Diary 21st April

Easter weekend, became a lost weekend. We gave ourselves unashamedly to debauchery, Boys & Girls. And strong drink raged (as it does here, from time to time). Driven by our inflamed, animalistic urges we veered from manic to tender, from gently sentimental to crudely rough. It was, in short, an excellent time for us all.

Saturday night I watched a pretty woman put on her makeup. I M’s face, slightly flushed after her time alone with Dee and Gabby, reflected in the dressing table mirror in the spare room. She drank rum and sprite. Fussed with her hair. Spoke in banalities.


And now, between various feverish activities, I must decide whether or not to cancel an oral hygienist appointment at my dentist’s. The day and evening preceding we will be with old friends, eating, drinking, and over indulging. Can I face the hygienist first thing in the morning with a hangover and a mouth like a badger’s bum?

HYGIENIST: “Please Peedeel, allow me to fart in your mouth and freshen your breath.”

I think I’ll cancel!


Vast alchemies. Every three minutes, a person goes missing in the UK. Where do they all go? I find it a deeply disturbing statistic, don’t you?


Oh, yes, which reminds me. I watched the new episode of Dr Who at the weekend. Peter Capaldi’s last series playing the Dr . Mr Capaldi is a fine actor, but the Who series suffers from shite writing, and is in the guiding hands of those who believe that “narrative and characterization are too distracting from their preferred salad of videogame spaghetti”.

Long live the third rate, ay wot?


Food for thought: If all men disappeared of the face of the earth, every war would instantly be over.

The space beyond truth

April 9, 2017

Diary 9th April

Me, age ten. My older cousin Debs, fair and freckled, hitched up her skirt in the bathroom to show me where a boy must put “his thing” to make a baby.

“Obviously,” she reassured me, “it’s got to be stiff when you do that…”

And funnily enough, looking at what she had down there, I was very stiff. But a baby…? How could a baby come from such a small opening?


My mother spoke frequently of my sister’s second husband’s sexual problems. These she attributed to an excess of wanking as a child. He had, she insisted, a terrible crush on another boy while in sixth form college. My sister, lacking a penis, was no doubt second best when it came to his choice of life-partner. Although how my mother acquired such intimate knowledge of him I haven’t the slightest idea.


The beautiful weather continues. I will spend the day in the garden, pottering about in the bright sunshine and drinking G&Ts from tall iced glasses. Probably, we’ll all be legless by teatime.


Aromatherapy has been practiced for many, many years. There is, of course, a spiritual side to this form of massage. There are Wiccans who in their practice of witchcraft can create potions and elixirs which by the ritual reciting of spells energise these herbs and ingredients to a whole new level of potency. They are able to produce aromatherapy oils that work on the brain, creating states of euphoria and bliss the like of which you will never have experienced before.


And, of course, we’re thinking about Beltane. Food, drink and love starting on the evening of 30th April and continuing throughout the 1st of May in celebration of the Gods and Goddess’ of fertility and love. It is a time of fire and raw sex. Bonfires and rituals. A time to practice “The Great Rite”, reenacting the creation of the universe through acts of ritual sex – celebrating our bodies and creating magical power while engaging in acts of love outdoors. Perfect.

True Confession

April 2, 2017

watching a boy unbutton his pants to take his dick out makes me have the same feeling like when I’m in a restaurant and i see my food coming to my table.

Source HERE


January 2, 2017


Diary 1st January

2017, and home again. Our Manor House break was terrific – we overindulged terribly. We eat, drank and made love to excess…compensated for this in part with long walks beside the Stroudwater canal. Fed the swans. Saw and photographed a female Sparrow hawk resting on an ancient tombstone in St Cyr’s churchyard. Played naughty smothering games, and as Rabelais says (in his prologue to the Tiers Livre):

Bon espoir y gist au fond.
Good hope lies at the bottom…

Wishing everyone a happy new year. May all your dreams come true in 2017.

A basic truth

December 6, 2016


Of course reading and thinking are important but, my God, food is important too.

Iris Murdoch
The Sea, the Sea

September 5, 2016


Very true…

December 23, 2015


Generally speaking if I’ve eaten something, I don’t expect to see it again…

Important message…

June 17, 2015


ALL the people I’ve ever eaten have tasted delicious…

This morning…

May 3, 2015



Slightly hungover, I wake. Gabby is on her back gently snoring, while Dee sleeps on her right side, knees drown up almost to her chest. From the window, cloud has descended to consume the hillside opposite and the white chocolate box cottages over there, reducing the horizon to a few feet distant.

The living room smells faintly of wine and food and scented flesh. Light incense and leave it to burn away these lingering ghosts of yesterday. Last night I cooked enchiado de legumbres y chilis for us all. The spicy sauce was wonderful…even if self-praise is no recommendation. The girls loved it.

