to twitter softly; dawn was approaching. The filters were in place.
Would they work? I would have to take it in good faith that they would.
The Christmas lights twinkled on and off. The TV beamed out a meaningless sitcom.
I felt a fierce wind picking up, it ruffled my dressing gown. The room was suddenly very hot. I gasped.
Everything turned white. I was blinded.
I was falling.

Anatomical diagrams were taped to the walls. My friend with the fringe and the tennis shoes was studying them quietly. I waited, feeling self conscious.

What am I being prepared for? I would often ask myself, particularly on grinding overcast afternoons. I might be in the supermarket or in the park with the dog when suddenly I felt on the brink of collapse. I would topple and straddle my befuddled dog or headbutt a shopping trolley.


Silver sky pulsing. Red lights flashing. Fog at dawn. Computers: "it would be okay." Machines: "ditto."
A harbour town at dawn. Machines pulsing. Computers pulsing. Red lights flashing. Dead fingers point thru fog. Machines climb out of the ocean. They've arrived to claim. It would be okay. Discreet shifts in the computer pattern. Red lights pulse thru mist. Computer terminals keening for her eyes, her breasts, the shore. (computer makes a sound like rustling leaves.)
Dragged into old behavior patterns. Computers screaming thru mist. Computerised smoke kisses these pages. It would be okay. Secret dawn pulse. Fragments of sublime autumnal memories washed up on a computerised shore.
Ruined terminals fizz sparks. Abandoned factories. Horses pacing thru abandoned factories. Smokestacks under a grey sky. Shelves of date-expired medicine (silent). Clocks falling off of walls. Mirrors falling off of walls in empty houses. Broken terminals purr obscenely. Hospitals smelling of grotesque visions.


She chuckled. Grating mechanical laughter. It unnerved him. There was mist in the garden. Pockets of apocalyptic euphoria. Mirror falling off of wall in reverse. Reformed fragments. Clock falling off of wall in reverse. Camera shutter clicks. Huddled, feigned grins. Vast walls, huge ceilings leaking anxiety.

Sad eyes. Moustache. He regarded me from the other side of the pool table. Took a slow drag on his cig. Smoke drifted ceiling-ward in slow motion.

The Pegadrift and Other Unconfigured Devices

It was essentially incomprehensible.
This was the conclusion of Juanito's report on the ineffable phenomenon of the 'Pegadrift' or what had come to be known as such.
Attempts to record its movements were extremely difficult. Examples include: grainy home video footage of sleet falling under a lamp post at night (the footage is slowed down), recorded TV documentaries from the early 1990s concerning emotional and mental disturbances.

So here I am, hold up in this shack, sifting through my findings. I have begun to consider the possibility that the Pegadrift is actually an unconfigured device. My methodology is so intuitive and cryptic even I do not profess to understand it.
Everyone I meet, everything I see is part of this vast chronic daydream. Its existence is dependent upon my sensory observation of it.

That night Juanito dreamed of melting ice sculptures and machines climbing out of the ocean.
Dick slid the tape into the VCR. His smooth finger sought out the plastic 'play' panel and he pressed it.
An imaged flickered onto the TV screen. Camcorder footage of a brightly painted living room. Music playing in the background. Discordant piano music. A woman whispering about advertisements and everlasting pleasure. The camera rotated to aim at the face of a blonde haired young man of about 20 years old.

Dick took a sip of his coffee and made a face. It tasted weird man. He set it aside.

The young man in the video was smiling but it was weird, it seemed forced or something. Dick got the impression of profound anguish flickering just behind his eyes.
The camera zoomed out slowly to reveal a voluptuous woman huddled over the man's lap. She was administering a steady, efficient blow job. What I mean is she seemed to be performing the act out of a sense of duty as opposed to any kind of tenderness or affection. She was nude except for an ill fitting white t-shirt which highlighted her tanned skin and jet black hair. Her head bobbed to and fro like a metronome.

