Vacation time again…

February 16, 2016

No more Blog entries for a few days, see!

No more Blog entries for a few days, see!

Yes, yes, it’s true boys and girls…I’m off to Barcelona for a few days – the Barri Gòtic, Sagrada Família, the Maritime Museum, the Picasso Museum, and not to forget Museu de l’Erotica where we witnessed a young woman handjobbing a portly German tourist in the darkened cinema section on our first ever visit!


Have no fear! I will return – after sampling plates of patatas bravas, churros and drinking a lake vino tinto, I’ll be back…heavier, no doubt, but greatly on form!

Look forward to seeing you all then…


One show not to miss…

February 16, 2016



February 16, 2016


I think the manuscript [“Murder at Full Moon”] enclosed in this package is self-explanatory. For some time now, I have been unhappy. The reason is that I have a debt and it is making me miserable.

It is quite obvious that people do not want to buy the things I have been writing. Therefore, to make the money I need, I must write the things they want to read. In other words, I must sacrifice artistic integrity for a little while to personal integrity. Remember this when this manuscript makes you sick. And remember that it makes me a great deal sicker than it does you.

Conrad said that only two things sold, the very best and the very worst. From my recent efforts, it has been borne to me that I am not capable of writing the very best yet. I have no doubt that I shall be able to in the future, but at present, I cannot. It remains to be seen whether I can write the very worst.

I will tell you a little bit about the enclosed MS. It was written complete in nine days. It is about sixty-two or -three thousand words long. It took two weeks to type. In it I have included all the cheap rackets I know of, and have tried to make it stand up by giving it a slightly burlesque tone. No one but my wife and my folks know that I have written it, and no one except you will know. I see no reason why a nom de plume should not be respected and maintained. The nom de plume I have chosen is Peter Pym.

The story holds water better than most, and I think it has a fairish amount of mystery. The burlesqued bits, which were put in mostly to keep my stomach from turning every time I sat down at the typewriter, may come out.

John Ernst Steinbeck
Steinbeck: A Life in Letters

Green Man

February 16, 2016

Green Man

Wood is the carver’s sustenance.

When he saws off his hunk of bread,
he hears the blade going through

a stray piece of timber,

and the air at his good woman’s hearth
is laden with scent of grain

that is green and growing together.

When he carves to commission,
it’s Lion-Rampant, Fleur-de-Lys and the uptight
faces of his most worshipful peers.

Whereas in his freehand carving,
doves tumble and fly, and his own head appears

wreathed in a dreaming crown of oak

while the passionate song of the wood
pours from his open mouth.

Susan Taylor

The Black Tree

February 16, 2016


At the end of my climb
I stumble on an amber pond,
all milky greens and gold.

The view beyond is washed in pale blue,
as if a child has toppled
his jar of water.

Suddenly something darker stirs,
just creasing the surface,
exciting the birds.

I sense some threat,
take in a knot of angry
black trees muttering.

And then I see a sad one,
standing alone,
all fingers and space.

It’s holding its frozen pose,
facing one way,
the way the wind has made it.

And I see me: bleak, brittle,
almost ridiculous,
and mauve with loneliness.

Charlotte Gann

(Charlotte Gann has had poems in The South magazine, First Time, Poetry Monthly and iddie. She won a competition run by The South for a draft collection, and second prize in the 2008 Writers Bureau competition).

How He Loved Them

February 16, 2016


How much the colonel loved his granddaughters
you will never know.
Their laughter filled his black Mercedes
the way a flock of starlings might fill a single tree
with song.
What he’d had to do that day, he’d done
with a troubled heart,
but now their laughter overwhelmed him
with such unarticulable love
he could hardly
contain it
and neither could the empathetic little bomb
in the engine,
which chose that moment
to burst through the hood with self-obliterating joy.

And the Mercedes burned in front of the courthouse.
And the black smoke billowed and rose like a heart full of love.
And the colonel rose, too,
like burning newspaper
caught in the wind,
a scrap of soot, then nothing, then unknowable –

You will never know
what dying is like.
The colonel’s granddaughters are still laughing in the backseat,
or they are uncomfortable in the new bodies
the bomb made for them.
Oh, darling, darling, one of them recalled,
you are burning up
with fever
– her mother’s cool hand on her forehead,
then the sense of slipping under,
into black sleep. She’s asleep now,the voice said, turning out the light,
closing the door.

