Archive for the ‘Objectified’ Category

The Man Who Wasn’t There

Yesterday, upon the stair

I met a man who wasn’t there.

He wasn’t there again today,

I wish, I wish, he’d go away.

———————————————————————————————–

I am often drawn to men who are not there. A blankness, a disconnection, a lack of identity. I like the space they present to me, the possibilities. The lack of someone concrete and known, the lack of risk that they will want to know me fully.

These men come in many different guises. Some are lost boys; some are married and attempting to lead  a ‘double life’; some have deep psychological problems. Some are just men, living in that hole that won’t be filled, called ‘masculinity’. That great unploughed field that none of us really understand. These men don’t know who they are. The detective in me enjoys trying to find out.

But it never comes to any good. A blankness will never accept love and it won’t love me back. It can’t examine itself analytically and with compassion, the way I attempt to examine it and understand the man that isn’t there in the void.  Often these men are angry, confused  and frustrated, and they don’t like a little girl coming along and prodding them to see if they react. I have had them lash out at me before now.

Men who are there are much more enjoyable company, and they notice and value and seek to understand me, as a person. Sometimes I think of these kind of men as somehow less ‘manly’ than those other, disassociated ones. That seems so unfair. They love and they talk and they are not scared to show their feelings. And my sexist, submissive subconscious comes to the stereotyped insulting  conclusion that they aren’t proper ‘men’, not men I’d like to fuck, anyway. The fact that some of these men are in fact gay just adds more complexity and possibly paradox to the whole situation.

My best loved man who wasn’t there isn’t here anymore. I knew him as a boy. I played with him on the canalside and I scrutinised his freckled face for clues of who he was and how he felt. But he suffered from self-knowledge, from knowing there was a deep chasm inside his chest. He knew he wasn’t there, and never would be, symbolically or emotionally, so he decided to not be there at all.

I wish these men who aren’t there would go away. Not to the extent my friend did. But so that I stopped being so transfixed by their absence. I wish we would all find a way of being present, and of accepting the presence of those we come into contact with. We are all here. We may as well face up to what that entails. I see you. Stop hiding. The game is up.

By Quiet Riot Girl

Dear Miss Grimmer…

A Treatise of all the Weaknesses, Indispositions and Diseases Peculiar to the Female Sex from Eleven Years of Age to Fifty or Upwards to Death and Beyond

On her sixteenth birthday, Adrienne received an anonymous letter:

Dear Miss Grimmer

Since we last met on that Saturday afternoon when you were returning from your errands, I have been longing for you and now the time is fast approaching, I have decided to remind you. You promised to write to me again. I still remember your desire for our future. Everything is in place.

All my kisses until I hear from you

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Yours in truth

Write to me please.

You are on top of the world and I ask your hand.

Adrienne’s bedroom was crowded with people preparing her therapy. Her doctor was reading aloud from a big smelly book: ‘A Treatise of all the Weaknesses, Indispositions and Diseases Peculiar to the Female Sex from Eleven Years of Age to Fifty or Upwards to Death and Beyond.’ She squatted beside him on the floor, clutching her abdomen, suffering the wickedest stomach pains she’d ever had in her life. Her toes were cold and she rubbed them against his legs. She was turning beautiful and looked more blue than ever.

The party seemed to be in full swing. She knew someone would take this opportunity to do something to her. They had found a new toy. Would it bite? But Adrienne was good and gentle. To the pleasing softness of her skin was added the ineffable feminine quality of watching over the vicious and treating them as if they too were charming invalids.

‘You are my eldest child. My only daughter.’ Her father looked directly at her as he spoke, but on his breath she could smell wine. He had to be awake every minute and ran the risk of losing sight of the usual meaning of objects. When he looked up again at the clock, it was gathering its strength to strike.

‘Adrienne says, Adrienne says,’ he grumbled. ‘The trouble with our Adrienne is that she gets in her own way. She only sees herself.’

She looked up, hesitant, reached out her two hands and clasped the proffered white bowl. The glass had been cleaned up, pieces of his anger.

‘Thank you.’

‘Here’s bread and a bit of butter.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Taste it.’

‘Good. Thanks.’

‘Enough salt? Don’t cry anymore now. It’s all right. It’s just that this evening I came home on the train with the most awful headache.’

When Adrienne had been warmed and refreshed with food and drink, the doctor wrote a few words on her stomach: ‘You Must Pretend to be Dead.’

The nurses wrapped her head, fingers and toes with linen. Arms and legs wrapped. Amulets placed between each layer. Arms and legs tied together. Scroll of spells placed between her hands. More wrapping. Large cloth wrapped around her and attached with strips.

But what about those fellows waiting still and silent there on the landing, so still and silent they clashed with the crowd, standing noisy in their very silence, harsh as a cry of terror? Eyes wide open, she continued to stare into the half-darkness a few yards in front of her, where the men were standing, their arms at their sides. Nothing in her manner suggested a woman now, and she narrowed her eyes as she looked into their faces.

Adrienne was lowered into the bed.

