Tuesday, 29 September 2009

It was a sunny afternoon in autumn. I decided to go out for an amble in a bid to ward off suicidal thoughts. Exercise would elevate my endorphin levels and prevent me from entertaining these thoughts.
If this sounds overly casual it's because it is. I experience these thoughts often enough to adopt a dismissive attitude towards them.
I walked through fields, past hills and derelict factories smothered in a feint drizzle.

At the entrance to the woods I was confronted by a gang of youths. They regarded me with cruel, feral faces.
One of them stepped forward and issued a denigration in crude slang. I muttered a sardonic reply, the content of which was not comprehensible to these youths but the tone of which they recognised as hostile.
Physical confrontation was imminent.
All of a sudden I noticed a familiar female figure standing off to one side, watching impassively. She was tall and full-figured with long blonde hair. She was dressed in athletic attire.
I felt unnerved and thus lacked confidence in my chances of victory in this skirmish. The youth's eyes flickered with violence and his tongue flecked over his lips. Most unsavoury.
Nevertheless some hidden depth of sheer anger afforded me the strength and stamina to beat him quite literally lifeless. I was perplexed by my victory. The other youths fled.
The female approached me and spoke.
"You felt certain you would lose and were hoping I might rescue you. Now you are confused and discombobulated, such is your low self-esteem. You feel semi-compelled to rape me but lack the demeanour to do so. Come with me."
I followed her into the woods.
"Go, go on, open it!" Rick squealed with delight.
Naomi's slender hands broke apart the wrapping paper that covered the box. She lifted the lid off to reveal... a penis.
"Isn't it grotesque?" tittered Rick. It was plastic. It was semi-flaccid. Rick lifted it out of the box gingerly.
"Observe," he instructed her. He squeezed the thing lightly, causing it to emit a spray of thick white paste. He squealed again. "Well, do you like it?"
Naomi appeared to be completely horrified. She groaned quietly, a sound of absolute despair. She slowly brought her hands up to cover her face. Rick watched her with an inane leer frozen on his idiotic, gleeful face.

The Stylisation and Codefication of Melancholy

The Crew finished shooting the commercial on a broad tree-lined street in an American city. The ravishing blonde actress smiled coyly at the camera and blinked languidly. She was advertising a brand of hair dye. The sky was purple.

"Cut," the director called calmly. He was an obese, balding, pony-tailed man.
The actress' smile slowly faded. A slight breeze had picked up, rustling dead leaves by the side of the kerb.
The cameras were shut off and packed away. The actress, who was named Window, repaired to the trailer to change her clothing. The director waited a few minutes. He smoked half a cigarette and made clumsy small talk with the key grip. Then he awkwardly discarded the cigarette and extinguished it with his tennis shoe. He ambled over to the trailer.

An ambulance came screaming up the street, its blue lights pulsing.
It shuddered to a halt. The time was 4pm. The back door of the ambulance swung open.

The actress sensed the presence of the director behind her as she unclasped her bra. He came closer. He smelled of cigarette smoke. She felt him clasp a hand over her tit. She was debilitated by feelings of repulsion.

The siren had been shut off but the light continued to pulse. From the back of the ambulance four men emerged. They did not resemble paramedics. They wore tennis attire and had the perturbed, eccentric demeanour of mental health patients.
They carried assault rifles.

The director's attempted molestation of the actress was thwarted as both parties were distracted by the erratic crackle of gunfire. They moved to the window of the trailer to watch crew members being executed by what looked like manic tennis players. They key grip collapsed on the sidewalk, his thighs riddled with bullet holes. He screamed and gibbered. His eyes gleamed with anguish.

Upon executing six crew members and injuring seven, the tennis players ceased firing. They bundled into the back of the ambulance which duly sped off and which was duly replaced by another ambulance, this one containing authentic paramedics.


