Transference

Pic on the left is a street shot, taken outside the local court in one of the areas where smokers tend to congregate. It sparked off an idea, and the idea is below. It's deliberately urban and grunge and the main character is pretty dysfunctional and has poor impulse control. Especially around sex.

There was a condom, incidentally, just like the story describes. It's just out of this shot near the toe of the topmost shoe.

See what you think. Do you like it? Do you want more?

***

They won’t let you smoke on the steps of the courthouse. You have to go to the back of the building, where there’s a little grass area. If you want to smoke a last spliff before your case so you don’t get caught with weed on you, you go a bit further, down an alley next to where the prison vans come and go.

So that’s where I go. Rest my butt on a low red-brick wall, kick off my ballet pumps and spark up.

I get about a minute with my own dark thoughts before a guy turns up. I know instantly what the score is. He’s wearing a suit and tie, which means he’s a defendant.

“Which court are you in?” I make it sound like I’m in the same position. Because I am.

“Court three.” He swallows, looks uncomfortable. “Pleading not guilty, though.” Pulls a pack of ciggies out of his pocket, offers one to me.

“I’ll have one for later, but you can try this if you want.” I hold out the spliff. “It’s resin, so it doesn’t smell as much.” He takes a drag, passes it back.

“They got the wrong guy, then, like they always do?” But I’m smiling, mocking just a little but open to being told I’m wrong.

“Yeah. Came out of a club, there was this big ugly guy laying into some dude half his size because he’d looked at the guy’s girlfriend. I thought it was out of order, because the club bouncers were just looking the other way. So I just tried to stop him, got knocked out and then the cops arrested me instead of him.”

Well, what do I know? Could have happened that way.

“Yeah, I’m pleading not guilty too. But I think they got too much evidence.”

Well, I did trash my boyfriend’s car. Smashed every window, slit every tyre, and it wasn’t enough and it felt good so I did the cars parked next to it as well. Taking speed probably didn’t help.

He deserved it, though. I went to his place and he was there fucking this bitch who’d been hanging around with his mates. And his excuse was “She likes anal and you don’t.”

That last bit I didn’t mention, though, talking with him.

He looks me up and down. Hoop earrings, red jacket, over a tight white T-shirt top, black power skirt – the kind that’s a wide elastic bandage, you can wear it with the top at the waist to the hem is just above the knee, like I will in court, or with the top just under the bust so the hem is miniskirt length like I’m doing now.

“Well, you look cute,” he says. “And if you were my girlfriend I wouldn’t be cheating on you.” That’s his idea of a compliment, I guess, because he doesn’t know me.

“Yeah, well. I doubt you’ll get the chance to cheat on me. I reckon if they find me guilty this time they’ll give me custodial.”

That makes him pay attention.

“I’ve got a history.” That’s all the explanation I’m going to give.

“Does that scare you?”

“Only the bit about not getting any sex.”

“What about all those lesbian prison movies?”

“Yeah, well. If that’s all can get, that’s what I’ll have to do.”

He’s got a stump on thinking about it. I guess he’s got a mental image of watching me with another woman. Or maybe it’s just me telling it like it is.

But then I think about it. I get off the wall, plant my ass against it, legs braced wide.

“If that’s all I’ll be able to get, I should have a memory to keep me warm.”

So right then, right there, bend over, reach out, unzip him and flick his cock out of that nice-looking suit.

See, that’s me not doing well on impulse control.

It’s not exactly a strength of mine.

I’m looking into his eyes and he says “You can’t do that here!”

“Why fucking not? What are they going to do, send us to jail?”

He laughs. And then he moans, because I’ve got one hand round his balls and I’m squeezing them gently, with my forefinger pushing the sweet spot just behind the balls where the pumped-up vein is a hard bulge. Plus, I’m brilliant at deepthroating. You don’t have to take my word for it, there’s a dozen guys will back me up on that. And that’s not counting the ones whose names I can’t remember and the ones I don’t know cos I was blindfolded at the time…

Taste: insipid and clean, like he’s recently showered. No nice man-smells. But he’s a handy and mouthy not-too-small not-too-big size, fits my throat nice and slippery.

Only problem is he’s going to spurt soon.

Condom in my clutch bag. I may not be good at impulse control but I do remember the condom thing. Tiny G-string that moves aside like it’s just a single thread of cotton. I’m glad I made than choice this morning, even though I only made it to avoid a panty-line with this skirt.

And then my skirt’s round my hips, my legs are wrapped around his hips, I’ve got my back up against the wall and most of my weight is bearing down on his cock. Which drives it deep.

“Don’t you dare,” I say breathlessly, “come quickly and leave me hanging on.” Because I know what’s in his mind. All the worry about being in court, and then the sudden shock of a random blowjob and fuck from a complete stranger. I’m not just fucking him, I’m fucking with his head and that’s going to be on a hair trigger.