And in every hand, smartphones made footage
of their bodies,
the heaps and twists of metal.
The smoke uploaded the wreckage
to the screenlike sky
where it goes on burning forever –
you will never know if dying is like that,
the same scenes repeated across a larger mind
than yours –

Is it like a small girl with a high fever asleep in a dark room
recollected for a moment
as the brain closes down?
She’s asleep, the voices say, she is resting.
(My fleeting one, my obliterated device, my bit of pixilated
soot.) Hit PAUSE
and the smoke stops: a black pillar
that weighs the wreckage down.
Then PLAY –
how much he loved them,
unknowable –

What the colonel had done that day
had troubled his heart,
but the sound of his granddaughters’ laughter
lifted him high into the air
like a scrap of burning paper
blown from the street into the trees.

Kevin Prufer

burn with excitement…

February 16, 2016


I want to burn with excitement or anger and bleed, bleed out my words. I want to get all fucked up and write raw and ugly about all these things I see and am and could be.

Charlotte Eriksson
Empty Roads & Broken Bottles; in search for The Great Perhaps

More Sexploitation…

February 16, 2016

BareBhind Bars

Bare Behing Bars those gloves are a worry...

Bare Behing Bars
those gloves are a worry…

Bare Behind Bars Hold her down...

Bare Behind Bars
Hold her down…

Bare Behind Bars the girls soaping up

Bare Behind Bars
the girls soaping up


As a younger man George Chambers had been possessed of a full head of hair. Now, however, almost tripping into middle-age, the baldpatch on his head brought to mind the tonsure of a medieval friar: a whippet-thin one, with high cheekbones and sensuous mouth. Easy, indeed, to imagine him sneaking into the local convent, his head full of inappropriate ideas.

Gabriella suggested he looked a little “seedy”. ‘Time has been unkind to him,’ she said. ‘But she, on the other hand, like a fine wine, has improved with age…!’

“She” was Mattie Chambers, George’s curvatious wife. And she craved an “adventure”, or so George claimed.

Mattie had always been curious about love…physical love…between two women. As a young girl at school she had formed a romantic attachment to Mrs Wood, her English teacher. This crush had been unreciprocated, of course, but on occasion, at night alone in her bedroom, Mattie had fantasized a flaring of interest in the older woman’s eyes. An exchange of lingering kisses.

Reality, however, always returned to impinged on her dreams of love “realised” with Mrs W. And Mattie came to understand, consequently, that love wasn’t an equally balanced equation. That you could love another with great passion, but that that other might, unfortunately, remain totally oblivious to your feelings.

During her late teens, Mattie dated various boys. She was, she said, a “late developer”, surrendering her virginity, for what that was worth, to a young man named Bill Sutton, shortly after her nineteenth birthday. Bill wasn’t a very good lover; although friends said he was “good with cars”, a “much sort after” mechanic, apparently.

George Chambers, on the other hand, had a certain “bonnes allures”, and bearing in mind the physical restrictions of space, they made love on the backseat of his Ford with a certain lack of inhibition. The “mystères de l’amour” were mysteries no longer to Mattie. While raising her bum to ease down her pants, she realised she’d probably found her “Mr Right” – two months later, amazingly, they were man and wife.

Time passed. Familiarity, they say, breeds contempt. Whatever the truth of that, it certainly breeds boredom. Sexual boredom for George. He craved fresh flesh. While remaining a respectable pillar of the community, he took to secretly visiting prostitutes. Each time this happened, he’d tell himself: ‘Never again’…but the need would return, stronger than ever – that overarching need of cold, unloving, rubber insulated sex with a stranger.

His dad had been a butcher with a largish shop in East Harrow. The young Chambers delivered customer orders on a black, sign-written push-bike. His first sexual experience had been with one of those customer’s, a Mrs Dooley, who had taken in her package of chops, beef mince and sausages, suggesting the boy ‘Come in for a mo, while I get your tip…’

Mrs D, forty-something, a widow, took the boy to her bedroom, undressed him, caressed him, and fucked him five times. With or without an order, young George returned weekly to the widow’s soft embraces. He became, in time, sexually prolific.

As Mattie’s husband, George increasingly adopted the persona of confident poshness. He joined various societies, a film club, became involved in armature dramatics. And all the while his head was filled with images of explicit and kinky sex. He wanted to see his wife used by another man, while he in turn used that man’s wife. These daydreams recurred with frightening regularity, until George decided to “take the bull by the horns” and approach Mattie with a tentative suggestion of “Wife swapping” to “spice-up” their lovelife…

Having awkwardly broached the subject in the living room of their home, George waited for some sign of reciprocation from his silent and stony-faced wife.

‘Who, exactly, would we do this with?’

‘Well, I thought about, perhaps, touching on the subject with Julian Jackson and his wife…’

‘Pam Jackson?’

‘There’s rumours they “swing”. Swap partners…?’

‘My God, no, not her. The only thing she’s ever swapped with is a pair of sabre-tooth pensioners, and that terrible man from the post office and his wife – the one who looks as if she’s just escaped from the “House on Pooh Corner.’