The Sex Workers emerged from their craft into an alien heat. The dust was stifling. They were all uniformly decked out in tennis attire, sweatbands gripping their foreheads.
"We are glum and stoic," they declared in unison. Their demeanour thus stated they could commence their exploration.
Their mission was to discover alien lifeforms and then determine whether or not it was possible to fuck them.
The Sex Workers were a forlorn bunch of misfits from various regions of the planet Earth. They had been active since 2764, over ten years of drifting through space to copulate with myriad exotic lifeforms.

Transmission Complete Despite Scanning Difficulties

Part One: A Trio of Technicians

Tennis Attire. This is what they wore.

They would cackle insanely at intermittent intervals.

They ate spiders.

They wore dark sunglasses.

They collided with each other, jostled aggressively as they paced about the small laboratory.

They guzzled cheap generic brand energy drinks and scoffed microwaved fast food.

They punched each other.

They cackled insanely.

They forced each other to eat spiders.

They fucking molested each other.

They wept inconsolably.

It was very dark outside.


They slammed each other against radiators and guffawed.

They groped each other and punched each other, giggling frantically.

The machinery was constructed out of dead leaves.
It made weird, rustling, whirring sounds.
Distinctly autumnal noises.


I dream of Satan on an autumn afternoon.

Death of Gibbering Man at the Hands of Perturbed Whore

It is a melancholy phenomenon to observe a party ebb away, carnal promises unfulfilled, falling asleep on the floor pre-dawn.
It seems I inspired contempt in certain people. Or was it just my imagination?
Goddamn, son, I need a woman. Aw honey.

The man lay gibbering on the couch.
A perturbed whore materialised.
She killed the man then prepared a chicken sandwich. When his dead lips refused to admit said comestible she ate the goddamn thing herself, the crazy sumbitch that she was. Her reasoning was that she could not pass the sandwich through the dead man's lips and his dead teeth refused to chew anyway. Her defence was accepted and her consumption of the sandwich deemed appropriate.

Self-conscious hipsters arm-wrestled and acted in a willfully neurotic way. They wore woolen hats and were self-effacing. "Aw honey!" they moaned ironically and snickered at each other.


The dog entangled his paw with the cable from the internet router today, displacing the device, sending it crashing to the rug. Perhaps his actions were intentional. Perhaps he was trying to say c'mon get up off your ass quit faffing about on the internet desperately trying to scrape a win against inferior players at online scrabble turn that damned fucking machine OFF and get UP off your lazy ass and take me out for a walk, motherfucker.
To which I'd reply, Thanks very much for those few kind words.
1. After finishing his shift at the factory, Billy walked home. There he ate a tuna mayonnaise sandwich. His hunger satiated, his thoughts fell to satiating his need for stimulation and entertainment. He stood in the kitchen a while and mulled over this. The dog padded through and gazed at him indolently.

He took some typed pages out into the street and scattered them in the wind. An old lady walking past with her dog asked him what he was doing. He told her. She smiled Sadly.

2. The man who could be described as tall, indolent and timid stood at the cusp of the skateboard park, watching with wet eyes. He idly kicked an empty soda can and fastidiously avoided meeting anyone's gaze. He aimed to affect an aloof demeanour. But the kids skating past would evaluate him as being perturbed and effete.

Dispatch from a lonely insomniac

A vague but potent yen to write something when I see the beautifully eerie colour of the sky at 2.22am.

guileless, feckless, hapless (the)
mystic poetry, magic, South American
dust, wind, skate bowls

The Green Couch (a fog settles at dusk)

The green couch had been donated to him by his neighbour and it contained a stirring smell. A smell that whisked him back to a potent adolescence where he'd dry-humped neighbour's daughter on said couch.