Dick paused the tape and turned to the young woman standing by his side.
"Do you realise that I'll be confiscating this tape as evidence?"
The woman, tall, slim, dark-skinned, remained silent.
"Well? Say something..."
The woman looked exhausted. Her cheeks were puffy, her eyes washed out. She remained mute.
Dick backhanded her twice, hard. Her eyes began to tear up and Dick immediately regretted his violence. His exasperation evaporated and he became tender and sympathetic. He cradled the woman in his arms, murmured into her ear, kissed her hair. He could feel her taut body against his. He realised he was becoming aroused and pulled himself away from her, breathing heavily.

A sweltering heatwave had descended on the city. As Dick drove bak to the office he observed other motorists driven berserk by the heat. He saw pedestrians lolling on benches with listless, animal eyes. He noticed black dogs panting in the shade.

Someone had left a weathered paperback novel on his desk. It was entitled The Metaphysical Bukkake.
Am I supposed to regard this as a piece of evidence? Dick mused, turning the novel over in his hands, running his finger up its cracked spine.

He was called into the chief's office.
"Dickie baby, what you got for me, son?" the chief demanded.
"Not much," Dick confessed. The chief nodded sympathetically and bit the end off his cigar.
"I'm piecing this shit together gradually," Dick continued. "I've got-"
The chief waved his hand dismissively. "The truth is, Dick, I don't really care. But I have to pretend an interest, you understand?"
Dick nodded. he felt annoyed but also slightly relieved.

Dick sat at his desk for a while, skimming through The Metaphysical Bukkake, feeling forlorn. The novel seemed to be a montage of completely surreal gibberish. He scanned the cover and the sleeve for author information but such information was absent.
"Who the fuck wrote this shite?!" he suddenly screamed, pounding his fists on the desk.
"I did," a female voice whispered. Dick spun round in his chair and came face to face with a young woman wearing a green corduroy beret, grey sweater and black jeans. She had a coy, intelligent face which Dick gazed at for a moment before telling her to have a seat.
"Coffee?" he inquired. The woman nodded. Dick went and fetched two plastic cups of coffee and set them down on the desk. The woman tentatively sipped the hot beverage.
"So you're a writer?" Dick asked genially. The woman nodded. "Have you written any other books?" he continued. She shook her head no. Dick took a slug of his coffee. "What is this novel about?" he asked.
The woman was silent for a long moment. "" She seemed to be mildly flustered.
"What I mean to ask is, how is it pertinent to the case I'm working? Why did you bring it here?"
The woman smiled cryptically.
Sunlight gleamed through the brown venetian shades.

Two Men Drinking Coffee

The serene man and the anxious man were drinking coffee in a shed. It was late morning in early winter. A plane passed overhead leaving vapour trails in the pale blue sky. The coffee was causing the serene man to be less lethargic.
The coffee was causing the anxious man to be less agitated and more focused.
So each man was being sufficiently medicated by his beverage.
There serene man took his with sugar, the anxious man did not. So who knows what will happen next. Very likely nothing much out of the ordinary unless one or the other of them wills it.
The anxious man willed it. He attempted to kill the serene man.
At first the serene man was incredulous. Then he became indignant and beat the anxious man with his fists until the anxious man was unconscious. Then he suddenly felt exhausted and had to take a nap. He removed his tennis shoes and climbed into a makeshift bed located within the shed.
He awoke several hours later to find the anxious man gone. Also missing were some pornographic posters that had been taped to the wall, posters belonging to the serene man.
"Shit," he cursed without much vehemence.

The Apparatus of Dread Trundled Out

Tonight I went to a concert. It was raining when I set out. A feint drizzle. I wore my coat and hat. It was the end of autumn. Dusk. I felt rather frail. That's an understatement. I was a nervous wreck.
I spoke words but felt hollow. And I could tell by the way people looked at me that something was wrong. This hollowness was obvious. I was a husk unconvincingly going through motions. What motions, exactly? Just the usual ones, really.
So, what to do? Just get a knife and open up the old wrists? Not a butter knife, obviously.
Here comes our illustrious benefactor of dread. Let him through, damn it. Here comes our cloaked benefactor of dream.
You get to the stage that this is all you've got. Better to scrawl these inane words than scrawl red lines in wrists.
Temperatures: extreme changes.
Mood: extreme changes.
Aversion to other people. Despair. Exhaustion. Ennui. Listlessness.
The doctor jotted my symptoms down as I spoke them. It was the end of autumn, the beginning of a black, muffled winter. A coarse, bleak, hollow season of yellows and whites. A slate sky hovers over me.
What else exactly was I anticipating?