Hours later Adrienne identified what she was feeling as loneliness, and her birthday was officially over for another year. She stayed in bed for eighteen days, her therapists watching over her night and day in large armchairs with backs that let down as beds.

Sitting at the table just over a week ago, she didn’t look like someone who was about to leave her family and elope with me. She no longer remembered. Without her memory she realised reality was gone. There are but a few traces of me in her solid little room, dancing in the atmosphere, her insubstantial suitor.

By Penny Goring

Twitch

I used to love how when she came, her muscles twitched, from deep inside her cunt, to the tips of her toes. It was like her body did not belong to her anymore; it became inhabited by an alien entity, which moaned, shook and twitched. And then it was still.

We met via the internet. Doesn’t everyone? After only a few days of intense flirting online we arranged to meet in a bar in Islington. She was dressed all in black, balancing precariously on a pair of scarlet stilettos. The slash of lipstick that brushed my cheek in greeting matched the shade of the shoes precisely. We were fucking within a couple of hours of meeting. I remember the cab ride back to my flat, my hand searching furiously under her skirt to find stocking tops, silk knickers, a reassuring wetness.

I can’t say we were dating exactly. There was no small talk for a start. I never even asked if the name she first gave me when we chatted online was really hers. It hardly mattered. Occasionally she would try to start a conversation. Sat primly on the edge of my sofa, sipping sporadically on a glass of red wine, she would ask me about my music tastes, or how long I had lived in the flat. I was monosyllabic in response. I wanted that pretty little mouth to stop talking, and to do what it did best, to arrange itself round the shaft of my cock and start sucking. I never said as much. I didn’t have to. I just looked at her, a coldness pulsating through my blood, cutting me off from my interest in her as a person, connecting me to my deep, primal need for her body. Then she would know what to do. She would put down her wine on the coffee table. Walk over to where I was sat across the room. And she would kneel, waiting for instructions.

‘Take off your dress’.

‘No. Leave your shoes on’.

‘Fetch your collar’.

‘Good girl’.

Once I didn’t do or say anything, for what seemed like an eternity. I just sat, fully clothed, my legs wide apart so she could see the bulge growing in my jeans. Watching her kneeling before me. I stared into her eyes so intently I went beyond them, reaching back into the crevices of her skull. Occasionally she would twitch, involuntarily, or shift on her knees as  the position became uncomfortable. I undressed and stood over her, thrusting my hard cock into her mouth, fucking her throat so I could feel her start to gag. Holding her head close to me, or pulling it back by her hair. All this time passed and neither of us said a word. When I came I held on even tighter, and pulled her in so she would not lose a drop. Satiated, I took out my cock from her mouth, threw my t-shirt at her to wipe herself with, and walked off to take a shower. I almost forgot she was there at all.

We never made arrangements in advance, There was an unspoken agreement, that if I wanted her I would text. She would drop everything (if she could) and come to me immediately. She rarely let me down. She would invariably turn up at my door as requested, immaculately dressed, bottle in hand, as if we had made a dinner arrangement weeks before.

I became intoxicated by my sense of detachment. I desired her body with a fervour I’d not felt for any other, and yet my indifference to her as a woman was mind-blowing. The stronger my physical hunger became, the more complete was my disinterest. But I did not feel alienated, I felt utterly alive. Something had to give.

The last time I saw her changed everything. She was late, and did not bring a bottle for a start. Then there was her clothes. Instead of the tight skirt and blouse, the heels and perfect make-up I was used to, she appeared at my door in trainers, jeans, and a bright red hooded sweatshirt. I stood for a moment in the hall, immobilised by disappointment and anger.

Sat on my sofa in the usual position, I noticed her hands were twitching. Mascara ran down her face in dark streaks of moisture. She did not say a word. I found half a bottle of red and thrust a glass into her hand to stop the shakes. She drank it down in one gulp. I poured her another and waited. But nothing happened.

As my rage grew and intensified, along with the erection in my jeans, I wanted to scream at her for having such a fucking cheek to turn up like this, so, so inappropriate, so unprepared. What had happened to the clothes, the make-up, the kneeling, the sucking? In their place sat a twitching, frightened rabbit, staring blankly into my headlights.

So I took off her unbecoming attire. I added a blindfold and put duct tape over the mouth. I didn’t want to see or hear anything so ugly tonight.

Carefully I lay the body on the floor, face down. I undressed frantically and then descended onto its ass and pounded it with my cock. Over and over again, until it felt like it was smashing through sinew and bone, and coming out the other side.

I turned it over. Removing the duct tape, I shoved my enraged dick into the mouth. I thrust it down the throat until it gagged. When I came out for air I stood back and slapped its face repeatedly. Don’t make a sound said my hands on skin. Don’t make a fucking sound. The body was more than twitching now, it was convulsing in spasms. So I fetched the rope I had prepared specially for the evening, and wound it round and round the torso, tighter and tighter like cotton round a reel, until it was finally still.

Frustrated, bored, angry I switched on the TV, stepped over the thing on the floor and sat on the sofa. A female newsreaders voice, sounding a million miles away, said a woman had been raped this evening, outside the station down the road from here. An eye-witness had reported it, but the victim-young, slim, wearing trainers, jeans, and a red hoodie- the victim had not come forward.

