A large portion of my mentality and soul is sexual, I’m just too scared to do anything about it.
I fight to find in others the very things I lack. I’m not a hunter, although I should become just that. It might make it easier to bear the frigid temperatures stood here in the rain, stalked by the moon no matter where I try to hide. Compassion. Empathy. Sympathy. An odious trinity at best. Fire weaves its tongues through the fibres of my muscles, licking the inside of my skin. The hairs impaling me singe from their roots and float to the ground. The putrid stench insults my nose and hurts my brain. I see the world in reverse. Reflecting itself into puddles, bouncing from shop windows, embedding itself into the eyes of the Normal’s. Normal’s. Normal people. The mundane. The workers of this hive we’re forced to reside in. A maze filled with people lost, wandering with an aim and unable to find it. How I envy the Normal’s with their easy life. Sleep. Eat. Work. Shit. Work. Shit. Eat. Die. Easy. They lack the tapping on the shoulder, the perpetual voices telling them to do this and to go there and to say that. Think. Think. Just. Think. With their circles, their peers, people whom they think they love. Love. I shrug and it falls from me like dandruff caught in the wind only to be trodden under the soles of those who dare to embrace what they think is love. Selfish indulgence. Debauchery. Diving in the well of another’s desire to fill themselves with the rancid flavour of what they think they need. Selfish. They inject love like brown sugar into the biggest vein they can find in order to satisfy their craving to feel. Something. Anything. Self-gratification. And then package it in a wrapper with a neon label, calling it Love. I was once a Normal; I was once born. I once had a heart; it was taken away. In its place I have a muscle that beats, pumping pain throughout my flesh, to every nerve ending. I twitch. I scream without opening my mouth. I was once born; I died soon after. I remember the night I died. I remember it well. In my reflection I no longer saw hope staring back, winking. Smiling. She’s baron. A thief. She stole my eyes. Don’t tell her I let her have them. I no longer need them.
I’ve never been diagnosed but I really do think I suffer with some form of an attention-span-defect. I simply cannot, for the life of me, focus on one thing for long periods. I mean it’s not as drastic as others may have it who can’t focus on something for more than 20 minutes but I can’t for more than about a day or two before I give it up in search of the next ‘something’ that sparkles and catches my eyes. Wether that’s an attention-span-defect or a confidence thing I don’t know.
So I figure, as a writer & photographer how can I overcome it? Or better yet – how can I embrace this? As far as writing goes, maybe I can stick to writing short stories to end up with a volume of short stories to go in say, one or two books and market it in a hope of selling something one day. Who knows. Everyone starts from somewhere, right?
A friend once told me the mental challenges I face don’t have to be a fight, why don’t I just roll with it and take each day as it comes and if I feel like doing photography one day … do it! And do it well. If I feel like writing the next day … you get the idea. I put so much pressure on myself to try and produce that I forget why I’m doing it in the first place.
So from now on, I am going to try my hardest to just roll with it, do what pleases my soul and whatever happens, happens.
“So I’m staring at this fuckin’ gargantuan heart, and It’s in my hands and it’s pumpin’,” he says.
“What? Just a heart?” She asks, and looks at him with a weird glint in her eye.
“Fuckin’ yes. Just a big … fuckin’ … beatin’, alive … heart,” he replies. “And it’s in both my hands. Like I’m cuppin’ the bastard with both my hands ’cause it’s too big for just one of my hands, right.”
“So, who’s heart is it?”
“I don’t fuckin’ know,” he says. He glares at her with a ‘shut-the-fuck-up” warning in his eyes. “So I look down at my chest and it’s clean … you know? Nada. Nothing. But I don’t actually feel nothin’ either. So, I stand as still as I can so I -”
“Why don’t you just put it down?” she says, interrupting what might be Johnny’s biggest story yet.
“Why don’t – Why don’t you shut the fuck up. Jesus-fuckin’-Christ Molly, will you just shut-the-fuck-up already?” He retorts.
“Alright, alright. Since when did you get so goddamn touchy all of a sudden?” she asks rhetorically.
“So, I’m holding this beatin’ fuckin’ heart, and I’m looking down at my chest and there’s no opening, but I don’t feel nothin’ either. So I start to think maybe it’s someone else’s heart. Like … did I go out and kill somebody? Where the fuck did I get this heart? I can’t put it down ’cause all around me is broken glass and if I put it down … well … I can’t fuckin’ put it down.”