The Unduly Perturbed Robotic Child

When he woke up just after noon it was still raining. The sky was white. He clambered out of bed and fired up the computer. He sat down at the desk. The dog plodded into the room and licked his bare knee. Oh, a wee kiss he exclaimed and petted the dog affectionately. Then the dog plodded away again, its paws clicking on the wooden floor. He was alone again, as he had become accustomed to being.
He clicked open a website and began looking at some artistic photographs of curtains in South America. He decided he liked them. He set one of them as his desktop background.
He looked out the window. The rain had ceased. He got up and dressed in jeans, a sweater and tennis shoes. He seized a jacket from a hook on the back of his bedroom door.
It was a cold wintry afternoon. He walked past a derelict factory and followed a pot-holed road into woodland. The dog galloped ahead of him, stopping every so often to ensure that he was following. He waved reassuringly at the dog and turned and dashed onwards.
They emerged from the woodland and followed a path through fields past a shale bing. The path led to a tunnel which passed under a motorway. Graffiti on the walls, the din of passing traffic. They emerged from the tunnel and walked onwards through a woodland path. A cold sun hung motionless in the sky.
All of a sudden the dog scrambled through some shrubs, presumably to chase rabbits. Rabbits that eternally evaded him.
But on this occasion the dog wasn't chasing rabbits.

The man pushed through the shrubbery, holding his arms in front of his face to shield it from scratching. He walked uphill then at the summit emerged from the bushes and shrubs to come across an abandoned construction site beside some railway tracks. The dog was trotting around the site, investigating various discarded items. Then it stopped, squatted, and strained as it expelled a thick turd. A grotesque spectacle for sure. The man wandered down into the site. It seemed to be a half-finished train station. A blue plastic shed sat nearby, once a lookout for a night watchman more than likely. It would be abandoned now as most projects, businesses, endeavours had been.

A slight breeze picked up as man and dog stood amongst the embryonic constructions. The man ventured towards the plastic blue shack and nudged open the door. A small window covered with a metal grille admitted a paltry amount of sunlight. A table, a couple of chairs. Diagrams taped to the walls, likely architectural. The man pulled a lighter out from his coat pocket. He sparked it and cast a frail, flickering light over the interior of the shack. Empty food canisters. The ashy remains of a fire. The dog plodded inside and stood behind him.
Something caught his attention in the corner. A small metal machine, cubic in dimension. He crouched and held the flame toward it. Hmmmm, what a curious piece of shit he murmured to himself. It had a panel and LCD lights that were turned off. It had eyes and a face, a metallic grille of a face.
The man replaced the lighter in his pocket and lifted the thing outside. It was fairly heavy. The dog sniffed at it. It had tufts of artificial hair on its head and a small cubic body. It had a tripod of wheels for feet and small prosthetic hands welded to its body, no arms. It seemed to be an extremely makeshift robot. But where would someone obtain such small prosthetic hands, hands as if made for a baby. Were such items once widely manufactured?
The man turned the thing over and examined its ass for a switch. No dice.
"Leave him alone," a female voice chided him.
The man turned round and came face to face with a weathered looking middle aged woman dressed in a blue jacket, a skirt, grey leggings and wellington boots. She wore a cautious, defiant expression.