"Goddamit how old is she?"
Smug moderation.
Circling around, collapsing, slowly rebuilding.
Vivid memories: maroon: legs beneath sheets

We are all veering gradually towards implosion


He lay down on the bed and a familiar sound occurred. It was a sound inside his head. It was a sound in slow motion. It was a sound that resembled his mother's voice. But in slow motion, eerily fragmented. Like an echo inside some impossible pipeline.
It was eerie but, in a way, eerily soothing. He let it drift over him, the familiar spell of codified stupefaction.
He drifted off into perturbing dreams, any memories of which evaporated quickly upon awakening. He prepared a bowl of breakfast cereal and opened the door to allow the dog outside to frolic in the dew damp garden.
As he devoured his breakfast he witnessed the grotesque spectacle of the dog straining to expel a thick turd.

Guileless Gibbering

Solitary tippling= the best kinda tippling in this author's ridiculous opinion.
Conversation becomes imaginary and beautifully abstract as opposed to brutally concrete and wearying, prone to misinterpretation and guileless gibbering.
Aw honey, stupefaction is our objective Jonathan told his imaginary lover. He wished he had some weed.
Damn, this port is tasty. Aw honey yeh. Yeh baby.
If you've just joined us, welcome, welcome to the mindless inane ramblings of a morose surrealist (sans the surrealist leanings).

Speak poet.
Speak butcher.
Speak, wind.

It did: it made a whirring sound like a frenzied CPU. Guffaw.
Guff-- aw... aw honey ah hell yeh! kick him honey!

Tuesday, 22 September 2009

Surrealist Turned Sprinter


The whole surrealism gig wasn't really panning out for Vincent Moore. Ink on cushions. Early mornings spent reading or else contemplating sink fuzz. Scribbling inane shite in his notebook with a self-satisfied, vainglorious half-smile. The dog slumbers peacefully, the dishes are washed. What kind of man was he? This is what he often asked himself.
A girl walks past with her own wee dog, a girl he'd dearly like to make love to, he decides.
If he ever spoke to her on this bright wintry morning he'd surely blurt out some feeble boasts.

What would impress her?
The idea occurred to him quite spontaneously.
An athlete.
A runner.
A sprinter.
A fucking, a...

He trailed downwards (upwards?) into a reverie.
No more vague gestures. No more books hung on washing lines.
The dog slumbers in its basket.

A pair of tennis sneakers were the closest thing he had to suitable running shoes. He donned green canvas shorts and a grey t-shirt. He appreciated the absurdity of...

You can meet me on a virtual reality scrabble board. Here are the details. We'll take it from there. If you manage to beat me.
There's a tradition waiting for ye he told himself in between examining his chest.
And now I'm -
The dog is outside barking.
Why did you do that?
As I say we'll see, see how it pans out and -
Maybe you can come over to my house and my mother will cook us cheese pasta.

It was brisk, a brisk morning. Enough with these pseudo-romantic reveries already. He rubbed his hands together. Time to sprint.
He walked to the dew damp park. Sunlight glistened on the grass.
The chime ebbs away, gracefully. The time slips away, a weight of melancholy.
OK enough surrealist shite. He rubbed his hands together. A hot bath. No. A sprint.
Birds chirped and tweeted. As they are wont to do.
And what do you think about
And what do you know about
Was there a tradition here he was engaging with or entering into or else was he
He was essentially a meek man. A meek, humble man. His downfall perhaps.
Shifting boxes in the attic. Yellow.

A wasp snarled past. A pedestrian ambled past.
Savage humour.
What did ye say ya cunt?
Nothing I was just murmuring to myself incomprehensibly. He cackled hysterically. Below mesmeric skies.
No-one else thought the potato resembled a heart but this didn't faze him beneath sweet suicidal skies.

I don't know, all these mind melds. Eternal loathings, disaffections.
Grinding tedium. Coffee angst, whimsical ennui.
He tittered ruefully and abruptly began to sprint.

A moment later he stopped. He felt ridiculous. Keep going, he told himself.

The signal was disintegrating. The picture was distorting, fading. Press releases leaning on leather poufs. Oh god, keep going, coffee angst.

What the fuck do you think you're doing, the imaginary shrill faggot demanded to know. Vincent silenced him with a swift sock to the mouth. He blew smoke from the pretend gun barrel of his finger.

