Fiction, Erotica and Commentary
It’s true you are not an angelic force;
Deaf to wisdom, unconcerned with guilt.
But times do come when you are my only friend,
A heartbeat under the rubble of depression and collapse.
When all else is tired, you are not.
When life loses its logic, your function remains,
And needn’t be explained, only felt.
I would not be here, now, if not for your encouragement,
Mischievous smile, wordless philosophy.
PG
I’ve always like Americans principally for their obliviousness (I won’t use the word ignorance, as that can never be used affectionately). I am not talking here of the much mocked obliviousness of the external (non-American) world cheerily exhibited by small-town US citizens. I mean more the obliviousness, common across the class divide, which Americans display toward their own country and the extreme nature of their everyday reality.
I refer to how Americans are prepared to accept the most insane and evil things as utterly ordinary, unremarkable, and generally tolerable, from legally-owned sub-machine guns slung around the backs of obese white-supremacists in KFC restaurants, to extortionate health care fees, almost universal anti-depressant and opiate use, a history of genocide, segregation, and enslavement celebrated by monuments to the guilty, medieval prison routines, and the Roman-style blurring of the military and the state. None of this seems to disturb the average American citizen, or at least not enough to prompt them to emigrate to Canada, Britain or Australia. It is not strange enough for them to want to escape from it. It is part and parcel of their nation, the nation they swear allegiance to, and it is part of who they are.
America, of course, has always been an experiment in gigantism. They took things from the rest of the world and made them bigger – bigger, one might argue, than they needed to be. They took slavery from the West Indies and made it considerably bigger and considerably worse. They took military developments from Europe and expanded them to grotesque and potentially apocalyptic proportions. They took food from Italy, France, and Germany, and offered them in portions so big that the national stomach now requires surgery. America is a banquet, an overindulgence, with a history of vomiting, bleeding, and migraines, skilfully assembled to substitute for a national tradition.
Note – this is not intended as some juvenile anti-American screed. This author is not remotely troubled by capitalism, and would not want to live without it. I am not a bleeding heart defender of any tribe or race or nation. The world, I believe, has benefited immensely from American daring, initiative and forward-thinking. I mean only to say that America is grotesque, and that Americans are charmingly oblivious of the extent of this grotesqueness.
And I not only find this charming, but deeply, fiendishly erotic. American-ness in a woman is greatly arousing to me, precisely if she possesses the most objectively negative traits associated with her country. Put simply, the more stereotypically (defectively) American a woman is, the more I find her sexually desirable.
When I lick the thick, burger-fed thigh of an American woman, I like to imagine she has the blood of Indian-killers, segregationists, gun-nuts, slave-owners, and overseers, flowing voluptuously beneath her pink American skin. As I taste her vagina, I think of the death penalty, high-school massacres, atom bombs, and oxycodone bottles. She is the human distillation of her entire country; the fattened posterity of unrivalled enslavement, violence, and conquest. I am licking America, its extreme past, present, and future.
I am also licking power, by measure of which America is obviously preeminent in the world.
An American woman, with her vote, has more power at her fingertips than a hundred thousand Estonians, Belgians or New Zealanders put together. She is carelessly and zealously protected by the world’s most powerful military, with its ICBMs, carrier strike groups, and M1 Abram tanks numbering by the thousand. Millions could be liquidated to defend her. She is thus an aristocrat of the democratic world. I should rightly be scared of her, awed by her power, desperate for her approval, fearful of upsetting her.
Of course, most Americans do not understand their power any more than they appreciate their extremity. Why else would American women treat English men as if we are their superiors? Why else would they seem to believe our accents, intelligence, and reputed charm, rightly merit their giggling humility? Britain is surely an irrelevance. In reality, we are prostrate at their feet, along with the rest of the world.
How I wish they would become conscious of their might!
The American woman is mistress of the world, to be obeyed, feared, and worshipped.
PG
Purchase (and please review) my books:
The Torture of the Octoroon: A Tale of Sex & Slavery
Synopsis: Abigail and Susannah are half-sisters. Abigail is white. Susannah is not, being the result of their father’s extra-marital relations with a mixed-race slave at his tobacco plantation in Florida. When their father dies, Abigail inherits not only the estate, but her sister along with it. Their relationship soon changes out of all recognition as Abigail finds a dark part of her own nature that delights in the cruel treatment of her childhood rival.
Kindle & paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B075CK7LB9
Conquerors: Israeli Girls Having Fun
Synopsis: Hannah and Eden are old friends – and blossoming lovers. While the two are training to join the Israeli security forces, Hannah, a ruthless sadist, manages to persuade her weak-willed sweetheart into an act of extreme perversion.
