her: reading something earnestly to him from her phone
him: not really listening – “What? Street kids? They don’t care.”
i can’t see her face, but i can feel her horrified stare
him: “Sorry. I didn’t mean that. Of course they care.”
he goes back to his phone – she carries on glaring for a bit and then returns to her’s
a few seconds go by
him: “What I meant to say was, they don’t matter.”
I discovered something really creepy about myself today, something that really freaked me out. I can talk to the dead. I’ve probably always been able to do it, it’s just I’ve never tried before. It’s not just a select few I can talk to either, I can talk to anyone I want, anyone who’s ever lived. I talked to Einstein earlier, and Jimi Hendrix, and Karl Marx. I even jerked off, talking to Princess Diana and Charlotte Bronte at the same time. It’s an incredible ability, being able to talk to the dead, truly amazing. I just wish they would talk back.
As I get older, I find that I can’t do a lot of the things I used to do. I used to be able to bend an iron bar over my erect phallus. It was a great party trick. I can’t do it any more though, my wrists are shot to fuck.
we meet in secret, in a hotel room – you give me a peck on the cheek and tell me that as long as i do everything you say, we can meet again. if i hesitate, or fail in the slightest and you will leave and i will never see you again.
you have me undress and lay on the bed, already erect, as your eyes take in my cock, bouncing eagerly on my belly with anticipation – you step forward and blindfold me – i hear you moving and the sound of your clothes falling to the floor. i ask if you’re naked, and you tell me not to speak.
i feel you climbing onto the bed, and you tell me that i am not to touch you, that i am not to touch myself. i am not even allowed to move unless told to – you kneel over me, your legs straddling mine, looking down at me trembling with excitement, my member fit to burst.
you stroke my chest softly, with the tips of you fingers, feel my heart pounding rapidly, the way a wild beast might pound its cage in an effort to be free. you sweep your fingers down over my belly, stopping just short of my twitching shaft. you run both your hands down my sides and up over me, stopping even closer this time. you do this, again and again, getting nearer and nearer, until the lightest touch would have me overflow.
i can tell, by the way you are breathing more heavily and the light trembling of the bed, what you are doing to yourself. you remind me again, with the hint of a gasp in your voice, not to touch you and not to touch myself, knowing just how much i long to – through the mattress i feel your hips start to rock back and forth and hear your light, open-mouthed gasps reflect off the ceiling and know you have your head tilted back in ecstasy.
you lean forward, supporting yourself with your other hand on the headboard and plant the tiniest of kisses on my quivering lips. i can feel your hair brush against my skin and your breath, like sweet steam, on my cheek – your mouth hovers over mine as your orgasm erupts through you, spreading like molten, bubbling lava, to the very tips of your fingers and toes – your orgasmic moans are soft, breathy and almost whisper-like, but there is no mistaking the pleasure they portray, as you pant and pulsate over me, your body on fire with delight.
before you climb off me, you sweep a glistening fingertip over my lips, barely touching them but giving me a tantalising taste of heaven, as i lay there gasping with a mixture of unbearable frustration and momentous delight. you dress silently, still shaking with excitement, and exit the room without a sound, leaving me in the dark, glued to the spot with fear of losing you, my erection still raging like a hungry wolf.
it is only hours later when i hear an awkward cough that is not yours, that i dare take off the blindfold. only to see the ugly old, toothless maid, who has come to clean the room, standing at the end of the bed, mouth gaping and eyes bulging at the sight of my still stiff, still trembling body.
She is like a starving lioness, craving the kill, desperate for the taste of blood, the sensation of tearing flesh and the sweet stench of terror from her prey. She needs to feed. She longs to devour and feast. She needs to eat. Her hunger so strong that it hurts, consuming her every waking moment and drenching her dreams. It’s the only thing she can think about. She simply has to feel her teeth sinking into soft, terrified flesh. It’s in her very nature, to choke and kill and devour. She has no choice in the matter. It is who she is and it is what makes her so beautiful.