The man stood up and stepped back slightly, away from the device.
"I was trying to figure out how to activate it," he said and tried to smile reassuringly. His voice wavered as he spoke. The woman kept her eyes on him as she moved towards the device.
"That's none of your fucking concern," she told him. She slowly descended to her knees and embraced the small thing, petting its hair and murmuring against its cold metallic face. The man wasn't sure whether to be amused or appalled. The dog sniffed at the woman as she cuddled the wee robot.
“Keep that fucking animal away from us,” the woman groaned, sounding genuinely pained. The man was so unsettled he grasped the dog by the collar and pulled it away the weird spectacle of human/machine tenderness he was witnessing. He held the dog but was too mesmerized to move away. The woman moved her hands all over the machine, making bizarre keening noises as she did so. Her hand must have moved over a switch or some sort of activation trigger. The wee thing whirred into sentience. Lights lit up. The wee hands flopped ineffectually. It made a sound like recorded gurgling.
“Shhhh…” the woman murmured, continuing to pet it and nuzzle against it.
The man turned and began to run. The dog galloped with him, baring its teeth in a manic grin. The man dashed through the shrubs and back onto the woodland path. Here he stopped to regain his breath. The dog ran round him excitedly and sniffed at his knees.
They walked home, the man checking over his shoulder every couple of minutes. The sun was beginning to sink, dusk was approaching.
He got home and fed the dog. Then he hung up his jacket on the door. He sat down at his desk and fired up the computer. The photo of the curtains appeared on his desktop in tile formation. He opened the word processer function and began typing up an account of what he had just witnessed. The dog settled in its basket and quickly fell asleep. It began to dream. Its legs jerked and it whispered half-formed barks. The man watched it and contemplated what it might be dreaming about.

Wednesday, 12 August 2009


His brother had offered him the job and he had taken it. It wasn’t as if he was in a position to refuse it. The job was this: ambling about streets distributing flyers for three hours. The flyers were actually ‘VIP passes’ which entailed discounted entry to a local nightclub.
11pm-2am. £6/hour.
Gregg had taken it. It wasn’t as if he was in a position to refuse it; he was broke.
He’d encountered people doing this job dozens of time before. They came up to ye and zealously conveyed the merits of patronising a particular establishment.
Gregg wasn’t sure if he had the necessary demeanour for this type of work. Still, as stated, he wasn’t in a position to turn anything down. Fuck it, he’d give it a shot.

The two brothers caught the bus into the city at the back of 10pm. They went to a nearby pub before going to the club. The club was called Vitreous China. It was a dancehall reggae night that was on tonight. Not a sub-genre that Gregg was particularly interested in.
They sat in the pub with pints of beer and filled out half the flyers with the initial ‘G.’ This would signify that anyone using these passes had obtained them from Gregg as opposed to the other lassie he’d be working with. Or working against, really.
As they sat filling out the passes, Gregg felt a bit tense. A bit weary. He wasn’t exactly enthused about the next three hours. Trying to engage the attention of bands of marauding drunks. He’d likely be ridiculed, or worse, beaten perhaps. He just lacked the constitution for this type of work.
He took a deep breath. Just get on with it. It’ll be fine. It’ll be fine.

