preventative masturbation

August 5, 2017

“Along with heavy drinking, I do preventative masturbation four or five times a day so that I can go out in public.”

This all sounded oddly familiar. Then I reassured myself: I might have shared some of his symptoms, but that can be said for most psychiatric illnesses.

“Why do you think this has happened to you?” I asked. “Maybe you should see Oliver Sacks. It could be neurological. Like the man who thought his wife was a cocktail waitress.”

“I don’t get any sex. That’s my problem. I’m thirty-one; I haven’t had sex in nine years.”

What could I say to comfort him? Nine years was a terribly long time. One hardly goes nine years without doing most things, except maybe trips to the Far East…

Jonathan Ames
Wake Up Sir

Diary 14th April

In ‘Crowds of Power’, Elias Canetti gives us an example of inter-tribal warfare in South America. A Taulipang tribal warrior tells how they wiped out a neighbouring tribe, the Pishauko. According to Canetti, the Taulipang launched a surprise night attack on their enemies village. Apparently the Pishauko witch doctor sensed their approach from the ‘spirit dimension’ and warned everyone of danger, but the villagers ignored him. The Taulipang warriors dully appeared and began clubbing the Pishauko to death. They set fire to the huts and tossed all the Pishauko children into the flames.

How did the Pishauko witch doctor ‘sense’ the impending attack?

We know that Neanderthal man buried his dead with some sort of ritual (seeds of brightly coloured flowers were interred with the corpse – probably, they were woven into somekind of shroud). Chunks of manganese dioxide have been found in their caves worn down on one side as if used as crayons. Ritual art is a strong possibility. Undoubtedly, Neanderthal man and woman had religion (indicated also by the stone spheres representative of the Sun and Moon found in their habitations), and religion is obviously the outcome of thinking about the Universe.

200,000 years ago at Pech de l’Aze in the Dordogne, homo erectus took time out to engrave the rib bone of an ox – the engraving, the earliest we know of, is of three arc-like patterns overlapping. Is this, too, a representation of symbolic (religious?) significance?

175,000 years ago Cro-Magnon man was busy painting the walls of caves – in the deepest, darkest, remotest parts of caves. Vivid paintings of bison, deer, wild boar and wild horses. It was Salomon Reinach in 1903 who suggested the probable magical significance of these paintings; magic ritual to lure the animals to Cro-Magnon traps; lure the food to the table.

Alexander Marshack in his book ‘The Roots of Civilization’ suggests the Cro-Magnons were far less primitive than previously thought: they recorded a basic calendar on animal bones to anticipate the seasonal migration of animals, their food supply. In effect they invented a simple form of writing!

It is speculative, but a strong possibility, that religious art extended far back in time beyond the highly developed art of the Cro-Magnon people. It is probable that homo erectus, over 200,000 years ago, with their much enlarged brain capacity, used ritual magic in an attempt to control nature, to control their food supply.

So, you might ask, what has this to do with that Pishauko witch doctor?

Well, ancient man had no need to ask questions about the forces of nature; he FELT them around him, as a fish feels every change in water pressure through nerves in its sides. The result was most likely a curious sense of unity with the earth and heavens that homo sapiens – us, in other words – generally lost a long time ago. Ancient mans religion, his rituals, weren’t an attempt to ‘explain’ his world – it was a natural response to its forces.

In much the same way, the Pishauko witch-doctor was able to FEEL the approach of his enemies. All shamans, witch-doctors, magicians, witches and sacred priests, throughout human history, have claimed they derive their powers from ‘spirits’, often those of the dead. Sure we can dismiss this as primitive superstition – but we’ll be missing the point if we consider it an attempt to explain ‘life’ after death. Shamans do NOT believe in ‘spirits’; they EXPERIENCE them first hand – or at least, experience something they accept as the ‘spirit world’. Thus, boys and girls, I’d suggest it unlikely Neanderthal man performed burial rites because he ‘believed’ in life after death. He performed them because he took it for granted that he was surrounded by ‘spirits’, and these included the ‘spirits’ of the dead and the spirits of nature – otherwise known to us as ‘elementals’. Our Pishauko witch doctor, engaging in a ‘magic’ ritual to help a sick tribe member, and communicating with his ‘spirit guides’ was promptly alerted to the impending danger of attack.

