Everything I've Written: 2009

by Matt Triewly

Preface

All my stories (adult and otherwise), memories and blog/diary entries in chronological order that they were written.


Thursday 1st January 2009: Woman Raped? - Blog

It's the New Year and I'm feeling pretty tired as there was a lot of noise outside the flat. Last night there had been a lot of screaming, shouting and crying. I was woken up several times and in the morning when I had bothered to look through the curtains I could see a police car parked outside.

Later on I mentioned the noise to Ulrika and she told me that a woman had claimed to have been raped. I'm feeling a little guilty now as maybe I could have prevented it (if indeed it had happened) had I bothered to look out of the window. The problem is that one just accepts rowdy behaviour as a fact of modern life nowadays.

Sunday 25th January 2009: Trouble Outside the Flat Again - Blog

So, I finally get to bed at about 0130 and the only decision I have to make is what sordid fantasy I'm going to run through my mind whilst I make love to myself-

<Crash>

What the fuck is that?

<Shouting>

I peer through the crack in my curtains down onto the street. It's a very nice street in the day and regarded as 'posh' by many. Unfortunately it's the main thoroughfare between the town with its bars and clubs and the main estate...

There's about seven lads and they've torn off a street sign. They're mooning, scrapping and shouting - cunts. And what's more annoying is they're not moving on. After about ten minutes I decide to call the Old Bill but as I get to the phone my lounge is illuminated by flashing blue lights. Most of them scarper but the slow (and stupid) ones get caught. I was hoping to witness a bit of police rough handling or even brutality but it appears that they are only cautioned. It quietens down but now I'm visualising bare bottoms being seriously birched and yobs screaming and pleading for mercy.

Naturally, I was a model citizen when I was a youth.

Wednesday 28th January 2009: Hot Chocolate with Maria - Blog

Maria texted me this morning to see if I fancied meeting up with her in Thorntons for a hot chocolate to which I replied, yes.

Maria is forty-three and I know her through once chatting to her at the Balcony Bar nightclub. That was about three years ago. Since then she has divorced her husband, had an affair, remarried her husband and finally split from her husband (after he had an affair). She's definitely the type of woman I get involved with - emotionally fucked up.

The important factor though is that she is sexy: lovely dark hair, glossy olive eyes, tanned, and though a little plump, curvaceous.

Well, we met outside and she insisted on buying as I did last time. We then went up to the counter and was served by the 'Model'. The 'Model' is about nineteen and a very pretty slim brunette with large entrancing charcoal blue eyes. Once when she was wearing a very low cut dress my gaze was drawn to a very beguiling mole betwixt her ample breasts. I confess that I fantasised about shagging her on a couple of occasions after.

Returning back to reality, the Model had asked me if I required marshmallows on my hot chocolate. "No, thanks," I'd replied wondering in return if she would appreciate an offer of hot spunk on her bare breasts.

Having got our drinks Maria had lead the way to a table. Once sat down she then asked me about my ex's, and I must admit I do seem to have an embarrassingly large number of them. However it didn't seem to faze her. She then inquired about Juki so I explained my relationship with her.

"I'm only friends with Juki though we do hold hands when we're out. I think she would like to take it further but for some reason I do not feel able to commit to her. I like her as a friend and she is good company."

Maria had been satisfied with my reply. Or had appeared satisfied.

The above is partly true. I did once get Juki's top off and suck her breasts but she didn't seem very interested so I never bothered again. However, she also recounted a tale (having commented on the lack of discipline in schools today as a pervy does to tease out similar inclinations) of how she was once slippered by the headmaster, with the deputy present to witness, for being involved with bullying as a member of a girl gang. She only got one whack but said it really stung and she didn't cry as she refused to display weakness. I have to say I found that rather exciting and must probe more about this incident at some point.

Returning to Maria, I get the impression that all she wants is a bit of uncommitted company now and again - I can cope with that. All the time with her I played the understanding and caring male and the strategy seemed to work as we parted with a kiss and cuddle. I reckon I will be seeing her again.

Afterwards I popped into Somerfield straight after to pick up a few bits and pieces. The background music above the aisles was playing All Night Long - a hit from the eighties. I could never last 'all night long' now, not without Viagra anyway. Still, I felt lifted.

Thursday 5th February 2009: 'Vanilla Sky Day' Anniversary - Explicit Memoir

Tuesday 5th February 2002...

I am in the changing rooms of The Heights leisure centre in Sandown. I have swum a mile then spent about thirty minutes luxuriating in the sauna, Jacuzzi, and steam room. I'm glowing and feel really relaxed. I have also taken the week off work to wind down.

I take my mobile out of my backpack and switch it on. There is a pause before the message alert sounds.

Pop round for a cuppa when you're ready x

The message is from Claire. Claire is the ex-wife of one of my colleagues, Christopher. They have been divorced for about five years after she ran off with someone else. It broke his heart at the time, but he is now happy with his new love. Her new relationship, however, didn't last. She has had a couple of boyfriends since but is now single. She is physically attractive, easy going and in possession of a good sense of humour - a dangerous cocktail for a weak willed yet strong desired man like me.

She had got on my bus a couple of times recently and after chatting had given me her mobile number. "Let's meet up for a tea and a chat before too long," she had stated in her lilting Liverpudlian accent before stepping off the platform of my double-decker bus the week before. As I had driven off, she had turned and waved, the gaze of her arctic blue eyes locking enticingly onto mine...

I reply informing her that I will be about ten minutes.

I pick up my bag, walk out of the changing rooms, drop my health suite wrist band off at the reception and then exit the building. It is a cold, sunny winter's day but my body temperature is still warm from the heat of the sauna. I get into my car, a white Renault 19, and drive the short distance to her flat which is at the top of a two-storey converted house. I press the buzzer and after a minute or so she answers the door.

"Hi, come in Matt, I've done you some sandwiches as I thought you might be hungry after all that swimming."

"Thanks, I am a little peckish."

She is wearing a tight white T-Shirt and jeans which emphasise her shapely buttocks.

She invites me to sit down in her plush and spacious sitting room while she goes off to make the tea.

"Help yourself to the sandwiches - I take it you like cheese and tomato?"

"I do, thanks."

The act of her preparing food for me makes me feel special, wanted even - it is a long time since Sharon cooked me a meal - and I am reminded of one of the few occasions when my mother had brought me in honey on buttered bread whilst I had been watching Robinson Crusoe on the old black and white television as a young boy all those years ago. I wonder if the root of all my emotional problems is not feeling loved enough as a child, and maybe not feeling loved enough now.

I pick up a sandwich and take a bite being careful not to drop any crumbs on her meticulously clean sofa and carpet. Claire enters the room and plonks down a cup of tea on the small table in front of me. She then settles herself comfortably into the armchair opposite me before saying, "You've been a bit up and down recently what with your father dying. How is it all going with Sharon? Still shaky?"

I look at Claire and realise that she puts me in mind of Gaby Roslin. I also catch a whiff of her fragrance, Chlöe.

"Yeah, it's not that good between us, we haven't had sex since the beginning of November, but she did come down to Torquay for my father's funeral. I think we will split up eventually."

"My dad is clear from cancer at the moment, but I do worry about him. We're very close."

"That's good and bad, it's good that you love him but bad that you may lose him. My relationship with my father was different, he split from my mother when I was about eighteen months old and then went off and married a German nurse working over at the Ventnor Chest Hospital whom he had got pregnant. I have a faint memory of a man holding me with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth but that's about it- "

"But you got in contact with them, didn't you?"

"Yes, about six years ago I traced them to Torquay and discovered that I also had twin half-brothers, fourteen years younger than me, and of course met my half-sister who is three years younger than me. His wife made me feel very welcome, but he couldn't face seeing me though he did write to me and speak on the phone. I always hoped that he would eventually relent and agree to meet, but we never did. He was an odd fellow but highly intelligent - he could rush through and solve the Times crossword in double quick time but was lazy and an alcoholic. He had also been in jail for a bit after smashing windows which his wife reckoned was to do with inner anger towards his parents who had had a greengrocers in Ryde - funny enough I pass by the old shop most days. Even though he wouldn't see me I used to pop down and visit the rest of the family who were very friendly and kind - on one occasion he hid in his room when I popped round- "

"He doesn't sound that nice, you were probably better off not knowing him. Would you like another cuppa Matt?"

"Yes please, two sugars."

A few minutes later she returns with more tea.

I carry on with the tale. "Anyway, back in December, Thursday the 20th to be precise, I got a phone call from his wife telling me that he had died suddenly in the local post office - he was just seventy. She didn't seem upset at all, in fact that morning he had got into an argument from a chap from the council who had been round to arrange the fitting of free double glazing. The agent had left telling him that he would return when my father was in a better mood. As soon as his wife, I suppose she's technically my step-mother, heard that he had died she phoned the fellow up to get him to come round telling him, 'That you won't have any further problems with my husband as he has now died'.

Claire chuckles.

"Between Christmas and the New Year Sharon and I drive down to Torquay for his funeral - there were only eight of us attending: his four children, his wife, his sister and her husband, and Sharon. He had no friends. There was no music or service as his wife couldn't see the point in spending a lot of money on him now that he was gone, and he wouldn't have done on her she said. Strangely my Auntie's husband told me that the last time he had seen me was when I was a baby and he had held me in his arms - he had never expected to see me again. The funny thing, Claire, is that I have six cousins across the water in Portsmouth and I have probably passed them in the street at some point without knowing it. After the funeral Sharon and I had a meal with the rest of the family before my half-brother and I scattered his ashes in the garden of remembrance - it was the closest I ever got to him."

"Do you feel sad?"

"That's another odd thing, I thought I would, I was curious about him, and disappointed that I didn't meet him, but I actually feel nothing for him. Nothing at all."

"Do you know what Matt, you're an orphan now!"

She picks up the plate and her cup and walks into the kitchen - I follow with my empty cup. She turns her back to me as she plonks the crockery in the sink. As she does, I kiss her on the back of her neck, draw in the heady fragrance and whisper, "Let's go to bed."

It is a moment of madness and I fear rejection but all she says is, "Okay, but we will have to be quick as my daughter is home in half an hour."

We go to her bedroom and both strip. I am only half hard at this point. She is naked on the bed and I take in her body: Small but nicely shaped tits with a slim figure. She is probably about five foot three and her fanny is light brown and looks trimmed. Her skin is quite fair with light freckles on her shoulders and her hair is shoulder length and blonde.

Blemish wise she has a small mole on her wrist and a couple of cuties on her midriff - she also has a slightly larger mole on her strong left thigh.

I take her in my arms and commence to kiss her.

"You're trembling slightly," she states softly.

"It's a reaction to the swimming," I reply. But it's not as I am in fact a little apprehensive and feel guilty. But obviously not guilty enough.

I run my fingers gently over her upper arms and kiss the exquisite curves of her neck. Her chest and face begin to flush with sexual arousal, so I gently rub her nipples. She begins to moan so I slip my now fully erect member into her cunt. I thrust rhythmically and as I do, she brings her hand down to her clit and starts to massage it - it turns me on more. I ask her to rub my nipples and she complies with my wish though she appears lost in her own rapture. As I begin to climax an image of a pretty dark-haired girl with, who works in my local bank, forces itself into my imagination - I see myself being caned by her.

Having 'come' I return to the 'real world'.

I pull out my penis shrouded in spunk and juice and kiss Claire's fanny as she looks anxiously at the bedside clock. "You'd better go as my daughter will be back in the next five minutes."

I wipe myself as quickly as I can with a tissue then swiftly get dressed. I give her a quick kiss then leave.

As I start the car, I can't believe what I have done. I have also broken the vow I made silently in Cherbourg to be faithful to Sharon.

*

I call in at McDonalds on the outskirts of Ryde for a Big Mac and fries. Whilst there I text Claire to tell her how good it was and how much I fancy her.

When I get back to the bungalow, I will have a bath and put my clothes which are steeped in Claire's perfume into the washing machine.

*

It is about seven in the evening. I am watching television in the lounge-cum-dining room of our bungalow. I am still replaying in my head the events of earlier when I hear Sharon walk along the path and then slip her key into the front door.

I wonder what kind of mood she is in - not good if the past few days are to go by.

She puts her head round the lounge door and cheerily greets me, "Hi, you look very relaxed with your feet up, your little break from work seems to be doing you good. You've got some colour back in your cheeks, and I can tell you're less tense. What did you get up to today?"

She's very cheerful suddenly - odd.

"Not a great deal but had a few hours at the leisure centre followed by a healthy McDonald's."

I'm back in deceit mode.

"I'm going to get changed out of my work clothes and then perhaps we could go off to the cinema? Do you know what's on?"

"Vanilla Sky. It's supposed to be good."

*

Julie (Cameron Diaz) turns to David (Tom Cruise) in the car and confronts him saying, "The body makes a promise even if you don't."

I inwardly cringe as I recall my actions of a few hours previous.

The car speeds up and ends up crashing through the parapet of the bridge.

David is paying the price, a very high price, for his philandering, and his life will never be the same.

*

We're back in the bungalow now.

"Do you want a cup of tea, Sharon?"

"I'm okay thanks. Shall we just go to bed?"

What has got into her? She even held my hand in the cinema.

We both stroll into the double bedroom and remove all our clothes and though I have seen her naked a thousand times before I still cannot resist looking at her body. She has full and rich curly chestnut hair that tumbles halfway down her pale back and is slim, probably weighs no more than nine stone, and is about five four in height with toned and shapely limbs. Her breasts are big and firm with prominent nipples, her pubes a reddish-brown. Her complexion is pale.

I turn the light off and get into bed next to Sharon. The room is still dimly illuminated by the lights around and in particular the floodlit Parish Church which is just a couple of hundred yards away on the corner of Queens Road and Upper West Street.

There is plenty of time for foreplay, unlike earlier, as I caress her arms and kiss her neck. I tease her as much as possible, licking as close to her nipples without actually making contact with them. I rub gently between her upper thighs without touching her 'lips' then kiss her mouth and tell her I love her whilst dimly discerning her swollen nipples in the half light. She moans and I know she is slowly beginning to reach heat. I reach down with my right hand and begin to massage her engorged clitoris. Her left hand tries to stop me, but it is a game she plays for she really seeks to be forced to orgasm.

I pull her left arm behind her head and increase the frequency of my circling movements to her clitoris. I chew upon her nipples as her breathing deepens. She is close now to release.

Suddenly she arches her back and cries out before slumping back exhausted onto the bed.

"That was so good. It's been a while hasn't it," she says after a minute or so.

"Three months, but who's counting," I kind of joke.

"I'd better let you have your pleasure now. Do you want me on top or on bottom?"

"Bottom please."

I penetrate her and then wrap my legs around hers. She rubs my nipples without me having to request it. Within about half a minute of thrusting I reach the point of no return and as I do I visualise Claire's naked body.

"You were quick then."

"Men normally are quicker than women," I retort.

"Are they?" she responds cryptically.

We wish each other good night, embrace and kiss.

Prior to dropping off I reflect upon the events of the day, and the fact that having had no sex for three months I end up shagging two attractive women in the same day. I can't work out whether to feel guilty or self-satisfied...

Monday 9th February 2009: Do You Have any Weakness? - Blog

I had an appointment with the neurologist earlier.

During the course of the examination she asked me if I suffered from any weakness?

I wanted to say: "A penchant for spanking firm, lily white, naked female buttocks perhaps?"

But I didn't.

Friday 13th February 2009: The Future is Today; Tomorrow Never Comes - Blog

It's one of my colleague's funeral today. I wanted to go but as I suffered another bout of vertigo I decided to play safe and stay at home. There would be nothing worse than being ill and staggering around drawing attention away from the person who we are there to remember.

I feel a little better now but still not well enough.

It's a shame as he was a real 'Diamond Geezer'. He was one of those that what-you-saw-was-what-you-got. He could laugh at himself too; and more importantly he laughed at my jokes too!

He was only 56 and it was not two months ago that he seemed in good health - seemed. We were informed that he was undergoing a course of chemo and I thought well at least he's going to fight it. Next, I was shocked to hear, he had died.

Stunned.

I keep thinking: What's the point of it all?

Deafening cosmic silence.

There's a quote from Robin of Sherwood: 'Nothing is forgotten.' But, what is 'it', exactly, that remembers?

Sorry, too heavy.

The only option, I see, however absurd, is to live for the day. The future is today; tomorrow never comes.

Changing the subject...

I am looking forward immensely to the forthcoming 'torture' and 'flogging' of Nat - hope you're reading this. Juki is too. Last night I got out a few implements and tried them out gently on her jean clad bum. She concluded that the 'senior' cane is the most painful though the flogger came close. She also is determined to try the cane out on me and after I virtually gave her my copy of Il Postino, her new favourite film! Gratitude, I ask you!

She also told me that she was slippered on a few occasions at school and that that really hurt - something else I can try on one of my victims.

Changing the subject again...

I received a text from Ginger Jane this morning asking how I was. She seems keen to come over and stay the night. As I am still single, a meal, a DVD and a bit of mutual masturbation may be quite pleasant. Ginger Jane is in possession of lovely ivory fat arse which needs a good slap or even a caning. Unfortunately I don't think she's into that. She has got a rather pungent fanny which is interesting. I'll let you know.

Maria, though I had a hot chocolate with her the other day and introduced me to her daughter, still seems to want to maintain her distance. I'm not going to pressurise her. I noticed that she's got lovely tanned arms with alluring just noticeable dark hairs on. I would love to see her naked. But we'll see!

*

Just taken a picture of my cock on my phone. Don't ask me why - weird day. Anyway, I was reminded of the occasion I sent a picture of my erect cock to The Minger. We had just started dating and it seemed a romantic thing to do. I had waited for her to reply but she never got back to me.

A tad miffed I went round and saw her later. "I've never received it, or any of your texts," she had said.

After checking the mobile number it appeared I had transposed one of the figures.

Shit!

Where had I sent it? Or rather who had I sent it to?

I then had this terrible vision of some little old lady utilising my pride and joy as a screensaver thinking it may have come from the Toadstool and Mushroom Fanciers Society.

I never heard back so it still may be floating about in the Ether. I probably could have been charged with indecency. I amended the number and all was well.

The next day the Minger sent me a text the next day informing me that she was about to send a picture of her cunt. I awaited it with pervy anticipation.

Sure enough my message alert sounded. I opened the multimedia inbox. And it was a picture of me.

Witty bitch. Witty fucking bitch!

Sunday 15th February 2009: So, Matt, How Did Valentine's Day Go?

So Matt, I hear you all say, how did Valentine's Day go?

Interesting, interesting...

I didn't surface till late as the tablets sometimes take a while to kick in. After they had I decided to nip up town and get a few things before settling down to the rugby having placed a fiver on the Scots.

In the High Street I bumped into Hopkins who suggested a coffee in the Bagel Shop.

Well, we were sitting outside supping cheap coffee and discussing Economic Nationalism, Distributism and Education amongst other things when 'Bob' strolled past on the opposite side past Thorntons - Bob and his wife (who always reminded me of an old fashioned school teacher), used to be Sharon's (I was with Sharon for just over twelve years) best friends at one time.

Anyway, I said 'hello' to Bob along with something witty. He responded friendly enough but carried on walking. I also suspected (because he lives in East Cowes) he had been round to pay a visit to Sharon who doesn't live too far away.

I also had to laugh inwardly because Bob was affecting his look of Sharon's-still-my-friend-and-I-know-all-about-your-sordid-sadomasochism-coupled-with-all-your-affairs-and-one-night-stands-and-I'm-far-more-moral-than-you-and-Sharon-values-morals-and-one-day-she-may-realise-when-she-dumps-her-current-no-hoper-that-I-was-the-best-one-after-all-and-I'll-have-her-and-you-won't!

I may have overdone the last bit but what the fuck!

But, but, I know something about Bob that he doesn't know I know.

A little background.

Bob was with his wife for many years but it was marriage going nowhere. But, after several years she, however, opted to go somewhere: an elderly rich widower with a dodgy ticker. I have to say that it hasn't quite panned out as she hoped. After ten years the 'ticker' is still ticking. Perhaps I'm being cynical.

Bob was devastated when she left him but I could understand why she did because he smoked and drank heavily, played his music way too loud and was also quite depressing to be around.

I actually used to look forward to working Sundays because Bob would normally turn up in the afternoon and go on endlessly about how badly his missus had treated him.

Mind you, if that wasn't bad enough Sharon used to have another friend, Angelica, who would often turn up as well and she would go on about her split up. A weekend break at Guantanamo Bay would have provided a welcome respite.

On one occasion Bob admitted to Sharon that he wished he'd married her all those years back. I think Sharon politely ignored him and changed the subject. Later, having recounted what he'd said, she told me that she had never fancied him. And never would.

I must admit I'd always had the impression that Bob had fancied her but to be honest I wasn't really bothered, because after me, Sharon wasn't going to opt for another loser (though she did funny enough after we had split up). However Sharon did share with me, a while later, a rather strange incident...

She'd finished work one day and was walking home along her street when she'd spotted Bob's car and because the vehicle had been parked badly she wondered if he'd been drinking. Sharon also knew he didn't have any other acquaintances in the road and was half expecting him to be waiting outside of the house for her.

But, he wasn't.

Now Sharon was always quite lax about security and often left her front door open which she had on this occasion - I hasten to add that this was prior to Sharon and myself purchasing the bungalow. Sharon upon getting in had straight away set about preparing herself some dinner in the downstairs kitchen which was next to the dining room which in turn was next to the main entrance. She had paid a visit to the loo and whilst in there had thought she had heard the front door opening and closing. She hadn't been particularly concerned thinking that it was probably her daughter who frequently visited her.

But it wasn't.

She then checked the door only to discover that it was now locked - odd. Concerned she might have had an intruder she went upstairs. But there was nobody there. At this point she noticed that her bedclothes were rumpled and that there was a slight hint of tobacco and alcohol. Putting two and two together she ventured out onto the street to see that Bob's car had now disappeared.

What she concluded was that Bob had been on the sauce and in his drunken stupor had decided that it would be prudent to go over to Sharon's, walk in, strip off, clamber into her bed, and wait for her. But he must have panicked and buggered off before he was discovered and totally humiliated.

Of course that may not have happened as it's all circumstantial, but me... I'm convinced.

So, Bob, keep smiling at me in that smug way of yours because I'm smiling too!

I have again gone off at a tangent.

Having finished our coffees Hopkins and me wandered off to the library where he has a small exhibition. I had a good look round and though I'm not arty I thought some were particularly good. His collection was of a maritime theme and my favourites were 'Medina Road', 'West Cowes' and 'Seaview Slipway'. I adored the warm colours and I would have been more than happy to have hung any of them on my walls. I wish him luck.

After shopping I returned home and to the rugby. I lost my fiver.

About five minutes later Nat phoned, to discuss his flogging. It turns out that he lives not quarter a mile away which is handy.

He's well spoken, articulate and sane, but if you're reading this Nat don't think because of that I'm going to be lenient. It's going to be hell for you as the flogging is going to be protracted and I have instructed Juki to show no mercy to your nipples whatsoever!

After I'd had dinner Juki turned up and asked if she could try out the cane on me in preparation for Nat's beating.

We went into my bedroom and I stripped off for her and lay face down on my bed; the first time I've been naked in front of a female for a long time. She told me she was going to bring it down really hard so I braced myself.

It stung, but not as much as I expected. This was the 'senior' cane I hasten to add.

I let her have another swipe and it landed in exactly the same position. That did sting!

She then tried out the leather studded paddle and the junior cane.

Now, having not been on the receiving end of CP for ages I actually found it quite stimulating and in my aroused state I thought the least I could do was perhaps give her a 'good lick' in gratitude. But she declined.

Once dressed and a bit bruised she told me that she had found punishing me really invigorating.

"Can I come round and cane you again, especially if I've had a hard day at work?" she had said.

"That's fine."

Then she opened up to me. "I love you but I don't want a relationship with you, a relationship is too painful if it goes wrong-"

I took the bull by the horns. "You're a virgin and you've never had a boyfriend?"

"Yes, that's true."

"So, how would you feel about me and other women?"

"I would be jealous but if you were always to be my friend then I would accept it."

"Okay..."

"I had a lot of crap when I was a kid," she had added painfully.

So, this is the situation. She's a good friend who is going to beat me because she enjoys it. She is going to assist me in punishing subs. And I can have other women. Great.

The heavy conversation out of the way we settled down to watch The Big Sleep. We were disappointed. The title was apt. I found the 'magic' between Bacall and Bogart corny. And I never understood the plot either. Hopefully, Key Largo will be better.

Anyway, it was an interesting Valentine's Day.

And by the way, I didn't get any cards either!

Monday 16th February 2009: Pill to Erase Bad Memories - Blog

Pill to Erase Bad Memories. Headline in Daily Mail today.

"Reckon your numerous ex's will queuing up outside their doctors' to get that on prescription!"

Gee, thanks, Ronan.

Tuesday 17th February 2009: Healthy Living... Pah! - Blog

Eat five portions of fruit and veg a day;

Don't smoke;

Restrict your alcohol intake;

Take regular exercise.

Pah!

My grandfather smoked eighty a day;

Consumed half a bottle of scotch before dinnertime;

Had a greasy cooked breakfast to start the day and normally finished off with chips etc;

Never exercised;

He rarely got to bed before two... and up at six;

He was bad tempered and stressed most of the time,

Yet,

He got to the grand old age of thirty-two!

Healthy living?

Pah!

Wednesday 18th February 2009: A Hot Date - Blog

Bumped into P in the town yesterday.

P is the spitting image of Gordon Brown.

P hates Gordon Brown with a vengeance.

What a cruel twist of fate that you should be the double of someone you loathe.

That's some sense of humour you've got there God.

Memo to the almighty: I absolutely detest Brad Pitt.

Anyway, that's by the way.

P recounted this tale of how when he was a young man his friends arranged a blind date for him.

Apparently she was 'really hot' and 'gagging for it'.

Being a sensible man (and also not wishing to jeopardise his chances) he decided to pop into Boots and purchase some condoms.

The assistant was an extremely attractive young lady and P was somewhat flustered.

Nevertheless he bought the condoms - ribbed for extra pleasure as advised by the young assistant - and went home to prepare for his hot date.

Later that evening he set off down to the pub where his mates and his date would be waiting.

As he entered the bar to his horror he saw that the 'hot date' was the same girl that had served him with the ribbed (for extra pleasure) condoms.

He was so embarrassed that he turned tail and went home.

He phoned his mates up later and excused his abscence by saying he had been unexpectedly ill.

I had to laugh as that's the sort of thing that would happen to me!

Thursday 19th February 2009: The Worm - Blog

A few years ago I used to subscribe intermittently to a fetish mag called Axis. I expect a few on here will have heard of it or even been members. It was, I think, a non-commercial enterprise. Sadly, due to the ill health of the founders, it folded a couple of years ago. But not before I'd had some 'fun' through it!

The first encounter I had through it was with Mistress V, a lifestyle Domme. I shall devote a weblog to that in due course.

But, it's the 'Worm' I want to tell you about today.

I can't remember the actual content of the ad I placed but I was basically looking for S&M fun with a female. I had put my 'mucky mobile' number in the ad. And waited.

In due course I had two or three responses from males which wasn't what I was hoping.

I then received a text from a male seeking someone to degrade him in front of his girlfriend. Disappointed, I despatched a rather rude and provocative message back. It read something like: Didn't you read the content of my advert? I am looking for a female, you pathetic little worm!

Surprisingly, I got a message back saying that was exactly the kind of response he wanted!!

He phoned and we had a long chat. It transpired that he was looking to be humiliated socially and in front of his girlfriend whom he said despised him (sounds like a lot of relationships too me).

