Sunday entertainment…

November 5, 2017

Soft as a boxing glove at midnight, she strikes…

Naughty Comic Books

October 28, 2017

Oh dear. Fire. Can Uncle Renald help?
Oltretomba No 253 La quercia dei Supplizi (The Hangman’s Oak)

Making new friends
Oltretomba No 251 Bocca Muta (Mute Mouth)

So I’m getting it hard for you, see.
Oltretomba Gigante No 46. 666 Segno Del Demonio (666 The Mark of The Beast)

Boys will be girls…

My first ejaculation was a terrible shock. Like a seizure. An unexpected and terrible ripping of reality. Electrical currents in blue and gold sending spastic spasms of pleasure up me vertebrae; skull crushed in a vise in those first few seconds. Those never to be forgotten throbbing, animal convulsions and my head filling with white noise…

Neurological eruption!

Sunday cum

July 16, 2017

witch-outline

Diary 5th March

There was a woman who lived alone at the end of Walton Drive. Her house was beside the “danger point” (its name came from the red and white sign in the centre of the road that read DANGER). Beyond the sign there was no more road, just a wilderness of trees and shrubs, nettles and brambles. A veritable jungle where kids could turn wild and play. And where the woman often walked alone on a winter’s evening.

‘She’s a witch,’ Susan said. ‘She goes down there at night and makes spells.’

‘She gave Maureen warts for cheeking her,’ Linda claimed.

The girls seemed convinced, but we boys were less certain. A witch? Did such things really exist?

One Sunday afternoon we were playing football in the road near the ‘point’ and Alan kicked the ball into the woman’s front garden. Little Billy went off to get it when the front door opened and the woman came out.

Standing in the road we could see they were talking, but couldn’t hear what was being said. The woman, tall and skinny, was dressed all in black, as usual. She wore thick black mascara round her eyes and mauve lipstick on her mouth, and she had silver rings on all her fingers – including her thumbs. We were surprised when Billy tossed the ball back to us, and followed the woman into her house.

Billy reappeared an hour or so later. His face was very flushed –as if he’d been running.

‘What did she want?’ Alan asked him.

‘She gave me a biscuit and a glass of orange juice,’ Billy said.

‘But you were gone ages.’

Billy’s eyes became suddenly cautious. He glanced to right and left. ‘She took my shorts down,’ he said quietly. ‘She touched my “you know what”…’

‘Your cock?’ Alan said. ‘She touched that? I don’t believe you!’

‘Well she did, see. Honest, she did.’

‘You’re a liar Billy. You’re making it all up.’

‘She told me to come back next Sunday when she had more time. She’d do something extra nice.’

‘Rubbish,’ Alan decided. ‘Boy’s gone sick in the head…’

Later, in Angela’s back garden, Linda told Billy not to go back. ‘She’s a witch,’ she said. ‘Witches hate little boys. She’s probably got this sharp pair of scissors to cut your thing off. She’s more than likely got a collection of boys willies in a glass jar, and uses them in her spells.’

Undeterred by this warning (or anything else) Billy returned to the witch house the following Sunday.

What went on there? I’ve no idea, and Billy didn’t say when he reappeared later in the day. Alan kept on at him, but Billy stayed stumm.

Linda asked him, ‘Did she touch it again?’

He wouldn’t answer.

Whatever happened, happened, and would remain a secret between Billy and the witch.

Then – perhaps almost a year later – I was walking with Billy through the churchyard one Saturday afternoon. We were talking about the future – the far future. All the technological changes that might take place. How we might each of us end up with our own personal robot to do all the household chores. And flying cars, of course. We’d each have one of those. And we’d be able to chose the sex of our children…boy or girl.

‘D’you really believe that?’ Billy asked.

‘Why not?’

‘The witch,’ he said, then hesitated.

‘What about her,’ I prompted.

‘She said if I tell about her, she’ll know it. Said she’d transform me into a girl, if I ever said anything about her…’

‘That’s nonsense, Billy. She’s not a real witch. She can’t do anything like that!’

‘Says you,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen some of the things she can do.’

‘When?’

‘I go to her house sometimes. I keep it secret, like. She doesn’t want anyone to know.’

‘So what does she do?’

‘I can’t tell,’ Billy said. ‘I can’t ever say…’

And that was that. Billy’s secret remained secret. And to the best of my knowledge he never ever mentioned the witch again. But often I’ve wondered exactly what it was he’d witnessed at the witch house that frightened him into permanent silence!

And was the experience real or an hallucination?

Did our witch put some narcotic substance, a small amount of peyote for instance, in his orange juice? A drug induced hallucination would be sufficient to confuse…

To terrify.

I imagine them both somewhere between taboo and transgression in her dark house: Billy experiencing the exhilarating sensations of her hands and her body; she over-stepping society’s limits with her unrestrained sexual license.

And beyond the sexual frenzy, the fear!