The best thing about her is that she’s coming round later tonight for what she describes as a barbecue. I’m just a little puzzled, as I don’t have a yard, but I’m sure she knows what she’s talking about, and I can’t wait to find out.
so, the party is in full swing. everyone is having a good time. the music is rocking, the booze flowing and the smoke billowing. i’m playing a game of acid chess with a hot italian chic. it involves no pieces and no board and i think i’m winning. everyone is having a great time, that is until he shows up.
“oh fuck!” i hear someone mutter and i look up and there he is, surveying the revelry. you can feel the atmosphere drain from the room. most of us try to pretend we haven’t seen him, but it does no good.
“quiet everyone!” he shouts, “there’s something i need to say.” as the sound dies down, a few eyes roll as we reluctantly look his way. “i just want you all to know that i love you. all of you.” there is a general murmur and a few ‘thanks mate’ and ‘that’s nice’. hoping that’s it, everyone tries to get back to the fun, but i’ve been here before and i know there’s no chance of that, not now. “excuse me!” he barks, drawing all our attentions back to him,” but didn’t i just say something?” you can almost taste the collective sigh.
“we love to too man.” someone says and the rest of us nod and utter in agreement.
“well then,” he demands, “don’t you think it would be a nice idea if you all starting singing some songs about me, about how cool it is that i love you all so much?” everyone realises that this cunt is way too boorish to be ignored and somebody starts humming.
the italian chic and i sneak out the back, unseen, with a couple of others, and as we’re waiting for a bus she asks me “who was that asshole?”
“oh him,” i say, “that’s god.”
You won’t believe what happened to me on the way to work
I bent down to tie my laces, and a crazy woman attacks me!
Yeah! She starts slapping my ass, and when i turn to confront her, she pushes me onto my knees and shoves my face between her legs! Then, when I turn to pick up my case, she tries to bum me!
Oh my god! What did you do?
I had a hard-on for the rest of the day.
they’re a bunch of fucking natives, and they spout all this hippie shit about self-discovery and journeys into my soul and what-not. i nod politely and agree, but just so as to be polite. i don’t want to offend them, but its all a load of crap as far as i’m concerned. i’m here for the trip of my life. i’ve heard about these mushrooms, ever since i started taking drugs. the most powerful hallucinogenic on the planet. the trip of a lifetime. they are legendary and until now, i wasn’t even sure they existed at all.
i look at the pile of goo the old woman spits onto the plate. i understand why she has to chew the mushrooms first. she has been doing this for years, and there are enzymes in her saliva that will break down the mushrooms and prevent me from vomiting too much. novices have died, choking on their own puke, from not understanding this. i have travelled thousands of miles for this trip. i have done acid and psilocybin and peyote until i could go to work tripping on all three. i need more. i need the ultimate trip and, if what i have heard is right, this is it.
i hold my disgust at bay and swallow the muck on the plate. the actual flavour revolts me, and its not her spit, its just the ‘shrooms, they taste like the bitter flavour of hell. they all smile and mutter some dumb native prayer. within minutes the nausea hits me like a tsunami hits a beach hut. they have to hold me up over a large bowl as what looks and feels like everything i ever ate explodes through my mouth and nose. my head erupts and my body shakes and i vomit with such force that i am barely able to hear their stupid prayers. suddenly it stops, as violently as it had started, and almost immediately the hallucinations begin. they are like acid hallucinations at first, shapes forming from random patterns. i see dragons and belly dancers form and disappear from the smoke bellowing from the old man’s pipe. i see a forests grow and die in the plaids of the old woman’s hair, and then the hallucinations take over my vision completely.
i am no longer in their disgusting mud hut but in a large ballroom in a great mansion. expensive and beautiful things glisten all around me. i can still hear the old man’s voice, and he is asking me, with some urgency where i am. i tell him i am in a house. “what kind of house?” he asks.
“a huge house.” i hear my disembodied voice tell him, “a fucking castle.”
“you are both lucky and unlucky.” he tells me, “this is your soul. some people’s souls are tiny little apartments and their subconscious, nothing more than a damp basement, but castles have dungeons, not cellars. you need to go down there.”
