Thesis: I’ve lost my virginity seven times and still haven’t managed to lose my vagina.
1: The Breaking of the Hymen
• I didn’t even bleed. The dryer ate a sock.
2: Lesson on ‘Romance’
• Strawberry Shortcake underwear near my ankles, he pulled out.
3: One-Night- Repeated Stands
• He lived with his parents, we fucked to Bill Withers’ ‘Use Me.’
4: Soul Mates
• Two pumps. Two months. That lasted long.
5: First Time Initiating
• Freshman in college. He still loved his ex. His dick didn’t work.
6: Older Man
• 25, told me to ‘suck it.’ It was unreciprocated. He says he still loves me.
7: Ex-Boyfriend
• ‘No one will ever make you feel like that again.’
Conclusion: If I lost my virginity, each man must have found it, in their own special way.

Alex Brandow

23rd July

Living here with so many ghosts I feel like a caretaker of the restless dead – a protector of spirits who haunt my life – so that I’ve become my own haunted house, attempting communication with partially glimpsed movements at the edge of perception, or the sound of a creaking stair, or a noise in the attic which might only be the patter of falling rain…My ghosts can be cranky on occasion: they can whisper words, the meaning of which I’m unable to determine.

It’s been a long time since anyone treated them well –


So the Saturday evening play-party. With our friends from the local munch, people possessing the emotional bandwidth to comply with our safety standards, while sharing similar aesthetic tastes to ourselves.

Like a small film club, are we, eagerly awaiting the main attraction: crisps, freshly roasted nuts and popcorn are liberally distributed to ‘the audience’ in small china bowls. Missy A has been naughty and is to be disciplined while we watch. Furniture has been moved to accommodate this tableaux.

Seeing Missy A bent over a chair with her skirt hitched up is breathtaking. Hearing a hand slap against her buttocks, is so very arousing – how could it be otherwise? Savouring the slight trembling of flesh with each fresh impact. Her yelps of discomfort –

Then E rising to join T who is tiring. E has a riding crop. She takes T’s place. Her skin-head hair cut is intimidating. She uses the crop with consummate skill –

Yelps become cries. Missy’s poor glowing bum is criss-crossed with red stripes –

Missy’s now estranged husband used to take her to play-parties in the boot of their car. Almost nude, gagged and handcuffed, even in winter, she would endure this humiliation without complaint. His treatment of her became harsher and harsher, until she finally left him eighteen months ago.

It should serve as a lesson to us all, how quickly such consensual abuse can become pure abuse –

I’m reminded of Jean-Paul Sartre and his theory of emotions as ‘magic’. Because Missy has simply exchanged one sadist for another. The new man in her life allows his fantasies free rein. She is, it seems, one of life’s natural victims –

E’s skill with that crop is superlative. Her strokes are hard enough to mark Missy’s naked bum but not to break the skin. I can’t take my eyes from Missy, her tear-filled eyes, parted lips, writhing as if in the grip of some invisible power. Sex is inherently ritualistic, a symbolic act whose meanings extend beyond itself. And there can be no doubt that Missy’s submission is sexual, that she takes pleasure from E’s practiced flogging of her backside. And every face in ‘the audience’ is slightly flushed with sexual excitement as they look on. And my own arousal is equally obvious –

Finally, aftercare. Caresses, kisses, gentle stroking. A smile on Missy’s tear-stained face. She experienced some sort of climax near the end of her ‘punishment’, and all the tension is now drained from her.

I finish my popcorn (which incidentally is homemade) as E takes Missy upstairs to the bathroom to fix her make-up.

‘I hope they don’t wake the ghosts,’ I say to no one in particular.

And no one, as expected, bothers to reply.


Hamlet experienced an encounter with a ghost and it ended in massacre. Macbeth was confronted by Banquo’s ghost during a great banquet, and lost his peace of mind forever. It’s more than likely that Shakespeare’s ghosts are simply psychological manifestations of guilt – imagined apparitions, in other words.

But what of my ghosts?

Trish, for example?

She used to love me reading out loud to her. At bedtime I always had to read to her or she couldn’t sleep. On occasion she would perform an act of fellation upon me as I read –

She once described herself to me as ‘Terribly thin’. And her body, I must admit, was like a sabre slash in silk. As flat chested as a boy, was she. ‘You’re fine,’ I’d tell her. ‘I love you as you are.’ And then laid her back and performed cunnilingus on her for almost an hour –

I read her ‘The Story of O’ and we both got turned on by it. It was Christmas Eve I remember, and Trish guided me between her buttocks. I gently sodomized her for the first time while she masturbated herself.