Make coffee in the kitchen. Feed the pride of complaining cats. Everyday chores. Normalcy…

Gabriella yesterday expressed concern about local gossip. ‘People,’ I said, ‘will always throw stones. It’s up to you what you make of them. Build bridges or a wall. Only you are the architect of your future…’

Gabby is staying the whole, long, whit weekend! Today we’ll lounge around, talk, drink, eat good food, make love (hopefully), and maybe watch some DVDs or listen to music. Tonight, though, I’m banished to the spare bedroom once again: Dee and Gabby want some alone time together. Which is fine by me…

Monday we intend to go down to the sea. Watch the gulls. Walk barefoot along the sand and through the surf (hopefully not in the rain), and purchase freshly made doughnuts from that place on the strand.


‘Tell us about the first time you came…’

Dee sat slumped on the sofa smoking a joint. Gabriella was on the window seat opposite sewing a button back on her blouse. My eyes went to her breasts, magnificently cupped in a blue lace brassiere. She glanced up.

‘Did you do it yourself?’ Dee took another long drag on the joint, held the smoke down, before slowly releasing it. ‘Or did someone else do it to you?’

‘Someone else…A girl at school who sat next to me during prep. Yvonne, her name was. She was older than me. Skinny little thing with coltish legs. We were at the back of the classroom in a corner. Both of us bored and pissing about. We took turns playing statues. You had to sit totally immobile while the other person did things to make you move. Tickling or pinching. If you moved you lost the game.’

‘What about the teacher?’

‘Prep class wasn’t well supervised. We usually ended up with old Mrs Davis who was older than Methuselah and batty as they come. She’d sit up front marking homework or what have you, while everyone got on with their work. In theory, at any rate…

‘Anyway, Yvonne couldn’t make me move so she started opening my flies. I thought she was bluffing…trying to panic me, like. But no. The next thing her hand was inside my trousers….’

‘So she played with you?’

‘Yeah, I didn’t know what was happening. She was sort of pinching the head through my underpants. Then I began to get this strange feeling…almost like a numbness in my cock. I was so stiff, you know, jutting. And she was pinching it rhythmically…And this feeling was growing, getting worse – much worse, and I know something was going to happen but not what. I grabbed her hand, tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t stop and then it was too late any way…’

‘Naughty boy,’ said Gabby. She’d finished her sewing and put her blouse back on, buttoning it over her breasts and standing to tuck it in to her skirt.

‘It frightened the crap outta me,’ I said. ‘My whole body spasmed, and my cock took on a life of its own. It kept jerking, and I could feel this wetness spreading inside my pants. I couldn’t understand it. I thought she’d done me a feckin’ mischief. These spurts in my pants…’

‘What about her, what did she do?’

‘I think it frightened her to death too. We both just sat there in silence for about five minutes. Then I put my hand up and asked to be excused for the toilet. I went into a cubicle and cleaned myself up with toilet tissues. What a mess.’

‘But you got over your fright?’

‘Yeah, when I got home that evening I did it to myself. Duplicated her movements. This time I just closed my eyes and went with the flow…POW!’

That was our conversation Saturday afternoon. Gabriella had turned up as arranged Friday evening. I cooked what we commonly call the “aubergine thingy”, a dish of aubergine, courgette, red and yellow peppers, with vine roasted tomatoes and cheese. Late evening we went out for a walk, the three of us.

At this point, in a film script, the audience would hear music playing…I’d suggest “Twisted Nerve”, that wonderfully bizarre Bernard Herrmann piece used again by Tarantino in “Kill Bill”. Yes, that would be appropriate.

“A twisted nerve, a ganglion gone awry,
Predestinates the sinner and the saint.”



Tarosvan Hill is this bulky black shape against the darkening skyline. Dee looks towards it then east in the direction of the standing stones but she can only make out deep-purple shadows, impenetrable as molasses.

With the sun’s disappearance, it’s tuning cold. Very cold. Peedeel thinks they’ll all end up with hyperthermia. They’ll be found come morning, a trio of ice sculptures. But then he’s prone to exaggeration and hyperbole of this sort.

Dee’s in charge of this particular expedition. She has the flashlight. Rough ground ahead, stunted black gorse, moving shadows at the periphery of the wavering beam. Like walking on the moon. Mare Nectaris of all places. The two girls keeping close together, reassured by the flashlight’s radiance and the knowledge we’re homeward bound. Bag of weed there and a bottle of Irish picked up from the local supermarket. Get a little high. A little (more) drunk.

Of course this is the moor, and demons and ghosts abound here after dark. (The audience may feel tense watching, but they’re able to remind themselves that these three are just actors on a screen, reciting dialogue contrived to unnerve. The shadows are carefully planned. The darkness an accessory before and after the fact).

Noise, now, behind them. Movement in the darkness. Dee spins round, the flashlight beam scything with her. Gabby turns too, startled, sees what’s following and stands rooted to the stony ground, mouth agape.

