Friday, 11 December 2009

Natural Considerations

Do snails ever get itchy? Has anyone ever seen a snail trying to scratch itself? If it needed to, could it? Do snails sneeze? Why do they sometimes (but only sometimes) shit out of one ear? Why is there no research into this? There must be a logical reason why their poo comes out of one of their ears.

Do hens ever fall over? I grew up in the country, and I can't remember a hen ever falling over. They've only got two legs. How come they never seem to trip or stumble?

Do lady dolphins ever give gentleman dolphins "blowhole sex"? They are supposed to be such intelligent beings, but have they ever explored this creatively kinky option? If they're so bloody brainy, why don't they?

Hm. I don't even want to go into the subject of toilet paper usage within the animal kingdom.

But I will.

Does anyone else find it unpleasant that animals never use toilet paper? Imagine if we all went around like that! And another thing: whatever happened to those strange crumbly white dog poos you used to get? In the 80s, they seemed to be everywhere. Where did it all go? Why has it disappeared? What does its demise portend?

And why don't dogs ever give themselves oral sex? What exactly is stopping them? Where's the difficulty? They can reach it with ease. I mean, if you were a dog, wouldn't you be at it constantly? Surely it would be more effective than clamping yourself to a pensioner's ankle and jiggling till his socks come down.

And finally: why do butterflies insist on landing on top of poos? Has anyone else ever noticed this happening? All that flitting about from flower to flower - is it just a pose so that we don't realise what they're really up to? What is that all about? Again, why is no research available here?

There are a lot of things in the natural world that puzzle me. All things considered, I'm glad I'm a human. We have the best food and the best toilets by far. Our bodies are perfectly designed for masturbatory purposes, and we're clever enough to realise it. Seen in this light, life ain't so bad.

Wednesday, 2 December 2009

Self-Portrait as a Work of Art

It's a peculiarly schizophrenic experience, being your own model, playing two totally different roles at once and switching back and forth between them in rapid succession. You play around with framing and focus, lights and exposures. Then you set off the self-timer, run into the picture and jump straight into your model role. You hold very, very still, like a statue, trying to picture how it will all look through the lens you can no longer see through, blindly trying to envision your pose and expression, trying not to sneeze or fall over or suddenly change your mind about where your knees and elbows should be.

This was an attempt to capture the feeling I have about it. It was probably the most uncomfortable shoot I have ever put myself through - including the one where I tied myself up in pink wool and hopped to the camera and back. And in the end, ironically, I didn't manage to pull it off with the self-timer (everything is so difficult with your arms snapped off). I had to engage the services of a tripod monkey.

Thursday, 26 November 2009

Hard Times

I've worked and worked and worked all year, but I haven't been able to take even a penny as salary for eight months so far - and counting. All I can do as the months go by is try to keep my head above water and cover my fixed costs. My savings are all used up. Almost exclusively on food. I have nothing left to show for all my years of hard work.

The lovingly kitschified Polaroid below is dedicated to the German tax authorites, who - just as I was beginning to find hope - presented me with a bill that came straight from the land of gnomes and goblins. In lieu of the payment I cannot possibly make, I shall be skipping over to their offices with this Polaroid and slipping it into their letterbox.

Now come and get me, you fucking munchkins.

Thursday, 22 October 2009

Lateral Displacement Complex

I fear I am displaced. Laterally.

I feel that I'm in the right time - I feel very strongly that I do belong to the present - only not to this particular present.

I believe that I belong to a different version of the present: one that can only be reached if you travel there directly from a certain time on a certain day in 1976.

I wonder: has there ever been a way to get back home?

Tuesday, 6 October 2009

Diary of a Lady Pornographer - Porn Holiday

I've said it before and I'll say it again, a pornographer's work is never done. Honestly, keeping you folks' peckers up is a more relentless task than stoking a steam engine. You get one pile of wankfuel shovelled into the furnace and just as you've wiped the lipgloss from your nipples and wrapped yourself in a kimono, down goes the blaze and you have to start all over again. Chuh. What a life.

