David Beckham: Prince Albert Piercing?

Popbitch.com has been insinuating that Metrosexual God David Beckham may have a genital piercing, this might be the intimate detail some sex worker or other can identify. In a case we won’t be able to read about because of an injunction. Probably. Onwards. A poster has claimed that men with small Prince Alberts and foreskins may still pee standing up, using the foreskin to direct the flow but bigger Prince Albert wearers will have to sit down. Indeed so. I have a top of the range size eight ring which would require a professional piercer and a pair of pliers to remove. (Too much information? Well it is a fetish site.) At an age where sitting down is the option of choice in most areas it’s not a problem to squat to urinate. This has the added advantage of not driving the woman in your life insane by mistakenly leaving the seat up. Plus the ring lodges in my partner Missus Lovett’s G spot, giving me an unfair advantage. As Andy Warhol once wrote, (or whoever wrote his books for him, probably Paul Morrissey,) on looking young, “I’ll use anything. Smoke, trick mirrors.”

New Men (remember them?) on the Continent apparently sit down in solidarity with women. Male feminist wusses like Mark Kermode (real name Fairey, as I never tire of repeating) will no doubt find this admirable, as will self-hating sub men, “Can I move in, Mistress? I’ll  live under your stairwell. I won’t be any trouble.” (See BDSM Bad Advice’s excellent comic strip on this subject. http://bdsmbadadvice.com/?p=174) Male Subs may have successfully skewed the public fetish dynamic permanently in favour of morbidly obese, gruesome, ballkicking harridans but then the majority is generally wrong.

Back to healthy sexual exploration, I’ve come to the end of my Prince Albert journey, which took about fifteen years from smallest ring insertion and mind blowing orgasm on first day (against piercer’s advice) to the massive ring and ball closure which must be the final step as my not overlarge equipment can’t take anything heavier. (It’s a grower not a shower but the respectable full tilt can’t take any more.) The old chap, Odin’s Hammer, (yes, that was a joke) ‘the snake’ (thanks to Hank from  Larry Sanders), call it what you will, is occasionally pinched and painful lugging its heavy duty cargo around. A French piercer in Camden (not Cold Steel but near there) told me he had to downgrade from this size 8. The pain of its insertion (I did two upgrade steps in one piercing not recommended) pushed me off the wagon for a disastrous afternoon of boozed idiocy but I’m glad I couldn’t take it out. Soon the ‘like a dog with two dicks’ novelty asserted itself and I had another fresh lease of sexual life. To whoever invented this wondrous accessory I raise a glass of sparkling mineral water (with ice and a slice). Thanks for enhancing the lives of so many men and their partners.

Fetish Nazis Versus Sanctimonious Busybodies. Can’t They Both Lose?

The annual argument about the wearing of Nazi uniforms in public fetish space is upon us, a vital part of the season, where a long pointless argument with no possible winner carries on until both sides bore each other into submission. A handful of berks wear swastikas in clubs, exuding all the dark majesty of an amateur production of ‘Ello ‘Ello, rather than than the Satanic menace they may have been intending. Tourists and beginners won’t know that the world famous fetish club Torture Garden has a hardcore group of middle aged art students still trying to shock Mummy and Daddy. But they are all too well aware that fascists are making gains politically worldwide and that some maim and murder their opponents. While it is fairly obvious that no genuine Nazis visit fetish clubs wearing swastikas and SS uniforms, it is still extremely tasteless to give genuine offense to strangers who may have lost family members in the Holocaust.

But you can’t pass a law to outlaw fancy dress – although I wouldn’t put it past our One Nation Under CCTV government – where’s the libertarian Tory freedom wing when you need them?

In the stating-the-bleeding-obvious, stultifyingly dull, politically correct killjoy corner, often socialists amazingly enough, we have various worthy bores, some overgrown students, lots of people who can’t spell, (Guardian readers? Or just their sub-editors?) and The Firm’s indefatigable master of ceremonies Ishmael Skyes. Who now resembles a debauched Harry Potter since shaving off a hideously unkempt full beard. Which made him resemble an Old Testament prophet wandering the streets of Camden with a can of Tenants. He allows uniforms but no swastikas at his events, surely the most sensible solution. His CP oriented events are less glamorous than Torture Garden, to put it mildly, but often much more fun, cheaper and friendlier. As ever, there is no shortage of morbidly obese Dommes with delusions of grandeur, high on their own supply (of crap), taking every chance to kick men in the nuts – not always a figure of speech. You might also meet the odd poisonous Trout with Gout, generally with a fag on and pint glass in hand, skewed glasses, a bedraggled mass of greasy hair on top of her shapeless, beer barrel body (lovely!).

Ignore them, unless you’re one of the growing army of self hating worms, slithering slowly forward to slimy oblivion. These are hot parties and deserve support. Ish puts in a lot of hard work in and the profits, if any, are miniscule. Running an quasi-mystical sect of s/m perverts isn’t a license to print money, quite the opposite. The Firm is what you make it, the fun and games require participation. You’ll get much more out of it than standing and gawping. If you fancy a raunchy night out with no fashion elitists, crowds, very loud music or having to wait outside as they’re not ready yet, (as at Torture Garden) then check out The Firm. Beginners very welcome. And leave the Swastikas in the bin.

The Life Literary (hat tip, Ed Reardon, Radio 4′s most irascible oppressed writer)

The war’s over and the nerds won. If Martin Amis, recent recipient of the National Book award for lifetime achievement, were writing ‘Siege of Planet Phlong 17′ his publisher would be awaiting next manuscript with impatience, not dreading whether s/he is going to get a family memoir about Stalin with an incomprehensible title or something journalists will rubbish without reading it (next year’s ‘State of England’). Although Mr Amis is correct. And the jealous female columnists utterly wrong. If you can’t have a go at Katie ‘Jordan’ Price, (forthcoming in ‘State of England’) – an absent mother and a rude, talentless moron who isn’t even good looking, which was supposed to be the point of her, England really is in a right ‘two and eight’…(cockney crim rhyming slang,  for our American friends).

Never mind the Campaign for Real Ale, let’s have a Campaign for Thinner Slaves.

More quality Derek Bartle films from Dom Promotions.  www.uk-fetish-films.co.uk Each dvd I have seen so far contains Mistresses and Masters at the height of their powers, every one an in-demand professional. Looks aren’t everything in fetishism so it may be better to judge which dvd is best for you by the activities listed on the cover. Having said that, what a treat to see the gorgeous MIstress Beverley’s bare breasts and bottom in The Slave Destroyer, (nudity not generally a Domme specialty.) Watch her be pleasured with a giant vibrator and see her lovely face light up with genuine enjoyment.
Angel Bella, ‘this bitch has balls’, provides hot tranny hardcore. Incidentally, many of the titles will suit tranny admirers as they feature as both slaves and mistresses.
Pick of the crop, pun intended, is The Slave Chambers starring Mistress K. Her impish, pretty face and gorgeous body are as glamorous as any you’ll see in a centrefold or on a movie screen.  Her brunette partner Mistress Valeska is also a right little cracker.
They might both look angelic but the cover menu promises us domination, bondage,  spanking, nipple play, electrics, cbt and anal penetration and they certainly deliver. They’re  both inventively filthy as Mistresses and pretty good actresses when it comes to role play.
The Hide stars Mistress Elise and Mistress Kia, both beautiful and skilled with their strap-ons, get their slaves to fuck each other, sometimes known as ‘forced’ homosexuality these  slaves don’t seem to need much forcing. It might sound ridiculous to comment on the high sexual content of these dvds but a different part of the scene doesn’t allow this sort of penetration and intimacy – hardly surprising as such activity is illegal in clubs. There’s also another bunch of stuffed shirts who think that sub dom roleplay is an end in itself and not the foreplay to sexual activity. Well, there’s no prudery here. You’re never far from a shag in these dvds.
Watching these two women telling a tranny what a filthy slut and whore she is reminded me of Bobette and me getting whipped by numerous women telling us we were ‘sluts’ and ‘slags’. It still seems a little odd to me that Dommes want to call their slaves sluts and slags. Maybe I’ll live long enough to see a fetish film in which the bottom partner is not called a slut or a slag by the top. (Probably when we get peace in the Middle East.)
Somewhere in these dvds one of these a slave takes a very quick hundred strokes with a dragon cane. Ten times Ten. Olympic endurance yet I can’t remember him.  Mind you, as he clearly lost his gym membership card about three decades ago he only has himself to blame. Never mind the Campaign for Real Ale, let’s have a Campaign for Thinner Slaves. At least the Mistress was utterly gorgeous which is, of course, considerably more important.