I reached for the blood red wine. As I held the glass and tried to bring it up to my lips, my hands shook uncontrollably. I shivered. I felt myself twitch.

by Elly/Quiet Riot girl

Lot’s Wife Regains Her Integrity

I’ve a worm’s eye view of what, seven, eight fat fleshy worms directly above me? Writhing, waggling, wincing worms. Death with the lights on? For them maybe, if they weren’t so blind.

For it isn’t humus they’ve come to churn.

Six, seven, eight, and perhaps more stretching back beyond my line of vision. Churls. A diverse rank parade of manhood and hooded maleness. My bondsmen, in thrall to me. Eight of them skirt the perimeter of my body. My flower bed. Brimful of rising sap.

Marking off my rosary, my paternoster octet can look though they aren’t permitted to touch. Yet I notice they barely bring themselves even to look. However gleefully they throw back their membranous cowls.

I am the abdomen and they my eight appendages.

Though in truth I know I cannot maintain such a fiction. For when one limb withers and falls away, another steps forward to replace it.

They pulse smoothly round the circuit of my prone body. A relay team yet to drop the baton cradled between their fingers. A sushi restaurant’s carousel. Bukkake self-service deli. Milky marinades and roux sauces for tenderising my skin. Not that any of the basters will be permitted to take a bite. No delectable mouthfuls are on offer here. Maybe an icing nozzle more fits the bill of fare.

Varnish me. Lacquer me. Burnish and buff me. Cover me. Enamel me. Glaze and fire me. Embalm me.

Indelibly linked by viscid silky grapnels. Tossed from their own spinnerets. But for this brief liquid moment spanning one to the other, we shall never couple. Being fluid, once it flows to wash upon my shores, it has irrevocably relinquished its source.

Adult musical chairs has delivered the first man on line now, parallel to the top of my head. His prick the pointer over the sundial of my face. As he thrusts over me, his paunch occludes his face. He seems nothing more to me than an overflow pipe projecting from masonry. His pebble-dash flesh. Simply waiting for the water level to rise to the level of the run off drain. And there he blows.

Relief? Yes, etched all over their fizzogs. Release? Who imprisons them in such a straitjacket of desire other than themselves? You can see why they call it ‘La Petite Morte’ as all the creases and puckered contortions depart their faces. Demise at their own hands. That last gasp, a final convulsion. And then dismissal. Left to kick his heels, his shrivelled serpent in the heel of his hand begs not to be pounded any further. A small nudge in the ribs from the spare hand of one of his peers moves him right along and out of the firing line. “Don’t come first. Don’t come first” I imagine runs through each of their minds. The solitary time in their life that any of them so exhort their competitive selves.

He at least can content himself that being the first, he had free range of play over my body. That he couldn’t miss in laying down his marker. He managed to stipple my belly. I wonder if that was deliberate? That what he really desires is to impregnate me. Most favour effacing me. Else the wishful open sesames of either forlornly rapping at the barred gate of my sex, or mimetic invocatory spilling of their own creamy trails around my breasts. That they can control the trajectory is not in doubt. But I’m never quite sure if they can determine the propulsive force to any degree? I read that sneezing causes the fastest extrusion from the human body. Is the human sperm cannonball perhaps too swift to direct on to the heart of a bull’s eye target? Certainly it gets harder for those who come to the fray late, to lay claim to their own territorial splash of me.

The sightlines and blocking are good. At least from my recumbent vantage. And let’s face it, that’s the only one that counts. Shuffling along my periphery, their scuffling bare feet the only sound, save for the hammy cuts of bovine exertion. Each seems to know his place intuitively. Prompted only by the crowning soliloquy of the preceding protagonist striking his mark. I am the executive producer of all this. The choreographer for the entire corps, though I’ve uttered not a single word to any of my stage hands. Do they credit themselves to be improvising? They’re sticking rigidly to my script and following my silent direction.

Here they go round my mulberry bush, with its glistening purple fruits. Yet they won’t taste of its goading dark flesh. Only I drink of its fermented juices. It’s just me who gets to mull and sweeten and ripen on the vine.

They revolve around me like clockwork figures primed to strike the hour. I know from past viewing that there are only ever three moments of slight hiatus. Firstly, that moment of arrhythmia just before they climax, when all focus and control is sundered. The next when they waft and squeeze their members to wring out every last draggling drop to ensure none is wasted that could be adorning me. (Of course in doing so they veer violently from their locally beaded furrow and cross the ‘i’ or dot the ‘t’ of someone else’s tilling; less yin yang, more an adulteration, a clumsy cocktail shaking). The third? That beat thereafter, when they are at a loss what to do next. Unwilling to draw a veil over themselves even as they have drawn a milky one over me. They are finished. Spent. While I am still lush, fluid and charged. A teeming player when he’s been benched. Ceding me to the next man who will be similarly timed out.