I spent last weekend taking Polaroids of myself in front of the Kremlin, dressed as a topless news correspondent ('80s-style - hence the aforementioned lipgloss). It was a demanding shoot, as you would imagine, so I was really looking forward to taking a well-earned break in Amsterdam this weekend. All week, I kept imagining myself packing my case, casually catching sight of my nipple gloss and just tossing it over my shoulder with a musical peal of laughter, knowing I wouldn't be needing it. I also pictured myself skipping through the red light district dressed in some sort of voluminous jumper and maybe even trainers. I wanted to revel in the luxury of letting the other girls do all the gruelling panting and cavorting for a change. Holiday! A real proper holiday from all that pesky porn-making.

But I hadn't reckoned on Um Chief, the Lady Carmen. Hardly had the flights been booked than her little list plopped into my mailbox. "When we're in Amsterdam, Mischief darling, there are a few little appointments we need to squeeze in."

Picture my dismay, Readers. Instead having a fantastic time not brushing my hair until I look like a manner of vagrant muppet squirrel, it looks like muggins here will have to spend a whole day writhing in front of a camera crew, watching young men masturbating and licking other ladies' nipples. Damn, damn, damn and blast it! Don't you just hate it when these things happen? Take a tip from me, Readers: never go on holiday with a collegue - especially not another lady pornographer.

Friday, 2 October 2009

Of Rabbit Holes and Giant Shoes

You could say that this is my special place now: inside a Pola frame.

I've had many hideouts over the years - real physical places. Forest clearings and remote valleys, hen coops, tree tops, overgrown gardens, deserted houses and broken-down cars. There were places I had to crawl into through brambles and nettles, places I had to climb up to or break into when noone was looking. And I was forever hollowing out bunkers in the middle of haystacks; even now, that sweet dusty summer scent still sends an instant bolt of joy to my heart. I've just always loved hiding places. That feeling of being untraceable and unreachable, always having a secret rabbit hole to tumble into, always having the power to slip beyond the clutches of the everyday world.

But it seems as though there are no such places left for me to run to now - not in the physical world, anyway. And I think it all has something to do with growing up. I mean, I dread to think how a farmer would react today if he found me - a fully-grown lady - bunkered in his haystack. After a certain age, you can't just wander off and hide from life. It's not the done thing.

When you're a kid, you think people won't be able to lord it over you when you get older. You think you'll finally have all the freedoms you yearn for. You'll eat ice-cream for breakfast and live in a giant shoe with a robot and a baby giraffe. But when you grow up, you discover that the reverse is the case. You find out that there's actually even more stuff you're not supposed to do - and now you're not even supposed to feel like doing it anymore.

Grown-ups are so devious. They turn you into one of them and then they die.

But anyway, just because I'm one of them now, it doesn't follow that I no longer want or need my hideouts. In fact, I can think of a multitude of things I don't ever intend to grow out of. I want the best of both worlds. I want the car keys and the credit cards as well as the giant shoe, the robot and the baby giraffe. I don't actually care if that's odd.

And that's why I keep running into this little white square. It's my kingdom, my secret garden, my fortress against the world. It's the only place I have left to run to. And in my Polaroid Wonderland, even though I've grown tall enough to reach the key, I'm somehow still small enough to fit through the door; only I can get in; they can't get me, you can't get me, and the person I was meant to turn into can't ever get me there.

Saturday, 26 September 2009

Apology to Mötley Crüe

Dear Mötley Crüe,

I'd just like to apologise to you for that last post. It was childish and inappropriate and I promise not to do it ever again for ever and ever and ever amen. I am sorry, Mötley Crüe. It wasn't nice and it may have hurt your feelings. Sorry, Mötley Crüe.

Sorry again,

Arte Tracks

Haaaaa ha ha ha. Pfff hch hchchchhhh. I've been sniggering gleefully all morning. I bet Mötley Crüe thought THEY were going to win the "Stupidest Hair and Outfit" award on last night's TV programme ( and Not to mention the prestigious "Surrounded by the Scantiliest-Clad and Most Shamelessly Cavorting People" prize. I bet they're really cross with me today. Haaaa ha ha ha. My spoon-wielding kung-fu nudists knocked the spandex socks off their groupies. I can barely drink my coffee, I'm laughing so much.