Kindle : https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07736XNYP
Paperback : https://www.amazon.co.uk/Conquerors-Israeli-Girls-Having-Fun/dp/1979313881
The Cherokee’s Nearly-White Slave
Synopsis: 1851. USA. Juliet is a blonde twenty-three year old farm slave in Appalachia. Only one thirty-second black by blood – nearly white by law – she hopes to have an illicit child (who will be legally white and thus free) with her owner, Jack. But that dream is soon shattered when Jack, under great financial strain, sells her to a sadistic Cherokee master with plans to use her for breeding.
Kindle & paperback : https://www.amazon.com/dp/B077SNXHW1
Have you ever kissed a Latter Day Saint? A girl or a boy? I have. And I find they taste very pleasant indeed.
Mormon girls – and I only have experience to report (at this moment) with believers of the fairer kind – taste rather like spearmint; clean, sweet and sharp. It’s their innocence, I think. They are perfect people. And that’s all Mormonism is – a club for the perfect, or for those seeking to become so.
Their teeth are polished and squeak as you run your heathen tongue along their porcelain surface. Their breath has never been coarsened with coffee and caffeine, tobacco and amphetamine. They owe no-one debts.
They are everything I dream of being, when I’m hungover, or in withdrawal, or in trouble. From these dingy places, manicured lawns, manicured vaginas, look divine.
And what about Mormon arses? Well, here one can only go so far with language. These arses, such as the one from which I suck at this moment are by far the most delicious on Earth. Megan, my Mormon, is giggling, and wiggling her hips as I suck. My tongue is tickling playfully up and down the rough, ridged inner edges of her cheeks, plotting its slow advance into the slippery smoothness beyond, and then, finally, the warm, damp centre of the target.
PG
Purchase (and please review) my books:
The Torture of the Octoroon: A Tale of Sex & Slavery
Synopsis: Abigail and Susannah are half-sisters. Abigail is white. Susannah is not, being the result of their father’s extra-marital relations with a mixed-race slave at his tobacco plantation in Florida. When their father dies, Abigail inherits not only the estate, but her sister along with it. Their relationship soon changes out of all recognition as Abigail finds a dark part of her own nature that delights in the cruel treatment of her childhood rival.
Kindle & paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B075CK7LB9
Conquerors: Israeli Girls Having Fun
Synopsis: Hannah and Eden are old friends – and blossoming lovers. While the two are training to join the Israeli security forces, Hannah, a ruthless sadist, manages to persuade her weak-willed sweetheart into an act of extreme perversion.
Kindle : https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07736XNYP
Paperback : https://www.amazon.co.uk/Conquerors-Israeli-Girls-Having-Fun/dp/1979313881
The Cherokee’s Nearly-White Slave
Synopsis: 1851. USA. Juliet is a blonde twenty-three year old farm slave in Appalachia. Only one thirty-second black by blood – nearly white by law – she hopes to have an illicit child (who will be legally white and thus free) with her owner, Jack. But that dream is soon shattered when Jack, under great financial strain, sells her to a sadistic Cherokee master with plans to use her for breeding.
Kindle & paperback : https://www.amazon.com/dp/B077SNXHW1
Maria was the first gentile I ever dated. She was only the second person I had ever dated. Perhaps what happened can be partly blamed on inexperience.
When I first encountered her, Maria, a Cantabrian Spaniard, was still glowing and dripping with the undried dew of youth and newness, moral perfection, intellectual innocence. A handsome brunette of 20, with a long and sultry face, and a chiselled, sharp chin, she charmed me without trying, without even having to try.
Her strangeness, as it soon revealed itself, took me altogether by surprise. It appeared out of nowhere, so to speak; out of a clear blue sky.
True, she had always seemed a little too interested in my Jewish heritage, asking boring and somewhat off-the-wall questions about it. But I put this down to nervousness on her part. She was just thinking of something, anything to say.
That her feelings proved not to be so benign is a needless understatement. I cannot recall exactly the number of times she delighted herself in humiliating me – racially, culturally, theologically. I can only recall that she did so, again and again and again.
I stuck with her only out of weakness. The weakness all men have for beautiful women. We can forgive them anything. Everything they do can be sexualised, made erotic. And I did enjoy things I should not have enjoyed.
One of Maria’s favourite routines was to have me kneel before her on the floor. She would position a plate of Cantabrian chorizo at her feet and commanded me thus in Spanish, “Prove your allegiance to the Christ, Jew! Prove your blood is clean!”
I would then be expected to eat the chorizo without using my hands, rather like a dog. And she would giggle.