This second one jerks his hips forward like he’s playing a guitar solo. His tongue protrudes out the corner of his mouth. His eyes are closed so he’s certainly flying solo. He’s metronomically on the beat. On automatic pilot. Not a wisp of turbulence floats across any of his sensory instrumentation. Until the chill air crash-lands him back into the here and now. Dead eyed if not dead eye. Dead eye dick, the stupid wanker has overshot my landing strip. He takes flight, disorientation slathered all over his fretful face. Which is more than could be said of his jizz on my unclad body.

Chop chop. Let’s get this thing going again. No slacking off.

Dress me in liquid chiffon. Drape me in gossamer white. Bedeck me in an array of silks. Have your grubs spin me diaphanous raiment straight on to my body. Spruce me up. Endow me. Beautify me yet further.

They imagine they want to scald me. To sear me. Nevertheless it is they who blow off like molten glass. As soon as they are tempered, they plunge uselessly into cold, quenching air. Reverse vitreous blowing, moving from the hard to the limply soft. Cupping their diminishing erections like an abandoned whelk shell. Poised as if to sing it a lullaby, though already it is nestled in drowsiness. They withdraw slump shouldered. My little Napoleons retreating a few steps from my snowy steppes.

Blur and blot my features behind a white hoar frost. Insulate me.

I love to watch them low tailing it. See them wrestle with notions where to go from here. For they simply do not know what to do with themselves. What to do with their purposeless hands. Or more germane their pensioned off cocks. Their joy riding engines choked, with all the fuel siphoned off. When in motion, when summoned by the lustily heralding hand, their burgeoning exposure posed no problem. If anything it was a proud boast under the eyes of their fellows who weren’t really looking anyway, so fixed were they to their own task in hand. But now, with no goods left to manufacture, no revolutions left for their machine tools, a dearth of discernible dignity from manual labour, they come over all coy and nervous of being scoped and downsized up by those still straining at full throttle.

With their soldering irons they chase the silver-white flux round trying to seal the gaping aperture of me. But the breach between us remains yawning. My nudity evaporates their oxy-acetylene torches. One by one I snuff them out.

Whittled down into redundancy, their scrimshawed wood on show now only of and for itself. Splintered from their lifeline to me. The sperm umbilical I offered. And then they turn to gaze upon me, for the one and only real time our eyes may truly meet. And they realise. As they regard their unimpressive unlasting impression imprinted on me. It fails to stand out from that of their fellows. And while I hoard it all for now, they know the moment I stand up, I will wipe them clean from my memory and restore my pristine body. They wrung out like a dish cloth, me sparkling and gleaming fresh.

Just like number three there. A quartet of wrinkles in his heavily laden brow. Premature grey hairs peppering his chest (is that a pacemaker scar outlined there?) Liver spots on his flabby gut. And yet see how his wang is baby-faced pink and smooth. Even the veins seem to sit flush on his tubular chassis. I love tracing the tension lines rippling through their bodies. Their thrusts and spasms all for me, while I lie perfectly at ease and without imposition. No demands made upon me to do anything other than lie still and collect their tolls. As they pay tribute to me. Coating my body with their riches. Fleecing the flocculent.

I am acquisitive. I will take everything they’ve got. I will drain them, tax them, mulct them dry. They grunt, they spurt, they tremour and flop. All the while I yield nothing. With their overhanging flab juddering above me. Their canopied bellies swaying before me. The jungle vines of pulsing arteries in their straining forearms. The roadmap of veins in their planted legs. My body lies in repose, any contours smoothed out under gravity. All possible stress lines dissolved by my comfort. Ha, this sap has failed to give every single ounce of himself to me. For I can see rheumy yellow-white globules entangled in his pubic hair.

I am like the Roman Emperors of old. The tyrannical ones. Supine on a divan, male helots tumbling grapes and other pearly fruits into my maw. Now I am a lady from chivalry. Knights errantly tilting after me. Or better yet, troubadours lustily strumming their lute strings. Praising and adoring me with their mutely distilled, doomed love. Knowing they can never attain me. Contemporary commentators would judge this a psychiatrist’s couch, locus of neuroses and pathologies. Keen to confine me to their textbook diagnoses of self-abasement and humiliation. But then none of these accusers and mental vivisectionists are gathered here in this room now are they? My octet and me, we each are here of our own free volition. Some of us being more free than others. Less beholden to their unrealised fantasies.

I conduct my orchestral soloists. Pizzicato, fortissimo, rallentando, it’s all the same to me.

I am their muse. They inspire themselves over my naked Venus, in order to drive themselves towards feverish paroxysms of creativity so they can daub me. But they only serve to whitewash me. To clean my canvas and bury the pentimento. Only I know the true shape and line of my body underneath. They obliterate their fictive muse with their output. This one here, number four, sees himself as a bit of an artist. Oh he’s a slippery one alright. Though not as slippery as me in my current emulsified state. His eyes shut, but every so often he flips them open to recalibrate his alignment to my reclining form. He touches up his perspective, to ensure he won’t be duplicating anyone who came before him upon me. Sharks and venomous snakes both lid their eyes at the moment of striking. This would-be raptor will be the same. Each time he adjusts the trajectory of his cockfeather anew, before proceeding to stroke his brush in imaginary swirls over my blank tableau. Part portrait, part landscape. Wholly still life beneath all their febrile kineticism.