At 11pm he left his brother at the club. His brother was in charge of the guestlist.
So he set out. He set out. It had begun to drizzle. His sweater had a hood, fortunately.
He set out.
He had the flyers in his pocket. He took them out. He put them back. He wasn’t ready yet. He wanted to pace around a bit first, see what was what.
He passed a couple of groups of people. He clutched the flyers in his pocket. He kept walking. He wasn’t ready. He trudged wearily.
Christ, this rain. He began to feel morose.
The next group of people he passed he reached into his pocket. This was it. Here goes.
“You guys need passes for Vitreous China?”
The way it came out, it was like a rhetorical question, like it was a foregone conclusion that of course they didn’t need the damn fucking passes and apologies for disturbing them in the first place.
They regarded him sympathetically and shook their heads.
They walked on. He walked on.
He walked on. There. That wasn’t so bad.
He repeated the procedure with the next group of people he encountered with similar results.
This was okay. This was fine. He was just warming up.
His fucking right sneaker had a hole in the sole and was admitting dampness. His sock was soaked through. A most unpleasant sensation. Ah Christ fucking shit.
Fuck it. He walked on. Should he walk on? Or should he maybe find a spot to lurk? Should he keep moving or remain stationary?
He text messaged his brother, enquiring about the best spot to hang out.
Near Starbucks was the response. Which made sense. Starbucks was at the corner of a crossroads with a few nearby bars and clubs. It was a good spot to intercept bands of marauding drunks. Then he could coax the cunts into going to Vitreous China and thereby earn himself a nice wee commission for bodies enticed into said establishment.
The thing was there were a few other guys with flyers hanging around there. So he kept walking. He walked on, he wasn’t ready for territorial disputes yet. He’d patrol the entire area, scope it out, maybe tap into an as yet undiscovered hotbed of potential clients.
The intensity of the rainfall was increasing. A regrettable fact that had to be admitted.
A text from his brother. Did he want to borrow the DJ’s jacket? No he didn’t, it was fine. He had a hood, the rain wasn’t too bad.
So, here he was. This was quite a humbling experience, really. I mean this is what he had been reduced to. He clutched the cards.
He stopped walking. He was coming to the end of the road. No more bars. It wasn’t busy at all. He crossed the street to walk back the way, reluctant to just about-turn on the same side of the street.
Ah fuck, he was trapped now. He’d have to walk back past all the other guys staked out with their flyers. They’d be sizing him up the bastards. Who’s this motherfucker? He looks like a motherfucking fool. That’s the kind of thoughts the bastards would be harbouring.
Well fuck them. Gregg strolled onwards, clutching his cards.
Here came another group of revellers. OK. Cards at the ready. Five of them in the group. He counted off five passes, slowing down as they approached.
“Vitreous China tonight, guys?”
They seemed non-plussed as they accepted the cards he proferred. This was how it was done, ye just foisted the damn things on the cunts.
“£3 entry, £1.50 drinks.” He was rattling off the banter now. They thanked him for the cards and he thanked them for taking them. Work the nice guy angle.
The rain had died off. He pulled his hood down.
He was back at the Starbucks junction. He turned down onto the adjacent street, passing a blonde lassie who held a stack of Vitreous China flyers. He tried to catch her eye but she never noticed him so he just walked on. He got onto the street that ran parallel to the one where the club was located. Plenty of bars along here as well.

The rain had started up again. It was heavier this time. Gregg took shelter in a Pizza Hut doorway. The streets were almost deserted now. It was 1am. Pizza Hut was closed but there were lights on inside. Why was that? What a waste of electricity. Why was it, though? Was it to draw attention to the place, advertise its existence there? Probably. Still, Gregg was sort of grateful for the light. He was drawn to it, like a moth.
He leaned against the wall and gazed at his soaked sneakers. So this was what he had been reduced to. It was one of those moments for questioning what it was all about, I mean why would you actually want to be alive? He chuckled to himself ruefully.
In scenarios like this he like to entertain overly bleak, exaggeratedly melodramatic thoughts. A kind of self-effacing black humour to see him through.
A spider was crawling near his shoe. Like him it was seeking shelter from the weather. Normally averse to spiders and the like, Gregg felt a kind of solidarity with the thing. So small and frail. He almost felt tenderness toward the wee thing.
A good ten minutes passed with no pedestrian passing. Then a couple of women walked past but ignored his offer of two VIP passes to Vitreous China.

This was okay. This was fine. This was no it wasnae okay this was hopeless. Nightmarish. This was spirit crushing. Maybe he’d just toss the flyers and walk away, walk off into the night. There was always that option to consider. He would walk all the way home, arriving exhausted with blistered feet.
So this is how he was trying to earn money at 26 years of age. Christ.
Alright, no point going down the path of self-pity. It could be worse, much worse.

He just didn’t like people. Or necessarily understand them. All these groups of young people, prowling the street on a rainy Sunday night. What were they yearning for? What did they hope to achieve? It was depressing, it was completely senseless.