Goldilocks and the Three Nudists
Dedicated to Mötley Crüe

Friday, 25 September 2009

The Making of Muschi Guerillas

Here's a short Super8 film documenting the making of the cover for TicKL #3 on the streets of Vienna. (Cover shot taken by my lecherous Belgian collegue Carmendevos.)

Thursday, 24 September 2009

My First Fantasy

I didn't fully make the connection between masturbation and sex until I was about 15. By about 13 or 14, I began to have my suspicions about it, but I wasn't completely sure until I was 15 and decided to try thinking about boys while I was masturbating to see if it worked - and of course there was no turning back after that. The fact is, my masturbating didn't have a lot to do with explicitly sexual images until then. I had to consciously make them sexual - and at first, this felt like taking an indirect detour. Before I deliberately wrought this change in my fantasies, sex wasn't the point. People weren't the point. Touch wasn't the point and nor was love, attraction or any other form of interpersonal emotion. It was about me and the world, about life and death, the supremacy of pleasure over all those considerations, and about letting go.

I wish I could remember my first time, but it's just too far back. It began before my first memories. I remember always needing to do it when my mum had dressed me in certain clothes. Dresses and pyjamas were ok, but any skirt with a firm, tight waistband or trousers that encased my little thighs would give me the same feeling I now associate with wearing tight jeans - arousal. When it happened, I would go off and press myself against one of my favourite articles of furniture. Yes reader, yes. My first major sexual relationships were with furniture. For instance, if the coast was clear, I'd sometimes crawl under the dining room table and wrap myself around one of the legs and hump it. In my bedroom, I remember forming a very strong and lasting attachment to a corner of a white chest of drawers with a big picture of Pluto on the side. But I think it was the Fourth Banister From The Left on the landing that was probably my all-time favourite household fuckbuddy. It was made of wood, coated in glossy white paint that soon became warm to the touch, and it was square in shape. By God, yes. Very, very square. I know, I know, it sounds devastatingly sexy. And indeed, it was a very sultry object to me and I was often powerless to resist its glorious white, painty, woody allures. I remember that I used to stick my legs around the slender and seductive shaft of the Fourth Banister From The Left and cross them so that they were dangling down into the abyss. I never remember getting caught. I remember always knowing it had to be secret. I wonder about that sometimes. I think perhaps I may even have done it in my pram, before I can remember anything, and my mother might have stopped me and scolded me. Because how else would I have known - at the age of 4 - that I had to hide it? But this is just speculation.

Something I do remember for sure is that I tried to show my little brother how to do it - I would have been about 6 or 7 at the time and he about 2 or 3. I invited him to try the enticing charms of the Eighth Banister From The Left - an attractive banister which ought to have set his pulse racing with excitement. I showed him how to make sweet love to the Eighth Banister From the Left and promised him a big surprise at the end of it. He sat there for a little while, his podgy little legs swinging loosely up and down as he waited for his surprise; and then he just seemed to lose interest. I was highly affronted, as I recall. I felt as though I had just offered to share the most monumental of all life's secrets with him, and he just crawled off in the middle of it in order to satisfy a more pressing urge to drag his Fisherprice tractor backwards and forwards over the carpet. I was deeply disappointed in him. I don't think I managed to forgive him for many years.