She explained after the first time she had me do this that her ancestors used to do this to Muslim and Jewish converts during the inquisition. Since pork is unclean to both Judaism and Islam, the unfortunates suspected of dual theological loyalty would be so commanded to outrage their renounced gods in a public place.
She stroked me on the cheek after that first time, her intense brown eyes burrowing into mine.
“I will protect you, You are my special Jew.”
PG
Purchase (and please review) my novels:
The Torture of the Octoroon: A Tale of Sex & Slavery
Synopsis: Abigail and Susannah are half-sisters. Abigail is white. Susannah is not, being the result of their father’s extra-marital relations with a mixed-race slave at his tobacco plantation in Florida. When their father dies, Abigail inherits not only the estate, but her sister along with it. Their relationship soon changes out of all recognition as Abigail finds a dark part of her own nature that delights in the cruel treatment of her childhood rival.
Kindle & paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B075CK7LB9
Conquerors: Israeli Girls Having Fun
Synopsis: Hannah and Eden are old friends – and blossoming lovers. While the two are training to join the Israeli security forces, Hannah, a ruthless sadist, manages to persuade her weak-willed sweetheart into an act of extreme perversion.
Kindle : https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07736XNYP
Paperback : https://www.amazon.co.uk/Conquerors-Israeli-Girls-Having-Fun/dp/1979313881
The Cherokee’s Nearly-White Slave
Synopsis: 1851. USA. Juliet is a blonde twenty-three year old farm slave in Appalachia. Only one thirty-second black by blood – nearly white by law – she hopes to have an illicit child (who will be legally white and thus free) with her owner, Jack. But that dream is soon shattered when Jack, under great financial strain, sells her to a sadistic Cherokee master with plans to use her for breeding.
Kindle & paperback : https://www.amazon.com/dp/B077SNXHW1
I first met Maria in the supermarket as I browsed the fruit isle looking for white pomelos. At that moment she was standing above me on the flat apex of a short ladder, re-arranging things on the uppermost shelf.
I could see only her backside in detail from this position. Nice. Small. Two plump oranges wrapped in black fabric. They wobbled a little as she worked.
And then, after a minutes or so, she looked down over her shoulder, preparing to descend the ladder. But before my presence beneath her could register in her mind, Maria, my beloved, sneezed violently, sending a spray of salty gunge from her nose into my open mouth.
This woman’s face was shocking to my eyes. So pale for Spain. (I have since learnt that she is Catalonian.) Her black hair was tied back in a tight bundle, scraping her eyes higher than they would otherwise have been. It was a look I liked as soon as I saw it.
“Lo siento!” she said breathlessly, bringing her hands up in front of her face just a few seconds too late. “I’m sorry! Lo siento!”
But the fluid was in my mouth. And as I savoured it, the salty, gooey fruit of Catalonia; and as she noticed that I was savouring it, she transformed her face to present a Catalonian smile.
PG
Purchase my novels:
The Torture of the Octoroon: A Tale of Sex & Slavery – https://www.amazon.com/dp/B075CK7LB9
Conquerors: Israeli Girls Having Fun
Synopsis: Hannah and Eden are old friends – and blossoming lovers. While the two are training to join the Israeli security forces, Hannah, a ruthless sadist, manages to persuade her weak-willed sweetheart into an act of extreme perversion.
Kindle : https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07736XNYP
Paperback : https://www.amazon.co.uk/Conquerors-Israeli-Girls-Having-Fun/dp/1979313881
The Cherokee’s Nearly-White Slave
Kindle & paperback : https://www.amazon.com/dp/B077SNXHW1
My girlfriend Meredith is beautiful. It’s a banal observation. But I’ve made it. Here’s another. Today, she is ill. We are lying together in bed, perhaps the hundredth time we have done so. Our relationship is anything but new.
But Meredith has just said something to me which I found quite revolting. She has been coughing phlegmatically for hours, spitting out the issue each time into a coffee mug on the floor by the bed. I did not – and do not – judge her for this. We all fall ill.
But just moments ago, Meredith lifted the mug to my eye level and tipped it so I could view the thick, patchily golden mess at the bottom of it. She then smiled and said, sweetly, with her usual feminine grace, “Look at that. Look at it.”
I frowned, revolted.
“Tell me I’m beautiful,” she said.
“I’ve already told you a million times,” I remarked.
“Is this beautiful,” she asked, gesturing with her eyes to her drying lung honey.
This was a bizarre question. For an answer, to produce anything resembling one, I had to think not with my mind but with my lust.
“Yes,” I said.
Satisfied, she laid the cup back down on the floor by the bed.