The woman with the dog. He accosted her and whispered to her. Only kidding. This is what he wanted to do.

Whilst tweaking his nipples his neighbour came to the window, tapped the glass, and shrieked.

and then shrieked speak these words.

Is that a command or a description?

I don't know, All these games I just... I'd like to... I'd love to...

The silence of the devout.
The coy irreverent cackle of the misty eyed freak.
My thoughts are too loud. How do I go about turning the volume down exactly?
A flowing script, a freezer.
A fucking, a -
A severed sentence. An abandoned thought.
A few sips of hot coffee.


Thoughts connecting, falling into place. Thoughts absorbed by his mind. Falling snow. Breathlessness.
The sky was the colour of those ink capsules Vincent used to have for his fountain pen when he was in school.
Snow wasn't falling.
Safety sought.

He was a fatalist and it was problematic. He used fatalism as a crutch for his laziness and indolence.
Sprint to the supermarket he commanded himself. It was a sunny day but it wasn't exactly warm.

Embarrassment was preventing him from becoming a sprinter. He was so damn self-conscious, it was
The doorbell sounded. He went and opened the door. Nothing, no-one there. Fucking kids, infants fooling around. Trying to befuddle him for the purposes of their own glee. He heard them squealing and shrieking distantly. He imagined pinning them down and shitting on them.
Awful thoughts, cancel these awful thoughts

"You sad little navel-gazer," an imaginary spectre chided him.

Auburn, somber. Autumn dusk glint. Night street machinery. The pegadrift, glimpsed. The supreme form.

Sometimes he got unduly perturbed. Sometimes his nose bled. Sometimes he sucked viral blood fingers.
Fatigue was problematic: Captain Beefheart mathematics. Hearty gravy gurgle.
As you can see his surrealist impulses still bleed through. Which is ultimately why he failed as a sprinter. He showed up to a race wearing a scuba diving outfit, po-faced and pensive.
"Hello slaves," he announced and promptly shat himself. The stench was distinctly unpalatable.
Door hinges and madness.
A sun induced migraine, sinister ennui.
These were prosaic yet vile images he had to contend with. He was happy to be apart. Perversely.

It was good to note the rapid movement of the clock from the complacent comfort of the couch as he scribbled his asinine shite on a spiritually insignificant Friday night. The tender ache of his flesh was, for once, comforting rather than disconcerting.
This couch was severely comfortable, he decided.

Configuration of the Pegadrift (excerpt)

His doctor had instructed him to visit this website. A government website set up to facilitate the self-diagnosis of mental and emotional disturbances.
He drove over to his brother’s house. His brother had a computer. It was a sunny afternoon at the end of autumn. A cold wind stirred dead leaves on the pavement. A young girl drifting past on a tricycle stared at him intently.
He rang his brother’s doorbell and immediately heard the dog barking from within. A minute later the door opened and his brother stood there, gaunt, registering him with blank, washed out eyes. He stepped aside to let him in. The dog swished its tail and sniffed at his knees, its eyes gleaming with enthusiasm.

He sat down at the computer whilst his brother went to make coffee. He logged onto the internet and immediately looked up his favourite amateur pornographic website, scanning for the latest updates. He then opened another window. The computer made a sound like rustling leaves. His brother was in the doorway, staring at him blankly.

He glanced out the window. A light rain had begun to ascend. He witnessed the grotesque spectacle of the dog squatting on the grass, straining to expel a thick turd.

It was getting dark as he drove back to his flat. A huge moon hung low in the sky. A computer printout lay on the empty passenger seat. According to the test results he was suffering from a condition named Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy. The words were like melting ice or vapour trails hanging in the expanse of his mind. The infinite grey-blue expanse that registered such phenomenon as maroon leaves under a violet sky, a dog swishing its tail, and other cryptic fragments of infinity. He drove in silence, the radio turned off, quietly perturbed by what he was witnessing.