He saw some pretty lassies. What’s more, they looked cool. They didn’t look like potential Vitreous China clientele.
“You guys need free passes for Vitreous China?” Gregg had reverted to his rhetorical tone. Except this time he avoided the feeble, apologetic overtones. He sounded sardonic, fey even. He offered a wry grin.
“We’re okay,” one of the lassies told him and she smiled back at him knowingly.
That was good. You needed wee moments like that, moments of respite from trying to engage with the mindless hoards of feckless drunks patrolling the streets.
You get these wee pockets of euphoria, these wee moments fleeting though, always fleeting. They got swallowed up by the all-encompassing existential dread that was characteristic of the human condition.
He walked on, clutching the flyers, feeling the rain on his face.

Saturday, 1 August 2009


Whilst his grandfather gazed solemnly out the window at the passing clouds, Jonson endeavoured to write things down. He took a deep breath and tried to focus. It was always the same. He would start well, he would begin with the best intentions which were always gradually absolved by a waning enthusiasm and restless temperament. He would become despondent and disheartened with the whole endeavour. Probably he was just lazy.
"I'm away with the fairies, I'm afraid," Bob reported. "Not that I'm suggesting you're a fairy... What is it you're planning to do?"
Jonson became hesitant.
"Are you studying?"
Jonson remained hesitant and then began to speak. Outside, the grey animal silhouettes formed by clouds were obliterated quite quickly.

A woman came in to prepare some lunch for Bob. Bob introduced himself to her even though she had been here that morning and the day before.
Later in the afternoon a woman came in who introduced herself as Helena, the chief occupational therapist. She began making conversation with Bob by way of evaluating his constitution it seemed. Bob looked over to Jonson for help with many of the questions including if he liked watching TV and how many grandchildren he had.
"Five," Jonson reminded him. Bob seemed pleased with this figure as if it served as some kind of evidence of his reproductive potency, an area he still sometimes made obtuse references to.
Maybe I should tell you how I came to have my flaccid penis enveloped in the mouth of an Italian lady. I was nervous about meeting her, I suppose. Hence the alcohol. Hence the flaccid penis.
Then her queer roommate brought me breakfast in bed - bran flakes, OJ... a croissant? Very continental anyway, whatever it was.
Goddamn it I cannot seem to get comfortable right now. Have I been awake too long? Was my bath too hot? At least I'm not itchy.
I think the roommate was probably Italian also. Had he taken a shine to me?
The covers slide off me. Nothing sits right. My flesh writhes, it's maddening...
The DVD player is broken. Lying down and listening to SYR8 does not seem to be an option (my bedroom currently lacks a bed). I am way too irritable to lie on the floor right now. I shall be ready for sleep soon. Perhaps after imagining an odious carnal deed with a certain doe-eyed brunette lassie. Disclaimer: this is not autobiographical.
Tables, other objects. They collide, make sickening sounds. This offends me right now.
So, I fingered her vagina. The Italian lassie, that is. Can still recall the smell. Afterward she thanked me, a gesture I found oddly formal (if gratifying). Her had big titties. Me likey to squeeze them. She took my flaccid penis in her mouth for a short while. If only she could have been more patient, damn it! I may have 'risen' to the occasion, get it? Risen! AHAHAHAHAHAHA...
Wonder where she would've had me deposit me come? Doesn't bear thinking about now, I suppose. Still, one remains curious...

Then there was the Scottish lassie who wanked me off all over her tummy. Her was purdy. I held her urgently as I offloaded all that gunk on her supple young belly. Christ, it was glorious.
Now, the Norwegian lass, she took my come in her mouth and in her pussy. Her knew how to please a man.
The Kiwi lass, she seemed a bit mental, aye. What a great fuck. Awesome body. Cute face. Would've loved to have come all over it. Alas, I have never committed such an odious deed. I did 'come' close on one occasion. So to speak. Get it? Come. LOLZ! I did enjoy thrusting my hard dick into her tight, wet pussy. FYI. Climaxed fairly quickly on several occasions I should probably be ashamed to admit. Too excitable. The Swedish lassie laughed at this. It was a frustrated laugh.
Blowjobs are awesome. Coming feels nice. Isn't this the most insightful piece of prose you ever read?