I have to say at this juncture that it was impossible to verify anything he told me; it could all have been complete fabrication.

During the conversation (he seemed a sane fellow) I thought: What the hell and agreed to dominate him by phone for a while.

Most evenings he would phone at exactly the time I instructed him - he would have to cane himself if too early or too late - and I would relay my latest orders to him.

The first incident in which I contrived to humiliate him socially was in the pub on a Sunday afternoon where used to regularly drink with a circle of friends and their partners. After quizzing the Worm he admitted that one of the women there didn't like him much. Seeing an opportunity I ordered him to go to the pub next time with only enough money for one and half rounds. After everybody had purchased one round of drinks it would be the Worm's turn again. But he wouldn't have enough. My instructions were that he would have to request the very woman who despised him to help him with the round.

When he reported back to me a few days later he had told me he had copped a load of abuse from her which soured the atmosphere. The Worm was of course thoroughly humiliated and I made him wank over the phone after he had recounted the tale. I hasten to add that I completely controlled his sex life too.

The next task I set him was to 'accidentally' brush his arm against a female colleague's breast - dangerous. But living on the edge is exhilarating.

When he got back to me he told me that she hadn't believed him - despite his grovelling apologies - and had mentioned the incident to her brother who had come in and threatened him.

It was hard not to laugh as I ordered him to self-cane then pay me homage by shouting out my name as he orgasmed. I also used to get him to clamp his nipples to add to his suffering.

Also at this point he was begging me to meet him in London so he could handover money and for me to abuse him in person.

I nearly agreed but only on condition he would travel down from the Midlands with his partner (apparently he had a girlfriend too) only attired in an overcoat - I salivated at the prospect of them both being stopped and searched by the transport police.

He was also hoping to still persuade me to degrade him by using him as a piss pot whilst I shagged his woman in front of him. Which sounded good I must confess.

I have to say it was quite challenging each day to think up new tasks but I did come up with a cracker: he was to secure half a tennis ball around the crotch area and after a while a whole tennis ball. The idea was to look like his testicle(s) had swollen up. He was also to consume a raw clove or two of garlic each day before work such that he would stink his office out. He was also to purchase some harmless tablets and put them into a Chinese pill box. Now what I was doing was gambling on the fact that his appearance - he was to say nothing unless asked - would lead to him being called in by his superior. Total embarrassment for all parties concerned. He would then tell the boss that he suffered from recurrent swelling of his testicles and that the only medication that alleviated it was an old Chinese herbal preparation. He could show the boss the pill box with Chinese writing. He was to keep a straight face at all times. After a week or so he would take out the tennis balls and leave off the garlic. He would of course be the laughing stock of the office. It was a brilliant idea of mine I thought.

But that wasn't to be because he suddenly stopped phoning; he probably found someone who would indulge his fantasies in person.

He was great fun I must admit. And if you're on here now I'll say hello and thanks.

The other strange thing was that during my contact with The Worm I became much more assertive at work and socially. Probably did me good.

Oh well, happy memories!

Friday 20th February 2009: Indignant - Blog

Late one night a mugger wearing a ski mask jumps into the path of a well dressed man and sticks a gun in his ribs.

"Give me your money!" he demands.

Indignant, the clearly affluent gentlemen replies: "You can't do that - I'm Gordon Brown the Prime Minister."

"In that case," replies the mugger. "Give me MY money!"

Saturday 28th February 2009: The Official Account of the Flogging of Nat - Blog

Punishment was scheduled for 1500.

The prisoner was ordered to strip to the waist.

Nipple clamps were attached and the prisoner secured upright to the whipping station.

The prisoner was then lashed 100 times in groups of 10.

Madam J was in attendance to ensure that the stipulated number of strokes were carried out and the flogging in accordance with regulations.

Nipple clamps were then removed.

The prisoner was then secured facing the punishment officer, Master M.

25 strokes (50 in total) were then administered alternately to each nipple - Madam J ensuring the correct number were applied.

The prisoner was once again released and allowed water.

Clamps were once again applied to the miscreant's nipples.

The prisoner was then secured again to the whipping station and 50 lashes applied although 11 were adjudged by Madam J to be of insufficient force - these were re-administered (61 in total)

The prisoner was turned again and his trousers pulled down.

25 strokes were then applied to the prisoner's penis.

Out of compassion the prisoner was allowed to have some relief from the clamps.

The prisoner then had the nipple clamps reapplied with extra weights to compensate for the short period of release from them.

The miscreant was then secured to the punishment bar and 50 severe lashes administered.

This having been carried out to Madam J's satisfaction the punishment was adjudged to have been carried out in accordance with the regulations.

The prisoner was released.

The prisoner was gracious and thanked Madam J and Master M for their kind but, of necessity, severe treatment.

All present accepted that the prisoner had behaved stoically in the face of extreme punishment.

The session was now terminated and the prisoner left to reflect on the reasons for his punishment.

Madam J and Master M now left the punishment chamber.

Wednesday 11th March 2009: Saw the Minger Today - Blog

I found myself behind the 'Minger' today in the local supermarket. We had a pleasant and polite chat but all the time I was thinking how gloriously ugly she was. In fact she's really fucking ugly. She's so ugly that I just wanted to take her back to my flat and thrash her bare back with a flogger before fucking her from behind.

As we went our separate ways I wished her 'Take care' but I was thinking, Llucky nobody can read our thoughts as I'd be fucking arrested, locked up and the key thrown away!

Tuesday 14th April 2009: Suicide - Short Story

Roger stood in plain view of himself in front of the large mirror in the sitting room - he wanted to see himself die.

There was nothing for him to live for: his wife had left him, and his career was going nowhere fast. Nothing excited him anymore. He had nothing to look forward to. He was permanently tired with hypertension and cholesterol; it would only be a matter of time before a fatal heart attack anyway. Nobody would miss him; perhaps his income but that would be compensated by insurances. Nobody listened to him; his opinions and interests counted for nothing. His wife had only been interested in his salary. His son laughed at him - he was a joke.

It was time to put an end to this miserable existence.

He placed the cold metal of the revolver to his temple, felt it draw the warmth out of him.

What would he feel?

Would he see himself fall?

Would he hear the shot?

Nothingness, oblivion, was that what death was? How could you comprehend the incomprehensible?

As a child he had believed in God.

He hesitated before he pulled the trigger. Wasn't it taught that it was wrong to take one's life?

But, he had long since become an atheist.

Perhaps he would spend the rest of eternity in hell?

Rubbish. Religion was just a myth.

He lowered the gun.

He raised the gun.

"Fuck it!"

He squeezed the trigger and brilliant white light blossomed within his mind and vanished as swiftly. There was no pain.

*

He was eight years old and his mum had entered the classroom.

She had been crying; her mascara was smudged.

She was at his desk and something was terribly wrong.

"Daddy's dead, darling."

She clutched at him.

From that moment on he would have to pay for his crime. Karma. He would suffer grief for the rest of his life - his son's grief - and not know why.

From now on he would be his son.

A terrible abiding emptiness filled his being. The tears flowed.

Wednesday 15th April 2009: Einstein a Psychopath? - Dark Short Story

It was Boogar who kind of made me even things out.

Boogar.

That's an odd name you're thinking.

Well, Boogar is my invisible friend and he's been in and out of my life since childhood and Boogar first made himself known when I was eight.

I'd been given a good hiding for not eating up all my dinner and then locked in my bedroom till I stopped crying and calmed down.

It was an injustice and I had felt betrayed by my mother - weren't parents supposed to care for their offspring?

The whole unhappy situation had arisen because my mother had been talking to 'precious' Neville's mother about how I didn't eat all my dinner and Neville's mother had retorted haughtily: "Neville ALWAYS eats all his food, EVEN the greens!"

My status sensitive mother had felt diminished by this remark - I had indirectly and unintentionally let her down.

So, the next time I had been unable to finish my meal I had been given a good beating and then thrown into my room.

I was still sobbing when Boogar appeared. I say appeared but more like I became aware of his presence. I mean, I can't actually see Boogar but where he is, reality distorts, kind of like a fold in the space time continuum - sort of.

I know also that Boogar is the same age as me and that our destinies are entwined.

I have to say that I'm pretty certain that Boogar has my best interests at heart but he has done some pretty weird things in the past...

I remember on one occasion Mum coming up stairs to find me with my head down the loo and my hair soaking wet after having the chain repeatedly pulled.

"Matt! What on earth are you up to?!" she had bellowed.

"My invisible friend is bullying me!" I had retorted.

"Go and dry your hair - there are all sorts of germs in that bowl. Sometimes I don't think you are right in the head!" She had then gone off tutting.

Most of the time, however, Boogar gets things sorted for me.

I have digressed a bit. Back to the locked bedroom...

There I am sniffling and feeling very sorry for myself when I became aware of Boogar for the very first time.

Boogar wasn't, as you would expect for an eight year old, as articulate as he is now but he conveyed to me that what had just happened wasn't right, and that things had to be balanced.

"It was natural justice," he added.

He then instructed me on what I had to do.

I told him that what he had in mind was wrong and that two wrongs don't make a right, just as we had been recently taught in school by the vicar.

But Boogar was vehement: "Two wrongs do make a right!"

You see, that's the difference between me and Boogar: I'm quite mild and meek and people plainly take advantage of me whereas Boogar, well, Boogar just doesn't put up with any shit at all!

So, Boogar reveals his plan and what is expected of me and though a bit nervous I agree to go through with it.

Right, my Mum used to have a miniature poodle named, of all things, Wagner.

How could you have any animal less Wagnerian?! Ride of the Valkyries - yes. Ride of the Poodles - nah!

And I still, after all this time, retain a vision of winged poodles.

Not only that, Wagner, was the 'house' composer of the Nazis - can you imagine any self-respecting member of the Master Race associating with a Poodle, a German Shepherd, yes... but a Poodle.

I suppose I ought to explain about my mother:

Mum was an art teacher at the local private school and she was also very much into architecture and classical music. We lived in a modest-ish three bedroom Georgian house in Sunset Road which had been part of the divorce settlement with my father John; who I can vaguely remember as he left when I was about eighteen months old.

My Mother's parents resided in John Street and would look after me when Mum couldn't - not that often I add.

My Mother's name was Shirley and she was originally from Manchester though she tried to downplay her origins by affecting a middle class Southern English tone - sometimes she would forget herself and revert back to her natural accent before correcting herself halfway through a sentence - I found that quite amusing as got older.

I think, on the other hand, I let her down with my strong Isle of Wight twang.

Anyway, she absolutely adored Wagner the poodle which I couldn't understand as Wagner was flea bitten and half bald - Kojak had more hair, and the fur that it did possess was discoloured; a sort of peachy tone instead of white.

It had blackheads on its stomach and was yappy and ill tempered - even the cat, Stravinsky, used to bully it.

Forgive me whilst I digress yet again - I've just remembered a couple of incidents involving Stravinsky and Wagner...

Stravinsky was a male tabby tom and could be quite vicious at times. One morning at the breakfast table Mum said: "Where's Wagner? He should be down by now!"

Wagner used to sleep with my mother during the night on her bed I hasten to add.

Quite often Mum would get up first, get dressed, go down stairs and then Wagner would follow a few minutes later.

But on this particular morning Wagner had failed to turn up.

"Be a darling, Matt, and see where he has got to?"

I got up and went to the hallway and was about to ascend the stairs when I espied Stravinsky lying on the top step. Wagner was behind him and it was obvious Stravinsky was deliberately blocking his way.

I can now imagine Stravinsky, football hooligan style, taunting him: "Try and get past Wagner, if you think you're hard enough!"

Wagner was quivering and I could see he was desperate to get down to the security and warmth of the kitchen - these were the days before universal central heating.

I called to Wagner and he wagged his little stump of a tail, perked up confidence and trotted past Stravinsky. As he did so Stravinsky casually swiped him with his paw with just enough force to propel Wagner forward causing his front legs to buckle under his body. Wagner then slid down the eleven or twelve steps banging his chin on each one prior to hitting the flag stone floor with a sickening crunch. Wagner looked a bit concussed but surprisingly was still in one piece - worse luck!

On another occasion Stravinsky was resting languidly on the rocking chair in the kitchen when Wagner wandered underneath. Stravinsky was obviously outraged at the audacity of it - how dare Wagner intrude upon his space! Stravinsky then clawed repeatedly at Wagner's back removing clumps of fur - which may have explained why Wagner was going bald - and then finally biting him.

Actually, I think Wagner may have had the last laugh at that one because Stravinsky became ill shortly after for a while: vomiting and feverish. He probably contracted an unknown virus from Wagner's scabby back.

Back to the tale!

A few days later the opportunity arose - remember at Booger's instigation, not mine. I waited one morning for my Mum to put the washed empty milk bottles out at the front door. She then went upstairs for some reason. Wagner was still in the kitchen in his stinking wicker basket, asleep. I very quietly undid the latch on the front door and then stole into the kitchen. I picked up Wagner and fortunately he didn't struggle - he was heavy for me, an eight year old, and made for the kitchen door. All the time I was listening out for my mother but she was occupied with whatever she was doing upstairs, making beds or cleaning. I got out of the kitchen and into the hallway where the front door was. I then shoved Wagner out onto the busy street being careful not to click the latch shut. I then went into the lounge to pretend to play with my train set which I had put out the previous day. It must have been a weekend or school holiday because I can't recollect having to prepare for school - it is a long time ago.

A few minutes later I heard the screeching of tyres and then my Mum running down the stairs. I think she may have thought it was me.

The next thing she's cradling Wagner's limp and broken body in her arms and she's crying. She asked me what happened and I told her that I didn't know as I was playing with my trains. Suddenly she realised that the door hadn't been closed properly when she'd rushed out - the beginning of years of self-recrimination.

"How could I be so careless? I've murdered Wagner!" she wailed.

Actually, the school orchestra once 'murdered' Wagner too years later!

Still, I couldn't believe how well things had turned out by trusting in Boogar. It was just so satisfying to know I had gained revenge on my Mother and in such a subtle way - though I didn't really appreciate that till later. And it would be a long time till she forgave herself.

On the other hand I'd probably done Wagner a favour by prematurely putting an end to his miserable existence.

Anyway, Mum duly buried Wagner in the back garden.

Funny enough, I think Stravinsky missed Wagner - he had no one to terrorise.

Shortly after, Mum bought home a parrot who she named Beethoven.

I tried to teach Beethoven a few sentences but the only phrase he picked up, in a posh accent, for some strange reason was: "Stop bithering me Matt, you aggriviting little shit!"

But, we didn't hear that for too long - a cheap second hand cage with a dodgy catch saw to that!

One afternoon I returned from school to find exotic coloured feathers scattered all over the lounge and Beethoven partially consumed under the television stand.

There could only be one culprit and I can recollect Mum saying later that day: "It mist have been Stravinsky because he hisn't eaten all his Kit-E-Kat, why do cits have to be so cruel?"

But, the wheel of karma kept revolving because the next door neighbour, a government scientist, owned a gay Rottweiler - please don't smirk - called Einstein.

I didn't really know at my age what 'queer' implied but Mum kept going on about it because Einstein, apparently, was forever attempting to shag Wagner - this was before he met his 'timely' death.

Our back gardens were divided by a privet hedge which was easily and often breached by Einstein.

I was there when Mum came out and caught Einstein one time pinning down a whimpering Wagner and attempting to 'roger' him. Mum threw a bucket of cold water over them and Einstein retreated back to his own garden.

What we think happened was that Einstein tried the same thing on with Stravinsky and that Stravinsky retaliated by clawing him in the eye, enraging Einstein who then shook Stravinsky so violently by the neck that he managed to break it.

Nobody can be really certain about the circumstances but Stravinsky had been found with a broken neck next door and Einstein's eye had been slashed.

Mum had a big row with the next door neighbour, Will - whose surname was Barrow - about the incident.

They were arguing over the hedge and I recollect Mum telling (in a posh accent to affect superiority) Mister Barrow that: "If it's not bad enough thit Einstein is a bloody queer ripist, he's also a ficking psychopith!"

Will had countered by stating that: "I'd just about had enough of Stravinsky shitting in my vegetable patch anyway!"

It was very tense between the two neighbours however an uneasy peace eventually prevailed but that wheel of karma just kept on a turning...

A couple of months later Einstein savaged an Avon Lady - I can just visualise that encounter...

'Bing Bong' "Avon calling," announced in saccharine tones followed almost immediately by snarling and screaming!

There was a court case and Einstein was ordered to be put down - which he duly was.

Einstein's body was brought back to his home in a wheel barrow, by Will Barrow and buried in his back garden.

Reflecting back on it that little area of Ryde came close to rivalling Westminster Abbey: Three great composers... DE-composing in our garden... and arguably the greatest scientist of all, relatively speaking, of all time interred next door.

Wit eh?

Sorry, I went off at a bit of a tangent there.

So, that was the beginning of Boogar entering my life, and it had worked out alright though: Mum had suffered guilt about Wagner for a long time after, but it was her own fault as Boogar reminded me because she had treated me harshly and unjustly.

Boogar has stepped in on more than a few occasions since when I've needed him, and I'll share a few more tales about him in due course - if you think that's wrong then remember Boogar's words: Two wrongs do make a right!

Friday 17th April 2009: Knowing - Blog

Knowing that when we die we are totally oblivious then we will have no concept of the passing of time. This means that we will reach the end of time in no time subjectively - a paradox. Sorry, I have these weird speculations from time to time.

Changing the subject...

Juki and I saw the film Knowing last night at the cinema. Expecting the usual Hollywood fare I was pleasantly surprised by how exciting and scary it was. The effects were brilliant too. I'd recommend it.

Sunday 19th April 2009: Rachmaninov - Blog

Rachmaninov: Piano Concerto No.2 in C Minor was what I felt compelled to play half way through my day.

I received a letter yesterday from my Company informing me, that after 25 years, I would be leaving due to 'Frustration of Contract'. This is because of my recurrent illness. I want to work but nature has decided to the contrary. I will be gone by the middle of May and I will get a payoff but will be entitled to nothing from the state because the system works under the principle that the longer and harder you work and the more you pay in the less you are entitled to. I have been working since I left school in 1973.

Okay, I've had my gripe. Moving on...

Pierce and Farrah phoned yesterday to inform me that they were over on the Island for a while as Farrah's Nan had died. She was in her nineties. They also invited Jeremy (my childhood friend) and myself for a quick drink at 'Spoons. Once there Pierce asked Jeremy how he was getting on with married life - he wedded in January. He also asked him how Auto Pilot was too. Auto Pilot is the ex-husband of Jeremy's new wife. And also his ex-friend too. The reason for this is that Jeremy was knocking off Amanda (Auto Pilot's wife) whilst she was still with Auto Pilot and also still playing squash with him. Mind you, Auto Pilot was also having an affair - I'm sure Isle of Wight people think fidelity is something to do with the quality of music reproduction.

Anyway, as Pierce asks Jeremy about Auto Pilot I butt in trying to be witty: "After all that time you spent in the showers with him and then you go and run off with his wife. He's doubly heartbroken!"

I did wonder as I spoke whether I may have been over the top but everybody laughed. Thankfully.

I then told Pierce about how, on a whim, I purchased a small crossbow and then shot Juki on the arse with a ball bearing after she wondered if it would hurt. After I had shot her we inspected her bare bum just to see a small red mark. But the next day there was a bruise the size of a tennis ball. Juki said I have got to take a couple of hard strokes of the cane for that at some point.

Still, I shocked which is what I like doing.

After an hour everybody wandered off but it was good to catch up.

Later I brought a new pair of trousers for my date with Maria which went really well - I didn't tell Juki even though we are just friends as she gets jealous. I took Maria to Michelangelo's on Ryde Seafront. The food was really tasty. Funny enough Maria isn't doing much dancing at the moment as she did her leg in and is hobbling. She's really sexy with lustrous dark hair and eyes with olive skin - I couldn't take my eyes off her bare suntanned arms. She paid me a compliment by remarking how young I looked for my age - she only looks mid-thirties herself though she is actually in her early forties.

After the meal we strolled slowly along the Esplanade and looked at the lights from Portsmouth. I felt good. The best for a long time.

We got a taxi back to our separate home and I kissed her gently on the lips as we parted - a great vanilla evening. We're going to meet up soon again.

So, I've lost my job but gained a girlfriend.

Monday 20th April 2009: Lizzy Totally Humiliated - Blog

Lizzy, my submissive online friend contacted me yesterday with some great news - she had carried out my latest task.

Saturday evening just dressed in her nightie - totally naked underneath - she had gone to her front door to check out a strange noise. The door had 'accidentally' closed on her nightie trapping her outside. All she could do was avail herself of the nightie, leaving her naked, and knock on the door of her neighbour who was male and in her sixties. The neighbour was totally surprised when he was confronted with Lizzy in all her natural beauty, and then some as she keeps her fanny shaved. Lizzy also told me that her nipples were like organ stops, and not just because of the cold. The neighbour kept smirking and couldn't keep his eyes off her. The 'ordeal' only lasted about five minutes as he was able to get back in for her.

Later she masturbated and had a really strong orgasm - the embarrassment and humiliation had really left her soaking.

Of course if I had been there I would have administered a prolonged and hard slippering till she could have stood it no more for being so naughty - and the marks would have lasted a week.

I have set her another task and will keep you all posted.

Tuesday 21st April 2009: Caned Juki Earlier - Diary Entry

As regular followers of my weblog will know, Juki is my partner in crime. She is looking to help me give a sub a good caning. But I suggested she experience some CP herself before she doles it out.

Anyway, about half seven she popped round and told me she was ready to face the cane. She went into my bedroom and I ordered her to strip and lie face down on my bed. I gave her a few minutes on her own and then walked in. She was as I ordered.

Juki is about five three with angular features, blue eyes and shoulder length chestnut coloured hair. She has a few freckles on her pale arms and back and is very slim.

To begin with I used the leather paddle on her - about ten mild ones on each buttock. Then I utilised the junior cane across both - she said it hurt more on her left buttock so I concentrated on that being a bastard. Next was the flogger and I built up the level till she was flinching. I then gave her about a dozen with the senior cane before finishing off with a slippering. Her buttocks were quite red and will be bruised tomorrow. Afterwards, she said she found it stimulating and reckons she could get addicted to it.

To give her a chance to get her own back I have consented to taking several hard strokes with the senior cane another day. That is unless we get a sub soon!

Later on we watched a DVD and when Juki had gone home I ended the evening messaging my female sub from the Midlands.

Time for bed now, and a wank.

Monday 4th May 2009: Weary of Life - Blog

I woke this morning. I had been dreaming I had been making a French movie. Bizarre yet stylish: an image of a ring with an H being slowly covered by a rising level of blood; a hairy canoe slalom through rapids in gorges; a pretty girl; a psychopathic killer. Odd.

What does it signify? Who knows? Who cares? Apart from me.

I realised that I was weary of life. No. I was weary of my illness. But I cannot separate the two - they are inextricably linked.

Thoughts of Dignitas.

I'll give it a year if it a year if I last a year.

Tuesday 5th May 2009: Meaningless Meanings - Blog

Not knowing the reason for life is why it is so interesting - read that a couple a days ago in a book of underground short stories. Think I'll reflect on that for a bit...

Okay, I've reflected on it.

Fuck! Why didn't I think of that?

Meaningless meanings.

Friday 8th May 2009: The Golden Boot - Blog

That's it. I've been with the Company 25 years and I leave, officially Sunday, with a modest payoff - the 'Golden Boot'.

I should feel apprehensive about it but I don't. Why? Because my poor health worries me more. I am convinced I am not long for this world. Fear. The most powerful of emotions hovers around me all the time. Sometimes I forget it. But not for long.

What to do in the time I have left?

I don't know. Not much time but maybe plenty of thinking.

*

Inside I'm Dancing

Just watched this film with Maria.

Forgot how good it was.

Rent or purchase it if you can - you won't regret doing so!

Tuesday 12th May 2009: What's the Most Shocking Thing You've Seen?

What's the most shocking thing you've ever seen in real life?

The second most shocking thing to me was waking up, many years ago, to see my partner, Sharon, with a contorted purple face frothing at the mouth. I thought she was dying but it turned out she had suffered an epileptic fit. Even worse would have been the fact that she would have died in the very same bedroom that my mother passed away in. Fortunately, she was okay.

The worst incident I ever saw was when I was a bus driver. I had just pulled away from a bus stop layby outside a hospital, St Mary's, but had had to stop for a red light at a Pelican crossing. A group of pedestrians (some from my bus) lead by a young blonde curly headed girl commenced to cross. As the girl got to the centre of the crossing a white Ford Escort ploughed into her causing her to smash into the windscreen and then somersault like a rag doll before landing hard onto the tarmac - absolutely still. I thought she was dead. Strangely I didn't worry for her - she was out of it - but immediately felt terribly, terribly sad for her loved ones. She was so young too - in her twenties.

A doctor who had been a passenger on my bus immediately attended to her and I detected some slight movement.

To cut a long story short she was knocked unconscious and only suffered bruising. She was very lucky.

The car driver admitted it was his fault for driving through a red light - he was trying to overtake me believing that I was pulling out and failed to notice that I had stopped for a red light.

I have to admit it really shook me up at the time and it just struck me how tenuous our hold on life is. And how tragic too.

*

Cynical? Moi?

Several hot chocolates, an Italian meal, a few drinks, a Malaysian meal, a couple of taxi fares and an expensive bottle of perfume. Three weeks of me wooing her.

What does she give me?

A text informing me that she can't cope with a relationship.

Fuck. She asked me out.

I guess it was getting to just about the time she treated me. I guessed wrong.

Cynical? Moi?

Wednesday 13th May 2009: I've Never Been Really Happy - Blog

I've never been really happy.

Those were my cheerful thoughts prior to me drifting off to sleep last night. I could only think of about a dozen times in my fifty-one years when I experienced true happiness or elation; or a feeling of contentment or hope. That's fucking sad but after a bit my thoughts crystallised into believing that death may not be such a bad thing after all and I felt bizarrely consoled by this and drifted off to sleep.

Today, I still can't shake the feeling quite out of my head. A part of me says that I should be concerned by these dark thoughts but another part just isn't. It will pass, I'm sure.

Changing the subject...

We watched the Star Trek movie last night and was quite disappointed. Juki reckons that it was too reliant on special effects and I agree.

Funny enough my favourite Star Trek episode was The Cage which starred Jeffrey Hunter. I must get a copy of it.

Thursday 14th May 2009: The Dark Descent? - Blog

I walk into the chemists. I go up to the sunglasses display. I think: I'll try one on, reckon I look cool in sunglasses. I select a pair of mirrored dark blue shades. I put them on and look in the mirror. I do indeed look cool. Then I notice a roughness about my skin. I hurriedly take off the glasses. My skin is ageing rapidly in front of me. The flesh begins to melt and bits of my skull start to show through...

I awake. It is just a dream. For some reason I think of something I had written about freedom on this site: True freedom is the freedom not to choose.

A further thought about freedom: True freedom is the freedom not to be.

The dark descent has begun?

Day Trip to Brighton - Blog

Downhill bike ride to the Hovercraft. 1229 train from Portsmouth Harbour. Two chavs talking too loud but saying nothing. One pervert (me). A weirdo - there just has to be one - whistling Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue for too long. Just past Barnham, a view of the river Arun and Della. Happy memories of a sultry summer Saturday with my ex supping at the Black Rabbit, strolling round the town and stripping off naked and fucking close to the river. August 2007.

A few stops before Brighton the number of perverts in the carriage double. I greet pervert #2 and shake his hand. Ronan, my old school friend.