‘What do you suggest, then? EBay?’

‘Well, first off, if this is to happen, I want to get something out of it myself. I don’t want some lust-filled brainless knob pumping away at me. Understand? I want to be with a woman…perhaps two women? Who I could then watch together? The rigors of Sapphic sex are a mystery to me. As an experience, it could prove very educational…’

‘I could watch, too, I s’pose?’

‘Probably so, yes.’

‘Do we know of two women like that?’ He sounded sceptical. Her promiscuous deployment in a Sapphic scenario, while fine for the voyeur within him, suggested little in the way of rumpy-pumpy for himself: lesbians weren’t known for welcoming the tumescent phallus of a randy male into their bodily orifices. He sagged. This would come to nothing…

‘I think I just might,’ she said. ‘And in the right circumstances, they’d probably see to your needs also…’

George gave a small whoop. ‘Really?’

‘Yes, really.’


So George stood in our kitchen, all cheeky-chappie charm, with a slight undercurrent of nervousness. He wore a red and white stripe shirt beneath a navy-blue V-necked sweater from Marks & Sparks. Dee and Gabriella took Mattie in hand, leading her upstairs to Sapphic heaven – found today (hopefully) between the clean sheets of Gabby’s double bed.

George had earlier gone to great pains to explain to me he was “a woman’s man”…perhaps, fearing the engorged member of Peedeel lancing his nether regions like a piston when he least expected it? Yes, while thrusting into the delectable Dee, most likely, bare-arsed, vulnerable. Ruthlessly Rogered while Rogering…A most unedifying thought, even for me…but wait, perhaps there’s some hope left in the bottom of Pandora’s box?

George asked: ‘What’s the procedure now? When do we join the ladies?’

‘We wait until invited,’ I replied, feeling just a little like Jiminy Cricket with Pinocchio. ‘Fancy a gin and tonic for now? They might be awhile.’

George, looking like man whose unobtainable sexual fantasy is about to be realised, sipped his gin impatiently. Lust tends to occupy time and thought on such occasions. It made George fidgety. ‘Are they usually this long?’ he asked.

‘Frequently,’ my reply. ‘Love making is an art, and art is oblivious to time’s passing.’

The doorbell went about three o’clock. Outside it was warm and windless, a fine drizzle falling. A parcel for Dee which I signed for. From the hallway I could hear soft grunts and groans. The sound caused me a sudden hard-on.

Upstairs, of course, there was a tangle of limbs. Dee and Gabby had kicked-off the performance for Mattie’s education and entertainment. She sat on Gabby’s stool beside the bed, watching. Inevitably the collision of a long held fantasy with this stark uncompromising reality had an effect on her; she began to feel slightly breathless, intensely hot, and uncomfortably wet in her new lace panties. Almost without thinking about it, Mattie reached out to stroke Gabby’s plump rump.

‘Join us,’ Dee said. ‘There’s plenty of room for three.’

Earlier Gabriella had asked Mattie: ‘D’you want to watch us with your clothes on or off?’

‘Oh, on, I think. Keep them on’d be best.’

Now she wished she’d stripped like them. Because she had to stand and undress with the pair watching her. She felt self-conscious and shy and a little embarrassed about how thick she was becoming around the waist. The damp patch on her knickers. A dead giveaway, that. Like a bitch on heat…

She felt so excited and yet close to tears. One part of her wanted to stop this now: turn her back on the women in the bed, and depart for good. Unfastening her brassiere she experienced a momentary swimmy-headedness. She would do this, or she’d regret it for the rest of her days. She slipped her panties down her legs, turning them inside out as she did so.

Finally naked the pair reached out to Mattie, taking hold of her hands. Together they pulled her to the bed.

‘It might feel a bit of a rocky ride at first. But you’ll soon get the ropes,’ Dee said to reassure. Then kissed her full on the mouth.


We were dully summoned to Gabriella’s boudoir, which was a little stuffy, heavy with the intermingled scent of the three women; they sank back on the bed in reciprocal quiescence, smiling at us, newcomers to their “petite fête”.

George ripped his clothes off, a veritable maelstrom of sexual energy. In contrast the movements of the women seemed weary and slow, almost slumberous…Dee spread her legs, exposed her small wet sex, and said, ‘This is just for you…’

George did not require a second invitation. As Gabriella and Mattie climbed from the bed, he mounted Dee. Oblivious to all else, he thrust into her with an almost primordial force. Seconds later, he moaned loudly. Nirvana quickly, unexpectedly , finally achieved.

I helped Mattie gather up her clothes and escorted her to the bathroom across the landing. ‘I’ve put out fresh towels for you,’ I said, gesturing vaguely at the rail. ‘Did you enjoy yourself?’