‘Fecking horse!’

Dee giggles. ‘God that gave me a fright,’ she says.

‘You and me both. ‘I’m going to have to change my knickers when we get back.’

Both girls giggling uncontrollably now. The horse snorts and clipclopps away. A second horse appears whinnying loudly. It’s a big dappled gelding with a wild black mane and huge eyes.

‘Fecking horse,’ Gabby repeats, her belly aching from so much laughing.

‘Well,’ says Peedeel. ‘They don’t tell lies. They don’t steal or cheat. They come in all sorts of different colours and don’t give a damn about it…Better than most people, I’d say.’

‘There’s wisdom in that,’ Dee agrees.

Now the church tower looms ahead. They walk over the stone bridge, glimpse fast rushing black water below and the tangled roots of ancient trees on the opposite bank. Then a row of stone-built cottages.

‘Home at last.’




They sit opposite each other sharing a two paper joint and drinking Bushmills out of chunky glass tumblers and laughing about nothing. Three intimate friends, lovers, no argie-bargie just now, no recriminations. Certainly Gabriella is a little distant at times…not aloof, simply a little “apart” from the other two. Uncertain, perhaps. But that’s nothing to worry about.

The room smells slightly of burned incense and the marijuana they are smoking. It swims with sickly sweetness, and of course the faintest undertone of the women’s perfume which, though different, seems to complement one and other.

The camera lingers on Peedeel. He looks nothing special: scruffy, colourless hair and beard, camo pattern shell jacket thrown over the arm of his chair, wearing worn denims, scuffed brown walking boots. He blends in – a regular bloke who might be a walker or day labourer off one of the local farms. Take your pick. The soundtrack fills with sudden, unexpected silence. (The silence is a void that appears to absorb the watching audience). Then Peedeel speaks.

PEEDEEL: I’m going to turn in.

DEE’S VOICE: Yes, so am I.

GABRIELLA’S VOICE: Yeah, me too. That fresh air’s finished me. (She stifles a yawn).

The film cut jumps to the bedroom. The two girls kiss and hold each other close. The camera lingers on the kiss, risking the monotonous repetition of mouth pressing on mouth, tongues flicking together, wetly. (The audience watch this intimacy – some of them may have started to masturbate in the shadow filled auditorium – spellbound).

Off camera can be heard the sound of Peedeel’s electric toothbrush in the bathroom. The two girls begin to undress each other. Their movements are practiced, confident, they’ve done this so frequently before. The bed is huge, kingsize, and will hold three snuggly. Intimately.

Dissolve to a scene of the three in bed. Peedeel’s bobbing head is under the duvet. His face is enclosed in the musky stifling heat of Gabriella’s spread thighs. Dee is kissing Gabriella’s mouth, while cupping her right breast in the palm of her hand. She delights in the way the nipple hardens to her touch. Gabriella’s climax arrives suddenly. Her body twists violently to the left, face contorting, teeth clenching tightly. Her gasp, catches deep in her throat, becomes a strangled scream…




(The audience are upset that the scene cut where it did. But their interest is piqued when Peedeel brings in a tray of coffee and tea – Dee is a tea drinker – and some fruit).

He puts down the tray, kisses Dee. Then walking to the otherside of the bed, he kisses Gabriella. We have not witnessed their sexual congress but suspect it’s to happen again after this light breakfast. The camera cuts to Peedeel gazing intently at Gabriella’s exposed right breast.




Dee writhing on Peedeel. Sitting astride him. Grinding on him, eyes half-closed. Gabriella is kissing his face and neck, soft butterfly kisses. The duvet is thrown off, and our audience have an unrestricted view of Dee’s cunt engulfing Peedeel’s cock as the camera focuses from behind Dee. We see her slender back, widening at the hips, the fleshy apple of her arse. Her wet, greedy cunt.


Dee’s face as she cums. Lips pulled back over pearly-white teeth. Slight overbite of her two strong front teeth. Body shaking. Sheen of perspiration between small, upthrust tits.


Peedeel’s face. Eyes flutter closed. Is this the way the world ends? Not with a bang, but this hissing whimper. The camera focuses on his chest and belly. Records the involuntary convulsion of stomach muscles as he ejaculates inside Dee’s squirming body.




On Sunday Gabby came with us to visit friends. We went for a Chinese meal lunchtime, course after course of wonderful stir-fried food. We made absolute pigs of ourselves. All washed down with bottles of white zinfandel. Very yummy.

Gabby left us Sunday evening. But she’s coming again next weekend. We all love to roll play, and Dee has suggested a scenario where she is dominated totally by Gabby who restrains her, uses her and finally passes her to me to take my rapacious pleasure of her body.

We are all very enthusiastic about this, and look forward to next Saturday.