April 26, 2017
April 2, 2017
When devouring the flesh of a man who has wronged you, eat as much as you can. You need food to grow and you can never be too big or too strong.
Deep in each man is the knowledge that something knows of his existence. Something knows, and cannot be fled nor hid from.
January 25, 2017
Diary 24th January
My life has been one long slow descent into respectability…just like that of the late Mandy Rice-Davies.
I have this memory of my aunt Ester wearing a slinky black evening dress – an impossibly long cigarette holder in her right hand, like a smouldering conductor’s baton, ready to ‘lead’ the London Philharmonic Orchestra – talking of my misspent youth.
She mentioned a certain club, The Night Express, ‘haunt of perverts and deviants’ – or so she suggested to her small audience…
Yes, I knew the place; had on occasion been in there for a drink, or dance, but nothing more than that. The Gents was at the back of the dance floor, four urinals in a row and a pair of cubicles, but the cubicles were always occupied by blokes getting to know each other better. The drinks, I recall, were hellishly expensive. They didn’t sell crisps at the bar, only nuts. And many of the girls were lipstick lesbians.
One Friday night a bloke approached me there. He was smart-looking but a bit older than the club’s usual cliental, asked me if I’d pose for some photographs. ‘Photography is my hobby,’ he said. He offered me a rather large sum of money to pose nude.
I declined. While he looked like an aging Matinée idol, I felt him to be a bit of an oddball. Certainly, he was more than a little intoxicated.
He persisted, said I shouldn’t be shy. ‘You can pose with my little slutet…’ And almost as if conjured from nowhere this bright young thing appeared at his elbow. Petite and blonde, she asked, ‘Is he on for it, James?’ And James said, ‘He’s being difficult, playing hard to get, darling.’ She pouted, looked sulky, said, ‘Oh, offer him more money, why don’t you?’
I ended up in a mews flat south of the river. Jimmy’s ‘slutet’ (I never did learn her name) had changed into a silk velvet caftan. We were in a bedroom full of expensive photographic gear, and I stood stark bollock naked. Jimmy took a condom from a bowl on the bedside table. I noted that the bowl was full of condoms and two tubes of KY jelly. ‘Best put this on you,’ he said. ‘But you’ll need to get the old man to stand to attention…’
An embarrassing moment. Teasing myself erect while they both watched. Jimmy rolled the condom on me. He took his time, was very gentle, and had a good feel round as he did it.
‘Up on the bed,’ he said, and I obeyed. The girl removed her caftan and joined me. From that point on Jimmy directed the action. ‘Put it up her, dear,’ he said to me. ‘That’s the ticket!’ The camera clicked and whirred like a mad thing. ‘Sit yourself on his face now, sweetie…Oh, good, good girl!’
It was bizarre.
‘What’s your view, dear, on same-sex affectional-expression,’ he asked me. ‘Have you ever had one up you?’
And so it went on. James now stripped down to a pair of red silk boxer shorts, moving about like a demented wasp with his camera. Click, click, clicking away.
‘Oh, you are a natural, dear boy, you really are…’
Jimmy claimed to be an advertising film producer. He said he could get me parts in TV commercials easily. ‘There’s good money to be made,’ he told me.
Later, getting dressed while Jimmy was off pouring fresh drinks, the girl told me Jimmy only ever likes to watch. ‘He doesn’t do anything himself, like. Just watches others. Girls, boys, it doesn’t matter.’
‘Have you been with him long?’ I asked.
‘I’m not ‘with him’,’ she said. ‘He pays me for this, like he paid you. He often has girls and boys over. Cash upfront. Takes his photos, provides a few drinks. Probably wanks off afterwards, I don’t know…’
It was four weeks later when James finally telephoned me. Shortly afterwards I found myself in a house near Shoot up hill, NW2, with three little punkettes Jimmy had recruited from somewhere. God knows where. I was to star in this video film with them: a blue film, of course; definitely not a television commercial!
It was an experience that came close to scaring me for life, I can tell you: left me feeling washed out; limp as a rag. And it took me a whole four days to recover from that three hour video shoot…
But, on the plus side, the money I made paid my rent for the next three months. And I did get to fuck all three punkettes multiple times.
I think I shall start a travel business. Specialist tours to the world’s sleaziest places. To spots famed for scandal. I will work with my two little cocottes as tour guides, with destinations to both shock and titillate around the world. For example:
Visits to the office where President Clinton splashed out on a new dress for Monica Lewinsky. To the adulterous Parisian love-nest of Marie Curie and Paul Langevin. The palatial rooms of Catherine the great where she ‘entertained’ her hundreds of lovers – they say she died while having sex with a horse, but in reality she had a stroke while sitting straining on the toilet! We can see that toilet with its solid gold fittings. Visit also certain Hollywood homes, scenes of sex orgies involving screen sex-symbol Clara Bow, whose secretary once accused her of bestiality with a dog. And trips to those rooms in Paris where Sidonie-Gabrielle Colette made love to various women including the legendary Josephine Baker.
What do you think?
We can call the company: “Peedeel’s Salacious Rumpy-Pumpy Tours!”
Yeah, the company that put the lag into slag!
So very cold this morning. Frost on the roofs and over the lawn. Frost, too, in the hedgerows, glittering like miniature gemstones. I sit ruminating beside the window, my thoughts dashing here and there.