PG
Support my writing. Support perversion. Buy my new erotic novel:
Conquerors: Israeli Girls Having Fun
Synopsis: Hannah and Eden are old friends – and blossoming lovers. While the two are training to join the Israeli security forces, Hannah manages to persuade her weak-willed sweetheart into an act of sadism and revenge.
Kindle or paperback : https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07736XNYP
Pinke Grapefruit
Richard Bellworth wasn’t the kind of person to ordinarily worry about health and mortality. He was surprised then by how hard the news that he had just a day left to live hit him as he sat one dreary afternoon at his local doctors’ surgery in Rickmansworth, West London.
“You’re sure?” he pressed Dr Greene, an orange-bearded man of forty two who was wearing just the right kind of rehearsed blankness the situation required.
“I’m afraid I am, Richard. The tests were perfectly conclusive. Would you like to have a look at the scan?”
“But this can’t happen? People usually have months, years even. I’ve never heard of this situation outside of clichéd philosophical debate.”
“It is extraordinarily rare, Mr Bellworth. But it does happen. You might well have slightly more than twenty four hours. A day is just the closest approximation. Two days is possible but highly unlikely according to my interpretation of your results.”
Bellworth, who was bent over in his chair with his sweat-polished hands clasped tightly together, let his head flop forward dejectedly between his knees.
“I wish there were something I could give to you to slow it down, Richard,” the doctor continued. “I really do. But there is nothing I can prescribe other than the suggestion that you make the most of your remaining time. Please do this. Twenty four hours is more than the blinking of an eye.”
“What’s the point of living one more paltry day?” Bellworth countered sincerely, miserably. “I might as well end it now and spare myself the anxiety. Life is only of value in certain amounts.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised how much can be experienced in a day, Mr Bellworth. Look at the matter another way. Knowing the precise time of your death is unusually luxurious. I doubt it’s an advantage that will be provided to me.”
When Bellworth left the surgery that afternoon he pulled out his mobile and made a mental note of the time: 14:43. Give or take a few hours he would be dead by the same time the next day. He knew not how to absorb this notion. It was too big, too strange, too unexpected. He walked back to his apartment block in a state of dreamy thoughtfulness, a million sentiments and intentions wrestling in his soul. What’s the point of living one more paltry day? This question repeated in his hollowed-out imagination like a gunshot echoing in a cave.
On the way back to his housing block, Richard’s stride was interrupted by a short and stocky teenager in a black hoodie. The youth smiled at him and held out a gloved hand to display transparent baggies of white tablets and unevenly coloured powders.
“Any pills or lines for you today, sir?” the youth said in a sharp-edged cockney accent. “Something to take the edge off?”
Bellworth glanced into the child’s eyes through an empty frown. “Take the edge off what?” he returned.
The boy shrugged his shoulders. “Whatever’s making you look like that. You should see yourself. You look like you don’t give a fuck.”
Richard looked down at the drugs on offer. “What are these? What are the powders? Don’t use slang names. Use the chemical names.”
The boy was confused by this question, but duly explained the contents of each individual bag: cocaine, heroin, MDMA and amphetamine.
“How much for the lot?” Bellworth asked.
“For the lot?”
“Yes, for everything?”
“I don’t know,” the boy said, his frown deepening. “I’d say two hundred would probably cover it.”
Richard reached into his jacket and pulled out a brown-leather wallet. He handed the child all the loose notes inside it, which came to three hundred and fifty pounds.
“Have you done any before?” the boy asked handing over the drugs. “I wouldn’t combine them. Try to take it easy, yeah? Start small.”
In his apartment bedroom (he lived alone) Richard laid out the drugs on the counter and marked the identity of each substance with a post-it note lest he forget what the boy had said. He then fired up his laptop and searched for the appropriate doses for each drug. He also exercised google with additional enquiries like ‘What music goes well with heroin?” and “Good things to do on cocaine.”
When satisfied with his education Richard decided to begin his experiments with the cocaine, the effects of this substance being most familiar to him from films, books and the testimony of work acquaintances.
“Start small,” he muttered to himself, carving out a short line with his library card. Satisfied with the look of the poison to be consumed Richard then rolled a post-it note into a thin tube and snorted the powder up into his left nostril. The burning sensation from this administration was almost unbearable. He staggered backwards and squeezed his nose shut, confident that blood was about to issue from it.
And then it hit him. His dulled brain lit up in a thousand different places.
“Oh my,” he said out loud, steadying himself, his dopamine levels surging like German armies into once peaceful territories. His mood was quickly transfigured from a condition of confused depression to one of serene and perfect happiness. Fear disappeared. The sunlight pouring in through the window seemed to brighten by ten or more shades. His anxieties and shock from the diagnosis became small in the shadow of a new, invincible confidence. “Oh my.”