SUPREME SASHA: Sado-Sleuth. Sad Submissives Smashed.

The only good thing you can say about January is that its arrival proves that the festive season is behind us. That’s not much consolation though as the cruel wind howls down the Hackney Road, a bleak knife slash through council estates, sweat shops and the occasional mosque. My mobile rings. It’s Sasha. Well, we have been apart for at least two minutes.
“Williamson has booked more foxy boxing!”
He needs his head examining . At least he will by the time he has done a few rounds with Slasher Sasha.
“That’s quick work, kid,” I tell her. Sometimes it’s appropriate for me to offer paternal encouragement. She does love her adorable old Daddy. And I’m good at it, also looking the part these days. And I never had to act much to be a grumpy old git. I have been preparing for this part for decades.  A mooch round some charity shops gets me a splendid East German greatcoat, stuff for Sasha and a dull but functional white fan heater. Once inside this tough yet elegant double breasted coat I am ready for whatever Sasha will throw at me on my return. Although it turns out the storm has passed.
“Like the coat,” says Sasha, perking up instantly, as the thick flaring lapels have given me a surrogate barrel chest. The top half flatters your shoulders while the lower half flares gracefully down to the mid shin bone. When I put it on Sasha stands on tip toe to brush some imaginary fluff off my shoulders. Something inside her has melted just at the sight of a man in uniform. It’s worth remembering that this is the easiest way for men to look good, certainly a better bet than showing up at an orgy looking like a rubber mutant. It is a tribute to the power of the overcoat that it prevented Sasha from looking at the stuff I bought for her. For about twenty seconds. One fond peck on my cheek and she scampers off to where some plastic bags are full of girl clothes. She once would have chided me for not taking a cloth carrier bag with me but I think even she’s given up saving the planet now. And nothing is as important as dressing up and showing off. For a while she is genuinely happy – parading up and down in front of the mirror in several pairs of new shoes.
Then she notices a musty old hardback book with a stained, faded cover. ‘Slightly foxed’ they say in the antiquarian book trade. ‘Completely fucked’ would be a more accurate description of this edition of The Oxford Book of English verse 1250 –1900. There are also pressed flowers inside and newspaper clippings which have turned brown. Many of these clippings relate to one family’s history, which I found poignant, not having one of my own to play with any more.
“What did you get this for?” asks Sasha, pointing at the dusty tome, as horrified as if I had bought a guide to shedmaking or radio-controlled model aeroplanes. I wanted quite a lot of the poetry anyway but if I tell her that I bought an old book mostly because there’s a dedication to Betty from her Dad, (Xmas 1925), yes, I am an orphan, she would be ringing for someone to take me away. But I found the dedication moving, also the idea that something might survive after we have die (probably next Sunday, the way Sasha’s planned it…). Piecing together the family history from the brown newspaper clippings inside the book also got to me. Until I decided that weeping more than two tears in a charity shop would be unseemly.
Maybe the mini-weep was because we would all like to keep a family together somehow. Despite what we all know about the likelihood of that happening. And there are less stressful pastimes. Such as Sasha’s hobby: getting away with murder.
“I’ve been digging out old stuff too,” she says. “I want to do a retrospective.”
You would never know we have enemies. Some of whom might be looking for us. Now that Sasha’s type of art is quite popular – twenty years after she started doing it – there might even be some interest in her used tampon collages and all the rest of it. But it’s only popular because any fool can do it and shock tactics are always worth a paragraph in the paper. It is never quite the right moment to tell Sasha that. And we have been together far too long for rational debate in any case. We start at boiling point now.
“An exhibition? You’re out of your fucking mind!” I tell her, superfluously. “You’re insane! You can’t…”
“”I’ll show you…”
“Look, you little…” The debate degenerates here almost to the level of our elected representatives. After some shouting and swearing and Sasha’s usual recourse to tears (well, she is a girl) there is a pause in which I wonder why I don’t kill myself. I have no children – except Sasha. What I am hanging about here for?
A deep eternal silence seems to descend as I contemplate the answer to that question. I sit head in hands for a while, while Sasha keeps up a barrage of  self-pitying and manipulative weeping. Such tactics used to rip my insides up till I noticed she tended to win arguments by bursting into tears at strategic moments. Something the supposedly superior sex is quite good at.
“Sasha, Sasha, Sasha,” I say, exhaling deeply afterwards. She smiles, perhaps recognizing that I am praying, slowly intoning the name of the Divine One. If you kept on doing that – slowly intoning the name of God while giving your brain a good oxygen wash – you are likely to feel closer to the great mystery. Almost as good as actually hanging yourself, another way to soar through the extra-terrestial world. But I’m not quite ready for all that serenity. All that death time. Not just yet. I still like pointless bickering and the occasional laugh. I still want to see the moon through another few cycles.  And I still like telling Sasha stories that make her happy. Little legends that keep us afloat just that little while longer. I take a deep breath. And swim out to sea.
“You are, quite literally, divine,” I tell her. She’s stops sniffling and wipes her nose. Someone has finally got where she’s coming from. “But you dwell in the darkness. Your mystery can never be revealed. It should never be revealed. Your art was its own statement. You should not worry about applause”.
Her face morphs back into wildcat mode.
“You’re just a coward!” she says. “I want to exhibit my work! Do you really think the FBI follow the artworld? Nothing will happen. We’re free. Home dry.”
“If you step into the light you will become human,” I tell her. “All too human perhaps. You will be one of us. The seekers, the worshippers, the congregation. Isn’t it better to be worshipped?”
There is no answer. Perhaps she really is divine now. For you never get so much as a peep out of you know who these days. Correct me If I’m wrong – I like a bit of that – but it’s not often you get a message from our creator. You would think that the least he could do would apologize. Whereas his jealous child – My Lord Lucifer, The Petulant Prince – he seems to have no trouble getting his message across.
“Look, babe,” I tell her. “You’ve probably obsessed some real cop somewhere. They would have left Howard Marks alone if he hadn’t have written a book helpfully explaining that he was a mastermind and the Police are a bunch of idiots. They don’t seem to like that very much. Same thing with the Kray Brothers. ‘Look at us we’re master criminals.’ ‘So you are,’ says the law. ‘Here’s thirty years’.”
She lets me prattle but I can tell she is not convinced. After several decades of wrapping men around her little finger, and grinding them underneath her six inch heels, she just knows she can get away with whatever lunacy she is planning next.
But I am not going to jail to satisfy her insatiable, and childish, desire for approval. I can’t kill her – well I can’t, can I? It wouldn’t be right. It might be convenient.
But it wouldn’t be right.  And it’s nearly time for tea. Brewing up should keep me from justifiable homicide – until we run out of Twinings Assam anyway.
“What happened to the television project?” I say, as you would throw a kitten a ball of string to keep it busy.
“It’s called Queen Bee,“ says Sasha. “We get three hunky guys who have to compete for my affection.”
“Sounds like last Wednesday night,” I tell her, still slightly miffed at having to share her with two other thrusting young blades.
“You’re not hunky,” she said. She sees something flicker across my face. “You’re deep, dark, dangerous. And you are everything to me. Hunky means a male bimbo.”
I nod, somewhat mollified by this complete and utter lie. Which at least proves she can still be bothered to make stories up for me – not always a given after eight years together.
“And anyway, these guys should need to lose a little weight. It’s a diet show you see.“
My head is starting to fog up but I keep nodding at her. At least this is still just a theory. And not the actually suicidal mission she has set her heart on.
“The guys compete to make me happy,” she says, beaming like the little girl she still is, in age as well as inches. “I feed them just what they need to survive. We weigh them before and afterwards and whoever loses the most weight is the winner“. She holds her hands out on either side of her waist. She has a winning smile.
“That’s great!” I tell her. Because it actually is. And also because she needs more applause and reassurance than a thirty nine year old actress.
“We should pitch that,” she says.
Yes. If I ever get out of this chair. What the money men are likely to say is another story, of course. But Queen Bitch  might sell to women eager to see men humiliate themselves. That large audience of frustrated wives and angry singletons desperate for validation, hungry for revenge for relationships that went wrong and angry about their childhood. Actually, that’s all me and I’m a bloke.
“We could use your music,” she says brightly, although she is aware it contains knobbly bits that might jolt the listener awake. ‘Listener’ is probably not right in this context. And my stuff doesn’t fit well with pictures so it’s useless. So they say, although it still sells all over the world in many formats. And the chances of getting the money for its use are about as good as they ever were – slim, no chance and, ‘I’m sorry. He’s in a meeting’.
“Queen Bee,” I say, nodding and grinning inanely. “It’s got something.”
“Do you think so?” she says, suddenly prepared to accept my advice. After a grim few days of endless bitching.
“It can’t fail. Except that we need to actually do it. Not just talk about it“.
“Well you can talk…” she starts, before the bossy madam who is the voice of AOL tells Sasha she has mail.
“The Black Order have sent that money!” says Sasha, whooping in delight. Her fingers blurr over the keys as she writes another email. The beauty of the internet is that she is able to tell other people what to do at any time of the day or night, at any location anywhere in the known universe. And there is such a lot to do, as she is now head of the Black Order, although pretending she isn’t – perhaps for the purpose of keeping our marriage going. I was hoping that the bad boys we played with over Xmas might have reconsidered their decision to let her run things. Nazis don’t really like women in charge of anything, except kitchens and families. Although some of them prefer female authority during certain intimate therapeutic procedures that once made Sasha and I a good living. And now we are setting up shop once more. We need the money, and our clients most certainly need the therapy. I think a full appointment book will be good for her. And it will certainly stop her mounting any more expeditions into the dark heart of the English countryside – where Miller and his creepy mates reside.
“Williamson is coming soon,” she says, thrilled at meeting one of her old slaves again, one she inherited from Ruby. As it happens. She really does care about her clients and the therapy they receive – far more so than some Freudian charlatan who cares about nothing other than his fee and how itchy his beard is. (Incidentally I always thought that the facial hair adapted by many of these frauds is a cover up. Even they are ashamed of what they do for a living. ‘How do you feel about that?’, they sometimes say. Overcharged, mate. That’s how I feel about it.
At least Sasha gives value for money. If you can afford her she offers psycho-drama, role-play, extremes of mental and physical torment, supervised volcanic releases and hot sweet tea afterwards. You can have cuddles and  comfort too – if you’re that way inclined. We don’t turn people away.  We don’t judge. There’s just one thing puzzling me about her new advert, which offers a comprehensive range of services.
“What’s Roman Showers?” I ask, always eager to learn.
“Vomiting.”
“Are you quite sure about that?”
I’m not worried about the clientele, who should be proud to receive such an offering, but the therapist herself should not be returning to the binge and puke tactics that nearly killed her as a teenager.
“You worry too much,” she says. Which even I couldn’t dispute.
“Have you rung a repairman?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say, gloomily. We might have got away with murder, now and again. It doesn’t mean we can get a boiler fixed in January.
“How did Ruby get her boiler fixed?” I ask, mentioning our landlord, a lovely big West Country lass. Although a professional dominatrix she likes pretending to be a simpering girlie in civilian life, a strategy Sasha finds contemptible.
“Oh Ruby. The mad Catwoman,” says Sasha, rather cattily herself, “She just seduces them. ‘You’ve got to wear a low cut dress to get anything done these days.” she says, putting on a breathless girly voice that cracks my frozen face. I am smiling broadly, thinking of Ruby’s big blonde hair. Her shy princess smile. Her squeaky cartoon voice with its Somerset burr. It’s a little girl’s voice. Which doesn’t quite chime with her cavernous cleavage. Or her outlandish red velvet corset. Once she has bunched up her formidable breasts into a humungous wedge of creamy white flesh all she ever sees is the top of men’s heads. They know they are not supposed to be behaving like that but they just can’t stop themselves. I stop daydreaming about Ruby and awake to see Sasha’s cold, suspicious, critical face.
“They used to train women to speak like that,” she says. “So men would find them helpful and accommodating!” Evil, isn’t it? When they really should be spitting venom at men, the hated army of occupation.
Ruby  is not a serious rival to Sasha, no-one human could be. But she’s all smiley and nice. And most people you’ve lived with for this long aren’t. Not any more. Ruby brings out the noble knight in me. He who would serve women, regardless of whether there might be a spot of slap and tickle later. Although it may help that Ruby is an adept at all known forms of Dressing Up and Mucking About – my new term for s/m. I am tired of our hobby being named after a French maniac and a shy Polish doormat. (The sick De Sade and the sickly sweet Sacher-Masoch.)
“I want to do my stuff when you’ve finished with the computer,” I say, somewhat optimistically, perhaps. Her fingers flick fleetly over the keys. Clickety-clack. Zippety-zap.
“Use the laptop,” she says, condemning me to a horrid grey box, stuffed with old junk and about to crash for the very last time.
But I fire it up anyway and set to work on my website. Like any kept partner I need a gig. To prove I’m not just a pretty face and a dedicated homemaker.  Besides, as this is to promote a dance track Sasha is singing on, it might keep her away from going after Miller.
“You could do past life therapy again,” says Sasha, unintentionally eliciting a wince, as I remember when New Age nonsense filled the gaping hole left by giving up alcohol. Beware getting off drugs or drink – some catch Scientology in the process. I escaped with a passionate attachment to astrology – which is at least a sort of karaoke poetry we can all do. Staring up at the silvery moon, catching a little of its lustre.
“I’ll stick with music, dear,” I tell her. “I’m not listening to a bunch of blokes all telling me they were Nazi generals in their last lives again. I blame the History channel myself. ”
‘”The Hitler channel’, remarks Sasha, honouring this old gag of ours. But is it a gag? Why not grasp the nettle and actually call it that? As this cable channel never seems to run anything else.
We clear a space in the living room and hang up some sporting looking regalia – towels, a bucket to spit teeth into, and some ropes on stanchions which can look like a boxing ring. If you are willing enough to suspend disbelief.
“Shall we get Ruby  to referee?” I ask.
“No!” says Sasha, with unnecessary force.
“I only asked…”
“If you want Ruby . Go and get her. Otherwise shut the fuck up.”

