plugged into my core

November 20, 2017

Lust was a positive high-tension cable, plugged into my core, activating a near-epileptic seizure of conviction that this was the one thing I had to do in life.

Will Self
How the Dead Live

Picking up threads of skin

November 5, 2017

strapon2

5th November

A grim September Monster gobbled me up and shat me out in this cold, inhospitable November. That’s how it feels at any rate.

Brexit apparently will lead this ‘green and pleasant land’ into the black chaos of Lovecraftian doom; but before that dire fate overtakes us we must witness many MPs laid low because of their rampant misogyny. So much knee touching in the corridors of power. It’s almost as bad as the newspaper industry – and that’s saying something!

But, of course, our Parliament is a fantasy. The bizarreness of the events there, while mirroring the society surrounding it, should not surprise – pederasty, incest, all the convolutions of lust, all the varieties of betrayal are there in those dark corridors of power. The poor innocent suffering ravishment in her office after drinky-poos with the boss will, we are assured, become a thing of the past. And the heart-numbing, brain-toppling solution to this serial fiddling will be provided by the people who couldn’t be trusted to sort their own expenses! Yes, that’s right. Our jolly old MPs.

I would respectfully suggest now, that any male Member of Parliament prone to an inflation of lust when in the presence of a female / male person, simply doesn’t go there. Instead they should adopt the masturbatory obsession of Alex Portnoy. It’s safer for all concerned:

“Through a world of matted handkerchiefs and crumpled Kleenex and stained pajamas, I moved my raw and swollen penis, perpetually in dread that my loathsomeness would be discovered by someone stealing upon me just as I was in the frenzy of dropping my load. Nevertheless, I was wholly incapable of keeping my paws from my dong once it started to climb up my belly. In the middle of class I would raise a hand to be excused, rush down the corridor to the lavatory, and with ten or fifteen savage strokes, beat off standing up into a urinal. At the Saturday afternoon movie I would leave my friends to go off to the candy machine – and wind up in a distant balcony seat, squirting my seed into the empty wrapper from a Mounds bar.”

(Portnoy’s Complaint by Philip Roth)

You get the picture? We as a nation can put up with MPs who frenziedly whack off in a bathroom. But we cannot endure their perverse, self-absorbed obsession for unwanted knee feeling, groping and whatever else goes on after a couple of vodka martinis – abuse of position or power by these lechers and political vagabonds verges on the criminal, and should be stopped immediately.

Firing squad at the ready…

And today is Guy Fawkes day. We can set fire to our raggedy-arse, petrol-soaked Guy which bears an uncanny resemblance to Jeremy Corbin – but not by design. Originally it was modeled on that hero of democratic principle, Jean-Claude Junker. Somehow our Guy’s features morphed into those of JC – probably after his criticism of Nigella’s Turkish Eggs recipe on his ‘special’ Gogglebox show…?

“When I was younger I made it a rule never to take strong drink before lunch. It is now my rule never to do so before breakfast – ”

Winston Churchill allegedly said this to king George VI. However, he probably never did – despite all the quotes on the internet and the posters produced by a hundred and one different companies attributing this statement to Churchill. Which makes it an example of Fake History, I guess…

#

Ideas abound. A wrecked, ravaged bed this morning. I see the shoulderblades of women, enjoy breakfast after lovemaking, Pepsi and Coke in the refrigerator, fresh brewed coffee on the table, freezing rain in the window. There exists a large lyrical love of the surface of this world within me –

But enough. I have work to do. A bed to make with clean sheets…

It took some time for me to realise that your mind was actually the scene of the crime…

All of us play with fire. But are we careful enough to keep warm, or simply careless enough to get burned…?

We fucked until she was just a breathless tremor in my arms…

Saturday morning secrets

October 21, 2017

To enjoy the foreplay, you must learn to love the thorns…

Must find a way to express this innate fire…

“What is your favourite pastime?” he asked.

“Making men nervous,” she replied.

Two’s company, six is handy…

The moist smell of her many amours clings to her, this young priestess of love…

Now is the time when lovers pant away their souls…

I will not die from this desire. Instead I will swim in it, relish it, crave it…

Lust

October 13, 2017

I watch the birds, black headed gulls,
rooks and solitary crows,
heads cocked, a momentary lull
in their raucous cacophony.

They listen for the rumbling
of worms turning underground,
leatherjackets tumbling
through the whispering sounds
of complaining roots

protesting at the unseemly speed
and heavy tread of the luminous
orange centipede
as she flees the hideous
devouring beaks.

Deaf to this turmoil,
afraid to delve beneath the surface
of the deep dark soil,
you cannot see the secret places
hidden in your heart.

Seated high in my vertiginous tree
like a succubus grafted onto bark,
I see you watching me,
lusting after my luscious, dark,
venomous fruit.

And who am I?
Count the grains of sand upon the beach,
or the stars that wash the midnight sky,
I am the beginning and the end,
the prize you long to reach.

I am the Cailleach washing in the stream
cleansing your life blood from my thighs,
I am the Morrigan screaming over battle scenes,
wreaking havoc and rejoicing in the cries
of foolish, greedy men.

I am Pandora with my box of tricks,
observing the foolish lift the lid,
unleashing hidden desires, a heady mix
of forbidden delights amid
decadence, betrayal and regret.

I have a heart, you know,
a vast unfathomable place,
where only those who understand me go,
only those deserving see my face
and live to tell the tale.

I am Death in Her feathered cloak,
Kali at Destruction’s door,
Hecate smiling as her hounds run amok,
run then, run until you can run no more,
I catch you all.

Doreen Hopwood

violently sexual

September 30, 2017

Sunday entertainment 3

Sex isn’t a subtext in “The Bloody Chamber,” but the text itself. (Angela Carter would explain that she was only making explicit a “latent content” that is “violently sexual.”) The title story is a version of “Bluebeard” in which a fin de siècle ingénue, the churchmouse-poor daughter of a widowed music teacher, weds an older, thrice-married marquis who is “the richest man in France.” He sweeps her off to his ancestral manse, where she gets a suite in a tower and where her curious wanderings unearth his collection of kinky books. Then he departs on a suspiciously timed business trip, leaving her with a ring of keys and permission to visit every room, except one.

Eroticism hangs heavy in the air here, as it does in much of “The Bloody Chamber,” like an expensive, drugging perfume. There is something vampiric about the marquis’ perversity, and about his “white, heavy flesh,” which the narrator repeated compares to lilies. Yet she is aroused to see him watching her in a mirror “with the assessing eye of a connoisseur inspecting horseflesh.” She believes he can see into her soul, perceiving “a potentiality for corruption that took my breath away.” It’s not so much his power that entraps her, as her own longing for surrender.

Laura Miller
Fairy tales, fantasy and dangerous female desire

Who would have guessed?

June 11, 2017

Who would have guessed?

That she could be so –
so dirty, so delicious?

Erotic thoughts flickering
behind her eyes
like startled fireflies,
surrendering
to desires so potent
so intense and violent
her moans become screams
of lust too strong
to ever ignore

I could growl…

May 12, 2016

wolf

I said: I could be a wolf for you. I could put my teeth on your throat. I could growl. I could eat you whole. I could wait for you in the dark. I could howl against your hair.

Catherynne M. Valente
The Bread We Eat in Dreams