I still remember some of my fantasies from this time. Pretty much all of them involved either falling or getting stuck in a tight place. About a year ago, I decided to try out one of my toddler fantasies to see if it still worked and was amazed to find that it did. A classical one had me dangling off the side of a cliff, clinging on for my life. A faceless individual would come by and reach down to help me. To be rescued, I would have to grab their arm so they could pull me up. But then the tingling feeling would begin - it would be something between fear, a delicious, stomach-churning giddiness, a hot sizzling vibration and deep, unfathomable excitement. It was very like the feeling I got when I was high up on a swing and I looked down between my legs just as the ground was rushing up towards me. In the fantasy, this feeling would be so incredibly wonderful that I would stop caring about whether I fell down the cliff, because I wanted it to go on and on. So I'd hesitate, still clinging tightly to my rocky ledge. I'd dangle there in a dilemma, trying to force myself to relinquish the sensation of pleasure in order to grab my rescuer's hand and save my own life. I'd reason with myself. I'd try to convince myself how much I wanted to live, thinking of all the people I'd miss and who would miss me if I died, and I would know that, viewing the situation sensibly, I HAD to grab that hand. The person above me might then say "Take my hand - quick". At this point, I would have to make my final choice between being rescued - surviving, but losing that wonderful feeling - or risking falling down the cliff because I just couldn't resist it; because it was just too tempting and for that all-important split-second, an intense but fleeting pleasure seemed more important to me than my life and everyone and everything in it. The orgasm came at the exact moment when I was making the decision and thinking something along the lines of, "Yes, it's madness, but what do I care?", and as I was climaxing, I would unbend my imaginary fingers and let go of the side of the cliff and plummet down through the air as my astonished and disbelieving would-be rescuer stooped over the edge watching me recede, my clothes flapping around me and my hair swirling around my face. I was always very peaceful and happy at this moment, knowing that nobody alive would ever understand my decision, that I would never see anyone I knew ever again, but that I had made the right choice - the only possible choice.

As a very small child, I don't think my fantasy can have been quite so complex as this. What I have just described was probably the more sophisticated version that slowly developed from some simpler original fantasy while I was growing up. Even today, I find the image a startlingly apt description of the state of mind I - and perhaps all women - have to reach in order to orgasm. Just to be quite clear here: you have to reach this place first, and then you can climax. It's never the other way around: that climaxing induces this state of mind. Not for me, anyway. I'm sure this is why so many women have problems reaching orgams. Men can orgasm by mistake. They have to concentrate on not coming too soon. Women have to concentrate every fibre of their mind and body in order to get there at all. You have to be able focus on the supremacy of your pleasure over all other things and at the same time, to be able let go of yourself so completely that for a few seconds, you couldn't care if you lived or died; and you have to time and control those two complex states of mind and bring them into a perfect alignment.

Tuesday, 8 September 2009

The Great Knicker Crisis of Nineteen-Ninety-Something

Hard to believe, I know, but I wasn't always this glamorous. I wasn't born with a golden bra on my tits - or indeed with such pretty toilet ducks on my head. And sometimes - just to stop myself from getting too hoity-toity - I like to think back to the days before I started taking all those rude Polaroids of myself and proclaiming myself an idol - days when bra straps were indelibly tinged with jus-de-denim and knicker gussets were rather dramatically moonscaped.

For example, I vividly remember a time when I returned to university after the hols - yes, yes, this is years ago now - and fell straight back into my usual knicker crisis. After working my way through my normal knickers, my shabbier older pairs, my bikini bottoms, my old school PE kit, my swimsuit and some ancient garments resembling a collection of loosely hanging colourless shreds, I found myself staring into an empty drawer with just 5 minutes to go before the bus left. What to do, what to do... ? Go commando, steal some from a flatmate, buy new ones (no chance on my budget)...? Whatever should I do?

It was then that I remembered the pack of cheap frilly knickers my gran had given me for Christmas. There were three pairs in the pack - one white, one pink, one pale blue - and they looked like she'd picked them up at the market for about 50p. The sides were fairly chunky and made from a kind of tacky looking lacey fabric. The middle section looked sort of perforated, as if the designers had intended to make an ironic fashion reference to teabags ("You only get an "Oo" with Typhoo" or possibly "It's the special Tetley perforations that let the flavour flood out"). They were hideous, there was no doubt about it, but they were knickers and they were clean. I ripped open the packet and put on the pink pair. So far so good. And off I went to the campus.