I’m wrapped around this guy and looking right into his eyes. Grey eyes. Big pupils. I see that’s flickering behind those eyes, see into his brain, see the orgasm switch snap closed in a shower of sparks, right inside there. Feel the jacked-up pumping of his veins, pressed right against the inside of me. Feel the smack of his pelvic bone against mine. Feel him as he comes and it’s almost too early for me but then I’m with him, mouthing Gah! Gah! Gah! and then the blast comes up from clit and slit to spine and brain, and I’m already on a one-way trip to shameless raging fucking ecstasy.

When I’m finally able to see straight, think straight, and straighten my legs, he lets me down and I have to cling onto the ground because my legs won’t support my weight.

He pulls off the condom, flicks it into a corner. Takes the packet of cigarettes out of his pocket again and this time I accept his offer.

When I look round I hear applause. Couple of guys there in hoodies and tracksuit bottoms. I don’t know if they’re defendants, or just hanging out and maybe waiting for a friend.

I’d smile and curtsey but I’d probably fall over.

“I gotta go. My brief will be waiting for me.”

“Yeah.” Cough. Spit. That’s the thing about deepthroating. It encourages your throat to produce a wad of mucous. Then by the time I was coming, with the moans and all, I was almost gargling it.

Once my leg muscles have stopped trembling, I stand up, adjust my G-string, pull the skirt down to above-the-knee respectability. It’s dirty from the wall. Can’t be helped.

I finish the ciggie and go off to meet my destiny. The guys who were watching me snigger, because I still can’t walk straight.

It’s only later I realise I forgot my shoes and I’ve lost an earring.

Here’s the strangeness. I get a not guilty. Maybe it’s the fact I look like shit, only one earring, and sound dippy and ADHD. Maybe it’s because the figure on the CCTV, wearing camo and a balaclava, smacking the cars with a hammer, doesn’t look or move like me. The girl I see on the video was wired on speed. Even I have to look twice, and I remember doing that stuff.

And the guy I fucked – I ask around when I leave, because frankly I’m so weirded out I could go another quick and hard round with him. But he got a guilty and a custodial.

I don’t get to play with the lesbians and he gets to be some tough dude’s bitch.

Makes me think. I have all the what ifs going round in my head. What if the sex transferred the guilt from me to him, the innocence from him to me? What if I stole his innocence from him? Or contaminated him with my fucked-up head-shit?

His name’s on the court hearing list. I write it down. If I can keep the paper for more than a day or two I might mail him. Might even visit him in jail. I’ll light a candle for him, anyway.

In the meantime, I’m single and very fucking available. I adjust the power-skirt up to miniskirt length and I’m going shoeless in search of a victory lay.

Carrying the Torch

Carrying the Torch is a blog in which writers 'shadow' the progress of the Olympic torch around the UK and each contributor gets a day to post about a particular topic linked to the locations where the torch is being carried.

My day was today (20 June). The post is on WH Auden and his continuing relevance, pointing out that writers may end up being remembered for material that they never intended to publish - in Auden's case, his gay poem 'The Platonic Blow'.

Have fun; hope you enjoy what you read and find other interesting posts on the blog as well.

'Smart, kinky, laugh-out-loud delight'

The blog title is the headline to the Museum of Deviant Desire's first review on Amazon.com.

This is a collection of eleven short stories on a variety of themes, often with offbeat and slightly dystopian themes. And a lot of fetish, bondage and BDSM.

Apparently I'm 'meta-sexual', 'delightfully self-referential' and able to 'pleasure open-minded readers with intense multiple brain-gasms'.

Apparently I have my finger 'firmly on the g-spot of popuar culture' and strike a good balance between 'light fluffy diversion' and 'crunchy intellectual substance', using erotica to make serious points.

And apparently I'm establishing a 'new paradigm for the next generation of erotic fiction.'

It's a very pleasing review from Terrance Aldon Shaw - so, many thanks to him for taking the time to write it. I won't let it go to my head, though, and I won't stop trying to do better in future!

Oh yeah - you can read the full review and buy the book on Amazon.com, and the book's also available from a bunch of other places including Smashwords (the link is in the right hand sidebar on this page) and the outlets mentioned in my earlier blog post on this collection.

Strange yet compelling

This is mainly an erotica blog. But I have other interests, including human rights, which are relevant to this post. And every once in a while something weird pops up and I feel compelled to share.

The link below shows a man stripped naked, restrained and being subjected to torture.

If this was a consensual BDSM scene, it wouldn't be to my taste but no doubt many people would find it exciting.

What if it were actual footage of a CIA 'enhanced interrogation'? Would that change the frame of reference for you? Would it change your mind about its eroticism?

What if there were an overdubbed commentary, a conversation between the interrogator and his prisoner, in which they explained what they were thinking at each point? Would that be interesting? What if they were joking with each other about the torture, the way you might expect if contestants in a game show were sharing their thoughts about a particular round in the show? Would that make it weird, rather than erotic?

I have no reason to believe the footage isn't of an actual CIA enhanced interrogation, though the titles and end credits clearly aren't theirs - 'special collector's edition'? And the video is part of the Reporters Sans Limites journalists Youtube feed.