He sat down on his bed and looked across to his bedside table, bare except for his phone, some playing cards and a well-worn copy of the Book of Mormon, the last of which had never seemed so ridiculous, so ancient.
“This is incredible,” Richard whispered breathlessly as the heat from the sunlight warmed his back. “I’m incredible. This is the best thing ever.”
He went over to his laptop and made a music playlist on YouTube, including songs by the Garbage (Run Baby Run), Rolling Stones (Start Me Up), Pink Floyd (Interstellar Overdrive) and Frank Sinatra (The Best is Yet to Come).
Each track, played at the highest possible volume, made him swoon and smile like the embrace of a beautiful woman, a tall, bronzed Goddess from the Amazon, with thighs like tree trunks and a Christmas tree smile.
The dose steadily wore off. Richard’s mood lowered accordingly. His euphoria reduced to bubbling anger. “Why didn’t I do this sooner?” he asked himself aloud looking at his flushed face in the mirror. “What the fuck was I waiting for? This has been the first hour of my life I haven’t wasted.”
He took another line, slightly longer this time and logged into his online banking account. He had twenty thousand pounds available in his account, plus a two thousand pound overdraft. It would be enough.
Bellworth browsed the web for five-star hotels in central London and decided impulsively on the Marriot on West India Quay in Canary Wharf. Here, he booked a room for two nights for just over two thousand pounds. He packed his laptop and some other things into a trolley bag, taking care to conceal the drugs in a deep pocket in the inner lining, and left his apartment for the last time.
II
“Would you like to have your breakfast tomorrow in the restaurant or brought up to your room?” the receptionist asked Richard in the lobby of the Marriot. She was beautiful, Slavic, dirty-blonde, maybe little more than twenty years of age.
“I’d like it brought up to my room,” he said. “Please just leave it outside.”
The hotel room Bellworth entered was a lush mixture of wine-red and cream white. The bed was a double and took up about fifty percent of the floor space. Facing the headboard was a large plasma television and below this a neat little camphorwood desk with a leather-bedded ergonomic swing-chair. The whole east side of the room was a thick-paned window overlooking the Thames and the sun-kissed grey glass skyscrapers looming prettily the other side of it. The other wall was blank except for a pre-Raphaelite painting depicting sirens bathing seductively on the shores of a white-sanded Greek island.
Richard insufflated a third line of cocaine and logged onto the hotel’s wifi. There was something missing; something that had been missing for far too long; the entanglement of flesh, heavy breathing, perspiration. And never in his life had Bellworth felt so interested.
To this end, there was only one person he could think of contacting; Eliza Collins, a sex worker he had once tried, along with his church fellows, to convince to leave her amoral trade and convert to the LDS faith. She had refused, and hadn’t taken long in doing so, but in that brief time, she had captured a part of Bellworth’s imagination and possessed it still.
He found her website and clicked through several of her newest photos. She was still as radiant as he remembered her; sultry, tall, dark, mysterious, Hebraic. He phoned the advertised number. Her voice, which still bore the carvings of her homeland of Croatia, quickly replaced the dialling tone. Richard didn’t give his name, fearing she would remember it from their past encounters, and supplied only the address of the hotel and the room number. She promised to be there in under an hour.
Bellworth’s attention then turned to the other drugs in his trolley bag. The amount of cocaine he had snorted had left his mood balancing uncomfortably on a fine edge between euphoria and despair. He needed something more relaxing, he decided; something that would help him reflect on his situation more consistently. And he decided his best bet for this project was heroin.
Bellworth, a respectably squeamish soul, had no intention of injecting any substance into his veins, even on this, his last day. Instead, he prepared the powder the same way he had the cocaine, cutting up a (much smaller) line for intranasal administration.
The heroin seemed to take slightly longer to alter his perceptions than the cocaine, with a good few minutes passing before a curious, warming pleasure started tickling at the backs of his legs and across the back of his shoulders. The happiness provided by this substance was deep, holistic and extremely relaxing. After five minutes or so of blinking and stumbling in front of the television, Richard allowed his loosening body to flop backwards onto the neatly made bed and closed his eyes. His consciousness quickly degenerated into a fuzzy state of somnolent bliss in which any thought that occurred to his mind was created likewise in his perception. He thought his dreams and dreamt his thoughts. This was the greatest feeling he had every experienced, greater even than the cocaine, greater than sex, or any he had yet enjoyed. It lasted for half an hour or so, after which he eased smoothly back into regular perception.
Bellworth’s re-emergence from this heaven coincided perfectly with a light, feminine knock upon his room door. He straightened his shirt and ran a levelling palm over the bed he had worried. He began to feel anxious. How would she react? Another knock sounded, a louder, more impatient one this time. He opened the door.