“So what do you do with it?”
“I don’t know. Nothin’. But the next thing I know, it starts to slow down. The beating. It starts to get weaker and I get all hot. Like I get this dry sweat all over my body and my eyes grow big. So I … I start pumpin’ it with my own fuckin’ hands. I got this fuckin’ heart that I do not want, in my bare fuckin’ hands, and I’m keeping it alive and I don’t know why. I don’t know who it belongs to and I’m starting to not care. I mean … it aint botherin’ me nothin’. So I do it. I stop. And so does the heart. It just stops … right there in my hands. And I wait. I wait to see if I kick the bucket … and I don’t. I’m still alive … right. So I figure, fuck it. I’m alive. This bleedin’ fuckin’ heart in my bare fuckin’ hands is dead and I’m alive. So I chuck it on the ground and I fuckin’ walk away. But as I walk I realise I don’t have any shoes on and my feet are getting cut-to-fuck by the glass on the ground. And now I’m stuck where I am with bleedin’ soles and a dead heart. And for what? Nothin’. I didn’t fuckin’ want the heart so why did I have it?”
Johnny looks round to see Molly lying on the floor. Her pale skin, as white as the moonlight, glowing neon bright. Her eyes are clamped shut. She’s not breathing. And he realises that maybe, just maybe … he might have wanted that heart after all.
When you have built a satisfying relationship with yourself, then you have something of great worth to share with others.- excerpt from ‘Ethical Slut’ (book).
I’m not sure why the darker side of sex pulls me in as if I’ve no control. I’ve no idea. But should I really feel the need to analyse myself to find out why? Do vanilla sex lovers analyse why they’re *not* into kinkier sex? I doubt it.
My fantasies range from down right perverted to the most tame and I’m sure if I shared the darkest scenes in my mind you might become a little concerned. But to be fair, I couldn’t give a rats arse what you think. There is not one person in this world who doesn’t fantasise about something other than their ‘norm’, their baseline sex life. Take a read of ‘Sex And The Psyche’ by Brett Kahr and you’ll soon see we’re not alone.
My previous post entitled ‘The Kidnap’ shared a fantasy of mine. Maybe you can be brave enough to share one of yours, too?!
For years I’ve been scared to embrace what plays in my mind, having tried various things out and enjoyed it yet very aware of myself and a little conscious if I’m honest, but that’s my own issues of low self esteem and lack of confidence. But I will never give up on finding out exactly what makes me tick. Never.
Strands of damp hair fall on her face as she bends down to pick up the teddybear. She looks back as if to call out but doesn’t break her gaze from the little white fluffy toy staring vacantly through her. A voice leaks from the open front door, ranting, and fades to a feint mumble as the front door slams and she mutters something like ‘fuck’. The word bounces in my mind. Fuck. Fuck. And I grin because even as she walks up to the glass and peers through to a warm, safe home she can’t see the reflection of my body walking up behind her.
I slip a hessian-cloth bag over her head and cover her mouth with my palm and with my other arm, in the fold, I grab her neck and drag her to my van. I slap her torso down and let her legs hang down over the bumper and she wriggles — so much wriggling — and I grab her hair through the cloth and punch, punch her twice in the face and just as a kid when the battery was dying in your favourite toy and the action would slow down to a near stop and the voice went funny, the wriggling goes like that. And her voice is similar too, a dull moan, like a croak. I discard her clothes dropping them on the road, climb into the van and pull her in. The doors slam shut and I switch on the light and then the driver door slams and by this time I’ve neatly bound her wrists in front of her with a cable-tie and then do the same to her ankles. I slam my fist twice on the back of the cab.
Hues of red. Varying shades of black. They’re the only colours I care to see. I sit with my legs crossed and watch her as her batteries regain a little energy. She looks like a fish out of water. Flap, flap, flapping around. Screaming. All she’ll see are the images in her mind because the hood she wears — and I grin aloud — is light-tight and the van he drives is sound proof and she can scream for as long as she likes because it’s such a beautiful sound and actually, if I close my eyes, I can hear music; such a wonderful composition it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
I attach a hook to her ankles and another one to her wrists and press the big greeny-red button to hoist her up and she hangs, her arms and legs forming the straight edges of the letter ‘U’, and swings ever so gently. I raise her legs a little higher and italicise her figure. Her head hangs heavy and makes it harder for her to maintain the energy to scream and her voice sounds husky and crackly like an old vinyl record and once again I hear beautiful music and I drive my fist into her belly. I close my eyes and inhale the breath I stole from her and I smile inside and she’s still breathless when I attach the weights to her nipples and let them drop and dangle, just like she dangles, and the teeth of the clamps bite into her skin. I lick the bloodied tears trickling down her breasts as I swell and then throb … throb … throb inside my jeans.
