Give an Old Cat a Tender Mouse
March 4, 2017
Diary 3rd – 4th March
The night turns itself inside out. Dreams come: bizarre, yes – but so vivid they seem more real than waking life. Dreams of photographs and ciphers, spies and bloody murder. And in amongst this chaotic mayhem, Madame Lamson!
See her standing tall in a black corset, tattoos twining up her left arm. No panties, just that thick bush of rusty-red curls. Another, smaller tattoo on her right side just above the groin: this a simple wreath of wild flowers. Black fishnet stockings on her legs, and a riding crop held lightly in both hands.
Sets such impossible tasks. Then punishes failure without a hint of compassion in her hard green eyes. She is the original switch bitch!
Long, lacquered red nails. And that smile on her face, the one that follows you everywhere; metamorphosing, ultimately, into an aristocratic smirk for the men and women groveling round her spiky high heels.
Madame Lamson holds the keys to the gates of hell. Her crop on your flesh leaves red patterns of pain, and eventually you grow drunk on this pain, which is like the sun coming out and making you dizzy, so that you feel your head will just float away to another, rarer place.
Her mouth is all curves and ripeness – like her body. Faint dusting of freckles on her cheeks, and her hair when the sunlight catches it from the window glows red. She is unforgiving and relentless. And her victims feel themselves sliding into a slow-motion loss of control – unable to apply the brakes.
She told you once that she loved candyfloss and carousels. Remember that? Her favorite film was ‘Four Weddings and a Funeral’! Your head tried to followed the trail of her words, remember? She spoke so softly, so sweetly, while mercilessly inserting a thumb nail into your urethra.
You almost cried out your safeword when she did that, didn’t you? It was almost too much. Her likes, you thought, were in-feckin’-credible, considering what a bad bitch she could be.
She also told you her favorite colour was pink…!
Our lives together are a song in which music and poetry have become a single, beautiful harmony.
The past is a splinter in my soul, a wound that turns slowly septic. Whatever happened, I wonder, to Gail La Mare?
At age ten I went to the cinema (the name of the film is unimportant) and fell in love with a young actress appearing in the main feature: thirteen or fourteen years of age, she travelled on a ferry across Hong Kong harbor, and I became besotted with her – with the fall of her hair, with her large, almond-shaped eyes, and with the sound of her voice.
At the end of that film, I experienced a most dreadful sense of loss…
I went to see the film again. And again. Every day for a week, I went to see my one true love, who remained so impossibly distant from me…and yet so near.
At night I dreamt about her. In my dreams she became my ‘girl’ and we kissed each other with an innocent passion.
I spent all my pocket money on seeing that film, and then stole cash from my mother’s ‘piggy-bank’ (the only time I’ve ever done such a thing) so that I could continue to go watch my ‘love’. I was like an addict in desperate need of a fix.
And all these years later, as an adult, I can still feel that poor child’s pain…
Each of us, it’s true, are capable of writing various, strikingly different autobiographies, according to the viewpoint chosen and our principle of selection.