His girlfriend was waiting for him at the flat.
“And?” she inquired. He wordlessly proffered the slice of paper, the diagnosis. She held it and her pale eyes scanned the printed words. He retrieved a beer from the fridge and took a long swig. She pursed her lips and exhaled and then set the piece of paper down on the dining room table.
“Well?” he asked.
Her eyes were cast downward, toward the piece of paper.

Little was known about the syndrome the printout explained. Symptoms included delusions of grandeur, listlessness, rage, lethargy, episodes of severe confusion, chronic daydreaming. He suffered from at least four of these he and his girlfriend agreed. Then they were silent a while, digesting this information, like computers overloaded with data.


The next morning he caught a train south. The printed report had recommended avoiding caffeine.
“You do have a tendency to shriek intermittently after drinking coffee,” his girlfriend had observed. He had nodded solemnly.
As the train hurtled south he watched the mute, barren countryside race past outside the window. Then he turned to regard his fellow passengers, glum, stoic ignoramuses.

After a few hours train journey he caught a cab from the station to the specialist practice he had been referred to. He waited for 25 minutes in a waiting room with walls painted yellow. There was a selection of experimental psychology journals for the perusal of patients. A thin, agitated looking man was pushed past on a wheelchair by an obese, smooth skinned, bespectacled middle aged man.
His name was called and he walked up a narrow corridor lit by fluorescent tubes. A few canvases hung on the wall, abstract expressionistic pieces.
The specialist greeted him warmly. He quickly decided that the specialist had the appearance and mannerisms of a pederast.
“How can I help you?” the specialist asked somberly.
Jonathan reached into his coat pocket and removed the printout of the diagnosis. The specialist donned spectacles and scanned the printout intently for a minute.

Through the window he glimpsed skeletal woodland in the distance.

Jonathan took the train home that evening. He sat in an empty carriage rocking back and forth slightly, occasionally murmuring to himself. The sky was dim and swollen.

He was back in his flat, in his kitchen, staring at a glass of red wine. His girlfriend stood behind him, lightly pinching various parts of his body; his neck, his shoulder, his hip, his scrotum.
He had a new printout. It was in the living room, behind the clock on the mantelpiece.
“You need to take the test,” he told her suddenly. Her hand ceased pinching him.

They drove to his brother’s on Saturday morning. The streets were still damp from dawn rainfall. They parked the car. A gaunt youth drifted past on a skateboard looking preoccupied and purposeful.
He rang his brother’s doorbell. Silence.
Where was his brother? Where was the dog?

“We need to find a computer,” he stated.
She averted her eyes. “I’m not sure if I want to take the test.”
He looked up at the sky and frowned.

They drove out to the beach. A few gulls drifted listlessly across the blank sky. Old couples ambled around in brightly coloured raincoats which rippled in the breeze. Dogs galloped across the wet sand, chasing Frisbees. The words Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy flashed across the sky in purple neon letters. Jonathan twitched and asked Indigo if she’d seen that.
“Seen what?”

They bought coffees from a fast food van and then walked out to the surf to stare at the meaningless horizon.

Whilst walking back Jonathan stopped suddenly. He discarded his coffee cup, unbuckled his belt, and yanked his trousers and briefs to his ankles. He then squatted over the sand and strained to expel a thick turd. Indigo watched, stunned into mute horror. After he finished, she said
“What the fuck, Jonathan?”
Jonathan seemed very flustered. “Sorry…I…I got…I’m sorry, I was confused…”
Indigo began to sob quietly.

When they got back to the flat a familiar looking black Labrador was pacing around outside. They got closer and realized it was his brother’s dog. It looked at them, seemingly puzzled. They took him inside, filled a bowl with water for him and then fed him some biscuits. He swished his tail and then plodded around the flat, his feet clicking on the laminated floor.

Jonathan led Indigo into the bedroom and fucked her forcefully. He grunted as he ejaculated on her buttock. They then lay side by side as afternoon began to dim.