Later I paid a visit to the loo. As I pulled my knickers down, the "lace" spontaneously disintegrated along one side. The side seam just fell apart as if it had never been sewn together at all; as if they'd just glued it together with a bit of flour and spit. Never mind, I thought, it was nearly time to go home, where I could slip into a nightdress and pretend the knicker crisis wasn't really happening. I pulled up my jeans and, walking very carefully, made my way to my last lecture.

When it was over, I walked down to the busstop. As I walked, I began to notice a bulge in my trouser leg. Unfortunately, I didn't quite register what it was. I just thought, "Golly, how mysterious, a wandering bulge," and carried on walking. Then the bulge suddenly shifted and when I looked down I noticed a pink frilly object working its way out of the bottom of my jeans. The situation now became clear: my knickers had fallen down and were currently hanging around my foot, flapping as I walked.

I was surrounded by other students, including Lindsay - the leggy disco babe from my course - and her American friend. Thinking quickly, I stepped onto the fabric with my other foot and, without changing my pace, I deftly pulled my shoe out through the knicker hole in a movement so smooth as to surely be indiscernible to the people around me. Or so I thought. I carried on walking, leaving my knickers lying on the ground behind me. I recall smiling and tripping lightly down the pavement, tossing my hair like a girl in a shampoo advert. I thought I'd got away with it and I was feeling pretty smug. But just as I got into the bus and was preparing to buy my ticket, a guy came running up to me. He tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around. He was panting.

"Sorry," he said, "You dropped your handkerchief. Here."

He opened his outstretched hand to reveal a semi-disintegrated pair of tacky frilly pink knickers. The whole bus was staring as I mumbled my thanks and reached out to take them. As I did so, a sudden flicker of sheer horror passed over his face as he realised what exactly the slightly moist item was that he was now holding out in his hand in full view of a bus packed with other students. Our eyes met and we both blushed a deep, painful, scorching red from the tips of our toes to the roots of our hair. I could hear Lindsay tittering in the back seat.

Both the guy and I spent the rest of our time at university studiously ignoring each other. Sometimes I would catch sight of him slipping out of view behind a friend, his face burning like a red hot poker.

Ah, fun times.

Course nothing as embarrassing as that could ever happen to me nowadays. Because when I run out of knickers nowadays, I have other, more sophisticated and foolproof solutions at my disposal. Such as the scheme I invented only this morning. (Amazing really, how few people seem to have realised that a pair of attractive and fully functional makeshift knickers can be knocked up astoundingly easily by taping a fresh sanitary towel to one's body with a selection of elastoplasts.)

Sunday, 26 July 2009


I came up with the best solution to the problem of temptation some years ago. Rather than waste any more energy resisting it while attempting to enjoy the dreary ersatz-satisfaction of having proved the strength of my willpower, I decided to simply announce to all potential witnesses and affected parties my express intention of indulging myself in whatever form of debauchery took my fancy. And then, of course, I consistently followed through on those promises, frequently even exceeding myself.

Not only is this solution ingenious in its simplicity, it has also produced an unforeseen side-effect: I am now renowned for my enviable willpower.

Thursday, 9 July 2009

When the Cuckoo Clock Strikes Two

A shudder ran through me as I read the message. I sat in my office yesterday afternoon at 4.43 pm, shaking. My phone still rested in my half-open hand but I had temporarily lost the power to focus on it. I had lost the power to do anything other than sit there and will myself to exhibit what I hoped was an adequate semblance of mild interest in the words I had just read - for my colleague had chosen that precise moment to step through the door. I forced myself to remain motionless and expressionless, but I felt as though a handful of goosepimple seeds had been cast over my flesh and instantaneously begun to germinate there. My body was tingling.

"My cock is hot and aching to pierce you. I need to feel your perfect breasts in my mouth again. I'm burning for you. Where are you? I need to fuck you over and over, now and all afternoon."

It was from my Uncle Jeffrey.

Now before you all immediately start compiling an image of some jovial, chuckling character with a moustache like Freud's pan scrubber and a hand puppet that can conjure coins from your ear, let me at least put you right...

Uncle Jeffrey doesn't have a moustache.