#

What will happen on Beltane?

We’ll take part in the Great Rite, of course – experience the type of sex where we are so deeply entwined, so far in to each other’s darknesses and each other’s souls that we will be as one. Passionate, lustful, almost savage fucking. That’s what will happen.

For Beltane is a time for love. A time for merging with the goddess; for seeing the world through each other’s eyes. It is a time for bonfires and dancing. It is a time to be joined by spirits, in celebration of the Earth’s great fecundity. See their ghost shapes, milky white, dancing beside you in the trailing smoke from the bonfire. Eat, drink, love…

john-currin

What if every person in the world made love the same way? Men way A, women way B. No matter who you looked at: pretty or ugly, old or young, tall or short, Mexican or Mauritanian, you knew exactly what they would be like in bed because all men did it Way A, women Way B. How would that affect human relationships / sexuality / monogamy, etcetera? When this thought crossed my mind this morning, I immediately asked someone’s opinion. They said knowing all people were the same in bed wouldn’t change things. Because everyone has a different smell, personality, feel to their body…the desire to experience a variety of others sexually would remain. But I don’t know.

Jonathan Carroll
Blog

Home

January 2, 2017

after-the-party

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.

lightening

Diary 27th November

Sunday. Up before the lark. Cold and dark, but no rain. The wind seems to have let up somewhat, which is a small blessing. To the pub, later, after a soggy walk across the moor. Drunkenness is its own consolation…

#

Yesterday she said, ‘Why on earth did Aliester Crowley put that “K” on the end of magic, Peedeel?’

‘His motives were sexual,’ I replied, my attention mainly devoted to stroking the cat on my lap.

‘Of course,’ Jay-Jay said. ‘Typical Peedeel answer. It’s all about sex…’

‘Crowley needed to differentiate his brand of magic from the popular stage magic of the day. To the forefront of his mind was the initiation of all those nice boys and their virile penises. He had a vigorous sex life as a young man. Indulged himself with multitudinous street prostitutes. But, perhaps, inevitably, he eventually extended his sexual range to include homosexuality. Crowley liked best the passive role in these practices. Throughout his life he took part in the rituals of sex magic…or sex magick, if you prefer.

‘Crowley initially took the word magick from a translation of Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa’s “De occulta philosophia libri tres”. He liked that ‘K’ because it is the eleventh letter of a number of alphabets. And eleven is a magical number, a power number attributed to the Qliphoth. More than that, however, it stands for Kteis, the vagina, counterpart to the magician’s wand or phallus. So, you see, it is very sexual…’

#

A number of countries have experienced declining birth rates over the past decade. So much so that their death rates exceeded their birth rates. Germany, for example. Canada, too. Both of these countries, consequently, have opened the door to widespread immigration and their populations are now growing.

Japan, however, poor overcrowded Japan, has witnessed a huge decline in births, well under the number of deaths. And there’s no solution in sight for this problem. The Japanese hate the idea of ‘immigration’ (who does that remind you of, boys and girls?). In fact, to generalise, they hate foreigners. Traditionally it was believed in Japan that to be truly accepted in their society, one must have the blood (Japanese blood), the Japanese language, and be from Japan. It is practically impossible for a foreigner to follow the social protocols that exist throughout every level of Japanese society. Even the Japanese word for foreigner, “gaijin”, once carried the connotation of “barbarian”.

So Japan has fewer and fewer young people, but a substantial elderly population that ultimately will have no one to look after it. I suspect that Japan, and to an extent China, with their anti-immigration policies, will probably experience a shit-storm of biblical proportions before the end of this century, unless, of course, their attitudes change to immigration and outsiders.