We talked a lot about art, writing, music and cinema. One time I told her about André Gide, his enormous influence on the young, which sprang from his teaching that one’s only duty is to oneself, that one should never be ‘encumbered’, either by material possessions, memories or other people –

‘Often the best in us springs from the worst in us.’

And so I read ‘Isabelle’ to Trish, and we both visited le chateau de la Quartfourche with Gerard Lacase, and accompanied him on his quest for Isabelle in the grip of ‘amorous curiosity’.

Books, reading, more reading and fucking. ‘Why don’t you read me something you’ve written?’ she asked. It was a bridge too far for me. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Never that. It’s all too awful.’ But she insisted, so finally I recited some of the poems in ‘Summer Births’ from memory. And while the words spilled gently from my mouth like little lost souls, Trish fondled me erect and masturbated me –

Trish had always had a thing about India. For her it seemed a magical, mysterious, exotic place. One day she announced she was finally going to go there. She’d saved the money. She was going for six months – longer if she could!

And so she drifted from my life almost as casually as she’d drifted into it. And now she keeps company with the crowd of ghosts occupying this place; a spectre who loves to hear me read out loud late at night –

The human trap

July 16, 2017

16th July

He said, ‘Put your face down there,’ and guided her head lower. She lightly kissed his belly before taking him into her mouth –

She became like a she-wolf feasting on flesh – he cried out in pleasure, pain, terror, and she smiled as she feasted, sucking the very soul from his body in that fractured moment of time –

A wild thing, was she. Feral and ferocious – and, oh, so greedy! She felt liquid fire in her veins and the moon filling her head –

Gradually she released her claw-like grip, licked the remains of his soul from her lips, and spoke in a low growl. She said, ‘I’d like to keep you chained in my wardrobe. I’d have you there to kiss whenever I wanted. Have you there to fuck when I felt desire. See how eager I am? I came to you without shoes or clothes, dressed only in my fine grey fur. Yes, my love tastes of bitterness, and like the wild rose I’ve been covered in thorns. I will make a crown of thorns for you to wear in my wardrobe…my den. Your prison. And only I will see. Only I – ’

He lay silent an still beneath her. She breathed her life into his motionless mouth, and said, ‘You’re as nothing now. Nothing but what I mould you into. My pet, my dog. My slave. You are nothing but a blank canvass on which I can paint my darkest fantasies. You will be whatever I tell you to be. You have no choice. There is no other way -’


He knew she could cut his soul into a million pieces. Once, in a corn file, he’d heard the sound of raindrops whispering on her bare flesh. It was a poetry, softly recited on breasts, belly and buttocks, which came back to haunt him again and again. Another time she wrote him a love letter, the only one, and it was full of sadness and despair –


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.



Celestine has seized on my prick; she cannot get it into her cunt, so, determined not to lose it altogether, she takes it in her mouth, she sucks its glowing heap, she rolls her tongue over the top of it. I am mad-delirious. No longer to be restrained I throw fiery rod into her furnace, which consumes it. A few maddening thrusts, drove home with such force that I touch her to the very quick – a cry of thrilling pleasure escapes us at the same time, and all is over.

But so intense were our passions that we hardly perceived it till I felt her again moving up to me. How delicious! What voluptuous warmth pervaded her whole body. How exquisitely did the springing cheeks of her backside respond to all my motions. The little devil Celestine is playing with two large balls that keep knocking against the buttocks of my antagonist.

It is too much; I drive it home, and lie gasping and quivering on Caroline’s breast, who cries out, “Oh heavens! further in! I come – I spend! Oh – oh, God, I die! Oh, dear, what plea-pleas-pleas-ure!”

She had fainted. The delicious wrigglings of her backside, the contraction of her cunt, sucked the last drop from me.

La Rose D’Amour
The Pearl, Volume eleven

Ken and Barbies wedding day

come inside you…

May 14, 2016

Malqatta (Christian Guilmin) - kiss

I want to make love to you, Rhone. I want to fill your ass with my penis and fuck you until you love it just as much as I do. I want to suck your dick and eat your balls until your cum coats my tongue and throat. I want you to do the same to me. I want to come inside you, in your mouth, in your ass, on your chest, marking you as mine in a way you can feel even when I’m not by your side. That’s what I want. It’s what I’ve wanted ever since you told me I could have a different, better life and then took the time to care and to show me how to care about myself. I want everything you can give, and I want to offer you everything that I am.

Cameron Dane

Finding Home

taught to pray

December 19, 2015


She was taught to pray on her knees, now when she kneels someone else exhales “oh god”.


blow jobs…

November 2, 2015


My mother told me that life isn’t always about pleasing yourself and that sometimes you have to do things for the sole benefit of another human being. I completely agreed with her, but reminded her that that was what blow jobs were for.

Chelsea Handler
My Horizontal Life: A Collection of One-Night Stands