Yes, yes, ok, so there is still that astounding thing he can do with the hand puppet and the coins. But let us disregard that minor detail. Let us focus instead on the momentous fact that he has no moustache - and no inclination to grow one at any time in the foreseeable future, either. I think that's an important point - a very salient consideration - when judging the merits of an uncle/niece hanky-panky situation.

Another point I would kindly ask you to bear in mind is the fact that I am not some pigtailed virgin in white anklesocks, but a fully developed woman of some experience. Yes, I wear pigtails sometimes, yes. But I was not wearing any on the particular Sunday I am about to tell you about, and I do not possess such things as anklesocks. Or indeed hymens.

So you see, dear Reader, it is not all quite as dreadful as it may have sounded at first.

Oh dear. I'll begin again. This is a hard one to write. I am in danger of losing myself in self-justifications. But let us be practical now. Let me give you some background: I met my Uncle Jeffrey for the first time in my life last weekend. I'd never set eyes on him - nor had any sort of direct contact with him - before then, because he grew up in New Zealand and because my mother's large and sprawling family are an amiable but distant lot who only ever clap eyes on each other at funerals - if at all. Indeed, funerals in my mother's family tend to be quite sociable affairs, at which very close blood relatives are first informed of each other's existence. (What? My father had a sister? I have an Aunt Binkie? And two extra grandparents and a cousin called Dwane? Good heavens, how do you do!) So Uncle Jeffrey was a stranger to me. I knew of him by name only. Then there is the fact that he's four years younger than I am. This makes it impossible to take his avuncularity the least bit seriously. He feels more like a brother. Oh dear, that's not good either, is it? Let me change that: he feels more like... a cousin. Yes. That's it exactly: he feels like the nearest possible blood relative the police will let you fuck.

Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear. I fucked Uncle Jeffrey. I had sex with a man who emerged from the same womb as my own mother. If we had a child, it would be its father's great niece or nephew and its mother's cousin and have clusters of extra eyeballs up its armpits; hair would grow in the wrong direction along its fingers and it would have toenails on the roof of its mouth; it would intermittently bark and shout the word "nifkins" and two perpetual rivulets of snot would join in a y-shape beneath its chin. Oh bad Zora. Bad, bad Zora. Where is my rolled-up newspaper? It is time for me to beat myself about the nose and use that horrid growly voice.

And it all started so innocently, too. He is travelling around the world and he happened to be passing through my city, so he got hold of my e-mail address and suggested that we both went off on a picnic, which he would provide. It sounded delightful. I even baked a special cake to take along as pudding the day before - as a good niece might well do for a long-lost uncle on a Saturday afternoon. And I planned a route for us to take - into Austria and up into the Alps. But on the Sunday, it rained and rained; we were driving around in my Mini for miles, peering through the little round portholes we had wiped in the steamy windows, listening to the disasterous-caravan-holiday sound of the rain pattering against my softtop, watching my flimsy windscreen wipers going slapity-slap like some silly clockwork device - making no impact whatsoever on the torrents of water that were streaming down the glass.

So Uncle Jeffrey very sensibly suggested that we got ourselves some strange old-fashioned Austrian hotel room and ate our picnic in there. Some place we could feel dry in; some place that looked exactly like the inside of a cuckoo clock, he said. Well, you all know about my hotel room fetish. Not to mention my cuckoo clock fetish. And what with my rampant sex fetish, too, the events that ultimately ensued are hardly surprising.

It was just that we were getting along so well. I felt a deep affinity towards him right from the start. It felt like meeting my male counterpart - or discovering an element of myself that had been separated from me at birth and I had been missing all my life without realising it. I was astounded that such an incredible person existed in the world and that nobody had ever told me about it. He even looked a bit like me. The family resemblance was striking: fair-skinned, compact, wiry and attractively proportioned, a warm, copper glow upon his thick and unruly crop of wavy shoulder-length hair, fine features, blue eyes that seemed to hold intriguing never-ending layers of innocence upon shrewdness upon innocence; layers that tunnelled like a self-reflecting mirror, far beyond his physical outline, reaching all the way back to infinity; eyes that somehow seemed shaped into the lines of a question that had never been asked. And though looking at him felt like gazing at myself in a self-reflecting mirror, at the same time, I was finding him inexhaustibly surprising. Our sense of the ridiculous seemed to perfectly overlap. As we talked, things kept falling into place. We had to keep bursting out laughing and clapping our hands together as one or other of us suddenly came out with something we whole-heartedly agreed with but had never put in quite that way before. I was captivated. My gaze was continually widening in awe and amusement at his delightfully warped astuteness. I watched his face while he spoke, and I thought that his eyes looked like two almond-shaped moons hidden behind storm clouds, and then I saw him looking very intently at me, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and fascination, and I wondered if he was thinking the same about me.