That seems to cover that. I used to referee foxy boxing myself – but I found the white shirt and bow tie fitted me all too well. It is the role I’m usually playing – standing in between Sasha and the rest of world. Trying to call her off before she kills someone. At two p.m. precisely Mr Williamson arrives. His woeful demeanour proving that the meek do not inherit the earth. They just get a bit grumpy as their bodies start to wear out.Once he is stripped down to a pair of comical knee length football shorts – retro kit that is probably worth a fortune to some demented collector – I leave them to it. It’s tempting to shout ‘Oi, tin ribs!’ at Williamson but it’s Sasha’s job to demolish his ego.
He looks at me with a mixture of contempt and fear – old people like him see guys like me as ‘pimps’. And not as therapists’ personal therapists, as we actually are. Mr Williamson might look inoffensive, if you are not offended by brown shoes and an off-white gentlemen’s raincoat but there is a sleeping beast inside such men. My job is to shoot the poison darts should it ever awake. I retire to the bedroom where I can edit Sasha’s dance track ‘The Dark Goddess’, in other words, my dance track to which Sasha has contributed a few words. The laptop is groaning under the weight of the unreasonable demands Sasha and I make on it, just like our slaves do. Our digital maid is burdened with music and art programmes and about one trillion of Sasha’s e-mails. I keep the volume down, partly because my nerves can’t take it loud any more and partly because I need to hear a call of distress should there be one. I’m still nudging samples of Sasha’s voice around the track when I hear the call.
“Matt! Matt!”
My real name. Not to be used in front of clients. As we are fugitives. As I keep telling her.
“Matt! Help!”
Louder and more urgent. It sounds like something bad has happened. Or is happening. I reach for my medicine kit; amyl nitrate and a lead-weighted cosh. Something to waken the dead; and something to deaden those who are a little bit too awake. I knew something bad might happen with a high risk contact sport like foxy boxing. Extreme submissives are also extremely volatile. The worm sometimes turns. It might be time to stamp on one of them. I don’t have to fake the murderous rage I feel as I kick the living room door open.
Mr Williamson is face down, flat out.
“I told you this would happen!” I tell her, uselessly. It doesn’t help. And neither does slapping him around the face for a while.
“You might have killed him!” I tell her. I can’t feel a pulse. He seems very cold. But then these old gits often are a bit chilly. It’s hard to tell whether  they’re actually alive or dead, some of them.
“Don’t you ever get tired of killing people?” I say.
“You can talk,” she says. “You’ve done it with one punch.”
This is a reference to a drunken brawl I once had, a bit of a mismatch really. I will never know what happened but the other guy started it anyway. He did. The fight consisted of one killer punch; he didn’t fall well, he may have been genetically predisposed to some sort of blood clot; he was very drunk and very unfit. None of these memories are comforting. Not while trying to slap some life into a scrawny old man who is out cold.
We had to leave the country that time, not wishing to hang around to discuss whether the deceased had had a weak neck, whether I had been provoked or whether the landlord should take responsibility for having a poorly designed pub. It was obvious that you shouldn’t have hard walls or concrete floors anywhere fist fights are likely to take place. With that sort of clientele he should have had rubber walls and fluffy cushions scattered around. A padded cell would have been preferable.
“Do something!” says Sasha. She is frightened. As well she might be. Mr Williamson is married. We can’t just bundle him into some bin bags and stick him down the rubbish chute. Or can we? I put the bottle of amyl under his nose and lean on his chest a few times.
“That’s way too dangerous,” says Sasha, stamping around in her shiny red boots. It would be easy to get distracted by this view, her perky breasts rising and falling with each excited breath.
“This could be much worse than those slave reparations,” I say. Although it’s not an appropriate moment for a jest. This little gag of ours has been running ever since some African nations decided to ask for compensation for the slave trade. Which was practised well before Western nations got involved and is still practised today – mostly in Africa, as it happens. Without the help of the evil white devils. Perhaps descendants of those English and Americans who laid down their lives to stop this barbaric practice might expect a cheque from certain African nations. Perhaps not. We once calculated the sum Sasha might have to pay to her slaves should they all demand compensation for her rigorous but invigorating therapy. Another reason to flee the country. I clump off to the bathroom in my heavy boots, restraining myself somehow from giving the prone Williamson a good kicking.
A bucket of freezing cold water might do the trick. Or at any rate dousing the old fool would certainly do me some good. Although some of the water goes in Ruby’s stereo, whoops, the shock of it does revive him.
“Hallelujah!” I say, and then wonder if we will ever be free of our childhood Xtian conditioning. I slap him around the face a couple of times. More for my benefit than to complete his resurrection.
Sasha says some soothing words while I grind up some dark demonic coffee beans. Bolivian High, they call it. And it’s almost as bad for you as cocaine.
“There’s a party tonight,” says Sasha, once we are slumped on the floor cushions with the bitter brew. Williamson gets supermarket own brand tea, without the milk he requested as neither of us use it.
Apart from the unacceptably high level of calories in milk Sasha sees it as evidence of the exploitation of cattle. She is fanatical about animal welfare. It’s just human beings she doesn’t mind disposing of. She just likes a scrap really, whatever the cause.
I sometimes think she should have a job in one of those boxing booths at the fair. Come and have a scrap with Slasher Sasha, the little beauty with the big, big punch. She thinks I find this endearing. I don’t actually. And it’s hard to remember why I ever did.
Something’s changed. Is this the personal growth that Sasha’s always demanding? Have I finally tired of bombastic little Americans who know everything better than we do? But we have a more valid reason than most to stick together. She can testify against me for the crimes we have committed.
As she is pleasing to look at, the only possible measure of worth right now, no jury will convict. Added to which, I am a man, so it must automatically be my fault, whatever it is.
“But you killed that guy when you were drunk,” Sasha sometimes says at this point. This was the unlucky punch that took us underground, many moons ago now. We ran to New York where we set up a Satanic sect to make money. And then a lot of other bad things happened. Which is almost enough to make you superstitious.
“I think we deserve a celebration,” says Sasha.
So we do. We have pure ecstasy in powder form and this might be just the time to take it. To affirm the miracle of life. The power of love. And a bit of a knees-up somewhere the sex-positive go. Preferably somewhere without Williamson and his kind.
“Where is it?”
“Hades,” she says. A club where sad submissives are all too prevalent. Oh well. Ruby  will be there. We listen to Williamson babble for a while. He loves his Sasha. Perhaps even more now. I despise him for a while, thinking of how dumb he is for letting himself depend on someone like her. And then I catch sight myself in the mirror.  And wonder who the real sucker is.

Supreme Sasha: Fem Dom Foxy Boxing. Knocking out Fascism.