As for the UK with its armies of ‘little Englanders’ and ‘little Scotlanders’ what can I say? We are all brothers under the skin…

And in the US? Well, they don’t have a declining birth rate, not yet. But they do have a downer on immigrants (foreigners), and apparently wish to build walls between themselves and their neighbours. Before too long, alas, they will learn those walls will make a prison from which there’ll be no easy escape; such walls will simply compound many of the ills besetting that country.

#

And Caitlín R. Kiernan posted on Facebook the other day:

‘I think that tonight I am at the lowest point I’ve been since election night. I cannot imagine a way forward. I’m more than half a century old, and never in my life has our country faced such a crisis. Ignorance, stupidity, prejudice, fear, greed, selfishness, and cynicism have won out. The lessons of the American Civil War, two world wars, the Holocaust, the Cold War, and the American Civil Rights Movement have been forgotten. We’ve allowed a grotesque billionaire clown to seize the highest office in the free world, and he’s building an administration of monstrosities. This is not business as usual. This is not Nixon, Reagan, George Bush, or W. Bush. This is not normal. Across Europe and America, populism and fascism are again on the rise – and winning. And the truth is I don’t have hope. This is so much bigger than so many seem to comprehend. Tonight, I am only afraid and exhausted and horrified.’

As are all “thinking” human beings.

black art

April 22, 2016

a wood

I had forgotten the river runs near.
Your estrangement sends out all your black presences.
If I open the window a notch,
the walls when I come are hung with spiders.
My shoe is soon covered with their corpses, my sole.
The light attracts moths, the melancholy
of butterflies. They agitate the shade and where they settle
squash too amenably, fleshing the walls.
Sick to death, I lie
but am summoned by the fluttering of wings.
I jump up, switch on the light, lift up my hands
in horror against the bat, screaming
round and round me, the paranoia
of a lark. I fly to window, crouching, its squeamish
wings vulva against my face, I throw it wide open
and it is gone. I shut the window.
I will wake by lady migraine, if I sleep or not.

It is worse.
Somewhere you have flooded a zoo,
or released an aquarium.
My years without you
are wreathed with pythons, running with invisible tarantulas.
Look, there is black powder on the stair.
Somewhere you are making up your face.
A bottle breaks leering across my throat.
Somewhere your scent is putting on evening.
Look, there is a lithe black garter-
snake sidling across the floor.
Somewhere your thighs are fascinating, held.
I cut off its head; it does not bleed.
A leopard roars.
Somewhere your voice caresses, claws.
My neck and back are eaten with army ants.
Somewhere you are kissing another’s nape.
Feel, I am burning with fever.
Somewhere your tears are falling coldly.

There is no amulet for this spell
you have not put upon me.
Everything in this room you have touched.

In the headlines…

February 26, 2016

insane

key to a new sexuality…

February 26, 2016

car

The lungs of elderly men punctured by door-handles; the chests of young women impaled on steering-columns; the cheek of handsome youths torn on the chromium latches of quarter-lights. To Vaughan, these wounds formed the key to a new sexuality, born from a perverse technology. The images of these wounds hung in the gallery of his mind, like exhibits in the museum of a slaughterhouse . . . .

J G Ballard
Crash

UFO

allthewayup

As a younger man George Chambers had been possessed of a full head of hair. Now, however, almost tripping into middle-age, the baldpatch on his head brought to mind the tonsure of a medieval friar: a whippet-thin one, with high cheekbones and sensuous mouth. Easy, indeed, to imagine him sneaking into the local convent, his head full of inappropriate ideas.

Gabriella suggested he looked a little “seedy”. ‘Time has been unkind to him,’ she said. ‘But she, on the other hand, like a fine wine, has improved with age…!’

“She” was Mattie Chambers, George’s curvatious wife. And she craved an “adventure”, or so George claimed.

Mattie had always been curious about love…physical love…between two women. As a young girl at school she had formed a romantic attachment to Mrs Wood, her English teacher. This crush had been unreciprocated, of course, but on occasion, at night alone in her bedroom, Mattie had fantasized a flaring of interest in the older woman’s eyes. An exchange of lingering kisses.