He’s not alone, well for all this illusory communing with my body he is. What I mean is that each will have his eyes rammed shut at various intervals during their travails. Those muscles fashioning rictus seemingly networked with those drawing down the eyes’ shutters. I feel I almost need not be present. For how else are they going to be able to reconstruct this scene for later presentation? No, for each of them this is a one-off. A single-shot deal. Whereas for me, each detail is incised into my memory. Since my peepers remain wide open throughout. Taking everything in. Lapping up all within my greedy purview. Their single open eye, that which spits its depleted venom, does so in order to cry relief. Mine is sustained long after they have receded from my recollection. For I have harvested and collected their essences. The only time I miss a frame or two, is when these bulls score a direct hit straight into my eye. Then and only then do I reflexively flinch. My eye sockets are the only orifices available for their bombing runs. My mouth is firmly wedged shut and I breathe solely through my nose. The cushion under my head cants my nostrils downwards and to all intents and purposes beyond strafing. The inclination of my head means the gloop pools around my lips, but they stand strong as a levee, until the gush is tidal enough to leap over on its unerring way to the chin and then on to the estuary of my abdomen below. Besides, these clods seem tickled by watching their run off being funnelled by my collar bones and sluicing down to gather around the flattened escarpment of my breasts.

Though here is number five trying to buck my regimen. On his knees, not in worship, but rather trying to pinpoint his liquid tracer into my ear. He gleans he has found a secret tunnel entrance with his dowsing rod. Somewhere he can mine me deep for a conspicuous seam. He’s confounded by the wear and tear of his own body weight and soon forced to abort his Luke Skywalker act. Another diminished specimen, he jettisons his payload in my virgin scrub.

Coming thick and fast now, in terms of pace if not magnitude. Six’s eyes are inevitably also prised shut, suggesting wholesale involvement. In his image of me, burned on to his retinas and projected on the inside of his screened lids? I doubt it. For the rest of his face offers only vacancy. As if he discredited he was actually here at all, engaged in this occupation. For were he genuinely animated, it would assuredly be written in pinched and racked features. Like number seven gathered there at his and my shoulder. He who is stroking his throb with wedding banded finger. Tracing and totting his tree rings of wasted years. Yet his contorted face betrays him. The punishment he’s dishing out both to his wife and to himself, through my unresponsive form. His movements deviate between treating his shaft as sensitive weighing scales and slamming the spheres of an abacus. His dribble over me was derisory. He bows his head, almost on to the shoulder of his colleague, but he spins away in disgust.

And bringing up the rear, poised in line with my pelvis, numero eight. Left now on his tod, he seems so desperate, the way he thrashes and threshes his pecker. An urgency reinforced by his boxers and trousers being around his ankles. Either he was caught on the hop when his predecessor finished conducting his business and didn’t want to miss his allocated place, or his own voracious hunger was just too great to maintain decorum. See how he bends his knees, thrusting himself forward into the imaginary void above me? He is so desperate for a fleshy receptacle. I can see the incomprehension behind his eyes. He is playing out former routines plain and simple. Unable to stray from his prescription. With a risible flourish, he dips his hips towards mine again. A ridiculous plié with his faux tutu down around his shod feet. I remain unsullied and pure, the prima ballerina and you the poor coryphee troop off.

And so my conscripted firing squad give it their best shot. Unloading their full clip over me. But when the barrels of these organ grinding monkeys are stilled, I merely rise up from the floor, briefly admire my alabaster dripping self and recast my body. My Bonnie and Clyde lie over the ocean, but a hand towel brings back my bonny self to me.

Artefact

First came the mushrooms. Without them, this story could not be told.

It was the last summer they were legal. I ended up in Hoxton Square, with some friends whowere lysergically enhanced, and others who weren’t. I think it was the combination of seeing through the grimly flirtatious behaviour of the non-mushroom eaters, who despite not being attracted to each other, doggedly carried on their mechanical boy/girl flirtation rituals, and the grimy reality of the square: cigarette butts, dying grass, dark, unhappy trees. All of that made me want to flee. So I sent a ‘rescue me’ text to the woman I had been lightly seeing, and immediately she responded, saying she would drive by and pick me up in half an hour. It was a little miracle.

A word on ‘lightly seeing’: who knows what it means? We were circling round each other, having world-beating sex, but unable or unwilling to commit to anything more. I knew we loved each other on some basic physical level, but I couldn’t see us being together in a more complete way. Or, to put it another way, I couldn’t commit but I wanted to continue enjoying the fucking. I never asked if she felt the same as me.

She swooped down and scooped me up, and through a collision of the hallucinogenics, her Italian accent and the dusk drive through the deserted canyons of the City, made me believe for a few seconds that I was back in Venice.

We arrived at the apartment I was living in at the time. It had the most beautiful view, a balcony overlooking the Thames, right by the Tate Modern. The floors were wide and smooth, the furniture of various interesting shapes and sizes. It was a sexy apartment. She made me scallops with chilli oil, while I sat on the balcony and slowly came down. The searing heat of the chilli on my mushroom-sensitized tongue was a challenge and a dare. And her playful talk of a young musician I’d introduced her to, and who was just the type she tended to go for, goaded me into reminding her just why we were together. It made me want to stake my claim.