A coffee on the beach. An open top bus tour. Curries at the Marina. Chats about mistresses and CP. Discussions about politics and old school mates. Some not mates.

Back on the bus.

Coffee and cake in town.

1800 train back. Juki texts me to suggest a caning session. Me, I presume. 'Okay' I respond, she's a good friend.

A bomb scare at the Harbour.

A chat to a good looking woman.

1955 Hover to Ryde.

A ride up the hill. Heavy breathing and sweat.

My downstairs neighbour asking me to water his vegetables while he's on holiday. Okay. Does he know that I'm to plants what Dr Shipman was to pensioners?

A cup of tea. A lonely evening. A wank.

Friday 15th May 2009: Auntie is Dead - Blog

I could hear the rain pattering down. I couldn't see it as my curtains were still drawn. I had slept late.

The phone by my bedside rang. Bloody cold sellers! I thought. Wrong. It was my cousin (through law). "Bad news. Auntie passed away yesterday."

We talked earnestly. We talked trivia.

The receiver was replaced.

Auntie...

My great auntie to be accurate. She was 94 and died of old age. She had saved my great uncle from loneliness and an early death through too much drink. My mother had introduced them when they were in their early fifties. She was kind to me when I was little. Kind all the time. She had a great sense of humour.

The last time I had seen her I had welled up. Emaciated and sleeping the rattly and wheezy slumber of those close to the end. In fact I hadn't recognised her at the end of the ward, thought they had mistakenly put the wrong name at her bedside.

I feel sad but still can't quite grasp the fact that she has gone. She's not suffering anymore which is a relief.

Enough said.

Saturday 16th May 2009: I Really Must... - Blog

Time: 2030-ish. Place: The northern side to the entrance of Ryde Harbour on the Isle of Wight.

From where I am, facing west, the most significant feature is Ryde Pier. The pier constructed in 1815 is the oldest pier in Britain. It is the fourth longest behind: Southend, Southport and Walton-on-Naze. It actually consists of three piers: One for the railway, another for a tramway (disused since 1969) and the busiest section which is utilised by pedestrians, cyclists and light traffic.

As I hold this in my mind's eye a train rumbles down the tracks.

The train has two coaches and is of ex London Underground stock - and liveried, for heritage reasons, in London Underground colours. The train is due to meet the 20:15 Catamaran from Portsmouth Harbour.

There is also a stream of cars travelling down the pier to either pick up passengers from the 20:15 from Portsmouth or drop off for the 20:40 to Portsmouth Harbour.

The twinkling of head and tail lights from the vehicles in the twilight evening travelling down the pier looks pretty I think.

Beyond the pier and to the west, about four to five miles away, is the northern most point of the Island which ends in East Cowes and Cowes.

I can't make out East Cowes but I can just discern in the fading light the 'Twin Towers' of Osborne House.

Further still, getting on for perhaps near on twenty miles, I espy the orange glow of Fawley Oil Refinery at the far mouth of Southampton Water - curiously attractive.

The sun is swollen, blood red and shortly to dip below the horizon.

Between the pier and me is about an eighth of a mile. At the base of the pier is the Esplanade Railway Station and landward to that, Ryde Bus Station - where I used to work.

Traversing east is first the Hovercraft Terminal with its concrete apron and three craft finished for the day. Next to that is Planet Ice where you can ice skate and watch the Wightlink Raiders ice hockey team play - there is also a gym above and round the rink. Further along is LA Bowl and above that a popular night club.

I notice that the town of Ryde is built on a gentle hill - not that gentle for old folk - and that its most noticeable land mark on the top of that hill is the spire of The Parish Church which can be seen from miles around and is floodlit at night.

I would like to describe more of the town and its surrounding area but I am unable to move - a policeman has me pinned down whilst he searches me. I'm not dangerous but he has to do his job. My hands are pinioned behind my back and he informs me that I will be getting up and accompanying them to the station. I see the second cop standing legs astride with both hands gripping a Taser which is trained on me - I reckon he watches too much American TV. In the background is a police van and a small group of onlookers.

It is at this point that I realise that, I really must stop masturbating in public.

Monday 18th May 2009: Claire Slippered and Caned Cruelly - Spanking Fiction

Claire, my ex. She broke my heart. And now she is going to 'pay'.

I have made her strip naked and shave her fanny - I like her cunt bare and exposed. Vulnerable.

Facially she is an amalgam of Jodie Foster and Gaby Roslin.

Her golden hair dances upon her lightly freckled shoulders and her flesh is fair. She is slim but not thin and her breasts are modest. Her legs are strong.

I am curiously drawn to her 'imperfections': single small moles on her wrist and thigh with a couple of cuties on her right midriff.

"I am going to punish you for the pain you caused me!"

"I deserve it. I treated you cruelly. Beat me as you see fit," she says with a 'Scouse' accent.

After all this time I am still captivated by her voice, her body. I love her. But she must still be taught a... lesson.

I move the stool into the centre of the room and she casts me a glance of apprehension - to no avail.

"Bend over the stool. I am going to give you three very hard strokes of the slipper, like the teachers used to give us."

She bends over the stool and I observe her body tense.

I grip the plimsoll in my right hand and bring it down hard onto her left buttock - her naked body shudders. Already there is a scarlet imprint of the sole.

Again, I swing the slipper onto her buttock with a resounding whack. She moans but takes it well.

I notice the contrast between her reddening left cheek and her pale untouched right cheek - that will soon change I think cruelly.

I hit her as hard as I can and her nude body recoils with the blow. She starts to sniffle but it"s not over - yet.

"Straighten up."

She obeys with her arms by her sides.

I approach her from behind and hiss into her ear: "The pain you are feeling now is nothing to what I felt when you dumped me for him!"

Do I detect guilt?

"Reflect on what you did to me, dear, for a minute. Then I"m going to cane you!"

"H-how many d-do I have to take?" she stutters out.

"We were together for nine months in total and you've had three already so six with the cane - a whack for each month."

She is resigned to taking it.

"Bend over again and grasp the lower rungs of the stool. This is going to really hurt!"

I watch her comply noticing the tautness in her sexy bare arms.

I weigh the cane in my hand then swing it down across both buttocks. Instantly a ruddy ridge appears. She is strangely silent.

"February."

Number two stroke impacts across the flesh of her buttocks. "OOOWWW!" she cries out.

Four more 'months' to go.

I take my time to prolong her suffering. Her deserved suffering.

"March. And the month of your birthday. Happy birthday... bitch! "" I deliver it as hard as I can. She screams and for a moment I think she is going to straighten up.

Three crimson stripes now 'adorn' her buttocks with her left buttock already ruddy from the 'kiss' of the slipper.

"April. But it was me that was the fool!"

The fourth stroke lands along the tracks of the second one and beads of blood form. But I am in no mood for mercy.

"May. And no holiday for you!"

She whimpers and sobs but remains - all credit to her - in the punishment position. The cane 'whooshes' and 'cracks' as it connects. Her vulnerable body shakes and her crying intensifies.

"June. The beginning of my pain when you ditched me. But it is the end of yours!"

As the sixth one lands, she yells out, straightens up and throws herself into my arms.

"I'm so, so sorry. I love you and I have passed your test. Please, I beg of you, have me back!"

I relent.

"Fuck me!" she pleads.

I strip, casting my clothes to the floor, and then begin to fuck her hard. I thrust as though I might split her in two. She gasps and pants. Her breasts and chest become flushed. As I climax so does she. I doubt that we have even been fucking for a minute.

She was also back now with the one man who truly loved her.

Tuesday 19th May 2009: Poor Tragic Catherine - Blog

Your name was Katherine and I awoke late today thinking of you. We had played on the beach whilst our mothers had walked and talked. We would have been about seven or eight.

At first you were shy. It was a winter Sunday and cold. It didn't matter as we were wrapped up warm. We chased each other. We threw stones together in the choppy sea. We jumped off low sea walls to land with a thump onto soft dry golden sand. Western Gardens, before the never completed relief road.

We tried, and failed, to get into the disused roller-skate rink with its broken windows when we thought no one was looking.

Our mums walked and talked and we ran and played.

I was young but I kind of grew fond of you that day. I think we were bought ice creams but it all goes hazy now. You returned to the mainland and I never saw you again.

Another memory, and later, maybe a couple of months. I am in the kitchen at home when Mum comes and speaks to me. She is solemn. "Katherine's mummy has committed suicide."

I don't think I really reacted at the time. I didn't understand but, it must have gone deep, really deep because now I am thinking: What terrible despair drove her to take her life and abandon her only daughter in the most unimaginable way? To break that little girl's heart who wouldn't, couldn't have understood...

What ever happened to that little girl? And as I write, again fragments of memories of that day flicker through my mind like an old black and white film...

Did she overcome that terrible tragedy? Did it make her stronger in some strange way? Did she find love? A loving and happy family of her own?

Perhaps she turned to faith?

Or was her life ruined? Failure at school? A string of unhappy and unfulfilling relationships? Alcoholism? Drugs?

Did she take her life too?

I'll never know. And why have I dredged up this memory from so long ago like a body retrieved years later from a melting glacier?

Poor tragic Katherine.

I cannot forget...

Wednesday 20th May 2009: Drop Your Trousers - Blog

A few years back. I'm in the doctor's surgery. I have something that is worrying me. My doctor is Indian, and charming, but for some reason he reminds me of Kenneth More the actor.

"Do you think you could just drop your trousers and pants please?"

I'm kind of uncomfortable with it but I comply nevertheless. Whilst I do that he slips on a surgical rubber glove.

He comes up to me and gently feels around my testicles.

I don't think he finds anything.

"That reminds me," he says. "I must pick up some onion bhajis for tea."

He pulls the glove off and throws it in the bin.

Funny thing is, I only came in to ask him about the spate of headaches I had been suffering from...

*

If you masturbate then you're gay because you are having sex with an individual of the same gender. If you are playing with your own penis it's only a small step up to playing with someone else's penis.

The same applies to a woman - naturally.

I explained this to my homophobic friend. He had no real answers.

Just a thought.

Thursday 21st May 2009: The Road to Dignitas - Blog

Yesterday afternoon. At the top of Union Street opposite Wetherspoons. An old school colleague, M, waves to me from her car. I make a joke about kerb crawling and jump in.

"Coffee?" I suggest.

"That'll be good. Where?"

We drive along the Esplanade and opt for the Appley Cafe.

I buy her a diet coke and I have a hot chocolate and a Bakewell Tart.

We're just up from the beach with a great view of the Solent - Portsmouth and Spinnaker Tower can be clearly seen. The Ryde Dotto Train passes by. We wave.

"I'm not on it this year because of my illness," I explain to her.

Coke dribbles down the side of her mouth. She's just been to the dentist and is still numb.

I suddenly feel dizzy and clutch onto the table.

"If anyone's watching us, they'll wonder how we managed to shake off our carers," I joke.

I start to feel worse. My balance starts to go and I feel that I am about to collapse.

She gets me in the car and takes me home.

I take two tablets and threw myself onto the sofa. I fall asleep and when I wake I feel better but not right.

I get through the evening. I even manage to wank about a girl I once had a one night stand with a few years ago.

After, I wonder what would have happened if I had died mid-wank and had been found naked with penis in hand - a good tale for the grandchildren.

This morning I suffer another attack.

I feel a little better now.

The truth is that I am not going to get better and if you read between the lines, the writing's on the wall.

I'm scared about how bad it's going to get. Fear. That's what runs through me most of the time. Fear, the most powerful of all emotions. I have posted that before on here.

Dignitas. Is Dignitas my only option?

All my friends and relatives could cope with my death. Except my son. I would rather just do it. But, I have to talk to him. It's the right thing to do.

Saturday 23rd May 2009: For Fuck's Sake - Blog

A few years ago.

I'm a bus driver. I'm on a route that picks up school kids from Seaview, Elmfield and Oakfield and then takes them to Ryde High School. It's tightly timed and busy.

At Elmfield a young mum gets on with her son who's about five. "One to Ryde Bus Station please," she says.

I inform her that the she would be better getting the bus immediately behind - and it is actually behind - as this one takes the longer route.

"I'm not in a rush," she replies. She pays her fare and sits down. I carry on with the service.

Everywhere I go I get held up: Motorists pushing their way through gaps; Cars parked on corners so I can't swing round; Mothers dropping off sons and daughters where they're not supposed to - frustrating, and I have to commence another service straightaway when I get in.

I finally arrive at the Esplanade Bus Station.

The mum who got on at Elmfield gets up and walks down the aisle to alight from the bus with her son. As they get level with the cab the little boy says: "Mummy, what does 'For Fucks Sake!' mean?"

Shit!

I remind myself in future to check first that the microphone isn't still on when I take over a vehicle.

I never heard anything from the Company. Guess, I got away with it.

Monday 25th May 2009: True Love - Blog

I'm with Sharon, my ex, in a large room. I do not recognise the room. In the middle of the room is a shower.

It is, of course, a dream. Dreams are bizarre. What or who creates them?

I digress.

Sharon is older now. I'm not sure whether I fancy her anymore and I notice that she is packing her belongings.

A feeling of being soiled and dirty suddenly overwhelms me. I must shower. I turn it on. The water sprays out. I start to strip but I feel self-conscious in front of her. Then I rationalise that she has seen me naked countless number of times before.

Before I step under the shower, I tell her: "We could have been really happy you know."

"How could we have ever been happy?"

I look down and see my penis half hard at this juncture.

"We could have been really happy if-" I awake but I continue the line, " you had let me be the person I really am."

Fully alert now I feel sad.

I get up and feel wobbly. Is today the day I die? Found face down in my porridge - the last time I get my oats! Gallows humour.

I experience fear. Fear my constant companion. My constant very unwanted companion.

Then I think about love. Not an original thought I suspect. There is nothing new under the sun: Ecclesiastes. Only unrequited love or lost love is true love.

I have a companion for fear now. Heartbreak.

Wednesday 27th May 2009: The Day I Visited a Prostitute - Blog

It was in October 1997 that I first visited a prostitute. It was also in October 1997 that I should have realised too that my six and a bit year relationship with Moody was never going to work - should have realised...

It had been my day off and there had been no chores to do - just me, my thoughts, my fantasies and my lust.

That August I had turned forty and with it a feeling, a dread, that time was running out. I had been dumped twice by Moody during the summer but on each occasion she had asked me back and because I loved her, was weak, I had taken her back. Yet my loyalty and devotion had seemed to mean nothing to her. In this miserable existence my only consolation was hedonism - the gratification of the senses.

Or was that, now reflecting back, just an excuse for my immoral behaviour. And is it not necessary to believe one's own lies all the more fully in order to deceive others more skilfully?

Perhaps another excuse would have been to say that I was in the grip of a mid-life crisis but the truth of the matter was that my whole fucking life had so far been a crisis: childhood anxiety merely morphing into teenage angst.

In the lounge of the town cottage I alone rented and occupied I had picked up a copy of the Daily Sport which a punter had given me from the day before and I had causally left on the arm of my settee. I had flicked through it before getting to the 'massage' ads near the back with one advertisement in particular catching my eye - a blonde 21 year old with a tanned 36-24-36 figure in Bournemouth.

Shaking, I had then rung the number.

A woman had answered to inform me that 'Tanya' was working and that there was no need to book. She had also given me the address.

I knew that what I was about to do, possibly about to do, was illicit yet it made the idea all the more exciting.

I had then worried that there was a chance that I would get caught, exposed, perhaps be prosecuted and be publicly shamed - I had openly and frequently, mouthed off moral platitudes, and had condemned infidelity. I was in a dilemma.

I had then taken a shiny two pence piece out of my pocket - tails I go, heads I don't. I had flicked the coin spinning up into the air before catching it with my right hand and slapping it down upon my the back of left hand. Gingerly I had then uncovered it - tails!

Without further ado I had caught a bus to Yarmouth which had connected with a ferry to Lymington, a train to Brockenhurst and then one to Bournemouth.

On the train to Bournemouth a group of school children had boarded and in a moment of paranoid panic I had imagined them pointing me out and singing: 'We know where you're going, we know where you're going!'

I'd managed to get a grip of myself whilst every second I neared my dirty destination and sordid liaison whilst on another level my excitement began to reach such a peak that I could feel my heart pounding.

Another wave of anxiety: What if I suffer a heart attack?

I'd visualised the headlines in the local paper: 'Respectable' Local Man Dies in Brothel - Humiliated Partner Never Knew. I could also hear the cutting wit of my colleagues: He went before he came!

And then I arrived - Pokesdown. The station had seemed rather aptly named. It had also put me in mind of a rough suburb of London.

I had then strolled out of the station and entered Boscombe High Street desperately attempting not to look like a bloke visiting a prostitute.

Having found the place I then double-checked the address I had written on a scrap of paper. Satisfied I had then pressed the buzzer.

As I waited at what felt like an eternity for the door to be opened I was sure that everyone passing by was looking at me with disgust. 'Just answer the fucking door,' I'd thought desperately.

And then a plain middle-aged woman had let me in and for a second I'd been disappointed: Surely, that can't be her?

"Tanya will be with you in a minute."

Relief.

The 'receptionist' had then led me upstairs into a 'waiting' room presumably because Tanya was still with another client. There had been an attempt to tidy the place up but it was still run down - still felt sordid. On a table next to me were some porn magazines which I had picked up and flicked through.

About five minutes later Tanya, wearing a see-through and very skimpy lace top, had poked her head round the door. She was gorgeous: blonde, tanned shapely and beautiful. And for a moment she reminded me of another woman I kind of had a crush on at the time, Claire, though she was younger and a little prettier.

Tanya, who'd had a slight 'Brummie' accent (she informed me later that she was originally from Wolverhampton), asked me what I would like her to do for me.

I told her and she said: "Okay, it'll be seventy quid."

I'd handed her the notes and before she momentarily disappeared into a back room she asked me to go through an adjacent door and take all my clothes off - which I did.

A few minutes later Tanya had returned and apprised me of the rules: no kissing and no exchange of bodily fluids - fair enough.

She'd then removed her slip over her head and had told me to lie down upon the bed. I'd then heard her pick up the cane, about three feet in length, and awaited, with some trepidation, the first stroke. "I'm going to start gently then gradually whack you harder."

"Okay," I'd said.

She did as she promised and after about ten strokes she was really bringing the cane down with some force across my bare buttocks - it had begun to really sting. I was also achingly stiff and needed to fuck her. After a couple more whacks I'd asked her to stop.

I'd then turned over onto my back whilst she had picked up a condom from a dish she had kept on the side and had handed it to me. I'd opened the packet pulled it out and then rolled it over my cock.

When I'd done that she told me that she wanted me to go on top. She then lay down next to me whilst I mounted and penetrated her. As I did I wondered how she could remain damp and accommodating all day long.

I then requested her to rub my nipples whilst I began to thrust. There was no doubt that she was beautiful: deep blue eyes, shapely tits, golden tan - and worth every penny.

As we had fucked she had told me that I was a good looking fella with beautiful eyes. The remark had me feel good but I suspected she had flattered all her clients.

It didn't take long for me to climax. And that was that. I got dressed, gave her a peck on the cheek and thanked her before leaving.

After I had emerged into the daylight I had felt elated with, strangely, not an ounce of shame.

I had then popped down to the shops, had a coffee and a sandwich before setting out on the journey back.

Later that evening I had gone round to see Sharon. Still on a high and aroused by the afternoon's events I had suggested an 'early night'.

"Not really in the mood, thanks," she had responded.

I'd thought: Always in a mood, actually. But didn't say it.

Despite that we lasted nearly another six years - another six years of ups and downs and highs and lows - but the truth is that my actions that day had changed us, or rather me, irrevocably, and underneath things could never be the same again.

The Golden Boot Has Landed - Blog

I look out of my kitchen window. It's raining and windy. The trees across the road are swaying to and fro. For some reason I am reminded of the girls dancing in Beau Travail.

I turn away and face the kitchen floor: black rubbish bags which need taking down - the bins are emptied today. I've been tidying. Funny that. I can tidy everything except the contents of my head.

I pick up the leaking bag and carry it downstairs. The wind and the rain combine to make me shiver as I exit the communal entrance. I place the bag in the alleyway and return to the house. I pick up the post in the hallway. There is a thick brown envelope addressed to me. I'm intrigued. I open it. Inside is a P45 and a pay slip - my final pay slip.

Relief and sadness simultaneously flood through me. Relief, that I have finally received my pay off - more than I expected; sadness, because it is the end of twenty five years.

Irony.

Yesterday I received from the Company my twenty-five year badge and gift voucher.

Melancholic, I play first Rachmaninov's Piano Concerto No. 2 in C minor then Ravel's Pavane Pour une Infante Defunte.

The wind howls in the background deepening my mood.

Life must go on, I tell myself.

Must it? I answer myself back.

A new existence is forced upon me.

I make myself a cup of tea and read the forms...

Thursday 28th May 2009: Neurotic Text Tennis - Blog

Late yesterday afternoon I receive a text from Maria. It reads: Hi Matt just wondered how u r ive got some books of urs shall i post them through ur door? X

Me: You can come round and ring the buzzer. I'll let you in and you can leave them on the table. I don't want them damaged by being stuffed through a letter box or getting damp.

Me: And the dvd I lent you too please

Maria: What dvd?

Me: The triplets of belleville

Maria: I thought that was given to the kids?

Me: Keep it then

Maria: Look im not that bothered i was just trying to be friendly but can c u dont want to u can hav it all bk but i'll meet u in town to give them as im not going all up them steps in ur flat

Me: I'll come round and get them tomorrow. I'll be honest with you... i'm not interested in being friends. Find some other sucker to play your childish games with

Maria: For a start im not on isle of wight this week and i'll meet u next week in town as i dont want u at my house as i think u r a cheating creep who cant keep it in his trousers and they r not my words so how dare u say im the one playing games u jerk get stuffed

Me: Point proved. If you thought i was a cheating creep then why did you go out with me other than to play games. I actually thought you were a nice person. I treated you with respect and didn't try it on with you... if you remember. I was honest with you and told you that i had a few flings when me and Sharon were virtually over...i regret that now

At this point Juki turns up. I turn off the phone and go to the cinema.

Juki asks me if I'm okay.

"Just a bit blitzed by losing my job... beginning to sink in now," I reply.

It's a lie. My mind is on Maria - I'm being neurotic and handling it all wrong.

I am also not being honest - mainly with myself.

After going into the wrong studio we sit down to watch the film: 12 Rounds.

One round would have been enough - I've had my fill of angry macho American cops, car chases, explosions, guns and clichéd villains.

The film, mercifully, over I walk Juki to the Parish Church. The spire (185 feet high) looks beautiful bathed in the sodium floodlights.

I digress.

I kiss Juki goodbye and we go our separate ways.

I switch on my phone. One message. Maria: Its not anything to do with ur past it was now and i only found out u were a cheating creep the weekend it finished u lied about u and Juki i thought u were a nice guy too how wrong was i so who was the one playing games again now let me c oh yes it was u and u and u

Me: I can understand if i was having an affair with Juki but on my son's life i am not. I hold her hand but nothing else. Somebody had told you lies. I've lost my job today and i'm still ill...it's not a good time for me and it seemed like you were playing games. If you weren't then i apologise

Maria: Well I wasnt playing and i can understand how u feel losing ur job but there was no need to take it out on me to b honest i don't know what to think anymore i'll text u next week to meet so u can have ur things bk

Me: I'm sorry. I've been trying to put a good face on things but everything is just beginning to get to me. I felt really comfortable with you and loved your company. I was quite hurt when you dumped me actually. I thought you really liked me. I wasn't in a rush to jump into bed with you because i wanted it to be right. You didn't call me back and talk about it so assumed you had either got someone else or that you were very cold. I felt very dejected and cynical. I feel very very down at the mo with one thing and the other. Read the books and return them when you can. I've got a danielle steel dvd here which i bought cheaply for you... I'll give it to you when i see you. Take care. Ima.

I haven't heard from her since.

So, if you want any relationship advice, don't fucking ask me!

Saturday 30th May: Pond - Short Story

"Lies are the foundation of a strong relationship."

Jeremy just raising a pint of Abbots to his lips splutters then lowers it to safety at chest level.

We're in 'Spoons, Wetherspoons, Union Street, Ryde, Isle of Wight. And it's Friday night.

"Matt, is this another one of your crazy theories? If there's one thing that's guaranteed to split couples up it's deceit, lies, mistrust-"

"If you think about it's not the lies that destroy a relationship, it's the finding out of the lies that finishes it off, or maybe redefines it. For instance: if a bloke has an affair it's only when his wife discovers he's been shagging someone else that it falls apart. Of course, she could become suspicious beforehand because perhaps he doesn't make love to her as often or as passionately as he once did. Or he starts working late at the office et cetera. Being a woman, she would say nothing but would mentally file those things away till the appropriate time to bring them out... like during a blazing row..."

Jeremy chuckles but I can see I've captured his interest.

I continue. "But what would happen if that fellow was a perfect actor: never behaved in such a way to arouse suspicion; carried on making love to his wife as he always had; was always where he said he was; had a mistress who was in total complicity-"

"But that wouldn't happen in real life, there would always be holes: a crisis with the kids; phoning during the dinner hour when he was the other woman; his mobile would be off - all things that would start to sow the seeds of doubt in her mind," Jeremy points out.

"Well, nobody is immune to risks but it's quite conceivable that none of these things happen and provided he can maintain the charade then he is going to get away with it, maybe for life, think of all those unsolved crimes for example."

I take a sip of my lager shandy - real ale drinkers cringe now.

Another thought slips into my mind. "What if he does get caught out but is such a convincing liar that his wife totally believes him."

"Aw, come on Matt, no woman is going to be that naïve!"

"But it's not just in the domain of fidelity that lies are an issue - let me widen the field. I said just now that lies and deceit are paramount to maintaining a successful relationship..."

Jeremy effects a quizzical expression before raising his glass to his lips and just behind Jeremy, a little along the bar, I observe a fellow shoot me a look that I can only interpret as slightly hostile - I notice little else about him apart from the fact that he is the same height as me, maybe a tad shorter, and in possession of piercing blue eyes. I notice little else about him because suddenly I feel threatened - imagined or not!

"You were saying," Jeremy prompts me.

"Look, imagine the consequences if you were to tell the whole truth, what you actually thought, what you really felt towards a person in a relationship. Can you see yourself saying for instance: 'I only married you because the buxom blonde wasn't interested and I was worried about being left on the shelf, furthermore when we make love, I have fantasies about other women-' "

"Yes, but-"

"... she says to you: 'I don't really fancy you Jeremy but you've got a well-paying job and without you I would be working long hours in a shop and living in a dingy bed-sit, however if someone better looking comes along with even more money, I'll be off like a shot!' - get my point?"

"You're getting a bit close to the mark, Matt."

"Sorry Jeremy but I think you'll have to agree it's the kind of way things are, but take the 'lying option', if you and your partner give each other credible lies. 'You're not the best-looking bloke in the world Jeremy but I've never met a man so kind and considerate, and that's what is so important to me besides which you are the only man to really satisfy me in bed...' And after something like that you'll be straight down the retail park to order that kitchen she's always wanted!"

"You really are a cynical bastard, Matt, no wonder you can't get women-"

"Which is exactly the point I've been making: I'm far too honest! You see what you've got to do is the hone the lies to perfection such that both parties totally accept them, in fact I would say that there are couples out there who have practised their lies so well that they actually believe their own fictions, which make sense: in order for others to believe your lies, first you must believe them yourself. In fact, that could also apply to politicians and religious leaders. But I digress-"

"What you having?" Jeremy interjects.

I can see he wants to change the subject - few people can stomach the truth. But I throw in just one more thought: "My observation is that there is only one more thing that a woman hates more than a man that lies... and that's one that tells the truth!"