American Dr Pepper tastes sweeter

Jonson ambled out into the mild spring New York night. He went to the store. He procured a bottle of Dr Pepper. 12 fl. oz. He walked back to the hostel sipping his beverage. He did not guzzle. He sipped. He was in possession of some restraint. Outside the hostel a garbage truck was gargling and two dudes were collecting up bags of waste.

Inside the hostel Jonson went to the restroom and pissed. He checked the mirror to make certain his hair wasn't utterly ridiculous. Satisfied that it wasn't he returned to his bed and retrieved a pen and notepad from his luggage. He immediately set to work on a short story entitled Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy. He did not know what to write about. He was distracted by the smell of his own feet. He hadn't laundered anything in over a week, reduced to reusing the same sweaty old socks. His feet were blistered from walking all over Chelsea and Soho, visiting galleries.
He sipped the sweet syrupy beverage. There was no escaping the fact: American Dr Pepper tasted sweeter. It was the same with a lot of things in America.

Walking along the street today an enthused midget had asked if he liked stand-up comedy.
"It's okay," he offered.
"Okay?! Fucking recession fucking sucks man you need something to laugh about!" the midget had shrieked. Jonson had burst into tears.

Man the odour of his unwashed socks was troubling. A laundromat mission would definitely be required tomorrow. Jonson was interrupted by his friend Valdez entering the room.
"Hey man, what you doing?"
"Writing," Jonson explained.
"What you writing?"
"A story about a guy who goes to the store and buys some Dr Pepper," Jonson explained.
Valdez eyed the half-empty soda bottle standing on the floor by the bed.
"Oh, so that's where you went. I came in and thought where the hell's he gone?"
"Yeah I was out getting inspired," Jonson explained.
"So you came home, sat down and started writing a story about a man who goes out, buys some Dr Pepper, then comes home and writes a story about it?"
"Yeah," Jonson affirmed.
"And then his friend comes in and asks him what he's writing about?"
"Yeah," Jonson affirmed. "I'm just gonna write that part in now."

Jonson wrote that part in. Then he paused. What should he write about now? He had been sort of working on a story about two Scottish guys who move to Brooklyn. The characters were actually based on him and his friend. Actually maybe this story was part of the same story. Maybe he could later amalgamate the two stories using a computer. Or then again maybe this would stand alone as a separate piece.


There were a few European kids dressed as Americans and so was I, I suppose. They were playing table tennis. I was on the couch beside the pool table. A slim black man was explaining the finer points of 'money shots' in the game of pool to me. He kept setting up demonstration shots and missing them. I nodded politely as he spoke although I was barely listening.
A Chinese guy was sitting next to me on the couch. He kept disappearing and returning with a can of Coke. He would alternate between hesitant sips and greedy glugs. He kept launching into abstract monologues about neuroscience, fourth dimensions, power distance, psychology, insanity. I smiled politely and nodded. He was reading a book entitled The Anatomy of Sex and Power.
I suddenly realised I was very thirsty. I excused myself to go fetch a cup of water from the kitchen downstairs.
I stood by the sink sipping water. A couple entered the kitchen and immediately struck up conversation with me. They had beer. They asked me if I wanted one. I said that I did.
The guy was named Jason. A blond haired, Australian, laconic youth. An archetype.
The lassie was Canadian. Slim, tanned, brunette. Her name was Anya.
She began preparing a meal.
Two more Australian gentlemen joined our company. Matt and Tom. Pale, washed out, queasy looking individuals.
I tired of their company and ventured back upstairs to the games room. I had been gone a while. My Chinese pal had disappeared. He had left his laptop and copy of The Anatomy of Sex and Power. I picked it up and leafed through it. Fairly disturbing stuff.
A German chap was knocking balls around on the pool table. I challenged him. I won the first game, lost the second.
Actually it was an ambiguous result, depending on what regional rules are specifically adhered to.
Maybe I had glanced at her denim enclosed crotch a moment too long. Now it was 6am and the sun was beginning to rise. The streetlamps remained lit; it was still dim. Dim enough that I could barely see my scrawl in the unlit room.
She was tall so her denim crotch was at eye level where I sat and how could I help but glance at it, I am wont to glance at things I desire although I usually try to remain surreptitious.