Chapter One: Moonday

“We’ve got to find Miller,” says Sasha. “He’s the key to it all. Matt!”
I am groaning, head in hands. It was bad enough discussing our open marriage. And whether it was wise for her to murder my last lover. It may have been someone else’s ritual sacrifice but that doesn’t make it right. We are still speaking calmly and rationally. But it won’t take much for it to become the sort of discussion young drunks have while buying a midnight kebab. This could easily end with a call to the emergency services. And  a long dreamless sleep in a wooden box.
My love’s hair stands up in little blonde and hennaed spikes. Her ever-changing eyes are little vats of simmering moon juice, maybe blue, maybe green. Her lips are red as her face is white – cute and comely in repose. Which they almost never are…
“Miller is the theory of Fascism,” she says. “And the street thugs put it into practice…”
While she stretches out that thread well past its useful life I have time to reflect that it is easy to fall out of love – especially once you get past the springtime and the shadows of responsibility deepen and darken. Huddling together through the long winter is the real test. Luckily Sasha still has cute little habits that bring spring back, even on a bitter Monday in early January. We are still in love, still committed to each other. And may the Goddess have mercy on us.
While we talk – while Sasha talks – she is working out. And my love  boxing is cuter than puppies fighting over chocolate buttons on Xmas day. I lean into the punchbag urging her on, watching as a light film of perspiration sticks her red shorts and vest to her clear white skin. Her cropped blonde hair is foregrounding her lovely heart-shaped face. There is no sign of her lovely, dimpled smile.
Suddenly, and inexplicably, she is weeping again. It’s hard to say what might have caused it. We have both led stressful lives. This international fugitive business takes it out of you.
We have committed heinous crimes in two different countries and must stay out of the glare of the spotlight. Which is cruel for Sasha, who imagines that fame will cure her many diseases.
I hold her for a while, feeling the fast flickering beat of her heat. She blows her nose with a ferocity that that jangles some well-frazzled nerves of mine.
“My basil’s wilted,” says Sasha, as If she hadn’t just been sniffling and sobbing. This would have been a perfect line for Sybil in Fawlty Towers. She would have been referring to the perpetually irritated Basil Fawlty, a man as easily riled as I am. As the love of my life is American the phrase came out as, “My Baysil is wilted.”
“Supermarket basil doesn’t last long even if you water it,” I tell her, getting irritated now my homemaking skills are being questioned.
“You could nurture it,” she says. “Talk to it. Rather than talking to yourself all the time”.
That’s debatable. So contentious that I might well stroll up to Hackney Marshes where I can have a good old blather in the open air. I don’t even have to get dressed to go out . I’m already wearing a shimmery lilac houndstooth shirt by Thomas Pink, Jermyn Street’s finest shirtmaker, underneath which I have a red satin waist cincher – a gorgeous new corset which is so handy for getting into female head space and imparting a wiggle to my walk. It’s also good for forcing me to stand up straight, ensuring no creases in my charcoal trousers that seemed to cost far too much at the time. I could also wear my Ozwald Boateng jacket, darkest blue with a very fine red pinstripe…
“Stop preening!” says Sasha. As we know girls never dress up or wish to be complimented so I can see her point.
“I’ll buy you some more plants,” I say, having no other idea of how to get her off the subject of Miller.
“You’re staying here,” she says. “We have things to discuss.”
It might not be wise to argue with Sasha while she has boxing gloves on and I am still wound up too tight from recent events. And, for once, I am going to have my say.
“You murdered Kate!” I tell her, using a hoarse whisper that is ideal for quiet but intense argument. As this is a council flat in Tower Hamlets our neighbours may well have similar legal problems but we try to keep our nefarious activities a secret. I do anyway. My little Sasha doesn’t seem to care. She would rather be famous – even if it means doing thirty years – than live the rest of our lives in peace and tranquillity. Or as much as there may be available to people fleeing valid murder charges in two different countries.
“You killed her!” I say. Although I’m not that bothered as Kate tried to have us both shipped off to America to face lethal injection. In a funny way this might have been poetic justice – for Sasha once helped her first husband take a deliberate overdose. She says it was euthanasia. The Police may have different views on this tricky ethical issue. They prefer mercy killing to be practiced on old or terminally sick people – if at all. Although Spider Black sounded ill – especially when singing one of his tuneless dirges about the misery of being alive – he was in fact suffering from nothing more than terminal narcissism and chronic drug addiction. Still, he got his wish. He wanted to die and Sasha saw that he did. But that was then. I’m more concerned about her most recent donation to the grim reaper. You may already have had enough of the accumulated weight of our recent slayings – it’s hard even for me to remember it all, particularly after so much recent ecstasy and ketamine – but this is what we have to juggle every day now. It’s not paranoia either. They really might be coming to get us. Or at least they should be, by now. What do you pay your taxes for?
“You killed her!” I tell her. “You said so!”
“I did not!” she says, “I just wanted to see your face. I was coming off Zerexotine anyway.”
This Prozac derivative was called something else but I’m not surprised she can’t remember. We’ve both tried a few of these instant panaceas. And we’re both still sick – perhaps even sicker than we were before we started, now we have had our serotonin levels tweaked and twiddled by multinational pharmacists looking for a fat payday. And all that ecstasy. Even if it did seem nice at the time.
“I’m not depressed,“ she says, sounding far from jovial. This remark isn’t remotely true although she may believe what she is saying at the moment she is saying it. Whatever the veracity of this statement there will never be any space to point out the truth or otherwise. She is generally talking all the time I’m chatting with you guys.
Right now she is telling me about a new diet.
“…yeast intolerance can lead to…” Many, many things. And Sasha is about to tell me about all of them. I have to edit some bits out. You don’t want to hear everything Sasha says. She is not short of anything to say. And she is long on sudden blitzes of aggression. Perhaps being short is the problem. As she is more of a diminutrix than a dominatrix. We are all familiar with the overcompensating midget who causes millions to suffer in their quest for global domination – Napoleon, Hitler, Spike Lee. And look at Madonna. If only she had been born just a few inches taller…
A flurry of punches hit the bag, sending shock waves through my weary body. She stares defiantly – facing down any remark I might have been intending to make. But for once, she might have a point. Citing this anti-depression drug may actually get you off most things up to and including murder. Side effects include aggression, paranoia, anxiety. I don’t know why they didn’t just name it after me and have done with it.
“You finished the book yet?” she asks.
Sasha asked me to get an account of our lives down on paper – not a website, or a movie, but smudgy ink on paper – what was once regarded as at least one possible version of the truth. I enjoy doing this – the fiction that our adventures have a beginning, middle and end is a delicious invention – but Sasha is under the impression I am taking down her every word for posterity. And apart from there being far too much of this stuff, half of it usually contradicts the other half. And we contradict each other. She wants an adventure story – as she is fighting her female genes – and I want a love story – as I’m turning girly now my youth is fading.