I stepped in off the balcony and sat down by the wall.

‘Bring in some milk, and a saucer’ I said. She looked faintly puzzled but did so.

‘Pour the milk in the saucer’. She did, and handed it to me. I put it on the floor by my feet.

‘Now get on your hands and knees’. As soon as she did so I kicked the saucer across the floor, smoothly, so that barely a drop spilled. It came to rest in front of her.

‘Drink it. Lap it up like a little pussycat’.

She did. Looking up at me slyly, she dipped her small pink tongue into the milk. Noticing the growing weight at my crotch, she wiggled saucily. I wasn’t having any of it. Walking around behind her, so that she couldn’t see me, I twitched her skirt over her hips so that her trim, brown buttocks showed. The polished leather of my shoe against her inner thigh made her purr.

My favourite chair was beside us. It had many apertures, footholds, armrests. I stripped her naked and threaded her body through it. Face thrust down sideways, on the padded headrest, so she could still breathe, and see. I intertwined her arms in the chair’s back, spread her legs wide, wrapped around the legs of the chair.

‘You’re a piece of furniture now’ I said. ‘Just a beautiful artefact’.

I was still clothed, and stood where her cheek lay pressed into the leather, and let her rub her face against my hard cock and smell, and writhe.

‘Yes’. She wanted to be my inanimate object of desire.

‘Please’.

Soon I was naked, behind her, fucking her hard in an inhuman, regular punishing rhythm. She was wrapped so tightly round the chair it was like she was trying to become it. She moaned, over and over again. I travelled to another time and place in my mind. This, I realised, was all a fantasy of mine- but somehow I had become displaced, my role had switched.

I remembered another mushroom experience, many years before, with a beautiful woman I was deeply and hopelessly in love with. My desire was intensified by knowing she would never be entirely mine. She liked to tell me about her afternoons spent with her married, female lover, who would visit her for wine, and end up wrapped around her perfect, tanned, dancer’s body. I lay in bed and imagined it. And all I wanted was to be the table on which they fucked.

I could see it all so clearly: me, lying across her bed, naked and erect. She invited her friend in, but made no reference to my presence. My eyes were tightly shut but I could imagine the odd look her lover gave her, But her confident air, the way she acted as if I wasn’t there- no, the way she acted as if I was there, but I was just part of the furniture, put the other woman at her ease.

The afternoon continued as they always did. I lay, perfectly still, my erection a constant, as I heard them kiss, whisper and coo. Then:

‘Come over here’ she said, and they sat on the bed. She settled her warm, wet cunt over my hard cock and wrapped herself securely around me. I was just a convenient place for her to position herself. She reached out- I could feel her muscles move- and pulled her girlfriend towards her. They spoke the way lovers speak when perfectly alone, and I lay there, still and content, not moving an iota. As they kissed she moved up and down on my cock, but not for me, for herself. When she moved and straddled my face, and the second woman took her place impaled on me, it wasn’t about me either. It was about them, their pleasure, their lovemaking. I was just a piece of furniture she had picked up somewhere.

The fantasy always ended there-possibly because that was the point at which I came. Of course, in the fantasy, my climax was of no consequence. A table can’t come.

Back in my London apartment, the memory of my fantasy gave me an idea. As I bent down over the chair, to untie her from her bonds, I looked into her eyes which were wild and sleepy from the intensity of her orgasm. Her body felt heavy and limp as I picked her up and moved her over to the dining table. I proceeded to lay her spreadeagled, face upwards, strapped to the table legs via cuffs on her wrists and ankles. I caught her eyes again, but this time they suddenly looked empty of expression, absent. I was completely sober by now; the effects of the mushrooms had worn off. And also hungry again. I pulled up a chair, sat down, and proceeded to eat my fill.

by M de Winter

The Defeatist

Claire was a beautiful woman. There was no denying that. And when she returned my flirtations in the bar down the street from my work, the bar the guys always call a “meat market” but which rarely if ever produced actual couplings, I worked up the courage to ask her out and she said yes. And this was an incredible thing to me because Claire was the kind of beautiful that I think most guys find intimidating. I was so comfortable with her that I took a dump in her place on our second date. Most women don’t realize this but that’s a very positive sign. It speaks to a level of intimacy that goes far beyond nudity. And that was the problem with Claire. She was more beautiful naked; this was something I realized the first time we were involved in more than heavy petting. This was our third date. But this was also our last good date. Because this was the date I saw Claire’s feet.

They were beyond ugly. It was as if her DNA had used itself up everywhere else and just let the feet go. Her feet looked like the chicken feet you let pass at dim sum. Her toes were like the runners in that Monty Python sketch about the 100 metre dash for people with no sense of direction. Feet can be many shapes but hers were a strange combination of round and hexagon. They were the shape of a badly cut t-bone steak. And I couldn’t get them out of my head.

I am not superficial.

I am also not perfect. I hate myself more than anyone else.