Before long, our gestures were ending in hot, tingling touches. And meanwhile our picnic lay forgotten at the other end of the wooden bed. We had become far too excited to eat and we wanted this exhilaration to go on and on. We wanted to leap off a precipice and plummet into it, tumbling further and further down until we lost ourselves entirely in this topsy-turvy cuckoo clock world. And I suppose that's exactly what we did.

There, in a tiny panelled room that could easily have housed Hansel and Gretel, words stopped abruptly when he slid over to me and pressed his thigh against mine. Sitting next to him on that quaint, hand-painted bed, listening to the unrelenting electric fizzle of rain against the window, I became aware of the throb and the incredible heat of him. Hot waves of energy seemed to be radiating towards me through his trousers. I tried to pick up my sentence and carry on talking but I was feeling suddenly hot and very flustered and the glowing breadcrumb trail of words I had been following began to dim and peter out. His hand shifted the hem of my dress and stole stealthily up my bare leg. As the last bright crumb of meaning waned into everlasting obscurity, he tore down the shoulder of my little dress and bent over to lick one of my nipples.

"Shit! You're my uncle!" I said with a gasp.

"Shut up," he said, "I'm your uncle and I command you to shut up."

"Don't you dare cheek your elders and betters!" I said, "I'm the eldest. I have the authority here."

He stood up before me and opened his trousers to show me how big he was. He was hard, fully erect and straining. He was hard for me - hard just from sitting beside me and watching me move and hearing me speak. Perfectly silhouetted against a twee wardrobe, he held his cock in his hand and tossed it lightly up and down in a confident gesture of understated power, as if he was secretly showing me a loaded pistol. Then he said, "Nobody must know. What happens inside the cuckoo clock must stay our secret. Do you promise to keep it a secret? Do you promise never to tell mummy and daddy, little Zora?"

I stared at the throbbing cock that was slanting towards me across his palm. I wanted to fall to my knees and take it in my mouth. I was yearning to suck it - to show him what else his little niece could do. I wanted to make the little birdie come out. So I slid off the bed and kneeled in front of him, resting my hands against his thighs, but he grasped my head and held me away at arm's length.

"Do you promise Uncle Jeffrey?" he asked.

"Certainly not," I replied, with a pert smile, "Let me suck your cock this instant, young fellow-me-lad, or I shan't let you have any pudding."

Two seconds later, as my eager mouth enclosed him, I heard him say, "Of course, a blowjob isn't really incestuous, is it?"

"It's no worse than drinking your parent's bath water," I reassured him, corroborating my statement with a voracious, flat-tongued lick. He looked down at me and shuddered.

An hour or so later, as I was straddling him and bouncing up and down on his ecstatic body, he reached up for my breasts and pulled them to his face, saying, "Of course, it's not really incest unless you don't use a condom, is it?"

"That's quite correct Uncle Jeffrey," I panted, circling my hips and grinding him as his hot mouth closed around its captive target, "Strictly speaking, for this to be incest, the skin of your cock would have to physically touch the inside walls of my pussy as I slide up and down on it. As it is, this thing we're doing here falls into the same category as, say, wanking into one of your mother's rubber gloves."

"While it's up her fanny."

"Well, obviously - if we're going to be pendantic about it - then yes, ideally, the hypothetical glove should be up one's mother's fanny at the time."

Reader, my phone just rang again. Just now as I was writing that. It must have been telepathy.

