Bondage blues….

February 6, 2015


So the woman has a beautiful voice. She utters these ruthless atrocities that arouse me – yeah, I’m turned-on by it, despite her borderline personality disorder. She uses only her middle name – except, I guess, when dealing with Inland Revenue, Doctors, Courts and DSS. I love her button nose, her dark, bitter chocolate eyes, and her ‘fuck the lot of you’ chin, its aggressive tilt as she drips burning candle wax on my cock.

The pain makes me momentarily insane. Fists involuntarily clench on air. One time, I know, after leaving school at sixteen, she worked down the chippy. Cremating fish in the deep fat fryer. Now battering my cock expertly in hot white wax. See the glow in her eyes, which makes her look wild, but is only reflected candle light.

She tips the candle once more, in painful slow motion. I feel I might well shatter like a glass concussed by a high, shrill note…

‘Don’t worry if you scream,’ she says. ‘There’s no one to hear. Only me. And I find men are wimps, generally speaking.’

And lying there, my head stuffed with fiery pain which I try to combat with questions like, What makes the wind move? A ticking clock on the bedside dresser provides a momentary distraction. I hover between annihilation and a limitless horizon the colour of melted wax.

Finally she puts aside the candle and picks up the riding crop.

‘You’re just going to love this,’ she says. ‘NOT!’ and giggles like a mischievous child.

In her kitchen she has pink geraniums on the windowsill. The kitchen smells faintly of Pine disinfectant and incense. Before she uses the crop, I squeeze my eyes tight. I feel the swish of it through the air, then the terrible pain of impact…

‘I’ll give you five of those, I think,’ she says.

I can’t reply, can’t get enough air into my lungs. Did she say Five? FIVE?

Smiling at me, serial-killer smile plastered to her face. ‘I’m a bit of a bastard, ain’t I?’ She gently strokes my cock. ‘Got to keep your end up,’ she says.

I sense myself stiffening despite the pain, and she steps back to take another swing with that vicious leather crop…

Later, she says, ‘The bruising ‘ll go after a week or so. It’ll hurt like hell for two or three days, though. Use some Xylocaine – you know it? – it’s an unaesthetic gel. Numbs you completely, it does.’

She gives me a smile, and an affectionate kiss on the cheek. Her high heels click, click on the parquet flooring in the hall. I admire the way those fishnet stockings cut into the softness of her thighs. She turns, opening the door, keeping the door between herself and the street.

‘I look forward to seeing you again,’ she says. ‘Next time I’ll really give you what for…’

I could only mumble, ‘Thank you,’ under my breath, and quickly scurry away.


At a quarter-past-nine
she’s flicking switches,
pinching the library from sleep,
warming it up like a cold hand.
Doesn’t wait for the globe lights to reach full beam,
for the computer to finish its ablutions,
ignores their soft protests
and heads for the backroom
where she boils the kettle for peppermint tea.
Leaves the bag in
submerged under a spoon like a catfish.

Ambles back to find the library serene
and ready to trade literature.
But what’s this?
A book lying belly down in one of the alcoves —
helpless as a woodlouse caught on its back,
the fifth this week.
With a sigh she detours and rescues it,
disregards the title
going straight for the Dewey number,
shelves it between
How to Love a Kick-boxer and
How to Love a Midwife.

Behind the counter,
she sets the stamp for three weeks today,
plants an apple beside a pot of pens,
hides a bag of bon-bons
in a drawer full of manila envelopes.
Perched on a stool, sipping tea
she imagines
swinging on a globe light,
the flex clamped firmly between her thighs,
one-hundred and forty watts warming her buttocks…
At ten o’clock she unlocks the door.

Gillian Carpenter


Women have always been healers. They were the unlicensed doctors and anatomists of Western history. They were abortionists, nurses, and counselors. They were pharmacists, cultivating healing herbs and exchanging secrets of their uses. They were midwives, travelling from home to home and village to village. For centuries women were doctors without degrees, barred from books and lectures, learning from each other, and passing on experience from neighbor to neighbor and mother to daughter. They were called “wise women” by the people, witches or charlatans by the authorities. Medicine is part of our heritage as women, our history, our birthright.