“Hi,” Bellworth smiled at the girl, who was dressed casually in jeans and a tight punk t-shirt. He expected this of her. She always wore such clothes.
“Shall I come in?” she answered, frowning suspiciously as she studied his face.
“Yes,” he answered promptly and moved aside to allow her to pass. “I’m not sure if you remember me, Eliza,” he remarked having closed the door behind her.
“I do,” Eliza replied casually, sitting down on the bed where Richard had just lain.
“Really? You don’t seem very surprised. I would have thought the circumstances of our prior meetings would make this one seem quite odd to you.”
She laughed. “You’re all hypocrites, Richard.”
“You remember my name?”
“How could I forget it? You and your friends practically stalked me for a period. Don’t you remember yourself? So, tell me, why are you now enslaved to the temptations of the world? You seemed quite into your shit back then.”
Richard looked away from her. “It’ll be hard for you to believe this, Eliza. But I’ve received some unwelcome news about my health. According to the results of a scan I have little more than twenty four hours to live.”
“Right,” she replied sarcastically.
“It’s true, Eliza. I have no reason to lie to you. I found it hard to believe as well. But there we are. My number has been called.”
“Well, if that’s true, shouldn’t you be preparing for your journey to heaven? Why throw it all away now? Isn’t this a major spiritual faux pas? What we’re about to do, I mean. And don’t you have a wife for this? I thought Mormons were married off a few days after the baptism.”
“I did marry, Eliza. But I don’t have a wife now. Let’s not talk about that now. The only thing you need to know is that I’m living the last day of my life.”
“I accept that, Richard. But what I’m pointing out is that you surely shouldn’t be sinning on this day of all days. I don’t want to talk myself out of three hundred pounds, but it does seem a little odd. Explain it to me. There’s time. We have a full hour.”
Richard sat down next to Eliza on the bed. “I lost my faith some time ago. That’s why I’m no longer with Linda. Linda was my wife’s name.”
“I could have probably worked that out.”
“She’s still a part of the church. It was me who suggested the divorce. She didn’t want to go through with it. I insisted.”
“And now, what, you’re making up for lost time?”
“What’s the most disgusting thing a client has asked you to do?”
“Sorry?”
He repeated the question.
“Why do you ask?”
“I haven’t the time to explain everything today, Eliza. Please just tell me.”
Eliza took a moment to think the question through. “The most disgusting thing? That’s quite difficult.”
“What’s the first thing that comes to mind?”
“The first thing? The first thing is that bloke who asked me to pee on him. But there are probably worse things my memory is supressing for my own sake.”
And with that Richard stood bolt upright from the bed. “Pee on me, Eliza,” he ordered confidently. “Money is no object.”
He rushed over to his trolley bag and took out the packet containing MDMA.
“Pee on you? You’re serious?”
Richard loaded a rounded spoonful of the powder and gulped it in one. “Perfectly serious,” he answered turning back to face her. “It sounds delightful. Are you able to go at the moment, or do you need to have a drink?”
Eliza shrugged, still stuck in a state of bemused astonishment. “I had a coke an hour ago.”
“So did I,” Richard laughed.
“Really? Well, I did, too. I think I can probably go in about ten minutes or so.”
“Excellent,” Richard declared clasping his hands together with a loud clap. “That’s excellent. We’ll wait until then, then.”
“Why did you lose your faith?”
“I’d really rather not discuss that, Eliza. I’m feeling very up. The past is something of a downer.”
“What did you take over there?”
“Over there?” Bellworth pointed to the table. “That was MDMA, which is ecstasy, isn’t it?”
“How would I know?”
“I don’t know. I just thought you might.”
“Because of my profession?” Eliza frowned. “Because we’re all on drugs?”
“No. That’s not what I meant.”
“Do you know what I do when I’m not working?”
“No. But really, Eliza, I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“I listen to Kate Bush and I garden. I grow flowers in the garden behind my house. Just because my job isn’t boring doesn’t mean I’m not. You see, this is what you and your friends couldn’t understand. You saw me as the polar opposite of your wholesome little sect. But I’m probably more Mormon than you in some ways.”
“You almost certainly are now, Eliza.”
“But even back then I could see past the dazzle of your teeth. You couldn’t understand that I was content. You didn’t want me to be content and healthy and happy. It didn’t fit with your worldview. You wanted me to be on the streets looking for my next fix of smack. I’ve never even smoked weed.”