Following a sip of her ‘special’ orange juice. Her conjuration made horrifyingly potent. Candles and darkness; smoke and mirrors…

Or was it all just a lie? Make-believe…?

Yes, I often wonder what ultimately became of our Billy.

Led by the Serpent

January 20, 2017

fist

Diary 18th January

What a busy little bee I’ve been. And yet I did manage to go out walking yesterday afternoon. It was a beautiful day full of sun, but cold for all that. Views to the coast from the top of the hill. Today, too, the weather is s’posed to be fine. So I’ll get out again later for a tramp across the moor.

Finished my story “A day-return to the Isle of the Dead”. Started a new, untitled story yesterday. Autobiographical in part, which is unusual for me.

The sky at dusk streaked pink.

19th January

Sleepless night and cold morning.

Walked up to the mast with Dee yesterday afternoon. Islands of gorse flowering everywhere. Confused by the mild weather, I s’pose. A cold breeze, however.

No one about on the moor. Dee opened my jeans. ‘Someone might come,’ I protested. ‘That’ll be you in a minute,’ her teasing reply.

Led off the path by my thing. Normally I walk here alone with only my ghosts for company. I hear a rhythmic clip clopping from behind. Glancing back. There is a woman on horseback trotting towards us. She can see quite clearly what Dee is doing. As she passes she calls, ‘Good afternoon,’ to us, a huge grin on her narrow face.

‘Afternoon,’ replies Dee, without slowing the rapid motion of her hand.

This horsey woman keeps looking back over her shoulder. Sees me cumming in Dee’s tight little fist. Waves her crop in the air, a salute to the God of handjobs. Disgusting to spy on us in that way. But Dee couldn’t stop laughing about it…

I feel strangely chained to this landscape. To its wild remoteness.

Went to the pub, drank Merlot in front of the roaring log fire. Cooked a vegetable casserole when we got home. Drank brandy and hot chocolate.

cats-eyes

Diary 23rd / 24th September

Astounding revelations that will hold you spellbound and make you breathe faster with new mental sensations…!

oh god it’s wonderful
to get out of bed
and drink too much coffee
and smoke too many cigarettes
and love you so much

oh, yes, yes – it is, it truly is…

#

Do you have a little voice in your head that tells you when you’ve gone too far? Yes? Well mine doesn’t do that anymore. Instead, it tells me to go that bit further! No more limits! None at all! Naughty little voice…

#

Like Antonin Artaud I have abandoned myself to the fever of dreams, in search of new laws, new possibilities. Ah, but to sleep so deeply – and then, perchance, encounter mademoiselle Lucifer…

What then?

#

Her hands were full of intent when they took hold of me. Subtle, featherlight touches of her fingertips, which felt as if she were writing a poem on my hardness, with unexpected words of fire…

#

‘I didn’t come out here to be alone,’ she said. ‘I needed to fart, is all. It’s that vegetable curry you made last night. I’m a bit ripe…’

#

D’you want to know the worse enemy to creativity? Yeah? Self-doubt, boys and girls. Self-doubt wins the prize every time.

#

I wonder what it is you hear in those silences that lay between us…?

#

The lights flicker. Dogs bark in the distance. A car grinds on the gravel outside. You’re home and the game is afoot…

Difficulties waking

June 5, 2016

wake up

birds and trees

Diary 21st May

‘You can’t have everything,’ I said.

‘Why not?’ she asked.

‘Darling, where would you put it all…?’

#

People tend to drain me. There are times I feel I’m in the midst of a huge masquerade ball where, come midnight, the guests unmask and I find myself surrounded by vampires of the most disreputable sort.

This bal masqué will, of course, be the death of me…

#

Rain yesterday and this morning. Rain on the slates shines sometimes in the smoky light. You know, I feel the future is to be found in the gull infested landfill sites near the coast. The gulls sense it and dig deep in the heaped detritus to find it. Simultaneously, starlings in great shoals abandon the present for the past. They are wiser, perhaps, than the gulls. We? We’ll fade gradually, ungracefully in a wreath of feathers and human hair…

#

This morning I’m too lazy to masturbate. So I inveigled my way into Gabriella’s good books, and she obliged with a sleepy, teasing handjob that resulted, fifty minutes later, in a nasty, nasty mess on my chest and belly.

#

In the sitting room the chairs are quite still. After all they have nothing else to do. The books on the shelves are silent, exhausted perhaps after a night of whispering to each other. They rest in such impressive dishevelment, gathering dust and providing shelter to the occasional small spider, embarrassed by its nakedness and wishing to hide its shame from others.

Ah, if only we could dream on beams of silk…?

And still it’s feckin’ raining.

#

So many wild flowers blooming in the hedgerows. They’re awash with rain, dripping wet, on either side of the puddled lane. Even the gorse is in flower…

#

Out tonight, restaurant and drinks, with friends. Italian food and good conversation…None of us, I suspect, will be particularly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed tomorrow.

Naughty Batman…

April 10, 2016

NAUGHTY BATMAN