Barbara Ehrenreich and Deirdre English
Witches, Midwives, & Nurses

My story…

February 6, 2015


My story isn’t sweet and harmonious like invented stories. It tastes of folly and bewilderment, of madness and dream, like the life of all people who no longer want to lie to themselves.

Hermann Hesse

Tolkien’s lectures…

February 6, 2015


“I went to [Tolkien’s] public lectures. They were absolutely appalling. In those days a lecturer could be paid for his entire course even if he lost his audience, provided he turned up for the first lecture. I think that Tolkien made quite a cynical effort to get rid of us so he could go home and finish writing Lord of the Rings.

“He gave his lectures in a very, very small room and didn’t address us, his audience, at all. In fact he looked the other way, with his face almost squashed up against the blackboard. He spoke in a mutter. His mind was on finishing Lord of the Rings, and he was really musing to himself about the nature of narrative. But I found this so fascinating that I came back week after week, as did one other person. I’ve always wondered what became of him, because he was obviously equally fascinated. And because we stuck there, Tolkien couldn’t go away and write Lord of the Rings! He would say the most marvelous things about the way you take a very basic plot and twitch it here and twitch it there — and it becomes a completely different plot.”

Diana Wynne Jones


Loki’s Wife

February 6, 2015


I hold the bowl over my husband’s face
to catch the drip of venom, this drooling snake
they fixed up over him. A bitter waste
of man, my man, for a simple prank. I ache
for the god in him, tied down, immovable
as fate. For my husband’s sake I give up me,
for my husband’s sake I stay. My hands are full;
my devotion now his only sanity.

I hold the bowl until it brims, then run
outside and pour the acid through the dust.
As long as I’m gone, my husband screams and writhes,
the corrosion eating deep into face and eyes
I used to know. But we are both changed: by sound,
by sight, by the daily rhythms we know by rote.
I’m bound by duty, just as he is bound,
the cords not at my wrists, but in his throat.

I hold the bowl, empty the bowl. This chore
that brutalises, sanctifies. And the dish
between us shields me too, from glimpsing the raw
shells of his sockets, his sores, his ravaged flesh.
But I must face the snake, cold-blooded beast
that spells it out: we are all meat beneath.
What did I do? How did our lives entwine
that his eternal punishment is mine?

I hold the bowl. No one in their right mind
would do this forever, watching the thrust and twitch
of muscular flank and spine, one creature’s writhe
reflecting the other. Memories flake and itch:
my husband’s hands before they were bound, the slake
of his lips pre-blister, his shoulderblades, his sleaze.
All I have left is the soft shank of the snake,
tormenting me with possibilities.

I hold the bowl. Each time I go outside
it takes a little longer to empty. This
venom, its milky sweet-sourness. And the wide
mouth of the serpent dripping like a kiss.
But the venom, its acrid scent, remember me,
it says, remember nights mopping your thighs,
crying for more? The snake hangs patiently,
its mischievous eyes soldering on to mine.

I hold the bowl limp at my side and watch
its contents scorch into the earth. What for?
This is not the life I chose. I can’t ignore
the taste in my mouth, the absence in my crotch.
And suddenly, I’m miles away, my feet
bleeding with joy, my nostrils thick with musk.
The wind in my lungs croons to the fading beat
of his blindness calling, calling, through the dusk.

Ros Barber

His soul sat up…

February 6, 2015


His soul sat up. It met me. Those kinds of souls always do – the best ones. The ones who rise up and say “I know who you are and I am ready. Not that I want to go, of course, but I will come.” Those souls are always light because more of them have been put out. More of them have already found their way to other places.

Markus Zusak, The Book Thief

Burning book….

February 6, 2015


The content of this book is so hot it’ll spontaneously combust in your hands, and burn your mind….