The MDMA was beginning to take effect in Richard’s brain. His mood was rising rapidly back up to the heady plateaus of his cocaine doses. But it was very different kind of euphoria to that produced by either previous chemical. It was more meaningful, more emotional, tinged with sadness.
“You’ve lived more than I have, Eliza,” he slurred with drivelling affection. “You’re wise beyond your years. I’ve wasted everything. I’ve thrown away every opportunity. I lived for the day after tomorrow. And the day after tomorrow never came. It never comes.”
“And now you’re squeezing everything into twenty-four hours? I don’t think I have that much pee.”
They shared a laugh together. Richard felt a connection that wasn’t there. Eliza sensed her mistake and so tried to get things quickly back on track.
“OK, Richard,” she said, pulling off her skirt and pants, exposing long, perfect legs to Richard’s keenly charged attention. “Lie down in the bathroom. I’m ready to go.”
They went into the bathroom wherein Richard lay down flat, Eliza stood astride him, his face more or less directly beneath her. She allowed a stream of warm yellow urine to pour from her body onto his face and into his open mouth.
“This tastes of more than you realise!” he cried as the yellow-gold liquid splashed and splintered upon impact with his lips. “This is what I could have had! This is youth! You are so much wiser than I! Never stop, Eliza! Never stop! I repent! I repent madly! Go forward into Soho. Go forward and be the happiest you can be!”
PG
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Sex is overrated. By this, I mean to say that the climax of sexual desire – the ‘in-out’ – to adopt Clockwork Orange vernacular – is overrated, and too much importance is ascribed to it.
Much better is foreplay; an (in)discipline of infinite variety. Like a game of chess, no two sessions of foreplay are exactly alike. They vary wildly. It can sometimes be boring, sure, perhaps a little routine. But it can also be heavenly; a banquet for the senses without limit. Via foreplay one can devour a person, not merely use them for pleasure. One can explore everything there is to know about that person. And to this end we can use not only our bodies, but our words and minds, our creativity. Foreplay is to sex what Jazz is to music. It is free-flowing and ecstatic, primitively complex.
And of the kinds of foreplay, the most exquisite activity is surely that which technical types refer to anilingus; the pleasuring of the anus with the mouth. (Colloquially this is known as ‘ass-eating’, and, to be honest, I prefer this more literal term.)
The beauty of ass-eating derives from its perfect degradation of the giving partner. There is no way of dressing up anilingus as something dignified. It isn’t. It is shamelessness and surrender perfected. And that is why I am so utterly, proudly addicted to it.
When I lick my partner’s anus, I am caressing with my tongue the tube down which her excrement and flatulence travels. Without such gruesome aspects in mind, the activity is far less enlivening.
For a person to eat an ass is to surrender utterly to the animal part of his or her being. It is to strip away the veneer of civilisation completely and expose the chimp-like reality that is only ever half-obscured beneath the suits and ties, the sky-scrapers and the banks, the democracies and all other cants with which modernity powders its face in the morning.
Anilingus rolls us back down the evolutionary hill. It is the sport of kings and queens. And no life may be called complete without a taste of its mysteries.
PG
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New and Old Methods On Show at Tuckman Plantation, Silvercoat
In light of the growing consensus among Negrologists that Negroes are capable of greater emotional understanding than previously thought, many planters across the confederacy are actively attempting to establish a deeper, more humane relationship with their slaves.
Caroline, 23, from New Orleans, is one such planter. Her mulatto Percy, 44, was raised by her mother Catherine until her death in 2015. Now, being part of the newest generation of drivers, Caroline feels inclined to seek out new depths in the buck she has inherited, experimenting with new philosophies and techniques quite alien to her mother’s era.
“He’s tremendously warm at heart,” she told us from her back garden at the luscious Tuckman Plantation, just outside Silvercoat. Percy, who boasts a beautiful coat of golden skin, is seated smiling broadly at her side. “I would feel quite lost without him.”
Percy is clothed in a chequered shirt and dark-blue dungarees. His fluffy black hair is almost hidden under a small straw hat.
“He looks very happy,” I say pointing to him.
“Oh, he is,” Caroline grins pleasantly, stroking him on the shoulder. “He’s most content. I try to make things as pleasant as possible for him. The happier they are the harder they work. That was one of my momma’s philosophies. I don’t see any reason to go against that one.”
“Are you happy,” I ask Percy.
His smile grows still broader.
“Yes, ma’am. I surely am. Miss’us Caroline is very kind to me. She is kind to all of us.”
Thirty two Negroes, of various purities, are put to work at Tuckman. From where we sit I can see more than twenty busily at work in the fruit fields. It is a hot day. Many of them work with their torsos unclothed, their black skin shining beautifully under the harsh Louisiana sun. It is a classic Southern scene; in equal parts timeless and modern.