His Emotional Responses Were Beginning to Shut Down

A canteen at the edge of heaven.
Piano music plays which has been recorded in such a way so as to render it discordant upon playback. The ghostly voice of a woman whispers about advertisements and everlasting pleasure.
A detached looking waitress drifts around, tending to the few quiet, elderly customers.
A window affords a glimpse of infinity. No birds. No clouds. Just the gleam of a cold sun. A vacant, violet sky. Nothing else above or below.
Jim sits at a table, glancing at a weathered menu, glancing around the room, glancing at his hands. A hot cup of coffee sits before him.

A girl enters and sits opposite him.
She makes a sound like a computer whirring and then a sound like rustling leaves.

Jim had come from a place where he didn't belong. He was somewhat calm now, yet remained haunted by preceding events.
Colours still weren't registering correctly, strongly enough.

A weathered paperback novel sat on the table before him, beside the coffee cup. The title of it was The Metaphysical Bukkake. The girl lifted the book and studied it for a moment with impassive eyes. Jim sipped his coffee and watched her.

The doctor on the phone: "We've noted that his emotional responses are beginning to shut down..."
Burnt static and then perfect silence.

The waitress brought the girl a cup of green tear which Jim didn't recall her ordering.
Jim tried to look at the menu again but the words were all blurred. He contemplated the possibility that his eyesight was failing.

Jim stood at the urinal. He had realised something. Despite being lonely he didn't want to go back into the canteen. He had a quiet longing to escape.

Ask the Wind

I had never wanted to be one of those inane bastards, those bastards that wander around in a perpetual state of quirkiness with a retarded grin. But somehow I felt I was being coerced into that role or maybe I wasn’t, maybe I relished accepting state of diminished responsibility.
Analysing all those old emails last night, from three years ago right up to the present day. I suppose it’s not a huge stretch of time but to read the dialogue between us then, to sift thru and watch it gradually extinguish, well it was a haunting thing.

So I had awoken in this nightmarish mistake, this awry parallel universe. What did I do? I went to her and asked her assistance in building a time machine. In an emotional context you understand. I had some of those emails printed out to support my case. But she only smiled sympathetically and I understood there was now a gulf. Impassable. The horrific realisation that I had helped construct this gulf. And this awful certainty that it would never be bridged now and nothing would ever be resolved. It was an aquatic sensation. I waded over to the couch and collapsed into a foetal position.

I groaned and my flesh was stinging me, I needed something to remove me from my own flesh.

I’d had this revelation on hogmanay at a particularly decadent celebration i.e. decadent in terms of substance abuse. I realised given the choice between a life of drinking and drugging and a life of settling down with a nice lassie well the latter option was to be preferred. But then again, who’s to say one has to commit oneself to either extreme, could one not carefully meld the two with deliberation and discretion?
Ah, it was too late, little did I know I’d driven her into the arms of another man by then anyway.

She confided this to me in cryptic terms over the phone on new year’s day. And so from here on I ached.
That sympathetic smile. The polite aversion. I’d lost my mind along the way, made an insane mistake. Could it be repaired?

2053 (excerpt)

2053. America has been ravaged by a virus which has reduced the populous to a bunch of gibbering slobs. Depravity is rife. Ethics are archaic; baseness and cruelty have been revealed as the true, sickening core to human existence.
An ex-high school janitor wanders the wasteland, filled with murderous rage and vile lust. He comes across an orphaned fourteen year old lass, timid and shivering amidst debris. He grunts and gazes at her in sick speculation.
“shit yourself!” he commands. She does as instructed. “you sick little slut!” he snarls. Tears begin streaming from her haunted eyes.

Bi-polar gangbang. Gratuitous cruelty. Infinite humiliation. These are the searches he runs at a library computer terminal.
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