“I’m just trying to find a linear thread to hang it on,” I say. When in actual fact I’m still trying to find out how I used to think straight. Before ecstasy, ketamine, coke, whiz, cannabis and – worst of all – the internet, destroyed any capacity for linear thought. Or it may be because my working conditions aren’t ideal. Sharing a computer with a loved one is not easy, especially when they are girls and like to make things ‘nice’… I get distracted when animated sheep crawl out from behind my documents. When Puppy-dogs tumble out from to-do lists which have been highlighted in glitter. And then Sasha’s recorded voice reminds me to do things at specific times. Before Goddess Sasha herself manifests in person to check her email. Best not start at all really, the method by which most writers work. .
The flurry of punches slows to a pitter-patter, her edgy dance round the bag becomes a slow shuffle. She pauses to look out at the white art deco factory opposite, her eyes filling with tears again. I don’t ask what’s wrong for we are both very fragile right now. I stand beside her, hugging her to me, whispering encouragement in her ear.
“Good work, champ,” I tell her. She looks up, pleased. It’s all she ever wanted; encouragement, validation, a kind word.
The art deco factory has been converted to flats for anyone rich enough to live near the City. The few remaining Cockneys round here are occasionally audible – music-hall singalongs in the nearby pub – but the area is otherwise heavily Asian. No danger yet of my little Sasha adopting the veil. Although it is the one disguise that would keep us safe from whichever Police forces may still wish to interview us.
Our rented flat is now decorated with many pictures of my dear wife and far too many mirrors. They might make a small flat look bigger – and are essential for entertaining our clients – but the last thing I need to see is my face. In repose it’s not too bad but its usual mode is betraying the madness inside me – glowering, louring, grimacing and gurning. I used to think twits like Aleister Crowley were glamorous. Now I actually look like him – and have inadvertently surpassed him in chaotic mayhem – I would give anything to be quietly suburban again. But you don’t retire from this life. It’s for keeps.
It is two weeks since we escaped from a set of fanatical Nazis – some of whom were Satanists and, what’s worse, Austrian. Then I found us a nice refuge in London’s East End, looking to lick my wounds for a while, also the sweet and savoury parts of my dear wife.  Yet Sasha wishes us to chase after Gavin Miller – yet another old fruit who wishes to implement Hitler’s final solution, yet another bitter outcast calling for the liquidation of anyone more talented and colourful than his own sad, sorry self.
“Everyone knows that Miller lives in the Yorkshire countryside with his collection of choirboy pictures,” I tell her, knowing I am wasting my frozen breath. A millisecond pause tells me that Sasha was not aware of this salient fact, but she’s soon back at me, nipping at my ankles like the ferocious little attack dog she has always been.
“We’ve got to stop him putting his Nazi garbage on the internet!” she says. Where it will continue to be copied onto other sites till the end of time, whatever we do. But I see her point. Miller might just be a vicious old queen with a taste for vigorous young football hooligans but some words actually can kill. His rhetoric may have inspired some recent bombings. Young men who may be conflicted about their sexuality sometimes like to prove they are real men by bombing gay bars. It’s also likely that Miller participated in some serious violence over thirty years of Nazi activism, maybe even murder. He keeps hinting he’s done it, him and his dead hard Satanic mates. But anyone can talk a good fight on the internet. While I wouldn’t particularly miss Miller I don’t want to be the person responsible for removing him from the gene pool. My little Sasha doesn’t agree.
She wipes some tears away and blinks at me for a while. I can never tell what colour will be prevalent in her eyes – turquoise or jade, emerald or sapphire. And Sasha herself has no clue as to who or what is swimming around inside her. With the light from our anti-depression lamp bathing her face she appears to have sea green eyes, almost the match of the withering plant she is staring at. Like everything else round here our pot plants are finding the English winter inhospitable and unforgiving. Especially since our boiler packed up again. Leaving us to freeze.
“We need heat!” I tell her, “I can get us an electric heater.”
Even she can’t argue with that. Although she soon starts up again about the possible design and colour I should select.
“Make sure it’s red…”
Large parts of the world are now sick of being told what to do by Americans and, living with Sasha, it’s not hard to see their point. She’s almost enough to drive me back to AA again.
“…and not white. Definitely not white…”
My A.A. is Americans Anonymous. I’m sick of dumb fat fucks and a President who thinks appeasement will defeat Islamism. But this last whinge doesn’t apply to my little Sasha, who is small, thin, lovely and far too clever. So much so that I sometimes have cause to contemplate Adolf Hitler’s views on the appropriate partner for a man who fancies himself a bit. “A highly intelligent man should take a stupid woman for a wife,” he said, (this was pre-feminism). “Imagine if, on top of everything else, I had a woman who interfered with my work.” It is a shame that Sasha was not around in the thirties to tell him that brown is not an appropriate colour for clothes. Yes, we all know how good certain black uniforms looked. But the German army thought brown was the new black. No wonder they lost.
“…as small as possible. Minimalist…”
Her father was just about old enough to be drafted at the end of the war – an experience that did him no good at all. Watching your friends being blown to pieces is no way to spend your adolescence. Neither is finding villages full of strung-up corpses. He didn’t need the internet to commune with the forces of darkness. Neither did he have to call himself a ‘Satanist’ to be daring. Unlike his daughter.
“…black is just so over…”
Papa then worked as a spy for the Americans in Vienna of the fifties and there we lose track of his shadowy activities until he blew his brains out in front of the two of us. Fathers-in-law are a drag at the best of times but I sort of preferred the type that restricted themselves to verbal abuse. Our relationship was cursed with Papa’s dying breath – and a splatter of grey tissue on a farmhouse wall.
Well, close but no cigar, Daddy. We are still here, still in love, and still driving each other raving mad on a daily basis. We are also still married – ten times over if you include two Pagan ceremonies and a drive-in quickie in Las Vegas. It’s a hobby of Sasha’s. One I indulge because, frankly, I need a bed for the night. I am the living embodiment of that old gag about musicians; ‘What do you call a musician without a girlfriend? Homeless.’ (Yes, I know it should be ‘partner’ instead of ‘girlfriend’. I live with the Supreme Ogress Sasha. I am well aware of the need to respect women. Or die a slow and painful death.)
We have done most religious and pagan ceremonies by now. But not one I think may be the most appropriate. Instead of a priest or registry officer we should have a referee. Each party should bring a second and the happy couple should take ten paces, turn and fire at each other with a paint ball, or some other harmless but indelible proof of marksmanship. Whoever is judged to have fired the fatal shot shall then be allowed The Last Word on any subject.
Well, I can dream. But I have a feeling that, after I had won this part of the contest, the rules would continue to change in favour of My Little Sasha. Our marriage is a little like roulette. There is an in built bias in favour of the house. You can’t win so you’d better work out how to enjoy losing.
“…and don’t come back with…”
Something boils up in my stomach and chokes me with bitter steaming rage.
“Right! That’s it!” I tell her. I stumble upright and stagger  out, blundering through the door after hitting one of its sides on my first attempt.  Inside her voice continues, as it always has done, as it always will. I clatter down the stone stairwell and scurry through the courtyard. The streets are deserted as is the slate grey sky. I remember our last pagan marriage ceremony. Was it entirely wise to extend our commitment beyond this life time? We are now wedded in each and every one of our possible future incarnations. There is no escape. Even if I do eventually snap and wring her neck.