I tell her I’ve been watching her for some time. I tell her if she survives tonight she will have to figure out why and if she thinks hard enough shouldn’t be all that difficult to do.
I tell her I’m karma and cover her mouth and nose and she wriggles and wriggles and the teeth, they bite harder with each tug of the weights dangling beneath her. I remove my hands and allow her to inhale her desperation. I take a wooden paddle and strike her bum and it also catches her ever-so-slightly-protruding cunt and the scream, the scream is so sharp it pricks the drums of my ears like an off-note and I strike again, harder, and again and again until the patch of skin is a darker hue than the light reflecting onto it. I cover her nose and mouth and close my eyes and bath in the pain I compose for her. It feels like a warm blanket and makes my mind buzz like a thousand bees. Fifteen. Sixteen. I remove my hands. I tell her sometimes the pleasure, for me, gets so great I forget to count and have to start over again but always, always have to get to sixteen before they breathe again.
I tell her I’m removing my clothes.
I hold my cock in my hand and empty my bladder over her and I tell her she’s trash and I tell her she’s less than the smallest of fuck-all’s and I tell her all she’s worth is my piss and I remove the weights from her breasts and slap her tits with the palm of my hand and pinch her nipples between my knuckle and thumb, twisting them angrily.
I tell her she’s a fucking mess.
I tell her she might not like what I’m about to do.
I place a nose clip — the type swimmers use — to her nose and then stand over her. I fasten an o-ring gag to her mouth. I tell her the best thing she can do is to not panic, even if I lose count. I grab her head by her hair and pull it up a little so its level and grip it tight with my legs and I grab a bottle of water. I tell her not many people have survived this and immediately I tip the bottle and pour the contents into her mouth. I reach around and punch her in the stomach and cease the flow of water and I release her head and slap her repeatedly in the face until she gasps and then I tip the bottle back down.
I tell her it becomes quicker and quicker, the time it takes fear to set in because the more fearful she gets, the quicker she breathes and the quicker she chokes and the less she breathes and the more she panics. I tell her this but she doesn’t listen.
Instead, she chokes.
I release the hooks and she drops against the steel floor and I beat her and throw her around like a naughty puppy and she tries her best to stay strong. I Force her to stand but let her torso collapse in front of her and I push her up against the side of the van. Her arms rest on the floor between her legs.
I tell her this will hurt.
I hold her in place with my thumb impaled in her rectum and force three fingers from my other hand into her cunt and drive them in and out and in and out and I get out of breath and I’m going so fast and my arm tires but I continue in and out and in and out and she squelches like soggy socks and I tell her she’s loving this because she’s wet like a fucking whore. She murmurs and stirs and gets wetter and wetter as my three fingers turn into four with just my thumb left out and I step back a little to get extra leverage and I ram harder and harder in and out and in and out and rape her with my hand and she screams. Screams. So loudly that instantly I’m throbbing and leak a little clear juice and feel it, warm, on my leg. I take out my hand and enter into her and put the soggy hand inside her asshole whilst holding her up with my free arm and drive inside her like a fucking neanderthal, her head knocks against the side of the van and she’s squelching and screaming and I tell her she’s a fucking cock-loving whore and I tell her she deserves everything she gets because she’s a mess and a fucking disgrace and now my entire fist is inside her ass pumping in and out and in and out and I can feel my cock against my fingers pumping into her and my mind gets cloudy and my body energises like in the game Street Fighter when you do a power move and I fucking explode, pressing her limp body into the metal of the van.
I let her drop to the floor and kick her in the belly.
I tell her she’s a cunt.
I tell her she can now figure out who asked me to do this to her.
The van stops and the driver door opens and moments later the rear doors open and I kick her out of the van onto the concrete just outside her house. I spit at her and tell her to fucking clean herself up because she looks like a mess and her boyfriend will be here any minute.
The driver door shuts.
I tell her not to trust anybody.