"I'm sure they'll be falling at your feet!" Jeremy smiles.

I pause and then reply, "For a moment there my best friend I thought I detected just a smidgeon of sarcasm. Oh and I'll have a lager shandy please, Jeremy."

I get a 'daggers' look from the bloke with the blue eyes - I feel decidedly uncomfortable.

"I'm going to stand over there by the entrance," I say to Jeremy, and then thumb the direction to him who has just turned to the bar. "It's a bit crowded here."

"Right you are."

I plonk my empty glass down on a wooden shelf running around a support column and casually stroll the five or six yards nearer the glass doors which are hooked open being as it's June. I leave Jeremy at the bar and scan round for a free table, but all are taken.

I feel slightly conspicuous stood there on my own but I don't suppose anyone notices.

Periodically people wander in and past me.

Jeremy returns with my lager shandy and he's got real ale for himself - Old Badger Shit, or something like that!

I decide to change the subject.

"How's the new position at work going, Jeremy?"

Jeremy is answering me but I'm not hearing - matey who was eyeballing me earlier has wandered over with his pal.

"You're a bit full of yourself, mate," he sneers, and then adds, "I was listening to you at the bar spouting off your opinions about women and lies and you kind of reminded me of the geezer who shagged my missus behind my back who was full of fancy talk too, till I beat the shit out of him and had the cunt pleading for mercy-"

"Yeah, well, I'm very sorry that's happened, but..."

I study him and though still a little apprehensive realise that he's not as physically intimidating as I at first thought. Sure, he's modelled himself on a Cockney hard man like Grant Mitchell, but appearances don't mean a thing, and he's not that big either - I reckon he's no more than ten and a half stone and about five seven - three inches shorter than me, and two and a half stone lighter. His features are quite neat and as I noted earlier his eyes are blue and quite penetrating. His complexion is fair, but his skin seems quite raw, due in all probability to working outside - I wouldn't mind wagering that he's a labourer or a brickie. Also, he's probably not half as hard as he makes out. On the other hand, I'm taller and my weight advantage is muscle - I swim four miles a week - fast - and do a fair amount of cycling. I also possess a very quick right hand which I have utilised effectively in past similar such situations. My reactions are pretty sharp normally, and I've only had one lager shandy. 'Mini Grant' has more than likely been here since lunch and his reflexes seriously under par. I'm very confident that if it comes to a scrap I will prevail and hopefully in the process I will impress a few female onlookers. Another consideration is the law - I will let him launch the first blow so that I can claim that I acted in self-defence, should it come to that. In addition, 'Spoons is covered by CCTV. I know that he will initiate the fracas by attempting to punch me in the face with his right fist - I'd read that ninety nine percent of assaults start that way - and I will block it then demolish him with a lightning quick counter from my right hand then follow up by overwhelming him with fast repeated blows till I have knocked the stuffing out of him. Game over. But, let's have a bit of fun for starters. Let's be Kid Curry prior to outdrawing the baddie - I really want to impress the audience, and especially the tottie, not just with my physical prowess but with my wit as well!

"... and you also don't have a pond I'm guessing?" I finish off my response and notice that I'm intoning my voice in a superior manner.

"No, I don't have a fucking pond. What the fuck has that got to do with it?" he counters in an antagonistic manner.

His accent is definitely North Portsmouth.

His mate suddenly looks a bit awkward - he doesn't want to be there.

Jeremy, I don't know how Jeremy will react, but he'll probably do the right thing. If there is violence.

"I'm going to tell you about Fred and Bert who hail from the West Country."

Mini Grant does nothing, so I continue.

"Well, Fred and Bert are in the pub after a hard day working on the farm supping Scrumpy when this young man in an expensive suit breezes in, marches up to the bar and orders himself a gin and tonic.

Fred says, 'Look at the young pup with a suit - bet he's got a high-powered job in the city with loads of money?' "

I affect, as best I can, a Somerset twang for Fred and Bert.

"Bert says, 'Go on ask what he do for a living, Fred.'

'Roight, I'll do just that,' Fred says and goes up to the young fellow and politely asks him what brings a smart looking chap down this neck of the woods, 'If you don't mind me being so nosey,' Fred adds.

'That's okay, I'm a logicologist,' the young man replies in a posh voice.

'What be one of them?' Fred queries.

'Well, I'm paid to deduce a whole wealth of facts from the minimum of information and save companies and individuals the trouble and cost of expensive surveys - for that I am well rewarded!'

'Give me an example.'

'Have you got a garden pond...?'

'Fred is my name... and yes I do happen to have a pond in my garden.'

'Well, from that simple fact, Fred, one can then deduce that you have a large garden-'

'Yeah... that be roight.'

'And further that you must have a big house with lots of bedrooms...'

'Yep.'

'Because you have lots of children...'

'Four boys and three girls.'

'Which means that you must have plenty of sex with your good lady wife...'

Fred smiles. 'That I do.'

'And that leads me to conclude that you have absolutely no need to masturbate.'

'No need whatsoever, young man.'

'So, you see, Fred, we have deduced all these facts from just one question... and that's what a logicologist does.'

'I'm well impressed, so I am. I bid you good noight.'

Fred wanders back to the table to re-join Bert who says, "Well Fred, what do he do?'

'He's a logicologist, Bert.'

'What's one of they?'

'Let's put it simply Bert, have you got a pond?'

'No, I haven't Fred.'

'Then you's a wanker then!' "

I study 'Grant's' visage as the punch line sinks in and watch for any twitching of his right hand.

"You fucking big nosed CUNT!"

Silence engulfs Spoons. Then somebody's mobile goes off - the ring tone is Eye of the Tiger.

Lightning flashes...

I'm leaning against a wall and I've got a really bad throbbing headache and everything's at an angle, it appears there's been an earthquake and the building's been turned on its side. No. I'm lying on the floor and there are people standing over me...

Jeremy is speaking into his mobile.

I make out a voice say, "He's coming around."

I put my hand to my mouth because there is a warm and sticky substance clinging to it and my nose is really hurting.

It's all coming back: THE FUCKING BASTARD HAS DONE ME OVER!

Jeremy wanders over and leans over me in a concerned fashion.

"Try to keep calm, Matt, you may have concussion. The paramedics will be here in a minute... oh, here they are, that was quick I must say!"

After a few cursory checks, which I'm sure they're not, I'm placed on a stretcher. I'm picked up and carried out to the ambulance. I turn my head to one side and recognise the girls now watching me who only a short while ago I was attempting to impress...

With a dazed expression and an enlarged proboscis that would put Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer in the shade, I appreciate that events haven't exactly turned out as I might have hoped.

As we exit out of the entrance, I feel a gust of the warm June air ruffle my hair - I'm reminded of the song Summer Breeze by the Isley Brothers and the words, 'Summer breeze makes me feel fine, blowing through the Jasmines in my mind...'

It doesn't make me feel fucking fine!

*

We're at the hospital now, Jeremy and I. I will be kept in overnight and X-rayed in the morning. The medical staff think I'll be okay, but you can sometimes get a delayed reaction from brain injuries: haemorrhages and the like.

I shall tell my parents after I have got out otherwise, they'll just worry themselves sick.

I'm being wheeled up to one of the wards and Jeremy is with me.

"What happened, Jeremy?"

"It was all very quick. After you had finished the joke, I knew I should have stopped you, he jabbed you on the nose with his left then chinned you with his right. He was fucking fast..."

The porter shoots Jeremy a disapproving frown for the bad language.

"... but almost immediately he grasped his left hand and said, 'I've effing broken my finger my finger on that C.U.N.T's massive great hooter!' and then him and his mate scarpered. He knocked you spark out!"

"That's one advantage of having a big nose, and it's only swollen and not broken. Thank God!"

"I shouldn't laugh Matt but you don't half sound like a Dalek!"

"Ex...terminate! Ex...terminate!" I shout out.

"Do you mind," the porter interjects, "my grandmother perished at Belsen!"

"Sorry!" We exclaim in unison.

"Jeremy, I've never seen him before, do you know if this thug is an Islander?"

"Whilst we were waiting for the paramedics, I had a brief chat with this fellow who came up to me and said he knew who he was and would be prepared to be a witness-"

"I don't want the police involved. So, who is he?"

"His name's Jamie Reed and he's just purchased a bungalow in Argyll Street. He's originally from Leigh Park and he's a builder. He buys run down properties for a song then does them up and makes a pretty penny. The bloke who spoke to me said he did some plastering for him but had trouble getting paid. Reckons he's a nasty bastard!"

"No kidding! I'm not getting involved with the police as it was half my fault, and apart from a sore nose there's no harm done."

"As you wish, Matt"

*

It's four weeks since the incident in Spoons and I have been interviewed by the police, but no action will be taken. Spoons have banned me till October and my assailant is also banned - permanently, so at least I will be able to drink there in peace in future.

I'm out on my bike as the weather is great - cloudless and sunny. It's the last week in July and I'm cycling down Argyll Street as it happens for the first time since the incident - you can't let your fears conquer you. I'm nearly at the end of the road and when I am I will turn left and head up to Haylands then over the Downs. To my right is a bungalow set back and in the front garden I spot Mr. Reed in just a pair of cut-off jeans. At the sight of him my testicles tingle as they involuntarily contract - a reflex action to danger. I refuse to show fear, however.

I must admit that he is well muscled for a small frame - I underestimated him.

He still doesn't see me as he is digging - and I can't actually discern whether any of his fingers on his left hand are damaged in any way, but what I do glimpse and realise ironically in this fleeting scene is that...

The. Cunt. Is. Digging. A. Fucking. Pond.

Sunday 31st May 2009: Four Months to Live - Blog

Yesterday. Another random Saturday.

Juki and I catch the 1535 Downs Tour. It actually departs at 1545. It's a lovely day. Sunny and hot. The bus is an open topper. We sit on the top deck. I have ridden the tour quite a bit. I have also driven it too. And been a conductor on the route too in a vintage vehicle. But, never again unless a miracle cure is found for my condition.

It's not the most scenic open top bus tour on the Island. That honour I reserve for The Needles Tour. If you're over on the Island then I recommend that. You'll never forget the hair raising drive up the cliff edge to the Old Battery.

I have strayed away from my train of thought. It's a fault of mine.

The bus halts at the Hare and Hounds country pub and I remember sitting on the patio there overlooking Robin Hill Adventure Park about two years ago with Della sharing a drink with her. The weather that day was also good. A gentle wave of nostalgia washes over me.

Juki is talking to me. I'm not really listening. Funny. Because when I was with Della I used to feel sadness about Sharon - and Claire. Yet when I was with Sharon I also used to experience an undefined aching emptiness. It wasn't overwhelming but it was always present. Hovering in the shadows of my mind. Only when I was living intensely would I be unaware of it. It was like a chill wind howling through my being. I can never recollect a time when it wasn't there.

That's not quite true.

One Christmas when I was ten...

My Grandfather is standing in front of the blazing log fire smoking a cigar. I have been allowed a beaker of Woodpecker cider. We are all watching Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea on the black and white television. I feel emotionally secure, optimistic and happy...

A little over three months later that all changed: my Grandfather died. On April the 1st, of all days.

Yes. That was when I realised that sadness outweighed and outlasted happiness in this world.

Back on the bus.

We are driving to the top of Ashey Down. We are treated to the panorama of Ryde in the foreground and the expanse of the Solent further away. The spire of the Parish Church is clearly visible as is the Spinnaker Tower over in Portsmouth.

I glance at Juki.

She's attractive in an unassuming way: petite with sharp but nevertheless pleasing features and long chestnut hair. She has a great figure. I like her blue eyes too. But, I know I can never love her.

For a relationship to have half a chance of success you need character and chemistry. I so very nearly had that with Moody. Definitely chemistry.

Juki loves me in a non-sexual way. It's all a bit odd when I think about it. She told me she loved me once. I will never love her though. I wish I could. I need to love someone.

I also need interest and excitement too. I do not believe I will get that now.

Back in Ryde we stroll around the harbour.

I watch teenage lads back flip into the water. It's all very carefree. I yearn to be young once again.

We have a coffee then catch the Service 16 to Puckpool Park. Puckpool Park: so much of my life has centered there.

We each have a coffee ice cream.

We decide to be lazy and catch the Dotto Train back to Ryde.

Whilst waiting for the 'train' I see an old driver. He resembles Bill Oddie. I know he has been ill.

I ask him how he is.

"I have only four months to live the doctors tell me," he replies in his softly intoned voice.

What do you say to that?

He has terminal cancer. It is of the lung. He was a smoker. And he is strangely acceptant of his bleak prospects.

I wish him well and then board the Dotto Train.

It's sad that he's dying but I am unable to really feel for him. We feel for some but not others.

Why?

Back in Ryde Juki and myself have a drink.

When the Tandoori opens at six we sit down and each treat ourselves to a Chicken Dopiaza with Pilau Rice.

I enjoy the food but I don't really enjoy it like I used to.

I reflect on this - I seem to have lost the passion in life and it's this passion that counter balances the sadness and emptiness.

There were books I couldn't put down. There were social events I couldn't wait to attend. Films I was gripped by. Sex, kinky or vanilla. I used to love cycling downhill fast and reckless. Swimming and snorkelling.

Life used to be in colour and now it's all monochrome.

Life is for the young, the talented and the attractive.

It's all over for me now I realise.

Recently I have thought about death, maybe suicide. But, it's not oblivion I seek. What I see death as is a gateway to a new existence. What new reality will Nature have conjured up for us? It is a moment of enlightenment for me: the person who commits suicide is not really seeking to end their life, they are merely looking for a new beginning.

Why didn't I see that before?

Too, too much introspection.

A book and a cold drink in the sun now.

Another Fucking Twist and Turn

Not long been back after a gentle bike ride and I check my mobile. There's a message from Maria. We've both been invited to birthday party on the 13th June. How do I feel about going?

I phone her up but can't get through.

She rings me back.

We have a nice chat.

"I think we may have got our wires crossed!" she says and then adds: "I'd like to go as an item."

"That would be really nice."

She replies: "I've missed you."

I say, almost without thinking: "Me too."

We agree to meet up for coffee during the week.

It looks like it could be back on but I'm not going to build up my hopes too high.

Fucking funny life is!

Tuesday 2nd June 2009: Dizziness Migraines, Hairy Arms and Spat at by a Prawn - Blog

Yesterday I had an appointment with a specialist at Queen Alexandra Hospital, Cosham, Portsmouth. It's in connection with my recurrent vertigo. I had to be there for 1530. I opt for catching the 1415 Catamaran from Ryde Pier. At 1400 I look out from my hallway to see if the 'Cat' is on its way - I can see across to Portsmouth from there. Sure enough I espy the tiny yellow hull of it just outside the harbour. Sometimes sailings get dropped. Best to be sure.

I cycle down to the Esplanade and then up the pier. There's no sign of the boat and it's rather quiet, apart from a train pulling out. I go to purchase a ticket and I'm beginning to think that it may be seriously delayed. I ask the clerk and he informs me that there is no 1415 - it only operates in 'high season'. The Cat I had seen must have been going into the Harbour not from. Fuck and double fuck!

I cycle back down the pier and round to the Hovercraft. Fortunately there is a 1430 Hover. I lock my bike up and wait. I now have to revise my travel plans. Instead of getting the train to Cosham I now have to get a taxi straight there - I really don't want to be late.

The Hover gets me to Southsea at 1440 - it's fucking quick.

I step into the nearest taxi and I'm on my way.

On the way we cross a very busy intersection, and the thought hits me: we'd be really, really fucked if the oil was suddenly cut off or dried up.

I get to the hospital at 1500 - half an hour early. In fact the whole journey once boarding the Hover has only taken 30 minutes!

Once at the department I am whisked away for hearing tests by a pleasant dark haired lady. I idly speculate about her life and love.

At 1537 I am called into to see the specialist. He performs a lot of tests on me: tuning forks, balance investigations etc. I'm impressed.

"Your hearing in your right ear is quite impaired."

I knew that already.

"I think but, I'm not a hundred percent certain yet, that your vertigo is the result of 'Dizziness Migraines'. Did anyone in your family suffer from that?" he questions me.

"My grandmother used to suffer from bad migraines. I guess I've inherited that from here too, along with the goatee beard!"

He chuckles.

"I'm going to arrange further tests to try and rule out whether your deafness is causing the problems but in the meantime, I would like you to cut out cheese, alcohol, caffeine as we need to ascertain what is triggering the attacks. Make certain that you eat regularly and sleep properly. Also stop taking the Prochlorperazine as it's a powerful drug and can cause damage with prolonged use. It's also used to treat Schizophrenia."

"That would explain why since taking it I have lost a lot of my friends." I make an attempt at a joke, a feeble one.

He smiles out of politeness or is it professionalism?

I thank him for his time, and leave. I had confidence in him.

I catch the 1C to Copnor Road where I get off and go and visit William (an old school mate) and his wife Jessica at their business. We have a pleasant chat but there's a mystery surrounding another former member of our school, *Phil H. I was told recently that he had died, but there's nothing in the local paper and nobody seems to know anything. Both Ronan and Wiliam have his email address but neither of them want to contact him because, quite frankly, he's an arrogant prick. We'll find out eventually.

After a cuppa I caught the 21 down to Gunwharf, treated myself to a Burger King, I say treated, it was nothing special and certainly didn't live up to the hype then got a taxi round to the Hovercraft. The time was now 1845.

On the Hovercraft I found myself sitting across from a young pretty-ish woman. She was probably in her early twenties. She was wearing a sleeveless top and I found myself staring at her bare arms. She had a few evenly spaced out moles of modest size - I find moles intriguing as they can be either off putting or beguiling - but it was the dark hairs that I found fascinating. I couldn't decide whether she was too hairy or just hairy enough. Later I decided that they were just hairy enough as I fantasized about her being naked on top of me!

*He had in fact died.

*

Late last night just before I retired to bed, I became aware of something flying around the flat. I thought it might be a moth at first. It wasn't. It was a bat. It flew around me but never on me though it did brush past my legs. The thing I noticed most was that its wing beat was almost soundless. They are certainly mysterious creatures, and I can understand how supernatural myths have grown up around them.

I managed to trap it in the bathroom and then opened the slats on the window. I carefully exited the bathroom and closed the door tight. In the morning it had gone.

I rose late today and on my mobile was a text from Maria: I'm going swimming but will be back in Ryde about 1. Do you fancy a coffee?

I text back: That will be nice. Let me know when you're on your way back from Sandown.

We agree to meet in the Black Sheep Bar, previously known as Bar 53, in Union Street. I get there a few minutes before but text her to see what she fancies to drink. I order a Gin and Tonic and an Apple Juice for myself.

She arrives wearing a red sleeveless top and cream coloured slacks. It's the first time I have seen her since before she 'dumped' me. She is sexy, I conclude.

We order some food which is over-priced as you would expect from an establishment with aspirations. I opt for prawns in garlic butter and Maria goes for figs and feta cheese.

We sit outside in the sun at one of the tables and I ask her how she is - she had to have an operation on her knee after she injured it dancing a couple of months ago. She's still limping but I can see she's making progress.

I tell her about yesterday at the hospital.

"That's kind of good news, maybe you can get on top of it?"

I hand her the Danielle Steel DVD I bought for her about three weeks ago. She's really grateful. The dumping incident is not talked about. At this juncture the waitress brings us our food. The waitress is young dark and pretty with nicely tanned arms. I try not to ogle. But, Maria is tanned too, and sexy. I still speculate as to whether this is all a game to her. I remind myself not to build up my hopes.

We talk about our ex's.

Her ex-husband is a writer. She tells me that he is becoming increasingly introverted and antisocial though he is still great with the kids.

She asks me about Sharon.

"I loved her, and I still have feelings for her but I could never make her happy. She had a split personality, a bit of a Jekyll and Hyde. I admit I did have affairs, but I had become completely disillusioned."

She doesn't seem fazed by my frank admission. Well, not that frank. I didn't mention the prostitute or the couple of mistresses I visited. There is also a rather disturbing connection between Moody and Maria - they both belong to the Spiritualist Church in Ryde. What if they meet and chat?

It's at this point that I attempt to shell a large prawn and as I do I squeeze it and a small jet of juice lands on my shirt, a shirt I was wearing in order to impress. Spat at by a fucking prawn! "For fuck"s sake" I want to say. In reality I just say, "oh dear!" and then march off to the loo to clean it, with little success.

When I come back, she has dropped some cheese on her top, so I don't feel such a pratt.

After we finish our drinks and food we stroll down Union Street and then around the seafront soaking in the hot sun. I could get used to this Bohemian lifestyle of bars and cafes. We watch a hovercraft depart from the footbridge over the railway and we agree to meet up Friday along at Appley if the weather is good. I also promise her a day out in Portsmouth: a boat trip round the Harbour; a visit to Spinnaker Tower - which she hasn't been up yet and a meal on the waterfront of Gunwharf Quays.

I wonder if it will all actually happen.

We catch the bus. The driver is one who caused a few problems between Claire and me at one point. It's all kind of forgotten.

I kiss her and get off at the Commodore. She stays on to Oakfield.

I phone Juki who has texted me earlier and agree to a coffee at The Bagel Shop. I then nip into Somerfield for some salad stuff - healthy diet and all that. When Juki turns up, she kisses me and holds my hand. I feel awkward but I do anyway.

We treat ourselves to a milkshake each then take the Downs Tour - again to kill a bit of time.

Christopher is driving - Claire's ex-husband - and we have a bit of banter as we board. It's a lovely day but I've done that tour just a little too much. I get out along the end of my road.

When I get back I reflect on the day and Maria. I wonder how it is all going to turn out. Like crap if my past record is anything to go by. Still, live for the day!

Wednesday 3rd June 2009: Clearing Out My Locker - Blog

Cleared out my locker first round at the bus depot then at the bus station. Tomorrow I will return my equipment: uniform, change dispenser, module and bag.

Wished the lads well and they all replied in unison: "Fuck Off!" I shall miss their subtlety.

As I left the rest room somebody, R, had already bagged my locker.

I exited the place for the last time.

Do I feel sad? Sort of, but it's good to be away from the pressure of driving and shift work.

I then walked up Union Street with the Union Secretary - he's been a good bloke. We had a good chat then Maria texted me: Fancy a drink at the Appley Cafe?

Me: Okay.

Maria: I'm having a reading done at the Appley Tower.

I dump my work stuff at home then cycle down in the sun. I wait for her outside the door. She's longer than I thought.

When she gets out she apologises for the delay: "I've had a full in depth reading which took longer than I thought!"

"No worries." It had been nice watching the people go past and I never tire of the view.

"I've given up my job today. I've had enough," she informs me frankly.

We have a piece of cake each and fruit drink at The Appley Cafe. I feel relaxed and she looks sexy.

Juki texts me: "I have something very important to tell you later."

I don't answer but wonder if this is to do with me seeing Maria again.

I then walk Maria home. As I do she tells me a few things about her past. I laugh it off but underneath I think: 'She's fucking trouble.'

Problem is, I'll have to find out for myself. I don't learn.

Saturday 6th June 2009: Death by Electrocution - Blog

We're at a railway station. From the dress and appearance of the people it could be in Pakistan or India. I'm not sure. There is a stationary train at the platform. People are milling around but a group of about twenty are observing a man who has clambered onto the roof of one of the carriages. It is a sunny day and the man is topless. I can't quite make out how old the individual is, twenty, thirty, forty? He is crouching and talking to a couple of men on the platform. One of the men taps on the roof to draw attention. About six foot above the carriage are the high voltage power lines for the train. The man casually stands up and walks along the roof. He appears nonchalant. In what could be bravado he raises his right arm close to the cable. Without warning there is a blinding flash accompanied by a loud crack followed by a slightly lesser flash and bang. There is also a small cloud of smoke. We see the man still standing there and frozen in almost the same attitude immediately prior to the contact. He hangs there for a moment then falls backwards onto the roof with his arms hanging loosely and awkwardly behind his head. He is absolutely motionless. It is clear that he was dead from the moment of the first flash. The camera zooms in and we see flames flickering around his face. Smoke issues forth from his lower body and trousers. Passengers now pour out from the carriage. They probably fear it was a bomb. The people on the platform also drawback instinctively. Then the hubbub increases. At this point the video clip ends.

It was sent to me by a friend. It is utterly gruesome. I watched it in the morning and the ghastly imagery stayed with me all day.

Later that night I played it over and over to desensitize me to it. It kind of worked because I don't feel quite so bad now.

I do not think the man committed suicide. I believe it was a tragic mistake.

If someone sends you this then think very carefully about watching it.

Sunday 7th June 2009: Funny... - Blog

I'm waiting for a Number Nine bus to take me back to Ryde and I'm at the 'Old Police Station' bus stop. Behind me is a wooden jetty and the leisurely flowing waters of the River Medina.

I'm startled to hear a voice: "Will we have to wait long?"

I turn to see a little old lady.

Where the hell did she come from?

She's dressed in a camel coloured long overcoat, with dark brown tights and plain black shoes. On her head is wide brimmed cream hat with a brooch at the front composed of various fruit. Her features are strong with intense grey eyes and her pallid flesh is deeply wrinkled. I do not recognise her.

I respond to her query: "The bus should be here any minute, we can see it merge onto the roundabout from here."

"I don't have time to wait that long," she says, then adds: "You don't have much time either."

The remark chills me to the bone and I feel as though not only can she read my mind but she can also see my future.

I shiver inwardly and gaze in the direction of the roundabout scanning vainly for the bus. I want to get away from here. And her.

I discern footsteps and turn round to see her descending gingerly the rusting steel steps that lead directly into the muddy waters. I feel that I should stop her but a cruel thought takes over - I want to see her drown.

I observe, morbidly fascinated, as she submerges slowly into the water. I wonder, almost distractedly, if her distinctive hat will float off but it doesn't and she disappears into the murky depths. I expect any second for her to burst to the surface gasping shrouded in bubbles.

Nothing.

I conclude that she has drowned. How weird. How very weird.

I stare at the spot for several minutes almost in a trance.

Then a movement on the opposite bank breaks me out of my morbid reverie and I watch in astonishment, amazement as she walks calmly out of the water. As though nothing has happened she makes her way slowly up the bank and then disappears between two abandoned warehouses...

Funny, funny, what you dream.

Monday 8th June 2009: Benefit Bingo and Mind Games - Blog

I decide to take the bull by the horns. It is two weeks since I lost my job. Time to find out about my benefits.

I phone the number given to me at the Job Centre. It takes about twenty minutes before I get to speak to someone. Still, the classical music whilst I'm in a queue is nice. Finally, a pleasant female voice asks me: "How may I help?"

I tell her my situation, that I have lost my job due to illness.

"Before we go any further, I have to ask you some security questions to verify your identity."

I understand.

She asks me a few personal questions which I answer as best as I can.

"I'm afraid that you have failed the security test. You must ring again tomorrow."

I hear in my mind the nice classical music again.

"Can you tell me why I have failed the security test?"

"Sorry, I can't."

I think it's because I fail to recollect the post code of my last address.

"Okay, would it be possible to make an appointment with someone in person?"

"We don't do that anymore." I suppose too many 'clients' were threatening the staff. I understand.

"Okay, can you tell me what information I will need to have at hand when I phone tomorrow?"

She tells me.

"I have all that here in front of me now. Why don't you just ask me a new set of security questions now and if I pass then we can sort out my claim now?" I want to add: 'Save me listening to the nice classical music for twenty minutes again!' But I refrain.

"We're really busy on Mondays so it's best for you to phone tomorrow."

I think and want to say, let's be honest, sarcastically: 'If everybody takes your advice about phoning Tuesday then you'll be just as fucking busy Tuesday!'