Fetish Astrology by Marissa Moon. Lush and Lucid…

Aries Honour fire, your element, by lighting your play space with red candles. Let her drip molten wax on your skin. This is best done some way into a session, perhaps after your fire has been stoked with a sensual spanking.

Taurus  I see a long journey ahead. One undertaken with your head between Madame’s legs while she gives you Sat Nav directions. Listen carefully. It’s the only way to travel.
Gemini Two face Gemini is a natural for crossdressing. Don’t obsess over looking divine, If it feels good, do it. Best let her dress you up though. She’ll be much better at it then you. And it’s more sensual being fussed over.

Cancer Your element water is the easiest to use in play. Who hasn’t made love in a bath? But are you neglecting to use ice cubes sensually? Brush erogenous zones with ice,(sparingly!), then warm the skin with kisses and caresses.

Leo Maybe you can’t match a lion’s roar but you can breathe fire over your partner’s most intimate regions. Especially appropriate during and after a spanking.

Virgo Gently push her pubic mound upwards and her clitoris will be available to tease with the tip of your tongue.  Two or three fingers inside should seal the deal.

Libra It may seem obvious to mention wearing stockings and high heels during sex but then you can’t beat the classics. Should it be the man or the woman who looks luscious in lingerie? Toss a coin to find out.

Scorpio It’s a good time of year for hospital play, as you may well be confined to bed with a temperature. Will Nurse  pamper you? Or will she ask Doctor to examine her?

Sagittarius  Sagittarius likes to learn. If you didn’t know that big, beautiful woman are often superior to neurotic, chainsmoking diet freaks now is the time to find out. Flesh feels better than skin and bone. Keeps you warm in winter too…

Capricorn Some find the word ‘slut’ hot and horny. Some wish to be worshipped. Don’t assume you know who wants what. A few discreet enquiries work wonders.
Aquarius Masturbation is boring? Get her to try thumb and two finger grip. Ms Fist and her five saucy sisters will have a new tune in their repertoire. Then listen while she teaches you her song.
Pisces We’re all familiar with tying someone up but what about making love with both partners’ hands tied? Behind the back? It’s a cross between sex and ducking for apples. Try it.