Reality, however, always returned to impinged on her dreams of love “realised” with Mrs W. And Mattie came to understand, consequently, that love wasn’t an equally balanced equation. That you could love another with great passion, but that that other might, unfortunately, remain totally oblivious to your feelings.

During her late teens, Mattie dated various boys. She was, she said, a “late developer”, surrendering her virginity, for what that was worth, to a young man named Bill Sutton, shortly after her nineteenth birthday. Bill wasn’t a very good lover; although friends said he was “good with cars”, a “much sort after” mechanic, apparently.

George Chambers, on the other hand, had a certain “bonnes allures”, and bearing in mind the physical restrictions of space, they made love on the backseat of his Ford with a certain lack of inhibition. The “mystères de l’amour” were mysteries no longer to Mattie. While raising her bum to ease down her pants, she realised she’d probably found her “Mr Right” – two months later, amazingly, they were man and wife.

Time passed. Familiarity, they say, breeds contempt. Whatever the truth of that, it certainly breeds boredom. Sexual boredom for George. He craved fresh flesh. While remaining a respectable pillar of the community, he took to secretly visiting prostitutes. Each time this happened, he’d tell himself: ‘Never again’…but the need would return, stronger than ever – that overarching need of cold, unloving, rubber insulated sex with a stranger.

His dad had been a butcher with a largish shop in East Harrow. The young Chambers delivered customer orders on a black, sign-written push-bike. His first sexual experience had been with one of those customer’s, a Mrs Dooley, who had taken in her package of chops, beef mince and sausages, suggesting the boy ‘Come in for a mo, while I get your tip…’

Mrs D, forty-something, a widow, took the boy to her bedroom, undressed him, caressed him, and fucked him five times. With or without an order, young George returned weekly to the widow’s soft embraces. He became, in time, sexually prolific.

As Mattie’s husband, George increasingly adopted the persona of confident poshness. He joined various societies, a film club, became involved in armature dramatics. And all the while his head was filled with images of explicit and kinky sex. He wanted to see his wife used by another man, while he in turn used that man’s wife. These daydreams recurred with frightening regularity, until George decided to “take the bull by the horns” and approach Mattie with a tentative suggestion of “Wife swapping” to “spice-up” their lovelife…

Having awkwardly broached the subject in the living room of their home, George waited for some sign of reciprocation from his silent and stony-faced wife.

‘Who, exactly, would we do this with?’

‘Well, I thought about, perhaps, touching on the subject with Julian Jackson and his wife…’

‘Pam Jackson?’

‘There’s rumours they “swing”. Swap partners…?’

‘My God, no, not her. The only thing she’s ever swapped with is a pair of sabre-tooth pensioners, and that terrible man from the post office and his wife – the one who looks as if she’s just escaped from the “House on Pooh Corner.’

‘What do you suggest, then? EBay?’

‘Well, first off, if this is to happen, I want to get something out of it myself. I don’t want some lust-filled brainless knob pumping away at me. Understand? I want to be with a woman…perhaps two women? Who I could then watch together? The rigors of Sapphic sex are a mystery to me. As an experience, it could prove very educational…’

‘I could watch, too, I s’pose?’

‘Probably so, yes.’

‘Do we know of two women like that?’ He sounded sceptical. Her promiscuous deployment in a Sapphic scenario, while fine for the voyeur within him, suggested little in the way of rumpy-pumpy for himself: lesbians weren’t known for welcoming the tumescent phallus of a randy male into their bodily orifices. He sagged. This would come to nothing…

‘I think I just might,’ she said. ‘And in the right circumstances, they’d probably see to your needs also…’

George gave a small whoop. ‘Really?’

‘Yes, really.’

#

So George stood in our kitchen, all cheeky-chappie charm, with a slight undercurrent of nervousness. He wore a red and white stripe shirt beneath a navy-blue V-necked sweater from Marks & Sparks. Dee and Gabriella took Mattie in hand, leading her upstairs to Sapphic heaven – found today (hopefully) between the clean sheets of Gabby’s double bed.