I don't. I understand how difficult working with the public can be.

I then tell her my financial circumstances and ask her off the cuff if I will be entitled to anything.

"You won't be eligible for any means tested benefits, but you will get your National Insurance paid."

Again, I want to say: 'What's the fucking point of that if I'm to get nothing now after all these years of paying it?!'

But what I do say is: "Thanks for your help." I'm not sure I mean it. I put the receiver down.

"Still, I'm looking forward to hearing the nice classical music again!" I say to myself out loud.

Fifteen minutes later my message alert sounds. It's Juki and the message reads: You prob don't need to hear this now but if i don't say it now i never will. It isn't true that i want to be just friends with you but I'm scared of letting anyone get that close and I'm scared of letting you down and then you'll hate me too. I spent my childhood being told i was ugly and useless and no one would ever love me and there's a huge part of me that still believes that. I decided when i was young that no one would get close to me and with the exception of my grandfather no one did. I hope this doesn't ruin everything x x x

I text her back reassuring her not to worry.

Hmmm.

Funny enough Maria sent me some provocative texts last evening just to confuse me after she told me she just wanted to be friends.

My life is never fucking simple!!!

Wednesday 10th June 2009: How NOT to Play Mind Games - Blog

As regular readers of my blog will be aware, recently I suspected Juki of playing mind games with me...

I have mulled over what to do about and finally came to a decision: a fucking controversial decision. Maybe even a dodgy one.

I thought of a text I was going to send her but wasn't sure. So when in doubt toss a coin. Heads, I don't. Tails, I do. It was a shiny 2p piece and it spun up in the air. I caught it and slapped it down on my wrist. Tails. I send the text which reads thus: I have decided after deliberating on it for a few days to give my response to your text. I have decided to punish you. You have 2 options: 1. We have no contact for a month or 2. You are to report round at 8 o'clock tonight, strip naked and then lie face down on my bed whilst I give you an appropriate number of strokes with the cane! Sorry but you deserve it x x x

I also send a copy of this text to Ronan who is my confidante.

Juki: You are so funny! Always knew honesty was NOT the best policy x x x

Me: Thought you'd enjoy that! So you don't fancy a caning later... you know you deserve it :-D x x x

Juki: Course i haven't had enough punishment being at work all day! However I may let you have your fun if your really nice to me x x x

Me: You were supposed to say: I miss you so much i'd be only too glad to take the cane for you... thought you might need a few mind games to perk up your life... and mine too. Only losers or the very strong tell the truth... you're right x x x x

Juki: Of course i meant to say i miss you, etc. I'm sure by caning me you are showing how much you care about me! Or i could be just deluded! :-) x x x

Me: That's my girl! :-D x x x

Me: Hang on a minute... you're smarter than i thought... twisting it round like that... it's you that's supposed to be grateful :-D x x x

Juki: I've had the best teacher! :-) x x x

Me: Never teach too well or you will be taught yourself...hmmm x x x

It's at this point I receive a text from Ronan in response to the initial message I sent to Juki: I think that's a reasonable request, in view of her recent bleating, self pitying, probable b'shit txt. Hope she turns up to get her just desserts..

Me (to Chris): Things haven't quite worked out as I hoped...it's quite conceivable that it may be me that's on the receiving end of a caning!

Ronan: Equaly wel deserved!

So there you have it: How NOT to play fucking mind games. Don't think I'll bother now. How on earth did I fuck that up?!

As many of you are aware, I worked for a few seasons on the Isle of Wight Road Trains. They operated in three seaside towns - Ryde, Sandown and Shanklin and I have driven and been a conductor on all of them at one time or the other. In the absence of anything deep and meaningful it is probably the best job you can have. You're out in the open, by the sea, meeting pleasant and at times interesting people, you've got regular hours and you're not rushing around. What more could you expect from a job; apart from anything deep and meaningful that is?

You might at this point wonder why there is a need for a conductor. Well, it's a legal requirement for any road train that operates on the public highway and the conductor is as much there to ensure safety as he is to collect fares.

That said...

Thursday 11th June 2009: Dotto Train Passenger Abducted by Aliens - Memory

Back in May 2008, I was asked to drive the Sandown Train. The weather was overcast, and we weren't busy; just ticking over.

My conductor was 'Mini Me' and he was the son of one of the managers. He would fill in for the regular conductors when they were sick or on leave.

Mini Me was actually sixteen but looked twelve. He had thick curly blondish hair and a face that would make a choirmaster weep. He was also quite short - he may not have even been five foot - and the passengers would sometimes look bewildered when they heard a voice requesting their fare but couldn't pinpoint where it was actually coming from, as he stood at times, depending on the camber of the road, often below the level of the train's sides.

Character-wise he was fairly shy, but he possessed a dead-pan sense of humour at times. He was in addition quite creative and artistic - he posted short animated films on YouTube which I felt showed great promise. I liked him. He was a nice lad.

Anyway, we were waiting our time at Eastern Gardens when three, remember three, passengers got on. Mini Me collected their fares and I asked him where they were all going. He told me that were all just having a trip right the way round. This meant that the only place I would need to wait time at would be The Isle of Wight Zoo, though I would keep a lookout and listen for the buzzer should anyone change their mind.

I jumped into the cab started the engine and set off. We trundled past The White City Amusements, Sandham Gardens, the Canoe Lake (in a poor state of disrepair) into Dinosaur Isle and out again re-joined Culver Parade past The Grand Hotel and then stopped on the concrete apron outside the entrance to the Zoo where I'd killed the engine and had got out of the cab. I then casually observed Mini Me help two passengers out of the carriage.

Two passengers?

I was absolutely certain there were three passengers and we hadn't stopped anywhere so that anyone could get off.

So, I'd gone up to Mini Me and had said: "I could have sworn that we had three passengers on when we left Eastern Gardens."

He'd replied, matter-of-factly: "Well, there was one man, one minute he was there and the next time I had looked he had disappeared."

I'd thought: Is this a wind up?

I'd then responded, extremely sarcastically: "But, where's he gone? Has he been fucking abducted by aliens? Maybe he's spontaneously combusted?"

Mini Me had just shrugged, and I'd seriously wondered if I was losing it.

Then across the car park a family had run up to me. The father, out of breath, had said to me: "Some old fellow has just thrown himself out of your train just before you got to the hotel. He landed on the road flat on his face. He had blood on his nose, and he started scrabbling around on the road picking up the money that had fallen out of his pockets. We asked him if he was okay and he said 'yes' so we let him get on with it!"

I'd thought: How the fucking hell did I miss that? I must have been checking the offside mirror at exactly the time he threw himself out of the nearside and landed behind the train out of my vision.

Mini Me had been sitting in the front carriage facing forward - officially he's supposed to sit at the back so he can observe the whole train - and wouldn't have seen him.

Fuck!

I'd phoned the police and informed them of what had happened - I think they were trying not laugh.

I then took the names and addresses of the witnesses and had started off on the return half of the trip.

As I had passed along the section of the road where he had apparently fallen out, I had scrutinised the surface for signs of blood or coins, but I'd seen nothing. I'd also looked out for old men with bleeding noses; again nothing.

The rest of the shift had passed without further incidents.

When I'd got back to the depot I'd filled out an accident report, which another driver I'd entrusted to deliver to the inspector at the bus station had failed to do, leaving it in the rest room overnight for all the other drivers to read; and laugh their fucking heads off!

I'd never heard any more about it but I did wonder what had happened to the chap who was most likely over here on holiday. I imagined him getting back to his guest house or hotel with his nose caked in blood, a couple of black eyes, maybe his trousers torn, and the owner asking him if he had had a good day.

"Well, I had a little trip on the Dotto Train..."

Better to Believe in a Lie than Nothing - Memory

I'm sitting in the tranquil tea gardens of Quarr Abbey. Blue, blue sky and sun beating down.

I'm with Della. She's a handsome looking woman: thick curly dark hair, pale complexion, hazel eyes, neat features.

A couple of hours previous we had been fucking in my bed. I had savoured her naked body - ran my hands over her ivory flesh. I had sucked her ample breasts. Penetrated her dark and thick black triangle. She had shivered when she had come - it was a response unique to her. Her legs were gripped between mine as I too climaxed. We had embraced for a while after. And she had stated: 'It smells of sex in here. I like that.'

I had cooked her breakfast.

Easy like Sunday morning.

I had recalled the tune in my head.

Easy...

Sitting on a rustic bench amongst the carefully tended greenery. The distant and muted roar of the traffic. The murmur of the other patrons. Monks in their long robes, wearing enigmatic expressions, occasionally wandering past.

Easy...

I speculate that I could love Della.

A phrase forces itself into my mind. Unbidden. It is an intruder.

Better to believe in a lie than nothing.

Better to believe in a lie than nothing.

What does it mean? Is it a subconscious reaction to the trappings of religion surrounding me? A warning not to be entranced by the illusion of religion?

We continue to chat.

I recall the words Della spoke to me once before in these very gardens: 'Do you think we could still be friends if we ever split up?'

'No.'

Blunt.

Better to believe in a lie than nothing.

We finish our drinks and catch the bus back to Ryde.

Walk to Puckpool. Brown bread prawn sandwiches at Dell's Cafe. The sun glinting off Spinnaker Tower across the Solent. People lounging on the golden sands. Swimmers in the blue green sea.

Better to believe in a lie than nothing.

I walk her back to the Hovercraft Terminal. I wave to her on the craft as it slides off the slipway, turns and heads to Southsea. I think of her back home across the sea. Near but so far.

Better to believe in a lie than nothing.

I make my way home.

Back in my flat I pick up a scrap of paper and a red marker pen. I clumsily scrawl in capital letters: BETTER TO BELIEVE IN A LIE THAN NOTHING. I secure it to my fridge with a magnet.

I see it every day.

What does it mean? What does it mean to me? Truth is subjective.

I conclude that you can't believe in nothing - it's a paradox.

Without God life has no value. No. Without belief in God life has no value. But it is the value that is God. Value is God.

My mind is at peace. But not for long.

Better to believe in a lie than nothing.

It still troubles me.

Della dumped me a year later - no real reasons. And do you know what? I could have loved her.

Better to believe in a lie than nothing.

Sunday 14th June 2009: You Have a Lot of Feminine Traits - Blog

Last night. About 8 o'clock. The roof terrace of the Eight Bells public house. Carisbrooke, Isle of Wight.

A brief shower has just dispelled the mildly oppressive humidity.

I'm at a birthday party for an ex-colleague of mine, Pat. He's sixty-eight next week - the party is early.

It's been stressful for his daughter, Kay, arranging it and his son also. Expensive too.

There's also been a fabulous surprise for Pat - Jet Harris formerly from The Shadows. Kay met him at a dance and knowing how much her father loved The Shadows persuaded him to attend her father's birthday.

But Jet Harris had suffered from 'stage fright' and it had taken a long while for him to overcome his nerves and make a public appearance. Odd, for a man who had once performed in front of thousands.

It had worked out fine in the end - he had even played a few hits with the band.

But now I'm leaning on the wooden balustrade with Maria gazing across at the lawned children's play area with its slides and swings. The mill pond, with ducks paddling along its smooth surface, lies adjacent to the play area. About four hundred yards further lies the small hillock upon which Carisbrooke Castle is constructed.

I feel that I am in the 'shadow' of the Castle.

I'm talking small talk with Maria though we're not really communicating.

She looks the best she's ever looked: her dark hair styled seductively and a low-cut dress that flatters her curves.

"You've got a lot of feminine traits," she states. I don't know what to say so she adds: "I like that, my ex-husband has too. I bet you have had a lot of gay men come on to you."

"That's true, I have though I don't find men attractive."

"My ex isn't gay either."

"But why do you think that? I don't look gay, and I don't sound gay either."

I'm intrigued as it has been said before, but not very often.

"You're sensitive and gentle, not at all a tough type. I hate that."

I suddenly recollect the harsh flogging I administered not so long ago to a fellow IC member.

"Do you fancy me?" I ask her frankly yet dreading the answer.

"Yes. I love your grey hair and goatee beard but I'm suffering from a block. I want to go to bed with you but something's stopping me."

"Maybe you're not emotionally ready?"

"I d-don't know."

She takes a deep breath and I know she's about to confess something of importance to me.

"I want to know what it is like to be with a woman. Women understand each other's bodies. I'm not a lesbian though."

"It wouldn't worry me if you were. I'm not judgmental."

How the hell can I be with my kinks?

"I once had a fling with a woman, not so very far from here who told me in the middle of having sex that I made love like a woman. I asked her how she knew. She told me that she had lived with a woman for a year but even though the sex had been good, very good, she still yearned for a man. Shortly after the relationship had finished."

Am I feminine?

I suppose I am quite sensitive and emotional. I love my nipples being rubbed and I'm not that hairy. My eyes, I have been told, belong to a woman and not a man. My fantasies are ninety nine percent about woman though I have had on a very few occasions thought about receiving corporal punishment from a male authority figure. Does that make me bisexual?

I put my arm round her: "Please don't worry about anything. We can just be friends if you prefer."

"You told me that you didn't just want to be friends and had loads anyway," she says a little provocatively.

"I like you and I feel comfortable with you."

I do feel happy just to be friends with her.

"Okay," she says.

We say nothing and just take in the view and the atmosphere...

The evening ends early and Kay gives us a lift back to Ryde. Once there I get out at the end of my road. Before I do I kiss Maria. I wonder if it has ended before it ever began. She has a lot of introspection ahead of her. And so do I have. Her comments have given me a great deal to ponder.

Monday 15th June 2009: Longing - Blog

June is November. Howling winds and bleak. Then I see them. They're walking up. I'm walking down. It is 'her' with her daughter, the daughter that should have been mine. Well, at least in name.

There's a flicker of recognition. A pretence of not seeing. From all of us to none of us.

Then they're gone. We've passed.

I loved her longer and more deeply, than any before. Than any since. And any to come. Maybe.

Bereft of her. Empty is my existence, Lonely my life.

Oft, I dream of love not lost to greet the day with flooded eyes.

Regrets, regrets, regrets.

Why, oh why, did I betray her to just betray myself?

To the counsel of my heart I listened not. Too late, too late. She is gone.

Chestnut hair tumbling onto shoulders bare and freckled. Button nose and big blue eyes.

A poignant memory of a single red rose on Lover's Day.

I love her. Simply and forever.

Brief Encounter

"Can you get one of your drivers, Pete I think it is, to return my propelling-pencil. He's walked off with it."

It was the first time she had properly spoken to me in four years and I had been walking along the Esplanade close to the entrance of the Pier and on my way home after an early shift.

Her light auburn hair - now out of a bottle - was stylishly brushed across her face to render her a coy look. She had a few more wrinkles but her entrancing deep blue eyes, neat button nose and tight mouth with thin lips, oddly sensuous, still combined to make her a handsome woman at fifty. Her frame was slight and she was wearing a faded jean jacket. Her left arm hung loose, a roll up smouldering between her pale fingers. I knew she now owned and ran a drawing office-cum-stationers up the road.

"I'm a lesbian," she states flatly. "I have two girlfriends."

I say nothing, walk over and threw my arms around her.

She doesn't resist; rather, she wraps her right arm round me and holds me tight.

"I spent twelve years of my life trying to make you happy," I start to cry, "followed by four years of emptiness."

I laugh at the absurdity. I sob again at the tragedy, and watch a fallen tear darken a small area on the fabric of her jacket.

I should have guessed really; the lowered octave of her voice, the strong chin.

I let my arms fall away and then I kiss her on the cheek.

"Bye," she says.

"Bye."

She raises the nearly burned down roll-up to her lips, draws strongly causing it to glow momentarily brighter, and then tosses it to the asphalt before grinding it with her heel.

She smiles thinly, turns and makes her way back and up towards Union Street.

It's a nice day with the sun out in a clear blue sky. But it is kind of cold.

Monday 13th July 2009: Kan Kicker Klown - Poem

You're a can kicker kid from a can kicker town.

You're out of control and spiralling down.

Your mothers at work, your father's not there.

You're never at school and the teachers don't care.

You're financially dependent on mother's green purse

And you're living your life full speed in reverse.

Your mother's on pills when she's not shedding tears -

What hope has she got for the following years?

You've started to steal 'cos it gives you a kick

And the prospects look good for a spell in the nick.

But, along comes a chap, a regular rough Joe.

One period is missed and off he does go.

You're mum is a granny at age forty one,

And changing them nappies isn't much fun.

So, it's off to the social, trudging down town,

And the clerk at the desk thinks: 'Can kicker clown'.

Tuesday 14th July 2009 Traumatic Memories of a Beating - Blog/Memory

I am eight years old.

I have been returned home by Mrs H after having tea with her and her son.

"He's been a good boy but he didn't eat all his greens like my son did - my son always eats all his greens!" Mrs H superiorly intones at the front door to my mother.

I can sense that my mother feels diminished by the remark and I can feel the rage rising like the brewing of thunder clouds.

The door is closed and Mrs H makes her way up the steps leading to the pavement.

"You have shown me up ONCE AGAIN!"

An unpleasant tingle of fear courses through me like an electric shock - I know what is coming and I run.

You can run but you can't hide.

Words from the future - the past, the present and the future begin to blur.

I run up two flights of stairs.

You can run but you can't hide.

Angry footsteps close in on me.

You can run but you can't hide.

I make it to the top landing outside my mother's bedroom.

I am grabbed roughly and the beating begins. Heavy blow after heavy blow lands on my back and posterior. I start to cry because it hurts like hell and because I want my Mummy to love me. Heavy blow after heavy blow. I am scared now. Very scared. My Mummy is going to kill me. Heavy blow after heavy blow.

"Somebody HELP ME please!"

"Stop it NOW - he has had ENOUGH!"

My grandfather has heard and climbed the stairs to intervene - concerned for my safety.

I will never forget his kindness.

A tear has fallen on the table in front of my screen as I have written this - I keep thinking I have cried enough in life. Why do I keep dredging up these traumatic memories? Forty four years ago. Why?

*

Last night I dreamt I was living in a church. It was cheap. The congregation kept streaming past me but I was not perturbed.

I felt myself being gently drawn into the church garden by Jesus but I do not believe that Jesus is the prophet of God - Jesus is merely the prophet of man.

Nature is the true prophet of God.

I carry on been drawn into the garden by the power of Jesus.

I know now that it is not a garden - it is the afterlife. I feel blissful.

I awake.

*

I arranged to meet Ginger today. I changed the sheets in case we ended up in bed - we have in the past.

When she asked me to meet her in Wetherspoons I knew we would not be having sex. It was kind of a relief. It would have been sex for the sake of sex - I do not really seek that.

We were served by a girl who I had thought left Wetherspoons - she is a girl I have fantasised in the past about being caned by. There is a special reason why I wanted to be caned by her.

I had a nice chat with Ginger and then we went up the road and had a coffee at the Bagel Shop. We sat outside on the tables. An old school friend joined us.

Whilst we were there another lady I know walked past us with her daughter. There is a special reason why I want to be caned by her also.

I would pay her to cane me without mercy every two to three weeks and then get her to rub my nipples whilst I wanked myself off.

You see today is the day that I finally knew what that special reason is.

The counsellor that Sharon forced me to see nearly ten years ago told me that I hadn't told her everything - and I hadn't. I have been repressing something nearly all my life and I now know the nature of it - it is similar in function to a recurrent dream.

I have been compelled to write a true story recently about my relationship with Sharon - you know that it is titled: Moody Fragments of a Broken Heart Interposed between Two Dreams. But I became unsatisfied with it, stopped writing and posting it and then deleted my profile.

I couldn't figure out why.

Earlier today the answer came to me. It is not a tale of two people after all but rather of three, and there is an extra chapter to write.

I am not a physically well person but it is my hope that Nature will allow me time to complete it. I do not believe that I am long for this world - it remains to be seen whether I depart by my own hand or that of Nature.

I cannot with any honesty say whether I am about to tumble into the abyss of insanity or attain some sort of closure or peace of mind.

I have resolved something today and I will share it with you if I can.

Sunday 19th July 2009 The Shallow Sea - Blog/Dream

It is either at the beginning of time or it is at the end of time. Perhaps the end is indeed the beginning.

The sun is low in the sky and blood red. Sunset?

All around me in every direction and as far as I can survey is sea. It is a shallow sea. It is a shallow sea because to my right are the bleached bones of a giant ribcage belonging to a creature long dead resting on the sands just below the surface of the water.

I do not know why I am here in this bleak otherworld nor do I want to be in this place.

I hear a voice. It is my dead mother. I cannot see her though.

"I have just spoken to the Doctor and he tells me that you are going to die soon. There is nothing that can be done. You must take it as easy as you can in the time that you have left to you."

A chill runs through my body.

I awake. I am anxious. I am anxious because in the past dreams such as this have come true.

Time will tell. But in the meantime I must take it easy. Ignore the inner voice at your peril.

Sunday 26th July 2009 Tanya - Blog

Pissed. Pissed on two ciders and two Stella Artois. Not been back long. Can't sleep so on here. Sad fucker.

Been to a fortieth birthday party. Juki and I. Good little do and nice little location: Seashells Restaurant, Appley Beach. Good view across the Solent of Portsmouth and Spinnaker Tower.

We watched the tower become floodlit as the dark descended. Nice. Kids playing on the sand. Adults drinking and chatting. Good band.

Knew a few there but we didn't socialise much. Surprising considering my intelligence, charisma and wit, said Juki who isn't the kind inclined to sarcasm. Not inclined one little bit.

Tanya was the partner of whose birthday it was. Tanya. Tanya was also the name of a prostitute I shagged when I was just forty. Forty was when I began to fuck my life up and others too. Guilt and grief. I still carry it with me. Maybe to the grave.

Tanya. I knew another Tanya. Briefly. She was round faced and Slavic looking. She had curly dark hair and was pretty. I would imagine that her parents loved her very much. I would have loved her too.

In the only photo I saw of her, her lips were slightly parted and she was lying on her back in the snow. Her eyes were closed. Her left breast was exposed and badly bruised and around her neck was a noose that had been severed. She was young but quite dead.

The image moved me considerably and etched itself into my memory. I felt terribly sad for all those that loved her and for all those that never would. I grieved for the children she would never had, the love and joy she would never know.

She was a Russian partisan and she had been captured by the Nazis, beaten and then hanged.

All this from a grainy monochrome photo in a book of war images, a book I had browsed through in my local library.

This was about eleven years ago when I was just forty.

Tanya. Funny how that name and image still resonates.

I'm tired now. I am also getting tired of life. I thought that earlier.

Perhaps I will feel better after a long sleep. Perhaps.

Monday 27th July 2009 Talking of Suicide - Blog

I have just been going through some of my old paperwork and I came across this entry in one of my old diaries. I have decided to post it on here as there is a rather interesting tale of an unhappy young man, and indirectly it also reveals the feelings of the author of this diary: an unhappy middle aged man.

Thursday 6th July 2006

Feel slightly under par. Even though I am on higher levels of Lisinopril, since Monday I've been experiencing an underlying sensation of mild nausea and just detectable 'sticky' vision. I was going to go swimming today but have decided perhaps to go tomorrow. It seems to me that exercise either raises my blood pressure or puts my circulatory system under some strain which then leads to the dizziness and nausea. I believe that my 'vertigo' stems from heart and circulation problems and not inner ear defects. It's not good whatever the cause. I will hopefully have the chance to commit suicide before it gets too bad.

Anyway, I watched a programme a few days ago about the case of Steven Hiller - I think that is his name - who plunged to his death during a parachute jump. On the day of the tragedy he went skydiving with two 'friends' and jumped from the aircraft at about, I think, 20,000 feet. They performed some formations together then separated before opening their chutes and touching down a safe distance apart. After landing, Steven was nowhere to be found. His reserve chute was found by itself and alarm bells rang. A search was conducted, and someone noticed that a small area of corn in a field had been flattened; this was shown on the film but obviously not the body. The police were called, and it was ascertained that vital straps had been cut; it was now apparent that his death was not accidental. Initially the police overlooked a pair of scissors that had been left in the boot of Steven's car because an 'expert' concluded that they could not have cut the straps - wrong. Because of this oversight his skydiving mates were suspected of his death; and there was some evidence to suggest that there had been friction at times between them. Fortunately, another investigator returned to the scissors in Steven's car. They were tested for fibres and it was concluded that they were used to cut the straps. The boot of the car was not locked so there was a remote possibility that someone could have had access to them. Once again, suicide came to the forefront of the investigation. Steven's state of mind and lifestyle was put under scrutiny. It was discovered that he was heavily in debt - he was a student at an army college - and that his relationship with his girlfriend was coming to an end. His friend said that he wasn't - his opinion - worried about the debts because he would soon be earning a high salary in the services; however, he had failed several exams so the future high earnings may not have materialised. His girlfriend said it was only a 'casual' relationship, but how would she know what he really felt? Underneath he may have been really desolate. The other factor was that he had recently embraced the faith of Roman Catholicism; a sure sign of existential crisis. Naturally, the priest interviewed stated that it was contrary to 'God's law' that anyone would take their own life; but just because you go to church doesn't make you a believer; or a 'good person' for that matter. The most interesting thing, for me, about this case was the footage of him prior to his last jump: in the minibus; practising manoeuvres with his partners; in the plane - in all of them he looked happy, even larking about. This fact was remarked about by his family, girlfriend and friends: how could he kill himself when he appeared so happy. During the programme it was revealed that he had a talent for acting - though we all have a lesser or greater aptitude for adopting a persona. I postulate - nobody will ever really know - that for whatever reason he intended to end his life. I believe that he didn't want his jumping buddies to get any wind of it otherwise they would have aborted the jump, so he had to act as he normally behaved prior to jumping. It maybe that he thought it would be easier on his parents if there was some doubt as to the cause of his death; or possibly he derived some twisted satisfaction in leaving this world with a question mark, and in that he succeeded.

Also, on telly yesterday was a short programme about the personal life John Le Mesurier - I mention it because of some of the insights of human nature. Apparently JLM was a very attractive man, especially when he was younger - a former friend of his on the programme said: "You either have it or you don't!" I don't obviously, but that's by the way. JLM's first wife was Hattie Jacques whom he had two children with. She left him after a few years for a younger man and JLM was so soft that after a bit he let her, and her lover move in with him. Eventually he met Joan and they then got married. Joan then had an affair with JLM's best friend, Tony Hancock the comedian. The funny bit is that Tony Hancock was an alcoholic prone to depression and violence - he treated Joan like shit, unlike JLM who was a gentleman. Had not Tony Hancock committed suicide then Joan admitted that she would have married him. As it was, she returned to JLM and stayed with him till his death in 1983.

So, what can we draw from this about the general nature of women?

1. Woman want young good-looking men - Hattie Jacques.

2. They see nice men as weak - Joan.

3. Treat 'em mean keep them keen - Tony Hancock.

4. They only pretend to care - would Joan have cared about JLM's feelings if she had gone off with Hancock?

5. A bloke is only a stop gap till something better comes along.

Thanks for reading.

Tuesday 28th July 2009 Falling - Blog

Falling.

I have thrown myself from the parapet of a church that no longer stands in the other world.

I do not feel fear.

Yea, though I walk through the shadow of valley of death, I will fear no evil...

I am accelerating at the rate of 32 feet per second per second.

I will not attain terminal velocity though the velocity is terminal.

Why am I thinking of O'level physics?

Did not Nietzsche say: Of what use is the knowledge of the chemical composition of water to a drowning man?

Soon I will be free. Very soon.

I feel tranquil.

There will be no pain.

Yea, though I walk through the shadow of valley of death, I will fear no evil...

A decision to decide no more.