Percy works mainly in the flower garden behind the main house, tending to the rich assortment of sunflowers, opium poppies and red and purple roses which are planted there, divided neatly into rows.
I ask him if he loves his mistress. He wastes no time in responding.
“Yes, I do,” he nods, exposing his shining teeth. “She is like a momma to me. I do miss Miss’us Catherine. But I know that Miss’us Caroline is following her ways. That’s good enough for me.”
“What new techniques have you tried with Percy?” I ask her.
“It’s quite simple really,” she replies, pouring lemonade for us both. (Percy is now contentedly supping from a glass of milk.) ”I try to treat them as I would a human child. Dr Beronstock (Note: a much admired Negrologist from Louisiana State University) suggests that Negroes have the emotional reactions and preferences of a seven year old human. I have a daughter named Lindsey. She’s at university now. But I can still remember how she was at that age. I try to speak and behave in the same way I did then with Percy.”
Beronstock’s novel technique is called “emotional-loading”. It works on the logic that Negroes can be better pacified by loving treatment than by harsh tutelage and raw discipline.
“And what about when he rebels?”
Caroline’s smile disintegrates.
“There are times,” she admits after a pause. “But we have soft techniques for those occasions. He’s had to skip a few meals this past week. He loves his food, so that usually does the trick.”
Before we leave we are shown inside the luxurious Tuckman mansion (completed just after the Confederate victory in 1868), where we are introduced to two more Negroes, one of whom, with her glowing blonde hair, pale skin and dazzling blue eyes, is very difficult to distinguish from a white woman.
“This is Victoria,” Caroline says, pointing to her. “She is an octoroon doe. She works in the kitchens.”
The most dilute Negro working at Tuckman is a doe named Meredith, who, after testing, was found to be just over 2% Negro in ancestry (the remainder being a mix of Scottish, Danish and Norwegian stock). I ask Caroline if there is any trouble with the white-looking Negroes at Tuckman, referencing specifically the recent quintroon uprising in Atlanta.
“No,” she answers quickly, “I have always been very clear about the line of acceptable behaviour. We have a whipping post out the back. I know some people think it’s cruel in this day and age, but it works even only as a deterrent, especially for these, who might try to runaway and blend in with white folk.”
It seems that even as new methods are trialled at Tuckman, the old ways remain ever ready to hand.
PG
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Jane Morris was a deeply patriotic and committed citizen of the United States. A CIA analyst and interrogator by the tender age of 22, she had risen rapidly through the ranks on the energies and passion of her uncomplicated nationalism. She said the pledge of allegiance when no-one was around to hear it – in front of the mirror every morning and before retiring to sleep every night. A huge, faded American flag was pinned above the headboard of her bed. So intense was this patriotism that Morris’s heart never really had the space to incorporate affection for any individual human being. She rarely had boyfriends or personal associates, preferring to invest all of her hormonal and intellectual drives into her national service. It was only after she was forced to retire early (at the age of 27) because of a psychiatric complaint that Morris began to consider the idea of fellowship with another person. And the first person to accept her advances was Derek Peterson, an 18 year old army cadet.
The first few meetings between the two were ordinary enough. But such was Morris’s insistence on discussing politics (particularly threats to America’s national security) that Peterson eventually advised that they no longer see each other.
Morris didn’t take this well. This much was obvious to Peterson the moment he came around in Morris’s bedroom, his mouth gagged, his limbs strapped tightly to a long gurney, and with long streams of angrily delivered spittle and phlegm running down his cheeks.
“You wouldn’t last a minute in combat,” Morris seethed, looking down at him. She was now dressed in full military uniform. “You’re fucking useless. No use to the national organism.”
Peterson writhed in vain beneath the straps, all of them expertly applied to nullify his every means of rebellion.
Morris pushed her olive green trousers down to her knees, exposing her thick and pale American thighs.
“I swear allegiance to the flag of the United States of America,” she declared, pulling her underpants down to her calves and taking a seat on Peterson’s terrified face, her cold and white buttocks pressing the full weight of her body onto his head, cutting off his airways.
“And to the republic for which it stands…”
Peterson jerked and wrestled with everything he had, desperate for another breath of oxygen. He could see nothing but blackness. He could move only his shoulders.”
“One nation under God,” she continued, pulling up under the gurney to keep her victim tightly fastened beneath her.
“…indivisible, with liberty…” she paused as the squirming began to lessen, “…and justice…” The squirming stopped altogether. “…for all.”
“God bless the United States,” Morris added, standing up. And then, with her trousers still at half-mast, she saluted the flag above her bed.
PG
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Pinke Grapefruit 