George had earlier gone to great pains to explain to me he was “a woman’s man”…perhaps, fearing the engorged member of Peedeel lancing his nether regions like a piston when he least expected it? Yes, while thrusting into the delectable Dee, most likely, bare-arsed, vulnerable. Ruthlessly Rogered while Rogering…A most unedifying thought, even for me…but wait, perhaps there’s some hope left in the bottom of Pandora’s box?

George asked: ‘What’s the procedure now? When do we join the ladies?’

‘We wait until invited,’ I replied, feeling just a little like Jiminy Cricket with Pinocchio. ‘Fancy a gin and tonic for now? They might be awhile.’

George, looking like man whose unobtainable sexual fantasy is about to be realised, sipped his gin impatiently. Lust tends to occupy time and thought on such occasions. It made George fidgety. ‘Are they usually this long?’ he asked.

‘Frequently,’ my reply. ‘Love making is an art, and art is oblivious to time’s passing.’

The doorbell went about three o’clock. Outside it was warm and windless, a fine drizzle falling. A parcel for Dee which I signed for. From the hallway I could hear soft grunts and groans. The sound caused me a sudden hard-on.

Upstairs, of course, there was a tangle of limbs. Dee and Gabby had kicked-off the performance for Mattie’s education and entertainment. She sat on Gabby’s stool beside the bed, watching. Inevitably the collision of a long held fantasy with this stark uncompromising reality had an effect on her; she began to feel slightly breathless, intensely hot, and uncomfortably wet in her new lace panties. Almost without thinking about it, Mattie reached out to stroke Gabby’s plump rump.

‘Join us,’ Dee said. ‘There’s plenty of room for three.’

Earlier Gabriella had asked Mattie: ‘D’you want to watch us with your clothes on or off?’

‘Oh, on, I think. Keep them on’d be best.’

Now she wished she’d stripped like them. Because she had to stand and undress with the pair watching her. She felt self-conscious and shy and a little embarrassed about how thick she was becoming around the waist. The damp patch on her knickers. A dead giveaway, that. Like a bitch on heat…

She felt so excited and yet close to tears. One part of her wanted to stop this now: turn her back on the women in the bed, and depart for good. Unfastening her brassiere she experienced a momentary swimmy-headedness. She would do this, or she’d regret it for the rest of her days. She slipped her panties down her legs, turning them inside out as she did so.

Finally naked the pair reached out to Mattie, taking hold of her hands. Together they pulled her to the bed.

‘It might feel a bit of a rocky ride at first. But you’ll soon get the ropes,’ Dee said to reassure. Then kissed her full on the mouth.

#

We were dully summoned to Gabriella’s boudoir, which was a little stuffy, heavy with the intermingled scent of the three women; they sank back on the bed in reciprocal quiescence, smiling at us, newcomers to their “petite fête”.

George ripped his clothes off, a veritable maelstrom of sexual energy. In contrast the movements of the women seemed weary and slow, almost slumberous…Dee spread her legs, exposed her small wet sex, and said, ‘This is just for you…’

George did not require a second invitation. As Gabriella and Mattie climbed from the bed, he mounted Dee. Oblivious to all else, he thrust into her with an almost primordial force. Seconds later, he moaned loudly. Nirvana quickly, unexpectedly , finally achieved.

I helped Mattie gather up her clothes and escorted her to the bathroom across the landing. ‘I’ve put out fresh towels for you,’ I said, gesturing vaguely at the rail. ‘Did you enjoy yourself?’

Blushing slightly, she nodded. ‘Yes, very much so.’

‘I’ll leave you to shower. We’re downstairs when you’re finished. I’ll sling some food together, you’re probably hungry. And if you’re not, I know Gabby is…’

George, disappointed by his sudden climax, the culmination of two hours waiting with a painful hard-on in anticipation of the fleshy treats in store upstairs, rolled onto his back. Dee kneeled astride him. ‘You don’t get off that easily,’ she said gently. ‘Oh, no. You’ve got a job to do, mister, and I’ll see you do it, come what may…’

‘A job?’