The tarmac rushes up to embrace me and I kiss the sweet lips of oblivion.

I cannot hear the soundlessness nor can I see the nothingness.

Yea, though I walk through the shadow of valley of death, I will fear no evil...

Because here, there is no evil: the realm of the really real.

Peace.

Wednesday 5th August 2009: The Vampire - Short Horror Tale

I awake and roll out of bed. I slip my dressing gown on and prepare to go downstairs for breakfast.

The light is somewhat 'pearly' and I know that I am still dreaming; a dream within a dream.

I sense that the Vampire is close; he has been stalking me for a while now. I get back into bed and swiftly fall asleep again.

I rise refreshed and the light is natural. I will have no trouble with the Vampire now.

Once again, I slip my robe on; no, for the first time, for it was only a dream before.

I am looking forward to breakfast; I can almost smell the sizzling bacon. The birds are beginning to sing, and it is good to be alive.

I descend to the first-floor landing and sense the presence of the Vampire. A shadow passes ominously along the window. His powers are increasing, no doubt of that.

I turn and tiptoe back up the stairs and I pray that he does not hear me. Surreptitiously I clamber under the covers and surrender myself to sleep.

I stir again and I am fully conscious. I have confounded the Vampire; even He cannot keep me asleep forever. A dream within a dream within a dream - clever. He nearly had me in his icy grasp.

I descend the stairs; they feel reassuringly solid. I can actually smell the bacon.

I open the kitchen door. My grandmother is at the stove.

"Morning, did you sleep well?" she inquires.

"Yes, thanks!"

I do not tell her about The Vampire; it would spook her.

I sit down at the table and she places the cooked breakfast in front of me.

"Thank you," I say, then add, "You're dead, aren't you?"

My grandmother has indeed been deceased for over twenty-five years. Why did I not realise that?

"There's someone at the door for you," she says.

Clever. Very clever.

Defeat is close.

Behind the frosted glass panels towers the dark figure of him - the Vampire.

I swing open the door and recognise the features of the Vampire - they are mine.

"What is it you seek from me? To suck out my soul?"

"Why do you run from me? Why do you run from the truth?" he hisses.

"And what is the truth that I must know?"

"You are just a dream, dreaming in the mind of God."

"And what if God wakes-"

I awake. I am in my flat.

It was all indeed just a dream...

Friday 7th August 2009: Without Gossip - Blog

Without gossip the soul grows weak, withers and dies!

I just had to laugh yesterday as karma can work in such a strange way. The background...

Between October 2003 and June 2004, I went out with a lady called Claire - regular readers will be aware of this and my strong feelings for her. Claire was the ex-wife of one of the bus drivers, Christopher.

Anyway, all the time I was going out with her another driver was also try to shag her - I will call him Ray.

Claire wasn't interested in him but instead of just ignoring him she couldn't resist leading him on - she is known for this.

Physically, Ray, was early sixties, of Indian descent, balding with a thick grey beard and quite slim.

When he first starting working for the company I liked him as he was polite and softly spoken - he was a nice chap.

After a while I discovered that he liked taking pictures of naked women - nothing wrong with that - but he had also approached a female colleague of mine, told her that though he loved his wife dearly their marriage was sexless and would it be alright if he slept with her?

She told him that she would rather not, even if he was the last man alive.

He wouldn't take no for an answer and eventually my female colleague, who unbeknown to him had been a female wrestler in the past, offered to demonstrate a body slam on him, or so the story goes.

There were also rumours that several female passengers had complained to the Company that he had been suggestive to them - I believe he had been cautioned by the Company for this.

After Claire and I split up we kept in touch - underneath I was hoping she would return to me - and would occasionally meet up for coffee even though I was now with Lulu, who told me Claire was just pulling my bells.

Around about October 2004 Claire informed me that she was now seeing someone else - I was hurt but he was everything I wasn't: tall, good looking, slim, young and with a well-paying job. I couldn't compete. The funny thing was that Lulu in fact was the better woman for me, though I couldn't see that at the time being besotted with Claire - and still being in love with Sharon didn't help.

Time moved on and Lulu dumped me (she didn't know about my affair with The Minger at this point) because she saw no future for the relationship - I was completely fucked up - but I remained friends with her too, we had after all known each other since primary school.

Occasionally Claire would also text so everything was amicable.

In June of 2005 Claire's father died with whom she had been very close - I sent her my condolences. After the funeral she had come round and got a lot off her chest. As I was driving her back she told me that the fellow she had dumped me for had turned out to be very selfish and it was at this point I got the feeling that she might want to come back. But she was still in a state of shock about her father so I didn't pursue it. On the way home she requested me to stop off at where she worked to pick up her wages. As we did we passed another car and to my surprise she ducked down under the dash - it transpired that she had done that to avoid the stares of another fellow, presumably one she was having an affair with.

I couldn't believe it, her father had only been dead a few weeks and she was fucking around. When my mother died the last thing that was on my mind was playing around. I said nothing and took her home.

A couple of weeks later I was at a barbecue-cum-birthday party for Lulu. The evening was a complete disaster and I have already blogged* about the first part of the evening - but there was more...

Claire had texted me asking for Ray's mobile number - why? She could have asked Christopher her ex-husband or anybody else on the Company. The reason was to make me jealous because she was probably annoyed I hadn't tried it on when I had taken her home - she needed attention being a vain woman.

Anyway, I told her that it was wrong to start messing around with him, besides which his wife was a lovely person. Claire sent me back an offish text and I didn't bother to reply - she had rattled me.

I left the party with Jeremy and went down town and the drunker I got the worse things seemed to get. I bumped into The Minger and ended up snogging with her despite having dumped her a few weeks previous but that was all I did.

Walking, or rather staggering, home at two in the morning I began to think of the cheek of it, there's me offering Claire a shoulder to cry on and all she can do is play wind up games - I decided to text her...

Dear Claire, I am sorry that your dad died but please don't text me again. You will never get a decent bloke because you cannot be trusted to stay faithful and what's more there is nothing that looks more ridiculous than an older woman flirting with younger men x

My own hypocrisy knows no bounds.

I went to bed laughing my drunken head off as she would see that the text was from me and her first thought would be that it would be another from that sap Matt - she was about to have her ego punctured!

In the morning there was a letter from her informing me how upset she was - remorseful and hungover, I apologised unreservedly. I had scuppered any chances permanently, however slight, of a reconciliation.

On the Monday I had driven my bus into Ryde Bus Station only to see Claire with her daughter waiting at the stands talking to Ray who had an expression like the cat that had got the cream. I had slinked off into the rest room feeling like shit - how could I lose out to a creep like that?

I explained to Ray a couple of days later that I had really loved that girl and how upset I had been when she had dumped me - he still had a really smug expression. I had to accept defeat and try and put it behind me.

There were a couple of more incidents, one in which I told her daughter that I had been out with her mum for a bit - Claire had obviously been ashamed of going out with a minger like me and had tried to keep it from her daughter but that was that really - we never spoke again.

Ray, meanwhile used to take great delight in showing me texts she had sent him and telling what she had been up to periodically to rub it in. However, Claire told him his fortune one day when he had tried it on with her 17-year-old daughter. Inwardly, I smiled as the tables had turned.

I think Ray managed to convince Claire it had all been a misunderstanding and he sneaked back in.

Time passed and the dust settled - I started dating The Minger and then shagging Lulu from time to time before one of Lulu's workmates told The Minger - another story.

One evening, I received a text from Ray: Watch out Claire is about. She texted me earlier. We must have a drink sometime?

What he really meant was: I'm still in contact with her so I'm the better man and feel really smug because you haven't got a chance but I have.

I texted back: I don't know why you bother with her as she is totally insincere and plays wind up games with men. Take care.

That's taken the wind out of his sails, I thought.

He never replied but a week later he beckoned me over to show a text Claire had sent him about me calling me a two-faced bastard - she was right about both as my parents weren't married.

It was obvious that he had sent a Claire a copy of my text - snide bastard!

Anyway, I thought the matter was closed and Ray and I began to chat again - despite everything I couldn't hate him - but last year when I was at Ryde Esplanade as a conductor on the Dotto Train, Claire's daughter, now twenty with a baby, stormed over and confronted me about me calling her Mum a psychopath.

I was nonplussed - I had never said that. I said it had probably come from Ray, who had incidentally been spreading rumours that the baby wasn't her partner's. But I didn't mention that. The story actually came from me joking about Sharon, who shares the same Christian name as Claire, in the rest room accusing my girlfriend of being schizophrenic and that being a mistake as both her personalities rounded on me then - kind of a Les Dawson gag. This story was picked up by another driver who was trying to ingratiate and thereby bed Claire's daughter by making out that I had said that about her mother, and also got schizophrenic confused with psychopathic - a double mistake.

I couldn't understand why this fellow would feel the need to rubbish me in order to pull the daughter, but it turned out that the daughter for some strange reason had had a crush on me at some point, so now it all figures. As it happened the fellow did end up sleeping with the daughter so the strategy worked but it finished his relationship with the female wrestler who I mentioned had threatened Ray at the beginning of this long and convoluted tale of bus people.

Anyway, last Sunday I was invited out for a curry with my friend as it was my birthday but as we had a bit of time to kill before the meal Juki and I popped into Wetherspoons. Sitting at a table was Ray and another driver. Not wishing to be rude I wandered over, said hello and asked him how he was? He told me that he was off sick because both his brother and sister had died within a very short space of time and the doctor had thought it best he had some sick leave to get over it. I told him I was sorry and then changing the subject asked him how his wife was? He looked a bit strange and told me she was fine. Shortly after we left.

Tuesday, I got on Christopher's bus and told him that I had seen Ray in Wetherspoons and that he was off sick. Christopher replied: "He's a total liar. He's been sacked by the company for something and his wife has left him. Apparently he invited some friends down to his flat for a drink, who incidentally knew the female wrestler, and when they knocked on the door he was in the middle of watching a blue movie and asked if they wouldn't mind if he finished watching it. They reluctantly agreed. Halfway through he got out his dick and started wanking - they stormed out. And when his wife found out she left him!"

So, when I unaware, last Sunday, asked him how his wife was he probably thought I was taking the piss in revenge for all the stirring he did between me and Claire - no job and no wife!

Funny how it all turns out after all those years.

Karma eh?

And apologies for this long and self-indulgent blog!

* Yesterday when I was cycling through Appley Park and taking in the pungent fumes of the many barbecues along the way I was reminded of an incident that happened to me at one once. It's a typical Matt incident: a fucking disaster. Some background first though.

After Claire dumped me in June 2004 I ended up going out with Lulu shortly after. Okay, rebound relationships not a good idea.

I had been in the same class as Lulu at primary school and our paths often used to cross. As it does in a small town and funny enough on our first date, we had reminisced about all the slipperings Mr G had dished out. Lulu had told me how sorry she had felt for one lad who had suffered - unfairly in her view - at the hands of Mr G.

I had mixed feelings. One the one hand I kind of did feel sorry for him but on the other I used to derive a quiet satisfaction from watching the slippering which was quite harsh. I hasten to add that I never told Lulu about my kink.

Anyway, I went out with Lulu for a good few months but she dumped me because I couldn't commit. We remained on friendly terms, however. In actual fact Lulu was attractive, intelligent, generous, humorous and kind but I was too mixed up to appreciate her at the time.

For her birthday, however, the following year in June 2005 she invited me to a barbecue at her friend's house. Her friend by the way is the spitting image of Julie Walters incidentally. Anyway, apparently, I learned later, Lulu had invited me to the barbecue partly to show off her new toy-boy and make me jealous.

When she had dumped me (on election night of all nights) she had immediately regretted it, me being so handsome, witty, sexy and modest. The next day she had pleaded for me to have her back. I had turned her down. I was also shagging someone else from time to time too. Okay, I've been a bit of a rat in my time.

Back to the barbecue.

To be honest I don't really like barbecue food that much and also because I'm not that keen on food poisoning too. Burnt to the crisp on the outside, warm and pink in the middle. Thanks, but no thanks. So, I decide to eat beforehand.

From the supermarket I buy some cooked ham, bhajis and a quiche which I eat when I get back. I also get a couple of bottles of wine for the party and a card for Lulu.

A little later I turn up at the party with Jeremy, my childhood friend, who is also invited.

The party is good. I have a lot of laughs and end up chatting to a girl who I think I may have a chance with. But it turns out she was just flirting.

After a bit I start to get tipsy on all the wine.

Lulu is a bit cheesed off because the toy-boy fails to show.

Whilst there I observe everybody gorging on the food and feel smug because I know I'm not going to be the one suffering with my gut in the morning.

Suddenly my message alert sounds. It's Claire, my ex who I still pine for. What the fuck does she want?

Well, it turns out she wants the number of my one of my colleagues. It's a ploy to make ME jealous. It works too. She's already got a fella, the one she dumped me for. She's a game player.

Later when I'm really drunk, I tell her that too by text.

Time is getting on and I and Jeremy have an invite to join some others downtown. We accept but suddenly I experience a mild stomach pain. I have to go to the loo.

I walk back into the house which is quite small and at the end of a terrace. It also only has one toilet - not enough to cater for about twenty or so guests. In addition, there is no lock on the door and when I sit down, I realise that I have a dose of the shits. Big time.

This isn't supposed to be happening to me, me who cleverly ate at home in order to avoid tummy trouble from dodgy barbecue food.

I have terrible flatulence interspersed with pebble dash diarrhoea and just when I think there can be no more it starts up again. Meanwhile I'm having to keep the door pressed shut with one leg because there's no lock on it. People keep trying to get in. Finally, I get over it and I flush the chain. But to my horror I see that the water isn't draining away probably due to the fact I've used a hell of a lot of loo paper. The level of water and raw sewerage rapidly begins to rise and any second, I fear it's going to overflow. Mercifully, it doesn't but it's still blocked. With one foot against the door to keep the other desperate toilet users at bay I pump repeatedly with the toilet brush with my free hand. Finally, there is a loud sucking noise as the bowl empties.

I open the door, immensely relieved in more ways than one and immediately a young woman grasping her crutch rushes in.

When I get outside Jeremy is waiting for me. He says calmly: "I hate to say this Matt but not only could everybody hear you, you have also completely stunk the whole house out. I think it may be best that we go."

"You're probably right."

We walk out and I wish everybody left there a cheery goodbye. Few respond and the rest just stare disgustedly at me.

Another night to remember!

Sunday 9th August 2009: Hurt Me! - Explicit Memoir

Sunday morning is still Saturday night.

I'm drunk and staggering up Ryde High Street on the way home.

I've reached the junction with Star Street where the precinct ends and the 'Old Town' begins.

"Oi! You look a bit like Steve Collins. I like him!"

I turn and see two fat slappers dressed in leather jackets and jeans loitering in a shop entrance. They are probably early twenties.

They put me in mind, for an instant, of the bloated spiders, you see in autumn, patiently straddling their webs hoping for a fly to stumble blindly in...

"You mean Steve Collins the 'Celtic Warrior', the boxer?" I respond.

I don't think I do resemble him, and I'm ten years older too but add: "You like boxing then? Lennox Lewis is fighting Andrew Golota tonight, pity I haven't got Sky, or I would have watched it."

"We've got Sky. Come round ours!"

Fuck me, you're forward, I think, or rather what passes for thinking when you're pissed.

"Where do you live?" I don't want to trawl halfway across town.

"Mount Street."

Fuck! I live in Mount Street and I've never seen them before.

"Yeah. Thanks. I will."

"We're sisters you know," one of them says.

"You do look a bit alike."

They both have round flat fat faces and dark lank hair. You couldn't call them pretty, but then you couldn't call them ugly either. Still, I have been drinking a lot of lager.

The younger one of the two grabs hold of my hand and we turn right into Newport Street, left into Station Street, along Green Street and then into Mount Street.

We wander past Willow Cottage where I live and tucked in the corner of Mount Street and Little Arthur Street is their house - just three fucking doors away from mine. That could spell trouble.

We enter the surprisingly expansive lounge and I plonk myself down onto the large sofa.

One of the sisters gets me a can and I pop it open.

The telly is switched on and tuned onto Sky Sports. I look forward to the big fight.

The preliminaries, fight clips and discussion seem to go on endlessly. The older bigger sister disappears off to bed and I'm left on the seat with the younger one, Mea.

After a bit I'm aware she's gone too, perhaps I had dozed off.

I feel a bit awkward sitting in a stranger's house all alone watching their telly and using their electric but the fight will be on soon.

I become aware of footsteps and see Mea standing at the door in her nightdress.

"Are you coming to bed with me or what?"

The 'or what' option seems the least promising of the two so I say, "Okay."

She clicks the telly off and turns off the lights.

"Try not to make too much noise or you'll wake my mother up. She won't be too pleased to find you here."

I follow her up the stairs to her bedroom which remains unlit.

As my eyes adjust, the darkness becomes a gloom and I can just discern why she doesn't want it to be illuminated - the room is a complete and utter tip.

I strip off and slip under the covers beside her.

I give her a cuddle and French kiss her, gradually working round to caressing her skin under her nightie.

"Why don't you take your nightdress off?" I purr in her ear.

"I'm fine just the way I am thanks."

Eventually I penetrate her, but something seems amiss - nerves perhaps?

I do not climax myself and fall into a drunken sleep.

Suddenly I'm awake, and very hard - I think it is she that has woken me.

She is leaning over me intently.

"Hurt me. I want you to hurt me!"

I resist the initial, cruelly witty, urge to call her a 'fat ugly slag' but instead say, "Have you got a hairbrush or a shoe?"

This is definitely my kind of female. I briefly fantasise about her pale fat naked body in the moonlight tied firmly to a tree with twine and me whipping her back and buttocks with a cat 'o nine tails, every lash echoing through the woods and bringing forth thin lines of blood...

"I would really like that, but the noise will wake Mum up. Scratch my arms. Hard."

She whips the nightgown over her head - suddenly the shyness has evaporated.

I gently take her chubby left arm in my left hand and then rake down it hard from the forearms to the wrist with the prominent nails of my right hand.

I can feel her tense, but she says nothing.

I repeat the action but this time even harder.

Her breathing begins to deepen.

Again, I rake her.

I switch to her right arm - I do not start gently.

Four times I run my nails with force down the bare flesh of her arms.

Her deep breathing is becoming gasping now.

I return to her left arm, faster and faster, deeper, and deeper, I rake her.

She seeks blood. And so, do I.

My hand becomes warm and sticky.

I stop.

"Do you want me to fuck you now, have you had enough?"

"Yes. That is good. Very good."

I mount her, slipping in easily, and my penis is broom handle stiff.

I get her to rub my nipples gently whilst I pinch hers tight.

Within a few minutes I feel little ripples of spasms play along my shaft like the first drops of rain prior to the downpour as she begins to climax.

Her obese frame suddenly shudders, and she utters a mute groan. I continue to pump and after a few seconds I too experience the sweet release of orgasm.

Spent, I withdraw and then collapse to the side of her. Slumber beckons.

"You can't fall asleep; you'll have to go. Mum will absolutely kill me if she finds you."

I clamber out of bed and struggle not only to find my clothes but also to put them on.

Eventually I succeed, wish her a good night, and then sneak out of the house.

I stroll the few yards home and let myself in.

I do not feel guilt yet, but I know I will when I sober up.

I must keep this from Sharon who I really love.

I vow never to speak to the sisters again.

As I get into my bed, I wonder how the fight went...

Wednesday 19th August 2009: Cheese Gives You Bad Dreams - Memoir

Many years ago, before I worked for The Bus Company, I was employed for a while at Tesco on the Wines and Spirits department. It was hard work, humping heavy boxes of bottles around all day, but compensated for with some great laughs.

The fellow who was my supervisor possessed a wicked sense of humour and he resembled John Thomson the actor from Cold Feet, though he was probably shorter and also a bit 'camp' too. His name was Albert.

One of the things that amused Albert was the bit in the Staff Training Manual that stated: The customers are not interested one little bit in your idle gossip...

"Yes, they are, most definitely," Albert would counter, and he would prove the assertion wrong on several occasions too with staged little incidents.

One quiet day Albert rushed out onto the shop floor looking a bit flustered and said to me loud enough to be heard: "Matt, can you lend me a fiver as my sister, who works for Tate and Lyle, has just phoned me to tell me there's going to be a severe and long sugar shortage."

"Bloody hell, Albert, I'll give you a tenner and get a whole load for me too!"

In the background was a middle aged woman pretending not to earwig. We knew different of course.

I handed Albert the tenner and he disappeared out the back. In the meantime I quietly watched the woman wheel her trolley out of the aisle.

A few minutes later Albert returned and we carried on stocking the shelves but keeping a sharp lookout in the direction of the pallet at the far end of the store where the bags of sugar were stacked.

Sure enough, after about ten minutes, the woman approached the sugar pallet.

I nudged Albert and we both looked on, trying to contain our laughter, as she placed bag after bag of sugar into her trolley till it was totally full.

I imagined her later at home and her husband asking her why every cupboard was full of sugar and she tapping the side of her nose and replying knowingly: "I have inside information that there is going to be a worldwide sugar shortage soon..."

That was over twenty-six years ago. They've probably just about got through it all now!

Albert and I scripted a few other 'wind ups' though that was probably the funniest but there was another weird incident...

One morning I was in the warehouse putting boxes away when I heard a thump followed by a gasp and then the sound of a body crumpling to the floor.

I came out to the main corridor to see this fellow in a suit lying unconscious at the door of the dairy refrigeration stock room surrounded by fourteen pound blocks of cheese. The First Aider was called and after a bit he revived and was well enough to go home though clearly shaken.

It turned out he had been counting the cheese which had been stacked precariously high when he had inadvertently nudged the pile for it to collapse with one landing on his head rendering him unconscious for a few minutes. Fortunately he made a full recovery.

After, there were a few jokes going round about cheese giving you bad dreams...

Funny enough, I attended, a few weeks later, the annual staff party which was fancy dress and was asked by the Dairy Manager why I hadn't come in an outfit.

I responded by lying on the floor with my eyes closed and saying, wittily I thought: 'I've come as a cheese rep!'

"Very fucking funny, Matt!"

I've got a few other amusing tales of my time at Tesco which I'll get round to posting some time.

Tuesday 1st September 2009: Two Tales about Snakes - Blog

I'm sat at a table in The Bagel Shop in Ryde High Street with Juki and Calamity when Bridget comes in with her little girl. But a little background first:

Calamity is thirty, tall, blonde and kind of resembles Joanne Lumley when she used to be Purdy in The New Avengers but not as good looking if I am to be honest. I have known Calamity for about three and a half years and for a short while, whilst I was with Della, we had an affair which was as much exciting as it was good for my middle aged ego. We also had a suicide pact at one time too - a story for another day. Calamity has just completed her first year at University and is currently on the Island till she returns to her studies at the end of September.

I'm very fond of Calamity but I know that tragedy stalks her, still, live for the day eh?

Calamity is sipping from a latte. Juki you already know - a regular coffee for her. Me? Dodgy blood pressure, racing pulse, high cholesterol, over weight, well, what else but a hot chocolate topped with cream.

Bridget is Jeremy's ex and she lives in Jeremy's house with her delightful little girl who she had by the fellow after Jeremy and who she has no contact with. Jeremy is now married to Amanda and resides at Amanda's former marital home. Bridget, Jeremy and Amanda all get on really well and Jeremy used to be my best friend. I should have mentioned that earlier. We still are friends but I don't see that much of him now sadly.

The snake.

About a month ago as it was my birthday Jeremy and Amanda insisted on treating Juki and I to a curry. Now Jeremy is quite slim, even slimmer a few years back, but he can certainly pack away the food - I have witnessed him gobble down two large curries in a row in the past. Anyway, we were talking about the amount Jeremy can eat at one sitting and I said, to much hilarity, that he was like a snake in that he could totally gorge himself and then not need to eat for ages. Jeremy then put on a mock expression of hurt and said: "Are you calling me a snake, that's not very nice!" Amanda and Juki found it highly amusing.

Now, as it was Jeremy's birthday yesterday Juki and I bought him a wooden segmented toy snake in a gift shop, wrapped it up and popped it through his letterbox. I hasten to add we long ago gave up giving each other useful presents.

Jeremy had told Bridget about the snake remark and I ask Bridget if she had heard from Jeremy. She tells me that Amanda has taken him away to Center Parcs for his birthday weekend.

"Talking about snakes reminds of another story about them. A true one," I pipe up.

Everybody gives me not-another-one-of-your-long-and-boring-tales-Matt look. But I start anyway...

"I can't remember the exact details but I read somewhere about this Island in the tropics where there lived this tribe. The Island was also home to a large number of good sized pythons. One day this native found a python slithering through his hut searching for prey so he took up a club and bludgeoned it to death. Now, because it was a female snake he knew that the male snake would come looking for it - not a good prospect because these fuckers were known not only to occasionally eat humans but were also vengeful. He decided that the best thing to do was get his revenge in first so he made his way to the snake colonies lair, a cave, a little way off. He waited outside for one of the pythons to emerge and he would attack and kill it assuming it was the male searching for his female, the one he had killed. Unfortunately for him the male was smarter and was already lying in wait for him in a tree outside the cave. As soon as the man moved under the tree the snake dropped onto him and immediately wrapped his coils around him tightening every time he breathed out - the effect of which would slowly crush the life out of him. The poor man in his desperation found the recess in which the snake's penis was retracted and in a last attempt grabbed hold of it and twisted with what little strength he had left. The snake in agony momentarily loosened its coils just enough for the fellow to throw them off and make his escape. Unfortunately he had little breath for running and he could hear the python slithering after him. After a bit the exertion was too much and he collapsed fearing that he would once again be caught - and this time he wouldn't get away. To his surprise he woke and the snake was nowhere around. Realising that he had a lucky escape and didn't want to tempt fate he decided to leave the island and become a fisherman. Tragically the boat he was on capsized and he drowned on his first trip."

Juki laughs but nobody else does.

I pick up my hot chocolate and the world spins round - I'm having a vertigo attack. I manage to control it but I have to get home. I tell everybody that I have to go - they understand.

It's crap this condition. Once again my thoughts turn to Dignitas...

Wednesday 17th September 2009: Charade - Blog

Yesterday: Wednesday 16th September 2009. Time: 1830.

Billy-No-Mates sat at a round table in Hong Kong Express. Billy-No-Mates waiting for his Sweet and Sour Chicken Balls served with Egg Fried Rice. Billy-No-Mates supping from his chilled lemonade served in a clear Coca-Cola glass. Billy-No-Mates periodically glancing out at the dual carriage way across which lies the entrance to Ryde Pier. Billy-No-Mates contrasting the onset of windy autumn that lies just beyond the glass partition of the restaurant's front with the blown up wall mounted photos of Hong Kong's Victoria Harbour taken on a clear but sultry night from, so the caption says, The Peak.

Billy-No-Mates...

Billy-No-Mates is not alone in the restaurant - there is another Billy-No-Mates on the opposite row of tables.

Billy-No-Mates number 2 is older and bigger than Billy-No-Mates number 1 and is about sixty with a pleasant wide ruddy face. Billy-No-Mates number two is wearing winter denial clothes: sandals, shorts and a tea shirt.

Billy-No-Mates number one suddenly remembers that on the way down to The Esplanade he was beeped by Louise. Billy-No-Mates likes Louise - a lot.

Louise is forty six but looks thirty six and is dark haired, blue eyed tanned and pretty - she's a sexy bitch and intelligent too.

Billy-No-Mates had been out with Louise, her daughter and manic dog last Sunday for a walk around Firestone Copse.

Billy-No-Mates had liked the comforting domesticity of it - he had been reminded of happier times in his life.