Sex Astrology channelled from Marissa Moon

Aries  You sometimes expect prospective partners to be as fiery and headstrong as yourself. While you may feel comfortable with the big scary beasts, don’t ignore the shy sheep. They sometimes provide the best ramming.

Taurus A sweet sensualist ever you can sometimes be sloppy. This month try not taking too much drink and/or empathy medication and sleeping with whoever smiles at you. Stay in control. Let sovereign reason reign. And you’ll also remember what happened the next day.

Gemini You should make an excellent switch but even if you feel confident in only one role (sub or dom, instigator or reactor) try the other anyway. If this is too frightening sexually try it in your everyday life. Just for once do the opposite. See how the dice roll. You’re dual-face Gemini. You can handle it.

Cancer An old friend may turn out to be a hot sexual prospect, if you are both
prepared to throw caution to the winds  This needn’t be rom-com candy floss. Fuck buddies work in the gay world, why not in the straight world? And crabs might fly? Try it!

Leos Some say there is no heaven or hell awaiting us, only what we can create while alive. Even down here you can’t have heaven without the fires of hell so confront your dark desires. Step beyond heaven to the bright flames of your darkest desire.  Some horny devil will thank you.

Virgo Geminis are your ideal partner. Which may be a useful conversational ice breaker. Should there be no Geminis close at hand you could also try proving that incompatible signs can also rub along. Given patience, ingenuity, and enough lube, anything is possible this month.

Libra Even-handed Librans can always see both sides of a question. But have you tried holding a vibrator against the clitoris while in the missionary position? This is the sort of multi-tasking even men can enjoy.

Sagittarius   Sagittarius the archer might be expected to like needle play but who wants to be associated with a deviancy called ‘piquerism’? Use your nails if you want to impart a sensual prickle. Scratch and soothe, scratch and soothe. You’ll hear them sigh.

Capricorns   You spend years hunting your prey, desperate to find the one. Having found them, you keep looking. Is this wise? You may have a long time to regret letting your horny goat overpower your need for companionship. Compliments and soft seduction will reanimate your partner. That or a taste of the crop.

Aquarian Uranus your ruler can make you unpredictable. You’re intense and changeable so you will never be happy with someone dull but reliable. A walk on the wild side can be frightening but it’s where you need to be. If there’s a choice between two people coming up choose the crazier one…

Pisces No one can adequately define love, we just know we need it. However,
dreamy Neptune-led Pisceans are often drowning in their own romanticism. This month, be practical, get tough and see what the tide lands on your shore. High heels and fishnets will land most male prey.

Oooh it’s LOVELY when Marissa drops by, featherdusting the cobwebs of my brain, vacuuming up all the crusted crystals that accumulate up there and giving me some wise women’s wisdom. More next month…

St Leonards’ Munch

Mistress Hellenes and Shibari wwwThe Croppery.Co.uk run a great munch at the Marina Fountain pub seaside St Leonards (Hastings folk welcome too…come on and lower the tone…)

All human life is here. Refined conversation, debauchery and decadence, the best Virgin Mary and sparkling water I have ever had and a thoroughly chilled atmosphere.

No status games, no Top’s disease just friendly folk.

My Man Max Romance is Also A Fetish by Miss Makeover

MY MAN MAX: ROMANCE IS ALSO A FETISH
Romance is also a fetish. I keep my love for My Man Max fresh by preserving a few holy relics. I have a shirt of his I never washed. There’s still a trace of his scent, his body blend of coriander deodorant and manly musk. Some girlies look good in their man’s shirt. He’s much bulkier than me, burlier than the proverbial brick out house, so I look like a kid dressing up in Daddy’s clothes. Looking at him I can hear his voice, smell his mix of very little Calvin Klein Eternity, sweat, sex musk and enough testosterone for the average Rugby team. (Actually, as Rubgy players seem to spend a lot of time getting drunk and showing each other their bottoms perhaps I should withdraw that libel.). He’s so masculine even a unisex after shave can’t make you question his sexuality.
It’s been a decade since there was an advertising campaign which pushed attractive Alpha male sexuality at the public. If the self-hating Soho admen ever wanted to follow up on their Gillette campaign (‘The best a man can get’) they could just hire Max. He’s conventionally handsome, also rugged enough to earn respect from other men. He goes to work in a crisp white shirt where he earns lots of money. The only thing’s missing from that earlier ad is a baby to dandle on his knee.
I’d have his children. Maybe not just yet. but then I don’t think I’m ready. And neither does Max. Which may be why he’s constantly driving around rich men’s playgrounds like Monaco and St Tropez. Maybe he wants an heiress. Or a model. Or, gulp. someone younger than me?
Say it ain’t so.