Later that evening Jonathan received a phone call from an old friend who seemed exceptionally depressed. Jonathan wasn’t sure what to say to him and hung up suddenly in mid-conversation. He pondered for a moment and then disconnected the phone. He placed the phone in a cupboard and then closed the door.
He went to check what the dog was doing. The dog was asleep on the couch. He went to check what Indigo was doing. Indigo was asleep on the bed. He lay beside her. He began to feel restless. He got up and went through to the couch. He lay down beside the dog. The dog groaned and shifted slightly to accommodate him. He put his arm around the dog and nuzzled his head against the dog's ribs. Then his cock got stiff. The dog must have sensed something awry for it lifted itself up and jumped over Jonathan and plodded away into another room. Jonathan fell asleep.

He awoke at dawn with a severe headache. He lay massaging his temple for a while. Then he got up and found some aspirin and took four. He went through to the bedroom and dozed for a while beside Indigo.

When they awoke his head was fine and he felt refreshed. He cooked scrambled eggs and made coffee. Indigo played with the dog and fussed over him.
"We still need to find a computer terminal," he reminded her. She said nothing. "So you can take the test." She said nothing.

Attempts to locate his brother proved fruitless.
Attempts to find a computer proved fruitless. Indigo remained untested for potential mental disturbances. They cared for the dog and treated it well. Took it for walks along the beach. Bought it food.
On Monday afternoon, Jonathan's boss phoned to check how he was doing.
"I'm still fucking sick!" Jonathan screamed and walloped the receiver against the wall. He then petted the dog who seemed perturbed by his behaviour. He petted the dog and made reassuring noises, noises that could have been construed as senile gibbering.

Another place they liked to go walking was a nearby hill by some derelict factories. The hill afforded them a good view of the distant city, a decrepit cement dream by day, a sinister gleaming by night. One evening they encountered Jonathan's brother on the hill. He wore a bright green raincoat and his eyes were grey, impossibly distant.
"We've been looking for you," Jonathan explained. His brother muttered something unintelligible and sat down heavily on the damp grass.

The three of them, Indigo, Jonathan and his brother, plus the dog, all repaired to Jonathan's brother's house. Indigo had sexual intercourse first with Jonathan and then his brother. Then they turned out all the lights and huddled around the dim glow of the computer monitor. They logged onto the government website for the self-diagnosis of emotional and mental disturbances. They each took the test in turn and then mulled over their respective printouts.
Jonathan was slightly dismayed to discover that his results were completely different from last time.

The next morning they walked to the pharmacy with their printouts to collect their medication. All was going fine until Jonathan suddenly halted in the middle of a pedestrian crossing to drop his trousers and defecate. An obese woman walking past with an infant retched violently whilst the infant appeared severely haunted. Jonathan bared his teeth at them in a deranged grin and then licked his lips.

Jonathan and Indigo were staggering around the beach in the rain. Indigo clutched a plastic bag full of medicine. They had taken to sampling each others medications. Sometimes they ground up various pills and snorted the resultant powder.

Tuesday, 15 September 2009

Sprays of feedback like foamy surf corroding an irradiated beach.

A bird lands on a yellowed tree. The monochrome hues of autumn hang over everything. Treetops soaked in a pale, ancient light.

Erotic forays with beautiful girls often serve as forays into melancholy.

I will take my time and write about this. It is now December. I rarely leave the house. The cold prevents it.
Here is what happened: I was manically enthused when she agreed to meet up with me again.

I was striding up Lothian Road, listening to The Diamond Sea by Sonic Youth, feeling euphoric. I know what you’re thinking; what a loser, right? Well fuck you. You think you’re so cool, imaginary jaded and hostile reader. I bet you’ve had your fair share of instances of behaving like an enthused dork.