At the end of the day, after calling in at her parents, Louise had suggested a dinner with just the two of them. Billy-No-Mates had felt, for the first time in a while, a little optimistic and Billy-No-Mates visualised himself in a cosy monogamous relationship with her: meals together, trips out, bonding with her daughter, good films, great conversations, gratifying sex but then Billy-No-Mates concluded it that it would be a charade - a charade like all his other relationships that would crumble with each slip of his carefully constructed mask. Because all of his relationships with women had gone the same way but he seemed destined to pursue them all the same - an unending and unenviable series of unhappy endings.

Billy-No-Mates picks up his mobile and phones Louise.

Louise: "Hi, I've just got in. How you doing?"

Billy-No-Mates: "I'm fine, just treating myself to a Sweet and Sour at Hong Kong Express. Do you fancy meeting up over the weekend?"

Louise: "I would love to but I've got friends over, they go back Sunday afternoon, maybe we could squeeze in a cuppa then?"

Billy-No-Mates: "That would be good but don't worry if you can't. Look, I would like to take you out for a meal. What do you say?"

Louise: "That would be nice, just the two of us. I've got to go now but will look really look forward to it. Bye darling."

Billy-No-Mates: "Bye, and take care."

The waitress places down his meal.

Billy-No-Mates number 2 is no longer a Billy-No-Mates as he has just been joined at his table by two women and a man - they are two couples and he was just the first to arrive.

The genuine Billy-No-Mates tucks into his food and remembers again that it is his son's twenty second birthday.

Billy-No-Mates hasn't seen or heard from his son today but his son had popped in yesterday for his card and present of money.

Billy-No-Mates feels that he has been a less than perfect father but what can he do now?

His son had spoken of his future plans to enrol on a college course so he can support his stepson and partner, and maybe have a child but Billy-No-Mates reckons that it is probably a charade as his son is actually facing prison for an alleged assault. Billy-No-Mates tries not to think about it - maybe he will get off.

Billy-No-Mates finishes his meal, gets up and pays.

As he exits the restaurant Billy-No-Mates feels the need to walk - he has been inside most of the day whilst the electrician upgraded his electrics, and then he fell asleep for the latter part of the afternoon waking just before six.

He strolls past the coldly illuminated bus station and then along to the tunnel entrance.

Between the gap in the buildings between Planet Ice and LA Bowl he espies a distant hovercraft about halfway across the Solent heading backing to the terminal at Ryde - he decides to watch it arrive and turns into the Quay Road coach and car park over the twin tracked railway tunnel.

He hears his name called.

He looks to see an old driver he used to work with leaning out of his coach window.

"What you doing? I haven't seen you for years!"

He recognises 'Mason'.

"Hi Mason, I'm just going to watch the hovercraft come in and then I'll come back for a chat."

"Okay."

Billy-No-Mates wanders down to the seawall adjacent to the terminal. It's around about half seven now and dusk. It's quite breezy and the sea a tad choppy.

Billy-No-Mates wonders if he will be hit from the spray from the craft as it passes.

The pilot of the hovercraft throttles in the engines as he glides it skilfully up the gently inclined concrete slipway prior to landing.

Satisfied, Billy-No-Mates walks back to the coach - he can't really be bothered to speak to the driver as he has little in common with him now and also because he feels a little uncomfortable him - uncomfortable with his repressed homosexuality. No. Uncomfortable with the fact that he feels that Mason once fancied him and he doesn't want to have to tell him, awkwardly, that he's not interested.

"Come in and sit down, it's warm in here. So tell me a quick potted history of what you have been doing."

"Well, I'm not with the bus company anymore - I was paid off due to losing my license because of vertigo. I may go for disability and I am still undergoing tests..."

"That's bad news. What about your love life? I can't get anyone at all. I expect you can because you've still got a good head of hair."

"I don't know about that Mason, it's thinning a bit, shrinking like the icecaps with global warming."

Billy-No-Mates underneath believes that man-made global warming may be a scam - a charade? - in which scientists seek to attract funding from politicians who in turn present climate change as a global problem which requires a global world order which really exists for the enrichment and empowerment of the global elite.

Billy-No-Mates believes that it is as important to understand not just what a person says but to also understand why they are saying what they are saying.

"So, are you going out with anyone?" Mason enquires.

"I've got a female friend whom I'm very close to but we're not an item as such. I may be going out with someone else soon, she's really nice-"

"What about you and Sharon?"

"We split up about six years ago. After her I went out with Claire then Lulu followed by Della who dumped me a year and a half ago."

If he hasn't got the hint that I am straight now he never will after all those names, Billy-No-Mates thinks.

"You're really lucky when it comes to women as I can't get anyone."

Billy-No-Mates wants to tell him that it is because he is gay or bisexual and refuses to come to terms with it and females will pick up on it, but Billy-No-Mates is into BDSM and not that many know about that - another charade.

"I've got some pictures of you when you were my conductor all those years ago. You used to have lovely hair, like a girl's. I'm going to scan some photos of you and post them on the net."

"Thanks Mason, I've got to go as I'm meeting my friend at half eight. We're going to watch a film. Take it easy."

Mason presses a scrap of paper into Billy-No-Mates hand with his website handle on.

"Bye!" Mason calls out, almost plaintively, as Billy-No-Mates lets himself out of the warm vehicle.

Billy-No-Mates makes his way round the back of LA Bowl and then phones his female friend, Juki.

"Do you fancy watching 'Moon'?"

"Yeah, that will be good. Thanks."

"Okay, I'll see you in the foyer of The Commodore at about a quarter past eight."

Billy-No-Mates reflects about his friendship with Juki - it's platonic though he did get her to strip off once so he could mildly cane her but she has told a lot of her circle that they were an item - another charade.

Billy-No-Mates wanders out to the end of the harbour and takes in the view of the pier, the town rising gently up on the slopes, the floodlit parish church - it's a good place to think.

Billy-No-Mates ponders about the charades he has encountered recently: his son and his future; Mason and his sexuality; Global warming; Juki and her fake relationship with himself; the possible coming charade with Louise.

He wonders if charade is indeed the right word, perhaps façade.

Billy-No-Mates looks at the sea and the constant motion of it. He looks at the endless stream of cars passing along Ryde seafront. He wonders about the tides, the spinning of the planet, the energy being expended in street lights. Nothing is at rest - all is change whether it be slow or quick. He realises that his own body is changing each second - changing for the worse, slowly deteriorating. Every minute somebody is born and somebody dies and in that moment he understands what the greatest charade is of all: that life, his life, has lasting value.

He turns back and heads for the bus station.

As he boards the Number 3 to take him up to the cinema it occurs to him that the engine of his life is now switched off and that it is only momentum now that is keeping him going - but for how long?

Friday 2nd October 2009: Meaningless Meanings - Blog

We have sprung from a causeless cause at the beginningless beginning of time to seek meaning in a meaningless existence.

Better to believe in a lie than nothing.

Life is just death deferred.

Health is just illness postponed.

Happiness is just depression masked.

True freedom is the freedom not to be.

Pleasure is the discharge of tension and the greatest tension must surely be life itself therefore the greatest pleasure must be the relinquishing of life.

There is no such thing as a happy ending, only happy memories.

Everything of value is left at the gates of oblivion.

We are just a dream in the mind of God - a God that has eaten too much cheese before bed.

Give up all hope and your life will be so much better...

Looks like I'm having one of my dark moments again folks still at least my son didn't go to jail today - his case was adjourned till November.

How the fuck did it all go so fucking wrong?!!!

Good Night Everyone!!

Cheerful Fucking Charlie.

Monday 9th November 2009: Wanton Pain Slut - Blog

Cougar (Charlotte) Visited me Friday Night - this is the account:

Ryde Harbour. Ryde Harbour at night:

I talk of Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, Ayn Rand. She talks of the artists.

Her auburn hair blows gently across her elegant features in the chill November breeze - she is beautiful. And she is wanton.

I want to be kind to her, protect her...

The yachts rock gently against their moorings, the water rippling.

Beyond lies the old pavilion now a bowling alley and beyond that the town rising gradually up on the easy slopes.

She kisses me catching me unawares. And I in turn catch her hand.

I see the yachts tugging gently against their moorings. I see the dark water rippling in the sodium lights. I see it all, the town and everything as on canvas, but not as an artist would have it, frozen in time but rather as alive and dynamic painted in moving colours upon the canvas of oblivion.

I look at her. Tall and willowy. Her blue eyes are plaintive.

I press my mouth softly against hers.

I want to be kind to her, protect her...

*

"Strip."

She says nothing, merely obeys.

I want to be kind to her, protect her...

I grasp her fine breasts and maul her roughly.

I pinch her nipples.

"Come with me."

I want to be kind to her, protect her...

*

She is naked face down on the bed.

She had told me - defied me - that she would not cry.

She did not say that she would not surrender.

I wanted to be kind to her, protect her, protect her from myself but that was never to be. The cane is in my hand, power. Absolute power.

Her pale legs are long and her back is liberally spotted with moles - a myriad of beguiling islands upon an exquisite ivory sea.

I raise the cane and bring it down like the first drop of rain in a summer shower lightly upon the twin peaches of her cheeks. She says nothing and hardly stirs.

Again I guide it down, harder.

The drops become a shower.

She begins to twist and gasp. And the shower becomes a storm.

She writhes and squeals but does not sob and her beautiful white buttocks are now a palette of crimson.

I cane her hard, very hard and with cruel intent once more.

She pulls her long legs up to her quivering body and pushes herself up onto her elbows - the pain is over.

She throws herself at my body in her moment of surrender.

I can be kind now.

I take her fine head in my arms and stroke her long hair. She is mine now.

I comfort her and then lower her to the mattress.

Her blue eyes are sad.

On her back now I make her grip the supports of the frame such that her sexy arms are stretched out.

I pull her legs apart and force my head betwixt her thighs. She is shaved.

I thrust my fingers into her cunt and suck and lick her clit. I squeeze her tits roughly.

I pump her slowly at first then gradually faster - I keep my tongue in time.

Steadily I increase the pace.

I feel the sudden contractions of her cunt grip my fingers. I merely thrust more strongly.

She cries out as though in pain - cries out my name.

I do not stop. I cannot stop.

Time after time she comes. Time after time she screams.

She is a wanton woman and I am addicted to her. Utterly and absolutely...

Sunday 15th November: I Treated the Slut Like Shit, and She Took it! - Slut Fiction

She's a minger and she knows it: forty with a wonky eye, overweight and with an abundance of moles on her arms - and a large one on her stomach. Her personal hygiene leaves a little to be desired too - but, she has big tits and nipples though.

She absolutely adores me...

The thing is I just don't give a damn about her: she is just a sexual object to me like the majority of my women, and I have had loads, fucking loads.

On the plus side, she is a tad kinky - it's the only thing the ugly bitch has going for her.

It's Wednesday and my day off - I know she is at home waiting for me to call, desperately waiting for me to call. I'm too good for her and we both know it. After a while I will tire of her and dump her - it will break her heart but what do I care, shit happens, live with it bitch. Still, I will have a bit of fun with her today.

I pick up the phone and dial her number. She answers meekly and all excited. I can't stand all this sweetness and light, it sickens me so I get to the point. "Strip naked and walk round to mine, just wearing your cheap fake fur coat and boots - you've got fifteen minutes so don't fuck around!"

The door buzzer sounds in my hallway. I check my watch: fourteen minutes - not bad, but then she knows not to displease me.

I pick up the intercom phone.

"It's me!" she proclaims in an irritatingly gleeful tone.

"Yeah, surprise, surprise. Right, you are going to do exactly as I say, understand? - or it's all over between us!"

There's never anything to be gained for a man like me, or any man if truth be known, in being soft with a slut, and if ever there was such a creature as an über slut then she was it!

"When I release the outer door you are going to enter the hallway and remove your coat and boots. You will be completely naked. You will place your clothes in the utility cupboard out of sight."

I can just make out a faint 'yes' - the prospect of being single terrified her and besides if she did get another man she would never get a fellow as good as me, not in a million years.

"You will crawl up to my flat and beg to be let in!"

I visualise the two long flights of stairs and the four doors - any of which could be opened at any time - she will have to crawl past. If that happens then I'll just deny I ever knew her.

I release the catch to the communal door on the ground floor...

I reckon she's just started on the last flight - I can just make out the satisfying sound of naked knees and elbows scuffing on the worn stair carpet.

I smiled a wicked smile and then discern a gentle knocking on my flat door - I am in no rush to open it.

"Please let me in." she requests plaintively.

I think of her flabby nude body with all its blemishes waiting outside and wonder if she is aware that the occupants of the house next door can peer, if they choose, into the landing outside my flat - I cannot help but smile again.

I allow three minutes to pass.

"I beg you to let me in!"

She's getting distressed - how sweet.

I allow another sixty seconds to pass then slowly open my door.

"About time, you bitch, what kept you?" I may be a cunt, some say, but I do possess a sense of humour.

I get the impression she is rather pleased to see me.

"Get to my room - I'm going to fuck you, it's all you are good for!"

She pads off meekly along my hall. I strip, throwing my clothes upon the sofa in my lounge and stroll to my bedroom.

She is standing by the bed - awaiting me. I turn her round roughly and without warning viciously rake the top of her expansive back with my nails. She winces and shudders with the pain but she has to take it till I have had enough, not her, the slut.

Her nipples are engorged and the odour from her moist fanny hangs heavy in the air. I notice tiny little droplets of blood have begun to form along the cruel scratches I have inflicted - it is time.

I throw her down roughly onto the mattress and thrust my seven inch cock into her cunt. I make her rub and suck my nipples - she exists purely, like all women should, for my gratification.

It feels fucking good and our rhythm is synchronised. We reach the crescendo of our coupling and climax simultaneously - it is a unique attribute she has, and she is fortunate to possess it as I do not concern myself with a slut's pleasure.

She is lying next to me now all relaxed and clingy, radiating ugliness.

"Matt, what would you have done if someone had opened their door just as I was crawling past all naked?"

"I would have disowned you, and laughed when you were arrested and bundled into the police van. But it wasn't very likely to happen as two of the flats are holiday homes and the other two occupants were at work - unless they happened to have been ill or taking a day off."

"You're a bastard you know that, a kinky and exciting bastard I admit."

"I know," I say matter-of-factly. And shortly I will confirm that for her when I dump her.

I grab hold of her and give her repulsive body a cuddle then kiss her - I want her to feel that she is special to me for now as it will make her hurt just that little bit more when the time comes to callously discard her...

Tuesday 17th November 2009: The Fight - Memory

I clock him across the smoky and crowded dance floor of the Prince Consort discotheque. He is six foot, a couple of inches taller than me, blond with an athletic build and would be good looking were it not for the permanent sneer twisting his features. He's eighteen. I'm nineteen.

His mates call him Barney and he's a cunt, quite literally, from the wrong side of the tracks across town and he's from a rough family whose reputation he lives off.

He's heading my way because about an hour earlier he had been giving my mate Jeremy a bit of hassle. I had told him to piss off. And he had.

It's been eating him since, he has lost face, I can see that, and now with a few more beers in his belly he has come to even the score.

I watch him get closer. I shut out the thumping beat of the music and the dancers and focus, though pissed, on what I am going to do, have to do.

He's about three feet away and his eyes are angrily staring into mine. It's a mistake as he should be looking at my hands. I smile slightly to deceive him into believing that it is he who is in control and that I am no threat.

"Anytime you-"

I smash my right fist as hard as I can into his face with the intention of pushing his nose into the back of his head and as I do an electric shock of pain shoots up my arm. He reels back in agony bringing his hands up to his face and turns away.

One hard punch and the cunt's had enough. I kind of feel good about that.

"Okay cool it lads, just stay cool everybody," says the DJ who has had a grandstand view. He also kills the music.

The dancers stop dancing and slowly realise that something has happened. Barney is over in the corner and one of his mates has his arm round him. Another one of his pals, quite short and probably underage comes up to me and says menacingly, "If you want trouble mate we'll give you fucking trouble!"

I want to laugh, though it is swiftly dawning on me that I could really be in deep shit, because the line sounds right out of a badly scripted gangster movie. I decide to brazen it out - they don't know me and maybe I really am useful, besides I took their mate out pretty easily and he was supposed to be tough.

"Look Shorty, it was between him and me, but if you want some of the same then feel free to have a go."

He says nothing and sidles off. The problem is my hand is really hurting and I'm wondering if I've broken a finger. I'm fucked if there is to be any more fighting.

I decide to get out but I have to do it coolly, if I show any weakness then I've had it. I nonchalantly push another one of his mates out of the way and make for the back way to the cloakrooms where Jeremy is attempting to chat up the cock-tease of an attendant. I've got to get him out in case they start on him. At the far end of the club by the entrance I just see one of the black suited burly bouncers begin to walk down, presumably called by the DJ.

I'm really shitting it now inside but I if I can keep my composure I stand a good chance of getting away with it.

As I step off the dance floor a big blond fellow with a petite brunette hanging on his arm says to me, "Who the fuck do you think you are?"

I just ignore him and carry on walking. And pray he doesn't come after me. I stroll down the corridor fairly confident that nobody is following me. I see Jeremy leaning on the door frame of the cloakroom and he is trying to impress the flirty peroxide blonde of an attendant. He looks a bit annoyed that I am about to interrupt him but he hasn't got a cat in hells chance of pulling her anyway.

I take him by the arm and out of earshot.

"Jeremy we have to get out of here. And quick. I've just smacked Barney and we could be in big fucking trouble!"

"Uh, right," he says, suddenly realising the seriousness of the situation.

"I want you to act completely normal till we get out of here," I whisper to him. He nods.

We make our way the ten yards or so to the exit. There is only one bouncer there; the other two are probably on the dance floor questioning people. I still can't hear any music. Not good.

As I approach the door I fear that at any moment a member of Barney's little group could just appear. And we still have to get past the doorman.

The bouncer sees us and to my amazement swings open the reinforced glass door. "Early night lads?"

"Well there's not a lot going on and I've got to work tomorrow. Good night!" I respond breezily.

I breathe a sigh of relief as I step out into the late evening air and walk up the stone steps to the pavement, the Prince Consort nightclub being below ground level.

As we reach the top of the steps I turn to Jeremy and say, "I think it will probably be a very good idea if we sprint back to mine and wait for the furore to die down."

We're both pretty quick but we have only gone about seventy yards when I hear a shout in the distance.

"That's him. After them, lads!"

We get to the top of St Thomas's Street and then turn into Spencer Road. We're both badly gasping and as we get to my parent's house I look for my pursuers. But we have left them behind and more importantly they haven't seen where I live.

I open the front door and we let ourselves in. It is quiet. My Mother and Grandmother have gone to bed.

"That was close Matt, what happened?"

"I punched Barney in the face before he hit me. I never realised he had so many mates and what's really bad is that I may have damaged my hand. It really hurts. I meant to punch him in the nose but I think I missed and hit him on the cheek. I think I'll leave it a while before paying another visit to the Prince Consort."

We suddenly hear a group of noisy lads pass by outside the window and exchange knowing smiles.

"Fancy a cup of tea Jeremy?"

"Yeah, don't mind if I do, Matt."

I fill the kettle and then place it on the ring of the cooker before lighting the gas...

Friday 20th November 2009: 23 Lashes for the Defiant Slut - Memory (written later)

"Strip to the waist, it is time for your flogging," I command her.

I do not want to punish her rather would I be tender with her, protect her, but with a slut to be cruel is to be kind; it is, sadly, the only language they understand.

She lowers her blue eyes submissively then, without uttering a word, lifts herself up from the sofa. She is silent because she fears the pain and loathes the humiliation but she has no one to blame but herself - she chose to disobey me.

She unbuttons slowly her pin-striped shirt and I watch as strands of her long auburn hair fall around her face partially obscuring her pretty features. Her shirt unfastened she slips it off and places it neatly upon the back of the arm chair.

She is tall for a female, perhaps five feet six, and willowy.

She gazes at me forlornly for a second - it will not save her - as she casts off her black bra.

She is topless now, as is required for a whipping, and her delicious firm breasts exposed.

I stand up, move behind her and grasp the tops of her bare arms. "I am going to take you to the place where you will receive your punishment," I inform her gently but resolutely.

"Thank you," she responds in a hushed and resigned tone.

I guide her out of my flat into the chill landing. I know she hates it but she has no option other than to submit, and I order her to stand facing the wall with her arms at her sides.

I return to my flat and retrieve the flogger from my implement drawer. I then walk back slowly onto the landing. She knows that shortly, very shortly, she will be wracked with pain.

"You will press your chest and stomach hard against the wall and raise your arms above your head laying your palms flat also against the wall. You will stay in this position till I am done with you, unless you relish extra strokes?"

"I understand," she acknowledges meekly.

I observe her comply with my instructions and wince slightly as her bare flesh makes contact with cold white plaster.

I walk up behind her and place my hands, with flogger in my right hand, gently upon her hips. I put my mouth to her ear and whisper to her, "I do not want to do this but you force it upon me. Did I not say to you last weekend 'Do not smoke more than twenty cigarettes from Friday morn to Monday morn because I will lash you for each one over' and did you not defy me, how many was it my dear?"

"I smoked forty three, twenty three over. I am sorry, truly sorry."

"I am sorry too my love, but it will not save you," I whisper back detecting the trembling of her body now taut with fear.

I bring the whip round to the side of her face. "What tastes better? The taste of a cigarette? Or the taste of leather? Kiss it!"

She turns her head and kisses the tails of the whip. I take it away and move back. She is just seconds away from savouring the true taste of the whip.

I glance at her elegantly formed naked back, her pale unmarked flesh and her slim legs poured into her long black trousers and see her writhing in agony, her skin laced with ribbons of crimson.

I draw back my arm and with the flogger gripped firmly in my hand bring the first of twenty three lashes, delivered without mercy, down upon her bare back...

Saturday 21st November: Freud and the Art of Caning - Memory (written after)

"Strip." Her voice is husky, her tone, uncompromising.

I strip.

"Kneel down across the foot stool."

I stretch my naked form across the blue padded top of the stool. I am compelled to obey her though I tremble.

I sense her move lithely across the room. I feel the pressure of her scarf around my eyes, feel her knot it securely behind my head with her strength, a strength greater than mine.

"Can you see?"

Her breath is warm and smoky. I like that.

"No, it is black. Totally black."

A tingle of fear runs through my testicles...

The wind howls and throws out cold invisible tentacles to probe the vulnerable overlaps of our clothing. She shivers, her long shiny brown hair blowing across her elegant features, and I catch hold of her hand as though to stop her being swept away.

Culver Cliff: the most easterly point of the Island. And for many the tragic point of departure.

A bunch of flowers propped up forlornly against a fence post with a card flapping in the wind. I walk up to it and attempt to read it but the ink is already fading.

I have been here myself in the past. I may yet end it here. But not today.

Seagulls wheel above us in the grey November sky screeching as they do. It is time for us to go...

She brings the flogger down upon my bare back. It does not hurt. It does not need to hurt yet for she is merely teasing me, softening me up.

Rachmaninoff: Piano Concerto No.2 plays in the background and as my submission deepens she begins to probe my psyche...

A single track road to nowhere now but nearly a century ago it had been the main road to Blackgang till a landslip on a rainy night.

The rain beats down hard but we still leave the car. I show her the cliffs towering impassively above us, the primeval cliffs, and imagine pterodactyls gliding down. Time has stood still here.

We discern the tinkling of running water from the hidden stream below us. There is magic here, the spirits of water and rock.

Knowles Farm, and nearly the most southerly point on the Island. About a mile out is St Catherine's Deep, rich fishing grounds but perilous at times to shipping as the coast is littered with the rotting skeletons of ships long ago come to grief in squalls.

I have not visited this place for over seven years and I was in love then. I do not share this with her...

She flogs me harder, the pain begins to reach into me. I feel myself travelling in the darkness, but where?

"You are fortunate indeed to live here, it is very beautiful," she states then draws hard upon her cigarette, the coals glowing in the fading light.

The Needles jut out defiantly into the English Channel perhaps dagger-like to the Dorset Coast. I watch the choppy waves batter themselves relentlessly against the base of the giant chalk outcrops.

"I wish you could see it in the summer. We could take an open top bus along the sides of the cliff, descend to the beach by chairlift and have a boat trip around the lighthouse. It is truly spectacular."

I am talking as though I am in love. I care not...

Pavane pour une Infante Défunte: Ravel.

She does not strike me hard with the cane yet each stroke stings and then the pain begins to blur and dull. It is a long time since I have experienced this. I yearn for more but then I begin to cry, cry like a baby. Buried memories you see...

"What is it darling?" she soothes.

"Egypt Point. We are at the most northerly point of the Island and it's a great place for viewing the liners as they swing out of Southampton Water. Can you imagine the Titanic passing through all those years ago? Look, why don't we drive to Cowes Parade, we can have a drink in The Fountain and I'll show you the biggest Union Jack in the world. Maybe we'll even catch a liner going by."

It's dark now though only about half five...

She is holding me in her arms. "What do you need to tell me?"

I am not a man anymore - I have regressed.

"I don't want you to hurt me, I want you to love me. Why do you want to hurt me?" I sob out.

"You're safe now."

She holds me tighter and I keep crying but the crying is good, cathartic.

We leave The Fountain and as soon as we do I spot a liner with lights burning brightly navigating its way to the eastern approaches of the Solent. I point it out to her but she seems slightly distracted. Suddenly I feel the need to express something. "The dynamic has altered between us. You're different and it's not authentic anymore."

"Yes."

"How did you know that there was something in me that needed to be released? I felt that all those years ago and I couldn't verbalize it. I feel so much better. Thank you, thank you."

I give her another cuddle.

"I just... knew."

And I knew now that she was the stronger and smarter one. And that made her dangerous, dangerous and exhilarating...

We are in my flat and getting ready to walk down town to Michelangelo's Italian Restaurant on the seafront. It is her last night with me. We have had a good day sightseeing. On impulse I turn to her and say, "I will let you hurt me later."

"Will you now, will you now..."

Sunday 22nd November 2009: The Day my Mother Died - Memory

It is twenty one years ago to the day since my mother died: Tuesday 22nd November 1988. Twenty five years, coincidentally, to the day prior to that John F. Kennedy was assassinated.

That's by the way really.

The last time I had seen my mother was on the Sunday previous. She had dropped my little baby boy off, who was a little over a year old, at the maisonette in Alfred Street I shared with my wife, Leanne, at the time. We had spent the afternoon at the Luccombe Hall Hotel in Shanklin taking full advantage of their swimming pool and sauna suite whilst my mother, who had retired eighteen months previously, babysat my son.

The last thing I ever did was kiss her before she returned home, a home I thought she was going to spend many years in enjoying her retirement - and deservedly enjoying her retirement because she had worked hard as a psychiatric nurse before becoming a sister for over two decades. Her life, like many others, hadn't been easy.

She had nearly died as a baby only being saved by her father, who had tragically lost his first wife whilst she was giving birth to twins, taking her home from the hospital which he had said didn't really care.

At the age of thirteen she had boarded at a Convent in Kent - her father having landed a job as a storekeeper in Nigeria and taking her mother with her - and found the experience to be extremely harrowing: frequent canings for the slightest misdemeanour, constant chores and longing for the warmth of normal family life. I sometimes think that that had made her slightly cold, cold to me at times.

Towards the end of the war she had become a land girl and had been employed on a fruit farm in Kent - she had worked along a German prisoner of war, his name was Helmut, and they had been lovers for a while. If it had lasted perhaps I would be six foot and blonde! He had been the only soldier to survive in his company after an Allied assault - I wonder how that affected him, and what happened to him?