‘You’re going to make me cum six times before you get to leave this room. That’s how many times Mattie came for us. You’re going to match it…’

Downstairs in the breakfast room Gabriella sat at table in a white robe with a towel wrapped round her hair, which was still wet from the shower. Opposite her, Mattie, now fully dressed, fresh makeup applied, forked small chucks of roasted aubergine and red pepper into her mouth.

‘George is still with Dee?’ she asked.

‘He will be for awhile,’ Gabby said. ‘Dee puts her heart and soul into these things. It’s what I most love about her.’

I smiled. Poor George. Dee would use him as her living sex toy. She had let him shoot his first load, certainly, but now he’d be closely controlled. She would keep “edging” him, taking him as close to climax as possible, then stopping all movement. “Restricting” him, until he “relaxed”, then her “demands” on his aching cock would be renewed with fresh vigour.

‘You can go up and watch, if you want?’ Gabby said. ‘Dee won’t care.’

‘No, I’m alright, thank you…’

Dee had an unending repertoire of sexual tricks. She might, for example, allow George to just touch the finish line…but then brutally ruin his orgasm. A milky dribble without pleasure. And Dee, smiling, would say: ‘Whoops. Don’t worry. Just a hiccup. Look. It’s still stiff and wonderfully usable.’ He wouldn’t be allowed a break, of course, not even to go for a pee. Poor George.

‘Dee is good with electrics,’ Gabriella said. We were now in the sitting room with a bottle of wine between us. ‘She’s got this wonderful ability when it comes to diagnosing faulty electrical appliances. Hasn’t she, Peedeel?’

‘Indeed she has.’ Almost equaling her ability to torment (probably) a now red-raw cock. I glanced at my wristwatch: quarter past seven. George had been “at it” for two-an-a-half hours with voracious Dee. Probably feeling quite exhausted by now, no doubt. And experiencing a desperate need to pee…

‘More wine?’ Gabby asked.

Finally, a little after eight o’clock, George, fresh from the shower, edged his way carefully down the stairs. He moved like a man who has suffered a serious blow to the balls. His face was peculiarly lacking in colour, sallow, but dark beneath the eyes which now appeared rather bulbous to me. A haunted face, I thought.

He had a neat “stiff gin” but nothing to eat, wasn’t hungry. He nodded to his wife and to Gabby, gulped at his gin.

‘You were a long time,’ Mattie said. ‘Piggy at the trough, eh?’

Dee made her appearance in a flowing flowery kaftan of black silk, her damp hair piled high, looking gorgeous and certainly good enough to eat…George had probably experienced Dee’s “culinary delights” to ample sufficiency by the strained look on his face.

‘Have you paid the electric bill yet?’ she said to me.

‘Taken care of.’

‘We must do this again Mattie.’ She sat on the arm of Mattie’s armchair, kissed her chastely on the cheek. ‘It was an eye-opener for me.’ Her smile was more a grin, like the Cheshire cat from Alice. ‘A real blast…’

‘Oh, yes, we must…’

George’s face dropped. It was as if he’d received an unexpected slap to the face. Or another roughish blow to already swollen testicles.

And for no discernible reason I thought of the Chambers’ house in the next village, a modern, stone-built affair that had originally belonged to a German woman who raised parrots. When they first moved in, apparently, there’d been perches everywhere in the downstairs rooms. George had ripped them out along with most of the guts of the house to create a whitewashed minimalist’s dream. That was George, really: Minimalist Extraordinaire!

‘I think we’d better get going,’ George said. ‘Leave you good people in peace.’

‘It’d be really nice to have you again,’ Gabriella said, rising from her seat.

‘Yes,’ agreed Dee.

Gabby kissed Mattie on the lips then smiled at George. ‘See you soon,’ she said.

I shook George by the hand.

‘Nirvana,’ I said quietly. ‘Is never achieved without cost…’

I watched as he hurried towards his car. Mattie, walking slowly behind him and occasionally turning to wave at us on the porch, called out: ‘I’ll phone you tomorrow.’

‘Oh, yes, please do…’