After the date, I tried to put her feet out of my mind. I would concentrate on the perfectly round orbs that were her breasts, the loveliness of her belly button, the delicate curves or her shoulders, the smoothness of her thighs. Her sweet smell. The way her dark brown hair caressed her soft, soft back. But always, I came back to her feet.

After the third date, a colleague noticed me staring into nothingness at work and said, “you’re in love.”

“If only,” I said.

“You’re in lust,” he said.

“It’s not that simple,” I replied.

“You’re in lust with a girl you’re in love with,” he said.

I got up and went to the coffee machine.

I image searched “ugly feet” on Google and learned something about fetishes I hadn’t ever imagined but did not find a photo of healthy feet that were remotely as ugly as Claire’s. I saw photos of hideously deformed feet, and amputations, the feet of accident victims and one gruesome shot of a baby’s foot after it had been mauled by a pit bull. Claire’s feet were healthy as far as I could tell. And I asked myself if I would have been more forgiving had her feet been unhealthy, had they been diseased or mutilated, had she perhaps once suffered frostbite while mountain hiking and lost three toes or had been the victim of an attack by sledgehammer.

Then there were the photos of the bound feet from China. Holy crap. What culture could possibly see those feet as anything other than what they were? The Chinese are completely crazy. I can’t square their food – which is, for the most part, one of the great pleasures of life – and their history. And then the bound feet. Claire’s feet didn’t look bound, not at all. If anything, they were unbound. They were the opposite. They were feet that did not understand limits, or even the normal physical properties of feet. They were feet that had ignored the philosophical meaning of featness.

I did not call her for two days. She left messages on my voice mail, each message a touch sadder. Finally, this: “Have I done something wrong?” And she hadn’t, of course. Except that she had exposed her feet to me and I had recoiled so much that I was still moving backwards, as if I had been shot by a cannonball while in outer space. Would you ever stop floating backwards from such a strike? Or would you at some point get caught by the gravitational pull of a larger object and then eventually find yourself recoiling forward, with the cannonball still lodged in your belly? Or would you get hit by a comet at some point? I don’t know, but the sheet ugliness of Claire’s feet made me think such things.

And thinking this I figured it was me. And that I must have really loved Claire, already, to be so hung up on this imperfection, however major it was.

After all, hadn’t I taken a shit in her toilet? Didn’t that count for something?

And when I mentioned this to a friend on the phone, he understood. Amazingly. He said, I get this. He said, you know we all want that perfect woman but there’s no such thing but when they get close, it hurts all the more. He said, it’s like we all want gorgeous women who love to give porn star blow jobs and talk sports and eat like pigs but never gain weight and be smart and funny and so sexy it makes us hurt. He said, and then when we find out they know a bit too much about, say, hockey, like more than us, we start obsessing on that one mole on their neck, or how their blow jobs aren’t quite good enough or who maybe aren’t one hundred percent perfect, like maybe they have one inverted nipple. He said, and we just gloss over our own imperfections, of course. Because we’re guys, he said. And, as guys, we aren’t easy to live with. He said, we give ourselves a hard time. He said, basically we hate ourselves. It’s why the world’s so fucked.

I did the guy thing and avoided Claire’s calls. Thank god for call display. I told myself, tomorrow. I’ll answer tomorrow and, well, tomorrow’s always a day away. If I didn’t lothe myself before, and I’m sure I didn’t, I was close to lothing myself now. Very, very close.

Is calling a guy a Neanderthal fair to the Neanderthals? Apparently, they were smart but brutish and even sensitive – they buried their dead with flowers – and not a bunch of lumbering club happy dolts. No. That would be us. Homo sapiens. We knew how to kill better. We were club happy. I asked myself these things when my sister, upon hearing of my dilemma, called, me, among other things, an asshole, a boor, a fuckhead, an idiot, so fuckin stupid, a loser, a jerk, a complete moron, a jerk off and a Neanderthal. And upon hearing all this, I could only think of how much we’ve impugned the reputation of those poor evolutionary dead ends. We’re sore winners.

And my sister was right about everything even the Neanderthal thing in the sense of its widely accepted meaning.

The next day I called Claire. I apologized and told her I thought I was falling in love but had this one problem. She said we should meet. I said no. We needed to talk but not face to face.

“Why?” she asked.

“I’m embarrassed to say,” I said.

“Are you breaking up with me?” she asked. “Because I’m not even sure we had started to really go out, you know? But I thought we were a match and that good things would happen and that maybe even we had a future.”

I didn’t say anything because everything she had said was true and because I tend to clam up when the conversation gets difficult.

“I’ve been trying to think about anything I’ve said or done,” she said. She sighed. “I really like you. I want to make this work. I think it can. But I need you to tell me what’s wrong. I need you to be honest. Without honesty, we have nothing.”

I wanted to say, it’s not you, it’s me. I wanted to say, well, it’s kind of you, have you seen your feet lately? I wanted to say, no, it’s me, it really is and I can’t explain it but that’s the truth and I’m sorry to hurt you. Things that might have given me brownie points had I really deserved them but what guy does in the end?

“Claire, you’re beautiful,” I said.