After the war she enrolled at Salford College and started an Art's Diploma which she never completed. Whilst there she submitted some work to Lowry and he sent her back a very complimentary letter. I still have that.

She then went to Austria and taught English in a convent there - she told me it had been the happiest times of her life. She also became fluent in German and spoken with an Austrian accent naturally.

In 1955 she came to the Island for the first time to live with her parents who had bought a shop to keep them occupied during their retirement, but they soon found it too hard work, sold it and then moved to St. James's Street.

For a year or so she had drifted round mixing from time to time, with what I call, the Ryde Bohemians who were an odd mix of failed artists, anarchists, homosexuals and early hippies - many of whom are still around to this day.

In 1956, the year of the Hungarian uprising, she had become pregnant by my father who lived next door with his parents. My mother had told me later that he was the cleverest man she had ever known, but he was an alcoholic and had emotional problems, so the relationship was doomed.

In 1957 I was born, out of wedlock, and, now thirty, she was forced to accept her responsibilities.

In 1958 the family moved to Spencer Road. My mother went from one low paying job to the other and I would be looked after by my grandparents whilst she was at work. But in 1965 she enrolled as a Student Nurse. The job had its ups and down but I think she got a lot out of it. She once told me that people became a psychiatric nurse for one of two reasons: They either wanted to help people or they joined in the hope of resolving their own issues. I had asked her to which category she belonged. "The latter," she had instantly replied. I never pursued it.

After the split from my father - I spoke on the phone to him once and corresponded with him briefly many years later but never met him - she never settled down with a man though she had a few flings including one with a Zen Buddhist Monk.

Despite working hard she always had time for travelling and never lost her interest in Architecture, Classical Music and Fine Art. I have to admit, at times, though I am sure it wasn't true, to feeling unwanted or a burden.

In her forties she managed to obtain an Open University Degree in Arts and Humanities which really impressed me - and taught me that it is only really by hard work and application do we ever get to achieve anything in life. I hasten to add that, being a lazy bastard, I never followed her example.

In her early fifties she looked after her increasingly frail mother at home, her father having died suddenly in 1968, who eventually passed away in 1982.

When she was 59 she had collapsed, to everyone's surprise at work, suffering from high blood pressure. She was slim, didn't smoke, didn't drink, hated fatty foods and walked regularly. She had been put on tablets and when she had retired the next year had been given a clean bill of health and had come off the tablets - it had been a false alarm.

I had made her a grandmother at sixty and life for all of us, though not perfect was pretty good. Leanne and I had a lovely property, we were okay for money and Leanne also had a part time job. Her parents and my mother would look after my son when both of us were working and we were thinking about getting a larger property. I felt quite happy despite the job being tiring and looked forward with optimism to the future. Leanne had lost a baby that summer, on my birthday, but it was only a matter of time before she would fall pregnant again.

But, it wasn't to be.

That Tuesday I had been driving Service 4's to East Cowes, Cowes and Gurnard. I finally got back to Ryde Bus Station at about eleven to be met by the Inspector. He had come up to me taken my ticket machine and cash bag off me saying: "I'm really sorry to tell you this, Matt, but your mother has died, get off home. Your uncle and auntie are there waiting for you. I'll sort out your money."

My first thought was that it was a mistake, surely it was my uncle, my great uncle, who had died as he was ten years older than my mother and had had health problems himself.

It had only taken about seven minutes to walk up the hill to the house. I let myself in to see my uncle and auntie there. I could see both of them had been crying and when they saw me they both wrapped their arms around me. I was in a state of total disbelief.

"We've been trying to get hold of you for the last of couple of hours, but you don't have radios on your buses. They've taken her away now. The next door neighbour had come in to look after her dog for the day, as she was off to London, and found her stretched out half-dressed on the bed. She looked as though she was reaching out for a glass of water. She called for an ambulance but it was obviously too late. Doctor M left about an hour ago. He was sobbing like a baby," My uncle had told me in a quivering voice.

I remember at this point looking at the crockery and cutlery she had left on the drainer from the night before. I then went upstairs to her bedroom. I still couldn't react, it seemed unreal. The bed was tidy, there was a paperback book with bookmark halfway through it on her bedside table. A black jumper and skirt were poignantly hung up in preparation for her day trip to London to meet her friend Mary from Tamworth. I then went downstairs.

"Shall we all have a cup a tea?" my auntie had suggested.

"Yes please. I'd better phone Leanne," I had said.

Whilst my aunt had put the kettle on I had phoned Leanne at the bookies where she had worked. She had immediately burst into tears - Why wasn't I doing that, I thought - and told me she would get round as soon as possible.

"We think she may have let the dog out in the garden and then returned to upstairs to get fully dressed, felt unwell, tried to get back into bed and then suffered a massive heart attack. Doctor More reckoned she would have died very quickly..." Uncle was saying.

Everything after this moment became very surreal, as though it was happening to someone else. I had to inform the police and all her friends and relatives. Mary had phoned from a box in London to see why she hadn't turned up. Leanne had turned up...

That evening after the initial turmoil I had returned to the house - I now had a dog to look after as well. I had gone upstairs and on a shelf was a small present in silver paper, for Christmas, for my son. It was at that point I broke down and couldn't stop crying...

Sunday 29th November 2009: I Shag, Dump and Slap the Minging Slut - Slut Fiction

I'm just on the way round to see the Minger; and it'll be for the last time because once I've shagged her gross little body I'm going to dump her. Naturally she doesn't know that. In fact I've really been quite nice to her recently, well nice by my standards, built up her hopes that we will be 'an item', perhaps get married one day.

Me married? That's a fucking laugh, show me a 'happily' married man and I'll show you a fucking loser and I'll tell you why he's a fucking loser - it's because he's a liar, a liar mainly to himself. The marriage thing probably starts out alright but after a bit - my mate reckons about six weeks - it's all downhill. After a few years the geezer isn't getting any sex and when he does he's thinking of some other tasty bird who hasn't piled on the pounds like his missus or he's fantasising about kinky sex which either he's too embarrassed to ask his missus to indulge in or if he does she tells him to piss off. Of course by that time it's too late, he's mortgaged up to the hilt with a couple of spoilt brats and stuck in a dead end job, which he calls a career, working long hours. Of course he can't afford to divorce the fat and extravagant bitch as he'll end up kicked out of his own house living in a seedy bed-sit handing over eighty per cent of his hard earned cash to her and the CSA. So what does he do?

He lies. He lies to others and he lies to himself. He tells everybody he loves her that the well-being and happiness of the family are well worth the sacrifice when all he's thinking about is spanking his twenty year old secretary and what he'd do if he won the lottery. Loser, fucking loser.

Of course I saw through all that shit from a young age, and it's kind of funny because I'm not book smart or anything, I haven't got any degrees or fancy diplomas, but I'll tell you what I have got that a fucker like him hasn't got: I see what women are really like: money grabbing and demanding, lying bitches, and only good for shagging. And I've got the charisma, charm and confidence to pull them too. Underneath all the middle class pretension, weak twats like him admire real men like me, and whenever I get the chance I rub their turned up noses in it... by shagging their wives!

And I'll tell you something else too: the only woman who truly loves you, unless her name is Rosemary West, is your mother and the only woman who you really know where you stand with is a prostitute. Don't say I haven't warned you.

So, what I do is shag women, sluts mostly if the truth be known, and when I get bored with them I dump them. Works for me...

"Here you are mate!" the taxi driver tells me as we pull up outside the Minger's shabby little house in Ingram Street.

"I won't be a mo, I'll just get the cash, hang on a sec." I say as I step onto the pavement and walk along the smelly alley to her front door.

I let myself in, it stinks of dog shit and I feel a little sick. And there she is, all smiling sweetly.

"Hi Matt. I've missed you, I've got a present for you..." she oozes all lovingly.

I feel doubly nauseated now.

"Gee thanks. Have you got the tenner for the taxi, he hasn't got all day. And didn't I tell you to be waiting naked for me?"

"Oh yes..." she picks up the ten pound note off the dining room table and hands it to me.

I nip back outside and hand the cab driver the tenner through his wound down window.

"Four quid please, mate."

"Just give me a fiver back." I like to look generous.

He fumbles around in a cloth cash bag before producing a screwed up fiver which he presses into my hand. I then stuff the note into my trouser pocket and walk back in.

She's topless now, with her big pale tits drooping down, and got what looks like to be a reddish box in her hand.

She approaches me. "It's for you Matt. It's Chinese and you can keep all your valuable little coins in. I spent ages looking for it."

She hands it to me gingerly and I look at it. It is quite nice: hexagonal, carved out of rosewood, varnished and a charming little oriental scene of a fisherman by a lake carved into the top - probably quite expensive.

"Thanks. I thought you were heavily in debt, despite all those benefits you were claiming. 'ere have you put some more weight on since the last time I saw you, you look like you've porked out even more!"

I place the box down on the table. She looks a bit uncomfortable - she knows I hate fatties.

Suddenly I become irritated with her. I grab hold of her lank and unkempt mousey brown hair and drag her to the bottom of the stairs. "I've got to get back for the electrician in an hour's time, we've wasted too much time already. That's why I wanted you stripped and ready!"

"You're hurting me!"

And I'm going to hurt you even more in a minute when I dump you, I think.

I pull her up the stairs. She misses her footing on a couple of occasions which I wonder is to do with the fact she is blind in her wonky eye and can't see too well on the interior darkened stair well; fortunately her hair is quite firmly attached so she doesn't slip. I pull her into her damp smelling bedroom and let go of her.

"Get your jeans and knickers off and lie face down on the bed - you know what to expect you fucking slut!"

I rip my clothes off and toss them over a chair hoping that the fleas won't take up residence in them.

She's on the bed now with her podgy legs apart and her fat, even fatter recently, arse sticking up in the air.

"I love it when you take me from behind Matt."

"It isn't about what you like, it's about what I like - or rather what I don't like, and what I don't like is looking at your ugly mug whilst I'm shagging you. Puts me right off it does at time. How come your face is all lopsided anyway - difficult birth?"

I clamber on top of her and shove my erect cock into her cunt which is really wet and pongy. I fuck the minging slut hard and fast and within a few seconds we both climax together.

I roll off her and catch sight of the time - I'll have to be gone soon.

"Thanks Matt. That was really good. You're such a considerate lover."

I recoil as she gives me a kiss on my cheek.

I stand up and wipe my prick, which is laced with spunk and fanny juice, onto her duvet.

"Actually, I've decided I don't want to see you any more - you're just too ugly and boring."

I watch her malformed features transform from bliss to disbelief and then burst into tears. I just love watching the effect I have on a slut when I dump her - it's almost like a second orgasm.

"Please, please, please don't dump me, I really love you. You're the only man who ever made me feel good about myself-"

"Shut up will you and pass me your phone. And hand me another tenner - I'll need it for the taxi back."

She gives me the cordless phone by her bed and delves into her handbag pulling out a twenty pound note. "I haven't got anything smaller," she chokes out between sobs.

I take the phone and the note and dial the number for the cab firm. The wailing just increases. She gets off the bed and throws her flabby and blemished naked body, which puts me in mind of those pale slugs you sometime see first thing in the morning, around my feet.

I hear a tinny voice answer but can't quite make out what is being said because of her howling and pleading.

"Shut the fuck up will you - I'm trying to order a fucking taxi here!"

I put the phone in my left hand and slap her face hard with the right hand, I then catch her with the back of my hand on the other cheek. She stumbles back on her heels and ends up resting with her head against the side of the bed - she is stunned and silent.

"Yes... about five minutes... you can't miss the place... it looks like a squat... yeah all run down... fascia boards unpainted and hanging down... slates missing, uncut grass in the front with dog shit on."

As I get dressed I notice all the beauty products on her dressing table. No wonder she's got money problems wasting her benefit money on that; and it's not like it'll do her any good, unlike some women, because quite frankly you can't polish a turd.

"I can't live without you," she mutters in a dreamy manner.

"Don't talk crap you stupid bitch, there's always some desperate fucker out there who'll have you. Right I'm off now, I think I heard a car pull up outside. See you around."

I walk down the stairs open the front door and espy the taxi there. It's a woman driver - and quite tasty too. I hear a very loud wail from inside the house - has the slut no consideration for the neighbours?

"Hang on a minute darling, I've forgotten something." I smile pleasantly at the blonde and rather pretty face at the wheel.

I walk back into the house and pick up the Chinese box from the dining room table I then notice that the slut, still naked is in the kitchen which is adjoined to the dining room. She has a carving knife in her right hand and it is clear to me that she is attempting to sever the artery in the wrist of her left arm.

"You're doing it all wrong," I shout to her. "You need to cut along the veins not across them - much quicker."

She drops the knife and it clatters to the floor.

Make up your mind you stupid bitch, I think.

"I'll be off now." This time I walk out of the door for what I believe is the very last time - I should have dumped her ages ago I conclude.

I get into the cab and make myself comfortable in the back seat. The female taxi driver, who looks late thirties, before she pulls away, turns and says to me, "Don't I know you from somewhere?"

What she, of course, means is: You're a really attractive bloke and I wouldn't mind surrendering my body to you. She then adds: "What do you do for a living?"

"Me? Oh, I'm a marriage guidance counsellor..."

Tuesday 1st December 2009: Another Fat Slut gets a Flogging? - Fantasy for an Unknown Submissive Woman

As she swung open the black painted wrought iron gate, enclosed with the stone archway, she heard the taxi she had just exited from pull away and for the first time experienced fear; real fear.

She was a worthless slut, and he had promised he would punish her for it, punish her as she had never been punished before, because that's all sluts were good for.

She felt his eyes upon her; he knew she was here. She did not dare to look up to the top of the old Victorian building where she knew he was waiting; waiting for her with his whip. Instead with legs like jelly she walked the last few fearful paces to the foreboding black door with its frosted glass panel...

She ran through her mind how she had contacted him, had offered her unworthy self to him to do with as he pleased, recalled pleading for him to flog her hard.

"Why should I waste my time on you, you fucking made-up little slag," he had contemptuously replied initially. She had begged and begged for him to beat the sluttishness out of her, to make her dirty little life have some worth. Then he had reluctantly consented. "It will be on my terms you piece of excrement."

She hesitated for a second then pressed the door buzzer for Flat D. There was no going back.

"Enter slut. You know what you have to do."

His voice sent shivers down her spine - it was the first time she had heard his voice, all communication of his orders up to now having been relayed by text.

She opened the heavy door, heard it bang loudly shut behind her bringing to mind the uneasy notion of entering a dungeon, and found herself all alone in the musty, cold hallway with its high ceiling.

She slipped off her boots first and then with increasing nervousness removed her coat - she was totally naked; he had ordered her to strip whilst on the boat over in the toilets and put her clothes into the sports bag she had travelled down with and only wear the overcoat and boots for the last leg of the journey: the journey that would end with her being severely beaten for being a slut.

She left her boots by the cupboard and then stuffed the coat into the sports bag, leaving it on the top of the table. She felt cold and wrapped her bare arms around herself in a vain attempt to warm herself up before getting onto the floor on her hands and knees as he had commanded.

She crawled uncomfortably along the corridor past Flat A and then started on the first long flight. She wondered how many sluts of his in the past had traversed these very steps.

Her knees were aching on the thread bare stair carpet as she reached the first floor landing. Even though she had been ordered to keep her eyes lowered she could see the doors for the other two flats - and heard movement from within. Panicking, she quickly scuttled to the last flight which was steeper but shorter. As she slowly ascended it became lighter.

"Keep your eyes lowered you podgy bitch or it will be all the worse for you, not that it can get that much worse for you, you fat slut," she heard him sneer from above.

She clambered onto the level surface of the landing slightly out of breath aware that this was the just the start of her ordeal.

"Lie down with your arms by your sides and your eyes closed you ugly old cow. Do not move a muscle till I return," he hissed at her menacingly.

Cold and frightened she began to shake - she desperately wished to be anywhere else but here with this cruel man. But it was too late now.

"Keep your eyes closed and get up."

She rose unsteadily from the floor and felt his strong warm hands upon the naked flesh of her lower arms guide her to where she would be shortly flogged cruelly for being a dirty little slut whore.

He pushed her roughly against the cold, so cold, wall and snarled in her right ear, "I'm going to fucking hurt you then I'm going to hurt you fucking because you're a no-good slut. Now, raise your arms and press your fat tits hard against the plaster so that I can whip you with full force."

She braced herself for the terrible burning pain upon her bare back as the leather tails whistled like banshees...

*

She opened her eyes. And found herself slumped down in front of her lap top; she had dozed off. She remembered now, she had been reading his blog entitled: 23 Lashes for The Defiant Slut - it had turned her on, really turned her on. Her knickers were soaking and now she was debating whether she should memo him or not memo him. She wondered if he was dangerous. There was only one way to decide.

She took the shiny two pence piece out of her purse and tossed it...

Sunday 13th December 2009: Angry and Humiliated Sharon Tamed by the Hairbrush - Spanking Fiction

About eight or nine years ago Sharon and I were on the beach. It was a fairly secluded spot - we were the only ones there - and the time was about half five on a sunny August day. I was ready to go home but Sharon had fancied a swim first - she'd wanted to make the most of what was left of the weekend.

"I'll nip off now and start preparing tea, by the time you get back it'll be on the table," I'd suggested.

"That's fine," she had responded.

She'd then stood up and slipped off her shorts - she was already topless - and I'd studied her superb naked body as she'd waded out into the surf.

The beach had gently shelved so she would have had a few hundred yards or so before it became deep enough to swim.

I have to tell you that Sharon was sometimes exhilarated by the prospect of exposing herself in public, or rather the risk of being caught nude out in the open.

We had shagged the year previous under the Worsley Monument on an Autumn Sunday afternoon and it had been extremely exciting as we could have easily been caught totally naked by hikers - she had been absolutely soaking and I had been rock hard too. Happy memories.

Sorry, I've gone off on a tangent.

Anyway, as I gathered up our belongings and intending to leave behind for her just her towel, shorts and vest an evil thought entered my mind, an evil thought I just couldn't resist.

I picked up... everything so that there would be no clothes, or towels even, for her to cover herself up. It was mean. It was fucking mean.

Just before I'd turned to leave the beach I'd glimpsed her swimming strongly in the turquoise water - and oblivious to her fate.

I'd then started to laugh - it was hard to stop.

I then trudged up the sandy slipway and headed home.

We didn't actually live that far from the shore, about a third of a mile and only a ten or so minute walk; but that day I daresay it would have seemed just a little longer for Sharon than normal...

*

About forty minutes later I was home having put the joint in the oven and also tidied away the gear from the beach.

I'd been reclining on the sofa in the lounge skimming through Men are from Mars; Women from Venus when a shadow had hurried along the window. The front door had then been angrily drummed.

"Fucking let me in, you... bastard."

I had let her in, totally naked with her long chestnut hair still matted by the salt water - and she had appeared a tad upset.

She'd immediately slapped my cheek hard with her right hand before beating her fists against my chest repeatedly, all the time mouthing obscenities. "You fucking, fucking nasty bastard, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!"

"Calm down, dear, you're not at work now!"

This was a sarcastic reference to her having successfully recently completed an Anger Management module as part of her training.

I had then grabbed her wrists at this point but it didn't prevent her from attempting to kick then knee me in the nuts.

Then she tried to head butt me.

"You have totally fucking humiliated me!" she had sniffed.

At this point I'd visualized her running naked, in that ungainly fashion that women do, through the pleasant residential thoroughfares with one arm across her breasts, the other protecting her modesty, whilst all the time sobbing.

I'd also wondered, in addition, if her boss had seen her, since he lived on the route - what a satisfying prospect that would have been!

"Our relationship is... over. I want the bungalow on the market... tomorrow."

At the time I had thought that that would be sad since the relationship had suddenly started to get... interesting.

"Let go of... me," she had said a split second before spitting in my face.

Now that had been a red rag to a bull and I'd flipped - enough was a fucking enough!

I then twisted her bare left arm up behind her back to which she had squealed with the pain. I then roughly manhandled her such that she ended up across my lap on the sofa and then proceeded to spank her on each buttock hard synchronizing each smack with a word:

"Your," , "problem," , "is," , "that," , "OW, that *really* hurts!" "you," , "can't," , "OW! OW!" "take," , "a," , "fucking," "OOO!" "joke!"

I gave her an extra hard smack for the last word.

"Let go of me or I'm going to call the fucking... police!"

I then parodied every word of what she had just said, accompanied each with a smack.

She had screamed really loud and struggled but I had managed to hold her down - and thanked God that the double glazing was soundproofed.

I had then espied the hairbrush just out of reach on the coffee table - she had left it there before we had gone out - and she was very shortly going to rue not tidying it up.

"What are you doing now?" she had exclaimed.

With great difficulty - Sharon had nearly broke free - I'd managed to stretch across and grab the brush.

"I'm going to teach you a lesson you won't forget!"

I'd meant it too - nobody, and I mean nobody, spits in my face!

"You'll be taught a lesson in... court," she had retorted with spirit.

I hadn't of cared I'd been so mad.

I then beat her hard with the wood of the brush, once again across each very red buttock.

"Please, please stop."

But I'd merely thrashed her harder and had added, "I've had enough of your selfish manipulation, your little mind games, your contrived moods to get your own way. Report me to the police and have me prosecuted - I really don't give... a fuck."

After about twenty swats I'd become aware of a change in her - she'd ceased hollering and the crying had reduced to a gentle sniffing. Her unclad body had become 'pliant' too.

I then felt compelled to loosen my hold of her.

She'd then twisted with some effort her flushed, perspiring and good looking face round and her large baby blue eyes had clamoured for release, surrender.

She then spoke softly and contritely. "I'm truly sorry. Take me and use me as a sexual object as I deserve nothing less."

At this point I became aware of the dampness on my thighs - and it wasn't seawater.

I then propped her up.

"Get in the bedroom. I'm going to fuck you - hard."

She'd rubbed her badly bruised buttocks and then meekly padded in the direction of the master bedroom, which was kind of aptly named!

A few moments later I'd followed her into the room to be met with the sight of her lying naked and spread-eagle on her back. Her thick and lustrous hair had spread out from around her head still appearing moist from the Solent.

She'd made no effort to resist, none at all, as I'd affixed first her arms to the head rest and then her legs to the footings of the King Size bed with cord.

She'd merely let out a sigh as I'd penetrated her damp cunt.

I'd then thrust hard with my erect penis, the base of my shaft pushing close against her swollen clit - I'd hadn't of cared a bit whether she'd come. But within a minute I felt her strong internal muscles begin to spasm and seconds later she was crying out and gasping.

I had continued to thrust.

Again she had gasped.

I then shafted her with even greater frequency and force.

And for a third time, she had orgasmed.

Seconds later, I had blissfully felt my hot spunk shoot out and instantly satiated, I had rolled off her and to the side...

*

Later, I had realised that something had changed between us, but it was subtle and our relationship was not the same. I had speculated that it was because we could never top that one violent explosion of passion?

I don't know - we had split about eighteen months later.

Nevertheless, I remember that evening when we had settled in front of the television I had picked up Men are from Mars; Women from Venus and in front of Sharon had thrown it in the bin.

"Guess we don't need that anymore?" I had said.

"Guess not," she had replied casually...

Tuesday 22nd December 2009: Ho, Fucking, Ho - A Festive Tale

Rudolf the red nose reindeer plays merrily in the background.

"Pae-doh!, Pae-doh!"

What?!

"Look, just clear off, will you?"

"You tried to touch my friend, you dirty old paedo!"

"No, I didn't. What's all this about?"

"Has he been trying to interfere with you boys?" A concerned middle aged woman with grey hair and a bleached complexion, wearing an olive green parka with a Greenpeace badge on one sleeve and a Save the Children patch on the other, lowers herself to head height of the juvenile chavs a few yards away.

Where the fuck has she materialized from?

"Yes, he has Miss."

"No, I fucking haven't!"

She straightens up swings round and thrusts her face in mine. "Men like you, well you're not even fit to be called a man, totally disgust me, abusing your position to fiddle with young innocent children..."

"Let me explain-"

I just see the handbag arcing towards me but too late to dodge it - the impact stuns me and sends me spinning to the deck. As my senses de-scramble I realize she is standing over me with her legs wide apart...

"I don't believe it, now the pervert's looking up my skirt!" she screams.

She attempts to kick me in the face but I manage to take most of the force out of the blow by turning away at the last second. I get to my feet but she starts to rain more blows down upon me...

"I'm dreaming of a White Christmas," Bing Crosby croons in the background.

In desperation I head-butt her in the face. She staggers back with crimson blood pouring out of her nose before bringing up her hands to her head and collapsing to the ground.

"OI! You, you fucking bearded woman beater, I'm going to teach you a fucking lesson you won't fucking forget!"

"It's not what you think..."

He's a big fellow and just as he is about to chin me, I pick up the Christmas tree to my left and ram it into his guts. He doubles up and I smash the tree over his head knocking him unconscious - a silver bauble flies off hitting an elderly lady in the cheek - but then notice that one of the original gang of kids is attempting to get his hand under my coat and pinch my wallet. I drop the tree then catch hold of his throat with both my hands. "You little cunt, I'll-"

"TAKE YOUR HANDS FROM AROUND THE BOY" S NECK. LET HIM GO AND THEN SPREADEAGLE YOURSELF ON THE FLOOR," the voice from behind the loudhailer commands.

It's the police. Thank God for that. I breathe a sigh of relief. "I don't think you understand exactly what has happ-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!"

Through the blinding pain I see the twin wires of a Taser attached fang like to my chest. I'm thrashing around on the floor praying for the pain to subside, which it does after a few minutes. I do not notice that I have been cuffed until the copper lifts me to my feet. "You'd better come along quietly Sir."

I nod in a subdued manner.

As I am led to the van aware of a hundred hostile eyes upon me, I vow that I will never, never ever, agree to being Santa Claus in a department store again. Never.

Ho, Fucking, Ho!

Monday 28th December 2009: Coconut Surprise - Blog

About two hours ago I'm sat in the Ryde Tandoori with Calamity...

Calamity is thirty, looks a bit like Joanne Lumley when she played Purdy in the New Avengers; but not quite as pretty. She's at college studying archaeology and I haven't seen her since the summer.

I've known Calamity for about three years now and we've both been through our ups and downs - we had a suicide pact at one time which is still discussed. We also had a little fling too when I was with Della.

Calamity is funny, intelligent and attractive with a great body. She is also daring...

So, we get to the end of the meal and I'm just hollowing out the coconut ice cream which is served in half a coconut shell and I say jokingly to her: "If you had ordered coconut ice cream too you could strip off and I could take a photo of you with the two shells protecting your modesty, could end up an iconic poster in decades to come!"

"Okay, I'll do it," she says, calling my bluff.

The bill is paid and we leave. We have another drink at Joe Daflos then come back to mine hand in hand. I feel excited - this is what life is about.

We get back to mine and she drops her knickers. I take a photo on my phone of the coconut shell over her fanny, and it's a very nice fanny: shaved and also having had a labiaplasty in the last couple of years. We have a giggle over it and I ask her if she minds if I keep it on my phone.

"That's fine," she says.

I once again compliment her on the adorable condition of her fanny and ask her if it's alright to touch it and kiss it. As you do.

"Well, you'd better take your clothes off then, Matt."

I take my clothes off.

"I really do love oral..."

I do not look for any hidden meaning behind this statement and immediately go down on her. Within about thirty seconds she has climaxed.

"Matt, you haven't lost your touch have you. That was really good and I def needed that. So what do you want me to do to you?"

I mull it over for a nanosecond and get her to rub my sensitive nipples whilst I wank myself off. It feels bloody good.

So, all in all, not a bad Christmas!


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