‘whatever.’ i think, i’m here to get off my tits, and across the room from me are ten of the sexiest women i have ever seen. they are barely dressed and are dancing and beckoning me to join them. my cock throbs with anticipation. i knew this was gonna be good and i hope that i don’t wake to find that i have wanked off in front of the silly old natives. fuck my subconscience!
“you won’t be able to hear me for much longer,” the old man’s fading voice rattles in my head, “you need to go downstairs. you need to enter the dungeon of your mind. you need to face your demons. you won’t get another chance.” there is something in the urgency of his voice that makes me hesitate.
‘maybe a quick peek’ i think. what harm can it do? these girls will still be here when i get back.
the door is locked with a large padlock. it crumbles at my touch and i imagine that i think i hear him say
“that is all i can do for you.” the door swings open and i am hit with the darkness and the stench. it smells of fear and hate and anger and ugliness. i step into the cold dark horror. almost immediately, terror grabs me by the throat and threatens to choke me. i turn back, but the door is no more. panic smacks me in the face like a cricket bat, and i realise that i have no choice but to descend.
the stairs are rickety and feel like they want to throw me into the unknown abyss below me. i find a candle and light it but its almost like the stink of fear prevents it illuminating anything other than the next few steps. its like fear itself has blinded me. as i descend and explore, doors creak and some slam, inexplicably behind me. i am too consumed with fear to even look back in case those doors too have disappeared. i curse the old man. i scream “you cunt!” at the top of my voice. the echoes ring in my ears for minutes, until I believe the words are for me, and far below me i hear the snarl of a hungry demon that i fear i have woken.
i work my way down the stairs, at times treading on and crushing things that feel horribly human. i dare not look down to see. then i tread on something that squeals in pain and i start. i fall backwards and plummet, god knows how far, and land with a soul-shaking thump on what feels like bones. the candle is gone. pitch blackness, and terror surrounds me and closes in on me like a gang of satan’s hungry children. the howls of desperate rage and pain from the demon become my only direction, and as i crawl away in an attempt to cower, i feel my knees cut open. there are shards of glass all over the floor. i pick a particularly long and sharp one and attempt to regain my courage.
i edge my way, blind, around the wall until i find its door. i piss myself literally as i swing it open.
it is huge and has its back to me but i can see it is horrific. it spins and snarls, and if there was anything left in my bladder it would have fled my body in an attempt to flee. i see the demon is chained but as it turns and faces me, the rage in its eyes has such fury that it breaks its bonds without a single thought.
it knows me, and i know it. trembling, i hold my pathetic shard of glass in my hand. knowing full well that i can never kill such a monster. our eyes meet and we see each other. tears stream from the demons eyes and its chest heaves with decades of non-stop sobbing. i see that despite how horrific this beast has become, that it is me. a forgotten me, a neglected me. an innocent, child me that has been hidden from even my view. giant, grotesque and locked away. growing more ugly by the day.
i drop the weapon, not from fear but from pity. this monster doesn’t need slaying, it needs to be hugged, and nurtured and freed from his prison of lies and hurt.
i wake to find myself still in the hut. the wise old folk absorbed by breaking bad. they hear my sobbing, and without turning, they smile.
i’ve got this pedometer app on my phone. its really cool and tells me how far i’ve walked. i guess it works by measuring the up/down motion of each step, i’ve never really given it much thought. until today.
as i was about to go out for a jog, i checked that the app was on. it drains the battery, so i often switch it off if i know i’m settled for the evening. it was on, and in fact it said that i’d walked 3,247 paces already today. now, this was impossible. i’d only been out of bed for 20 minutes and had walked no further than the loo and the kitchen. 3,247 paces is almost two miles.
i checked the times of this supposed jaunt, only to discover that it had happened before i’d even got out of bed. then, it hit me. when i’d woken up, after listening to the news, i’d checked my phone and read my mail. a sweet and sexy friend of mine had sent me some pictures of herself, and i had spent some considerable time ‘enjoying’ them. it would seem that my trusted app is not so accurate when it comes to measuring up/down motions as i thought it was.
now i’m left wondering how many 20 minute wanks have been logged as two-mile jogs. maybe that explains why i’m putting on weight.