It sounded as if something got caught in her throat.

“And I think I’m falling in love you,” I said. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just afraid.”

“Afraid of what?” she asked.

“I’m afraid of being happy,” I said.

“I want to help you,” she said. “I want to make this work.”

“I’m not who you think I am,” I said, sounding like, what. If I was trying to add a touch of mystery to my persona, I would fail. I was a fraud but this did not really bother me so much.

I could hear Claire change ears. “What does that mean?” she asked. “I think I have a good handle on you. I know you’re not a bad person. You’re a decent man. You make me laugh. The sex was good.” A pause. “Wasn’t it?”

The sex was ok but I wasn’t going to complain. Guys in the end don’t complain about sex. And definitely not about sex with a woman as beautiful as Claire. “It has nothing to do with sex,” I said.

“Can I see you?” she asked. Her voice was trembling now which appealed to me in a kind of sick way. Her vulnerability made me horny.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I need time.”

Another sigh. I should be honest with her, I thought. I should just say it, I thought. I liked her enough to be honest, to commit to an honest discussion if I was going to break up with her. I wanted to say the word “feet.” Saying it would make everything easier.

“I can’t believe how much I’ve fallen for you after just a few dates.,” she said. “That’s quite a feat.” I almost dropped the phone.

“Why are you telling me this?” I said.

“Can we just meet and talk?” she asked. “I can come over.”

“I was honest about falling in love with you,” I said. And I was. I wanted to yell the word “feet” at that moment. I wanted to yell it and feel better about things.

“I’m free right now,” she said.

What was I going to say? I couldn’t have sex with this woman anymore. I believed this. I sighed. I rubbed my hand through my hair. I checked my watch.

“Please,” she said.

“Come over,” I said. “We can work our way past this.”

By Arjun Basu

Meat

A while back Elly suggested I might start to put something together for a project she was working on about objectification. It sounded like a great idea, so close to the subjects I’ve worked on for so long, but when it came to the actual writing of it, I realised I didn’t have the first clue how to get something sensible down on paper in less than a gazillion words. I played around, started things that got deleted, bounced things on twitter, e-mailed friends who might point me in the right direction – Penny, maybe, or Kirsty, or even Marc who might have some bonzo wheeze about how I could make it all about typography.

Nothing.

So in the end I swallowed my nerves and my pride and called Sadie.

When I was a primary school kid I’d always been a prodigious dreamer, a composer of scenarios about the girls in my class, or women I saw on the TV, at the cinema, in my mum’s home shopping catalogues.

But, in the summer between primary and secondary school (for some weird reason that had to do with long division I was 10 rather than 11, which may or may not have anything to do with anything) Sadie was the first time I stepped the line between daydream and fantasy.

When she answered the phone her voice was kind of echoy. I told her why I was calling and asked if she minded me calling her about something so personal. She asked me why on earth I thought she would mind, and I told her she was the first girl I’d had those kind of thoughts about, that two years after the summer we’d spent hanging out, after a few dry runs with some topless playing cards someone had brought back from a field trip to France I’d closed my eyes in the bath and it was her face I saw the first time I came for real. I told her I’d stored up some of the best tits I’d seen on late night movies and pasted them onto her, just below her face, and I said I wasn’t sure if me saying that kind of thing to her after all this time might make her feel weird.

She said she had no idea why I’d think something so ridiculous, what were the fantasies of some hormonal twelve year-old to her now she was in her 30s and that summer – and me – was so many lives away it might as well be an agony letter in a magazine I was reading to her. And besides, she’d cut her wrists open just before I called and the blood was swirling in the bathwater over her tits, and yes they were rather perky still, probably just like something from a late night film, and she found it rather amusing as she watched to imagine her blood was my cum.

I asked her if she had Skype or anything else like that so I could take a look and see if they’d turned out the way I’d imagined them, and she said I’d made do with my imagination till now, and I agreed, and she was right, what did I need a camera for when the picture was so clear.

Then she said she had something to ask me, so I told her to go ahead, and she said that after all the help she thought she’d given me getting off over the years, maybe I could do something for her. I said sure, and she said thank you, though by now it was getting hard to hear the exact words. I asked her what she wanted, and she said once she was gone if I was going to call the police or the hospital or whatever then before I did could I go round there don’t worry the door’s open and take a knife it’s OK there are some really sharp ones in the kitchen drawer and find her and wash her down with cold water and take her out of the bath she hopes I’ve been working out but she’s looked after herself and even if she’s a dead weight she’s not that much of a weight and lay her on the floor and open her legs and put the knife in the tender part of her groin and peel back some skin and any fat there might be though she’s sure there won’t be much because of the exercise and take out the thinnest sliver of muscle and put one hand on her tits and feed myself her flesh with the other.

I told her I didn’t know, that was a lot to land on someone.

There was a noise, like coughing, or like paper tearing, and I asked her what it was and she said she was laughing, only by then she wasn’t. She wasn’t anything.

I sat with the phone to my ear listening to the not anyhing and wondering if I had enough for my piece and I could put it down yet

By Dan Holloway

Image: Blue Thing, painting by Penny Goring