December 3, 2016


You walked in front of me,
pulling me back out
to the green light that had once
grown fangs and killed me.
I was obedient, but
numb, like an arm
gone to sleep; the return
to time was not my choice.
By then I was used to silence.
Though something stretched between us
like a whisper, like a rope:
my former name,
drawn tight.
You had your old leash
with you, love you might call it,
and your flesh voice.
Before your eyes you held steady
the image of what you wanted
me to become: living again.
It was this hope of yours that kept me following.
I was your hallucination, listening
and floral, and you were singing me:
already new skin was forming on me
within the luminous misty shroud
of my other body; already
there was dirt on my hands and I was thirsty.
I could see only the outline
of your head and shoulders,
black against the cave mouth,
and so could not see your face
at all, when you turned
and called to me because you had
already lost me. The last
I saw of you was a dark oval.
Though I knew how this failure
would hurt you, I had to
fold like a gray moth and let go.
You could not believe I was more than your echo.

Margaret Atwood


Have you ever lost yourself in a kiss? I mean pure psychedelic inebriation. Not just lustful petting but transcendental metamorphosis when you became aware that the greatness of this being was breathing into you. Licking the sides and corners of your mouth, like sealing a thousand fleshy envelopes filled with the essence of your passionate being and then opened by the same mouth and delivered back to you, over and over again – the first kiss of the rest of your life. A kiss that confirms that the universe is aligned, that the world’s greatest resource is love, and maybe even that God is a woman. With or without a belief in God, all kisses are metaphors decipherable by allocations of time, circumstance, and understanding

Saul Williams
said the shotgun to the head.

Men need to cum

December 3, 2016


For most men, at the very least, sex is a daily deal. Men need to cum. If they aren’t doing it with you, then they’re doing it with themselves – or worse, with someone else.

Nikki Sex (Must be a pen name, surely?)



Diary 3rd December

fragments of a spent life –

December, of course, is her birth month. That ragged old woman who lives for extremities. Whose soul is filled with screaming scars, and whose eyes burn with such fierce intensity – with such illicit desires. Her sins light the darkness round her, beacon bright. She wears her insides outside. Each line on her face a tragic reminder of time passing, and over a thousand one-night-stands.

Final memory?

My stiff, aching sex in her mouth. Suck, suck, sucking mouth. Ready to cum, when the key slides into the front door lock.


Pulling away. Surprise on her face as she looks up. ‘Quickly,’ I say. ‘Your daughter’s come home early…’

Fragments of her history told to me on earlier occasions: enduring the sexual abuse of a drunken stepfather at age eleven; then, shortly after her twelfth birthday, being photographed nude by an elderly neighbour. She enjoyed his attentions, or so she claimed, and asked him if he’d like to ‘do things’ with her? He gave her five pounds that first time.

It became a regular thing, his ‘doing things’ with her. He’d always give her a gift afterwards. She never had to ask.

Two younger brothers living with her at home. She got up to sexual shenanigans with them, too, during the school holidays while their mum was out. She saw nothing wrong in it.

She also masturbated local boys in the cinema for cigarettes and ice creams. She masturbated some of her brothers school friends behind the stadium in the recreation ground for small change.

Her terrible, abusive tales touched me deeply. But, were they true? I had already caught her out, once before, telling a huge whopper about a mutual acquaintance. I never challenged her on it – never challenged any of her stories or their many contradictions. She wore lies, I gradually realised, like a second skin. Reality, her reality, was a construct. Reinvented at will. Her lies served as a life jacket, keeping her afloat in the mundane, everyday world.

We coupled the first time in her car. That was in the countryside at night. It wasn’t very comfortable, but I mounted her and thrust inside her for almost thirty minutes. She told me to cum, if I wanted. So I did. She didn’t. I finished her finally by hand, and she came inhaling and exhaling very loudly, with her hands twitching in the air like a pair of nervous sparrows.

Today, I accept that rummaging in her soul isn’t a good idea; you’re liable to dig up something that should have been left to rest in peace. Her lies and half-truths have to stand as reality. But back then…?

She told me she married the first time (age 16) to get away from her stepfather. His deprivations were become more irregular. She married a builder of thirty-three, a dull, moonfaced individual, with ‘all the conversational ability of a plank’. One man, however, wasn’t enough for her. Never would be.

The builder took her to live in his three-bedroom semi. She spent her days seducing the coalman, milkman, postman, her husband’s brother – one time she even attempted fellatio on her father-in-law, but the old boy couldn’t keep it up. Or so she alleged.

She was, by her own admission, sexually insatiable. And well out of control…

Divorce was inevitable. There were limits to what her builder would put up with. He kicked her out after finding her in bed with a double-glazing salesman one wintery afternoon. Less than six months later she experienced a ‘nervous breakdown’; this coming close on the heels of her being discovered flagrante delicto with a close friend’s young son who she was supposed to be minding.

She was taken into hospital (a friend of hers confided to me, that she’d in fact been sectioned under the mental health act?) for an indeterminate length of time. She called the place the ‘Boobie Hatch’.

She related a number of stories about this time: she had carnal knowledge of her psychiatrist, and at least three of the patients on a semi-regular basis. She also masturbated up to ten times daily.

But then, depending on which version of the story she told, she was also a model patient – or a nightmare. Take your pick. The psychiatrist gave her an STD and she couldn’t have sex for months. Or the male nursing officer had her over his office desk every Friday afternoon, without fail, before teatime.

It just goes on and on. Even her shadow has a shadow…

‘They released me as cured,’ she said. ‘But they didn’t realise the truth. I was worse than ever…’

Her head brim-full of sadomasochistic fantasy, she took up residence in a small flat where she lived like a gypsy, a traveler, with no money. Candles on saucers after the electricity was cut-off. Lived on bread and tea made on a small gas camping stove in the sitting room. Began to work as a prostitute.

One time when her daughter was on holiday in Brixham she had me over to spend the night at her house on the common. I got no sleep that night. She kept the bedroom lights on, and positioned a full-length mirror beside the bed – so she could watch me ‘in action’!

‘Nice bum movement,’ she said.

A certain, not unhumorous, pageant of small talk followed each of our orgasms. She wore lots of make-up and glittery lingerie, looked like something out of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars. She began pleasing herself, bearing down on my face at one point, griping my hard-on, twisting…

She frequently got up to go and make tea. Tea with shortbread biscuits.

She married again, to one of her punters this time, a sixty-two year old garage owner. He it was supplied the house on the common. He also, allegedly, fathered her first child. A beautiful baby girl.

They were together four years when a stroke took him from her life. Shortly after the funeral, she found herself pregnant for a second time and in due course produced another baby girl. She was a brilliant mother, spoiled them both rotten.

Our last evening together, before her daughter came home and ruined that living room blowjob, she told me, ‘I’m really going to spoil you this Christmas. I’ll make it the best Christmas ever…’

But it was another fantasy. Another lie. Unknown to me at the time, she’d already accepted the marriage proposal of a local man, owner of a garden centre and a Porsche turbo. A winning combination in her eyes, obviously. They’d been seeing each other for a few weeks, apparently. The proposal came out of the blue, and she said ‘Yes’ without really thinking about it. Or so she told friends.

So, in my blissfully ignorant state, she showed me out: kissed me a passionate goodbye on the front doorstep and told me she’d telephone tomorrow. ‘I’ll finish you off, then,’ she said.

But, of course, she never did.

Happy Birthday to you, anyway, Snaky. Where ever you might be.