FISTING TIPS FROM SCARLET FEVER AND MISS PLUM
I’m two-timing my girlfriends. Scarlet Fever is in one instant message box and Miss Plum is in the other. Like a typical addict I have to have too much of everything. One brilliant online conversationalist just isn’t enough. It has to be a threesome.
I have been intimate with them both for the regulation two times each – once at their place and once at my home. Which is polite, I think. Anything more would be too needy or smacking of lesbianism, which, as Dame Edna points out, always leaves a nasty taste in the mouth. They both taste wonderful, all over, front and back, but it’s better to have friends than lovers. Leads to less bloodshed.
They both courteously listen to me wittering on about My Man Max for a few sentences each. I try to restrain my from telling Scarlet Fever to take her anti-anxiety medication for the hundredth time. And fail. Which always makes her upset. But what can you say to a terminally anxious person who has a six quid a month cure for anxiety sitting unused in her bathroom cabinet? Maybe she’s too anxious to take it. Whether sixty fags and a gallon of tea are an adequate alternative is debatable.
Then Miss Plum informs me that one of her many men has taken offence over some triviality.
“Is that the blog where you called him a self-pitying wanker?” I ask.
“Honestly! He won’t talk to me now. Some people…”
She’s joking but not really. Many people’s default setting is now transmit rather than receive. Miss Plum is set to World Service Broadcast. Here is the news. There is the public blog – scandalous enough to destroy reputations, careers and marriages. And there is the private blog. Intimate details – length, width, distinguishing marks, whether Madame gushed or not. (Female Ejaculation, this season’s must have) Funny noises her vibrator is making as it reaches the end of its useful life. (Probably groans of relief as they head for the knacker’s yard. If she rides her rabbits as hard as she rides her men.)
Some say you can judge the insanity of a woman by the number of her cats. Miss Plum is a two-catter. Not incurable but definitely on the sick list.
It’s the usual dichotomy. I’m the hardest Domme bitch on earth. But I’d give it up instantly for a real man. Meanwhile any real men who may be lurking about are on their third divorce and unable to fund her corset and shoes habit. Not to mention Breakfast at Tiffanys, with matching jewelery, real leather and real furs, caviar and everything else out of season. If it’s expensive she wants it. She’s one of the most efficient money-torching systems I have ever seen, enough to make the most fat-headed, fat-walletted city boy slink off home, credit card hid somewhere dark and inaccessible. Although knowing her wicked way with a strap-on there won’t be much point hiding valuables where the sun don’t shine.
Scarlet Fever, in the other message box is complaining that no one will treat her as a lady. I once saw her orally pleasured (‘licked out’ as she would have it, the mucky mare) on a dance floor. I’ve lost touch with the Tatler crowd, Society and all that archaic nonsense, but as far as I’m aware that’s still thought to be a faux pas. However, anyone would react the same given enough pure mdma and ghb. She’s hauntingly beautiful, but also haunted. Early on I tried exorcising her – love, massage, sympathy – but it’s a job for a professional. Call Ghostbusters. Or the Vatican.
They might know someone who can handle the job.
What the ensorcelled see are: big blue eyes, hollow cheeks, bones impatient to rip through their thin flesh coat. Enormous red lips.
Do we need a female Mick Jagger? Well, we’ve got one now.
Her blonde hair and prominent cheekbones also recall Kate Moss – before she’s been crusted with make up. Before she’s been retouched. Council house siren. In which there is no shame: Mummy and Daddy didn’t give her a flat in Chelsea so she’s marooned somewhere tubeless, where hoodies cluster like poisonous mushrooms.
Then there’s the child, beautiful, intelligent, but also a little vampire sucking her future away. No wonder she goes for it whenever she can get out.
Last night I saw her suck a man as porn stars do. The difference being the man – no porn star, far from it – yelped as his pierced equipment was strongly sucked throatwards then disgorged then all the way back again before he could find the breath to protest. Easy, partner. Steady as she goes.
I can’t do normal sex in public, or, making love if you want to be girly about it. But I can watch. It’s a little bit like watching people dance. Do they know what they look like? Would they do it like that if they had seen themselves? Even our sex play now comes from pornography rather than from…well, what should it come from? We have to learn somewhere.
Martin Amis, Little Miss Bossyboots, has a typically pretentious phrase for this. ‘The obscenification of everything.’ Which is clunky. I know he’s being deliberately ugly, apparently proof of being cleverer than everyone else, but the phrase itself is obscene. Anyway, the old dear is referring to sexual overkill in the media and the general public’s rude clothes, behaviour and language. Some of which might be justified. Much as I hate the entire Jade Goody clan I couldn’t see the benefit of Big Brother showing a mother footage of a young man orgasming onto her daughter. Or showing it to us. It’s almost enough to send you back to Jane Bleeding Austen.
“What about me?!” screams Miss Plum, who isn’t used to be being ignored.  Sorry. Kicking and screaming to be let out of the other message box is Miss Plum.
I’m sure she won’t mind me saying this (“Yes, I bloody will”) but she is a lady of fuller figure. She’s ample. Sufficient for a good slap-up meal. Having gorged on her lovely big titties for a luscious hour or so I feel I can say that. As my mother was a cold, small, thin, thin-lipped misery it’s nice to be able to suck on the breasts of a woman whose laugh can shatter glass. I wouldn’t ring her up if you have a hangover – or at least hold the receiver a little way from your ear if you do.
I tell Scarlet Fever about this fisting fiasco. She has to one-up me of course.
“Kinky Steve prolapsed last night.”
“Nice,” I message back.
In America people are routinely called assholes. Kinky Steve practically is an asshole, an ever-ready anus, an orifice, a hungry, dark void waiting to be filled. He spends about an hour with an enema bag before venturing out so this process is not as distasteful as you might think. He’s as clean as a whistle – one which had had an extremely thorough enema and a bloody good polish afterwards. Even so. It might be some time before Martha Stewart, queen of graceful living, does a programme on the correct rubber gloves to wear for fisting. (“Elbow length of course, if a thing is worth doing it’s worth doing well!”)
“Me and Miss Plum did him.”
“At the same time?”
“Yeah. We shook hands inside his bottom. It was an amazing feeling,”
“It took guts, I suppose.”
Sorry. James Bond might have said it, I suppose. One day, when they get round to showing prolapsing onscreen he probably will. Although the only way anything so gross could get on a cinema screen would be if it had have been caused  non-consensually.
Anal rape or any other form of torture is fine. Anal sex is usually not allowed or has to be part of some grueling ordeal – Brando in Last Tango, spilling his guts metaphorically as he reached inside for his real childhood traumas, just as Maria Schneider was invading his ass.
Apparently people are stretchered out of Chuck Pahlinuik’s readings of Guts, a story where a masturbating teenager meets a gruesome fate after some anal play with a suction pipe. Hope I didn’t spoil this important cultural experience for someone. Perhaps they shouldn’t let so many nerds into his readings. Perhaps this culture should grow out of horror as a genre and the diversity of sex could be celebrated. Next thing I will be telling you it would be nice if the President of the free world could speak English. Or if there was a cure for cancer. Or if men and women could get on. Then we’d all be pointlessly happy. What would God have to laugh at?

SUN OR MOON WORSHIP? SECRETS OF THE GREAT WRITERS
Fledgling writers are sometimes keen to learn the daily routines of professionals. Perhaps if they lived in the South of France and wrote three hundred and fifty words a day before getting pissed and shagging other people’s wives, occasionally confessing their sins before committing them again as soon as possible, they would be Graham Greene – The Shit in the Chateau as Philip Larkin called him.
Jeremy Reed, a pervy poet who dabbles in erotica, starts every day by raising his pen to the sun, perhaps an attempt to draw its fire.
His poems are very good although I wouldn’t know where to put myself if I saw him live, apparently he throws tinsel in the air between verses. He wears make up, digs gender bender pop and has been described as an ‘effete pseud’ by none other than Andrew Motion, the most boring poet laureate in history, the dullard who blackened Larkin’s reputation by depicting him as some sort of Hull-based Jack The Ripper. (he liked spanking magazines and had more than one girlfriend. Move over Caligula…)
Reed has also written some supercharged pulp for lunatic fringe publishers Creation – most of whose books reads like an orgy in an abattoir – but it is his dedication to his art that interests me. He writes poetry every single day in multi-coloured inks, the more lurid the better. (Greens, reds, purples. Maybe someone should make him some perfumed ink.)
I always preferred the moon to the sun but I’m not keen on creeping about the garden holding up pens at the dead of night. I thought of wiping my keyboard with a pair of Eva Vortex’s knickers which still smell of her perfume. (Bought off her website. If anyone’s wondering about a grown woman behaving like a fanboy she is well worth a look. If you like impossibly beautiful transsexual fetish Goddesses…) She was my desk wallpaper for a while.
I do have a model of Thoth, the Egyptian God of writing blue-tacked to my keyboard, come to think of it.  (Which may be as, er, eccentric as Mr Reed.) And a fat lot of fucking good he’s been to me, the beak-faced berk. (“Is this wise? Insulting the oldest God of writing?”) I take that back and from now on I shall raise my pen to the moon-topped Thoth every day. Before surfing around aimlessly for the next sixteen hours, squeezing out the occasional sentence, which is more likely to be pervery than poetry and giving up as often as possible.

Simone de Beauvoir’s bare bum

No one is more interested in important feminist and existentialist pioneer Simone de Beauvoir than I am – well, actually, most people know more about the respected writer and proto-polyamorist  Ms de Beauvoir than I do. (Incidentally, you’re a secular saint for putting up with that bellend Jean-Paul Sartre)

There’s a forthcoming movie about her relationship with Nelson Algren, who wrote The Man with the Golden Arm and his superb picture of her naked, from behind, in high heels has surfaced in Prospect magazine, (for worthy intellectuals, not really for degenerates like me but my subscription paid off in the end, in her end if you will, which is Skin Two worthy, an object of worship, and far too beautiful for a pretentious philosopher stinking of Gaulloise.

Needless to say they’ve hidden it on the website but check out this Samoan guy’s tats http://www.prospectmagazine.co.uk/2010/07/diary-13/

And, as many people have said of me, Quel cul (what an arse…)

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