I remember with affection Maureen R. We were at school together, but in different classes. Poor Maureen. She was always uncertain of her sexuality, veered erratically from tomboy to boy-hungry siren, but was at heart a lesbian.
I met her one day in London. I hadn’t seen her for some years. I heard this voice from behind say, ‘Peedeel, is that you?’
I turned round and there she was. At first I didn’t recognise her – it was the nun’s habit she wore that threw me. Then gazing into her face, recognition dawned. ‘Maureen! Christ, you’re a nun!’
‘No I’m not,’ she said smiling. ‘This is an outfit I wear from time to time. I find people in shops are much more respectful when I’m wearing it. I don’t have to shove and push my way anywhere. I get really tip-top service in restaurants, and black cabs always pull over for me.
‘There are additional benefits, too,’ she went on. ‘Going up to Birmingham last week on the train, there was this attractive young woman. I got chatting to her. She was recently married. When we were getting off at Birmingham New Street, I groped her arse like there was no tomorrow. Really went for it, you know? She didn’t utter a word. Just became very red in the face.’
‘You’re kidding me?’
‘No, seriously, I’m not. You should give it a try yourself. Get yourself a dog-collar, become the Reverend Peedeel.’
The mind boggles.
I have this mental image of Maureen in nun’s habit riding the rail network and carrying out multitudinous sexual assaults on female commuters.
But what she was saying was at least partially true. We entered a well known public house during the lunch hour; it was busy as hell, but Maureen went straight to the head of the queue.
‘What can I get you, Sister?’ asked the barman.
‘Large gin and tonic,’ Said Maureen. ‘And a pint of John Smith’s…’
Minutes later a pair of Irishman gave up their seats to us, with a hearty ‘There you go Sister, for you and your friend, take the weight off your feet.’
November 20, 2016
The porn films are not about sex. Sex is airbrushed and digitally washed out of the films. There is no acting because none of the women are permitted to have what amounts to a personality. The one emotion they are allowed to display is an unquenchable desire to satisfy men, especially if that desire involves the women’s physical and emotional degradation. The lightning in the films is harsh and clinical. Pubic hair is shaved off to give the women the look of young girls or rubber dolls. Porn, which advertises itself as sex, is a bizarre, bleached pantomime of sex. The acts onscreen are beyond human endurance. The scenarios are absurd. The manicured and groomed bodies, the huge artificial breasts, the pouting oversized lips, the erections that never go down, and the sculpted bodies are unreal. Makeup and production mask blemishes. There are no beads of sweat, no wrinkle lines, no human imperfections. Sex is reduced to a narrow spectrum of sterilized dimensions. It does not include the dank smell of human bodies, the thump of a pulse, taste, breath — or tenderness. Those in films are puppets, packaged female commodities. They have no honest emotion, are devoid of authentic human beauty, and resemble plastic. Pornography does not promote sex, if one defines sex as a shared act between two partners. It promotes masturbation. It promotes the solitary auto-arousal that precludes intimacy and love. Pornography is about getting yourself off at someone else’s expense.
Empire of Illusion: The End of Literacy and the Triumph of Spectacle
to film my
I know, I know: There will be blood.
It’s OK for 6-foot-5 men
to faint, George. Shame comes
to be scared,
right? They’ll see me calm,
a sweatered friend in a gas mask.
And you’ll be at peace, too, in love
with that camera.
Please: Just think
Daniel M. Shapiro
November 12, 2016
This is for you. The ushers in Civil War garb, for you. The rows
of red velvet cushions, crafted for girdled backs and porcelain
bottoms, for you. The Birth, a new history formed because you
didn’t like the first one, for you.
A plea. We do not fear censorship, and we demand, as a right, the
liberty to show the dark side of wrong, so we might illuminate the
bright side of virtue.
We demand it with our hands.
In the quarters of the Majestic, the best boy first saw light under
his sheets and found it was his own: thin beams streaming from
his palms like light shooting through a pinhole. All over the studio
lot, workers woke to the same stigmata, the gaffers, the cutters, the
key scenics, and the set designers, waking, wondering, keeping
their arms outstretched as if they held fire and wiggling their
glowing fingertips like someone ready to ascend.
The beams grew stronger by salary and status. The
cinematographer, a policeman’s flashlight. The director of
photography, the light on a freighter’s mast.
Just off the lot, still under the storm of luminance, D.W. left a
dream to find his palms gone supernova. He reached for his wife
in the adjacent bed and cut her in half, along with the wall behind
her and the foundation of a neighbouring house.
This is the product of those hands, all for you. This palace built
for no other purpose, this birth, a world re-written with lightening,
the bright side of virtue slashing the old world to ribbons.
November 8, 2016
October 26, 2016
I met him, fifteen years ago. I was told there was nothing left. No reason, no conscience, no understanding; even the most rudimentary sense of life or death, good or evil, right or wrong. I met this six-year-old child, with this blank, pale, emotionless face and, the blackest eyes…the devil’s eyes. I spent eight years trying to reach him, and then another seven trying to keep him locked up because I realized what was living behind that boy’s eyes was purely and simply…evil.
Directed by John Carpenter who co-wrote the script with Debra Hill