The name given, Abu Zubaydah, is real enough though (he has a Wikipedia entry). And if it isn't actual interrogation footage, it's certainly consistent with accounts of how they're conducted and, specifically, how Zubaydah was treated. I'm assuming the overdubbed conversation is added as a satirical commentary on what 'enhanced interrogation' means in practice. It does kind of rub it in that this is inhuman and degrading.

For me, the important point is that things we might engage in consensually for our own perverse enjoyment become hugely morally problematic (to put it mildly: I should more properly say outrageous breaches of human rights) when done in a different framework, of legally-sanctioned actions carried out by state officials against those they have in custody.

But you can make up your own mind. Here's the link to the video on Youtube (opens in new window).

How does the framing of an activity change its meaning? What do you think?

A reputation to maintain

This is a taster. Something like it, but longer, more elaborate and explicit, will probably appear sometime in the next few months.

***

We’re in the motel, this nameless fucking anonymous place that could be anywhere. And I’m in bed with a girl, a girl whose name I don’t even know, just like I am every night.

It’s not like I have Alzheimer’s. Just that it’s a different one each night because that’s how it happens when you’re in a band, there’s this revolving whirlwind of groupies. And it’s not because she’s truly anonymous, but I don’t know her real name; just her groupie nickname. And we weren’t technically in bed, but out on the room’s balcony.

But my, and hopefully our, enjoyment of perversity is interrupted by shouting and sounds of destruction from the next room. Raised voices. Tez is having a good time. Or maybe not. It just doesn’t sound the same as the kind of destruction that takes place when he’s having a good time.

I leave my girl handcuffed to the balcony railing and put on a dressing gown to investigate what’s happening with Tez.

I don’t even need to bang on his door because the girl he’s with comes flying out, wailing, wide-eyed and manic, not wearing too many clothes. She disappears into my room, seeking – well, I don’t know. Sanctuary?

What I see as I walk into the room is a naked Tez. Tez, the vocalist, the front man, small in stature but fucking huge on stage, taking up all of it with his ego. And now he’s about the size of a pinhead, foetal position, naked, crying. He won’t look at me until I grab him by the hair and force his head up, the stage makeup melding his face into something roughly like the Munch painting, The Scream. And as empty.

It takes two fat spliffs and most of a bottle of liqueur before I can get any sense out of him.

‘You know how we rate the groupies?’ he sobs. ‘We give them one to five stars, take an average if we’ve all fucked them, make notes on what they’re prepared to do?’

Yes, of course. We used to keep the details in a notebook, but these days I have the database on my laptop. It’s a big file, with pics and everything.

‘It’s horrible,’ Tez moans. ‘Just horrible.’

‘What is?’

‘You know the groupies are doing the same thing? Except they're posting details of our performance online?’ His quivering finger points to an iPad on the bed.

I didn’t know, but it doesn’t surprise me. The internet is a great equaliser in such matters. And I read:

Tez. Selfish egomaniac. Lazy. Four-inch dick. Likes you to go down on him but he’s not even a mouthful. Difficult to make him cum, probably because of his drug habits. You best bet is to sixty-nine him and piss in his face while his cock is in your mouth. He won’t bring you off; more likely to expect you to bring yourself off while he watches. Rating 1/5.

Oh yeah – I’m on there too.

Quiet onstage. Kinky as fuck offstage. Always has handcuffs, rope, whips. Likes to take control, and whatever he does to you, you’ll get pain and pleasure and not know which you prefer. He’ll treat you like trash and make you love it. Likes threesomes. Rating 4.5/5.

‘I’ll sue them! Take their website down!’ He’s raving, in a self-pitying way.

‘That’ll work.' I'm being ironic. 'How many of them have taken pics of you on their cellphones? How many of those pics do you want on the web?’ And then, darkly: ‘If they’re not on the web already.’ And then, frowning: ‘I thought I knew you pretty well. How come you never mentioned the pissing thing?’

‘It’s not, like, every time.’

‘Yeah.’ Wearily. ‘Just, like, nine times out of ten? We’ll talk more in the morning.’

Because I’ve got, apparently, two groupies in my room now. And I reckon they’re both worth at least four out of five.

Afterwards I ask them what rating they’re going to give me on the website. Evidently I’ve got a reputation to maintain. 

***

Yup, there really are groupie websites that discuss the aftershow performances of rock stars and the like (and, apparently, basketball players and others as well). One easy-to-find site is groupiedirt.com. 

I'm not sure if there's as much groupiedom around these days as there was two or three decades ago, but it's a good basis for a story. Especially given the true stories from that period, and the way groupies were treated. Def Leppard, famously, gave groupies backstage passes labelled 'Dik Likker' (though some sources say these were also for backstage staff). These days you can buy them on Ebay as rock memorabilia for around $25.

Oh yeah - and if you look at groupiedirt, you'll see that some rock stars have signed on there and actually reply to their groupie comments - often defending their poor performance after the gig!