I took her back to my grandfathers. I didn’t have a key so we had to wake him up. He was somewhat bewildered to say the least. He’d also pissed his pajamas. Senile dementia will do that to ya. Unfortunately he insisted on coming upstairs with us to investigate what the sleeping arrangements were. We entered the spare bedroom and his first suggestion was that we separate the two single beds that were joined together. We watched as he feebly attempted to dislodge one of the beds. I reassured him I’d take care of it and urged him to return to his own bed downstairs. He wasn’t easily placated though.
In the throes of exasperation I convinced him that I would sleep on the couch downstairs. He kept hovering about, checking I was okay, if I needed anything.
“I’m fucking fine,” I assured him through gritted teeth. I didn’t really say fucking though. And I affected to conceal my intense exasperation. But the situation was becoming desperate.
Once he had finally retired, I told myself I should wait five minutes before sneaking upstairs. I was lucky if I lasted a minute. As I crept upstairs I could hear my grandpa calling me from his room. I ignored him and moved faster. I leapt into bed beside the partially clothed foreign girl.
Thrillingly, she had removed her underwear.
She was concerned though. She had also heard my grandpa calling and it now sounded like he was moving about downstairs. Which was all I fucking needed.
My grandpa was greatly discouraged from using the staircase. To this end, a child safety gate had been installed at the foot of the stairs. A laminated piece of paper was attached to the wall which stated:

Don’t try to go upstairs
We don’t want you to end up
back in hospital

I had suggested the smiley to my mother while she was composing the notice. To mu delight, she had taken heed of my ironic suggestion.
The girl had noticed the notice. And her English was sufficient that she understood words like hospital. Fucking typical.
The notice seemed to imply that he had been in hospital before as the result of a fall, which wasn’t the case. So it was an ambiguous notice. He had been in hospital due to other complaints. And he was unsteady on his feet. Hence the collusion of these two facts in the warning.
There had been a different sign before that. It had read something like DANGER! DON’T GO UPSTAIRS!!!
Naturally the brevity of the message along with the block capitals and multiple exclamation marks had merely served to pique his curiousity and he had endeavoured to scale over the safety gate and ascend the stairs.
I wasn’t in the mood to explain all this to the girl. So I merely hushed her and we waited until grandpa forgot that anyone else was even in the house and settled back into bed.
We settled in to our hard-won love nest. We got to talking about grandparents and then family and whatnot.
As a precursor to this incident, I was in the midst of the end of a fairly serious four year relationship. So I found myself in a volatile emotional state.
I’ve had quite a few one-night stands, gaining something of a reputation in this respect at one time in my younger years. But the truth is I’m always initially quite shy in these encounters. Also, in this instance, I still had some unresolved conflicting emotions regarding my ex.
So it was that we did not begin ravishing each other immediately. Instead we began confiding in each other. And I found myself hungry for that sort of stuff. Cuddling, intimacy, all that shit. I don’t know. Maybe I just had a case of what is termed as ‘fanny-fright’ round these parts and am now trying to excuse myself from it with all this pseudo-sensitive bullshit.
Maybe I’m gay or some shit. I’ve always felt slightly apart from my male peers. More interested in art and literature than competitive sport. More prone to quiet introspection and shyness. Then again, the idea of copulating with another man repulses me deeply, so I guess that rules out the gay shit.
Eventually we got round to some carnal frolics. I eagerly ate out her soaked pussy. For a long time. Reason being it had occurred to me I didn’t have any fucking condoms. I’d used one on Saturday and forgot to replenish my wallet as I am usually wont to do. Maybe it was some sort of accident on purpose.
“You don’t want to fuck me?” she queried after an excessive bout of pussy eating. I confessed my prophylactic predicament. I was apologetic, overly so.
The following morning was particularly harsh. I suggested to the lass that she sit with my grandfather whilst I prepared coffee. What the fuck was I trying to do, integrate her into the family? She was unwilling, eager to return to her friend.
The subsequent awkward bus journey into town was so depressing I can’t even bring myself to write about it. Except to say that the one redeeming factor was that the horrific sense of existential alienation and rejection I felt had a purity to it that was very definitive.
Anxiety had made me crave concrete destruction.
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