Blushing slightly, she nodded. ‘Yes, very much so.’

‘I’ll leave you to shower. We’re downstairs when you’re finished. I’ll sling some food together, you’re probably hungry. And if you’re not, I know Gabby is…’

George, disappointed by his sudden climax, the culmination of two hours waiting with a painful hard-on in anticipation of the fleshy treats in store upstairs, rolled onto his back. Dee kneeled astride him. ‘You don’t get off that easily,’ she said gently. ‘Oh, no. You’ve got a job to do, mister, and I’ll see you do it, come what may…’

‘A job?’

‘You’re going to make me cum six times before you get to leave this room. That’s how many times Mattie came for us. You’re going to match it…’

Downstairs in the breakfast room Gabriella sat at table in a white robe with a towel wrapped round her hair, which was still wet from the shower. Opposite her, Mattie, now fully dressed, fresh makeup applied, forked small chucks of roasted aubergine and red pepper into her mouth.

‘George is still with Dee?’ she asked.

‘He will be for awhile,’ Gabby said. ‘Dee puts her heart and soul into these things. It’s what I most love about her.’

I smiled. Poor George. Dee would use him as her living sex toy. She had let him shoot his first load, certainly, but now he’d be closely controlled. She would keep “edging” him, taking him as close to climax as possible, then stopping all movement. “Restricting” him, until he “relaxed”, then her “demands” on his aching cock would be renewed with fresh vigour.

‘You can go up and watch, if you want?’ Gabby said. ‘Dee won’t care.’

‘No, I’m alright, thank you…’

Dee had an unending repertoire of sexual tricks. She might, for example, allow George to just touch the finish line…but then brutally ruin his orgasm. A milky dribble without pleasure. And Dee, smiling, would say: ‘Whoops. Don’t worry. Just a hiccup. Look. It’s still stiff and wonderfully usable.’ He wouldn’t be allowed a break, of course, not even to go for a pee. Poor George.

‘Dee is good with electrics,’ Gabriella said. We were now in the sitting room with a bottle of wine between us. ‘She’s got this wonderful ability when it comes to diagnosing faulty electrical appliances. Hasn’t she, Peedeel?’

‘Indeed she has.’ Almost equaling her ability to torment (probably) a now red-raw cock. I glanced at my wristwatch: quarter past seven. George had been “at it” for two-an-a-half hours with voracious Dee. Probably feeling quite exhausted by now, no doubt. And experiencing a desperate need to pee…

‘More wine?’ Gabby asked.

Finally, a little after eight o’clock, George, fresh from the shower, edged his way carefully down the stairs. He moved like a man who has suffered a serious blow to the balls. His face was peculiarly lacking in colour, sallow, but dark beneath the eyes which now appeared rather bulbous to me. A haunted face, I thought.

He had a neat “stiff gin” but nothing to eat, wasn’t hungry. He nodded to his wife and to Gabby, gulped at his gin.

‘You were a long time,’ Mattie said. ‘Piggy at the trough, eh?’

Dee made her appearance in a flowing flowery kaftan of black silk, her damp hair piled high, looking gorgeous and certainly good enough to eat…George had probably experienced Dee’s “culinary delights” to ample sufficiency by the strained look on his face.

‘Have you paid the electric bill yet?’ she said to me.

‘Taken care of.’

‘We must do this again Mattie.’ She sat on the arm of Mattie’s armchair, kissed her chastely on the cheek. ‘It was an eye-opener for me.’ Her smile was more a grin, like the Cheshire cat from Alice. ‘A real blast…’

‘Oh, yes, we must…’

George’s face dropped. It was as if he’d received an unexpected slap to the face. Or another roughish blow to already swollen testicles.

And for no discernible reason I thought of the Chambers’ house in the next village, a modern, stone-built affair that had originally belonged to a German woman who raised parrots. When they first moved in, apparently, there’d been perches everywhere in the downstairs rooms. George had ripped them out along with most of the guts of the house to create a whitewashed minimalist’s dream. That was George, really: Minimalist Extraordinaire!

‘I think we’d better get going,’ George said. ‘Leave you good people in peace.’

‘It’d be really nice to have you again,’ Gabriella said, rising from her seat.

‘Yes,’ agreed Dee.

Gabby kissed Mattie on the lips then smiled at George. ‘See you soon,’ she said.

I shook George by the hand.

‘Nirvana,’ I said quietly. ‘Is never achieved without cost…’

I watched as he hurried towards his car. Mattie, walking slowly behind him and occasionally turning to wave at us on the porch, called out: ‘I’ll phone you tomorrow.’

‘Oh, yes, please do…’