"The thought of my naked heat deep inside you, condomless, shatters my remaining sanity."

Has quite a literary streak, does Uncle J - wouldn't you say? I wonder if he writes.

(Guard! Guard! Take this phone away now! Bring me my rolled-up newspaper, quick! Guard...! Please... Guard... Oh bugger.)

Saturday, 7 March 2009

From the Ashes

The look did it all. Did it in less than half a second. He was there. I had him caught like a squirming fly in my sticky little eye. As I held his gaze, it was as if an unseen hand was reaching over to steal from his body a single glowing spark. Damn. He was beautiful. Damn. He liked me too. Damn, I was free. I had made my decision. I had done it. I was out.

I didn't even know this man. I knew he was incredibly talented, I knew his music moved and fascinated me, but I didn't know what he was like. But I picked him. Or rather, something inside me picked him and I endorsed its decision, knowing I had no political power to question it anyway.

I had a feeling. I was bored with losing people; bored with the relentless drabness of my mourning garb; bored with peering disconsolately into the oblong pit. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. All the romance had been drained from the feeling now. There was no more lashing hillside rain in my heart. No more trampled roses or thunder clouds. No more burnt-down candles, dying forests or cold breakfast plates; no more songs heard behind black glass on long winding night roads. All that was left was the silence of concrete and the paralysing iron-clad chill of a lesson being learned. I felt that I was encased within a thin metal eggshell; brittle, inflexible, perfectly formed and somehow protective.

"Stay in here," said a voice, "Learn your lesson," it promised, "And you can find peace. You will never feel that pain again."

"Move now" said another, "And you can break free. You can escape. You can live. You can taste those pleasures all over again."

There was only one answer. I had to get out. And the thing that would entice me out must be the thing that had put me there in the first place. And the thing that had put me there in the first place was reckless stupidity. Or passion, as I liked to call it. And so I picked him. A new lover. Let's see if I can get him, I thought. And I felt a stir in the molten heat at my core. I felt the iron around me beginning, not to crack, but to soften.

The man I chose was another musician. I'd only ever seen him on stage. I would go to his gig and he would see me and be stunned by my fascinations. I would get him.

I don't normally go for good looks and the musician was not pretty in that sense. His head was clean-shaven and he looked like a devil; stood like a Frenchman - that strangely exaggerated posture that makes them look like circus acts; like men in white tights, balancing on a running elephant, getting ready to grab a trapeeze; not quite masculine yet very far from feminine and at moments teetering on the brink of an exotic repulsiveness, like the scented, offal-like albino slither of a lychee in your mouth when you were already feeling sick. And yet, inexplicably, still devastating. How can I explain my response to him? I liked him in the same slightly hair-raising, slightly distasteful, slightly shameful way that I liked licking batteries or copper coins. I liked him in a stupid way; a don't-do-that-or-you'll-be-sick way. He was the perfect enticement from my iron egg. I would kindle a fire in him and throw myself onto it and I would rise from the ashes in miraculous innocence and hope; ready to start a new life and to wilfully waste it making the same mistakes.

The moment of the kindling went like this: he had to walk right past my seat to get to the dressing room. I was sitting at my table and at the precise moment when I thought he would be likely to catch sight of an eye movement of mine out of the corner of his own eye, I shifted my gaze up to his face and gave him a bold, challenging look. It worked. My timing was perfect. One minute he was trotting off the stage and walking through a faceless mass, just enjoying his applause and minding his own business, the next minute he was suddenly brought up short and looking back at me, full of that alertness that comes with a sudden blaze of mutual attraction. Meanwhile, his feet kept on moving him forwards and all at once, he was gone with the momentarily alarmed, flickering back-glance of a passenger spying you from another train.

I knew then that he would be back. And surprisingly, it almost didn't matter now, because the small spark I stole while his devil's eyes were floundering in mine had done it all.

Thursday, 12 February 2009

The Inexcusables

Does anyone else have an "Inexcusables List"? This is mine:

- Dipping mum's toothbrush in the toilet (revenge for severe beating with tennis racket).

- Gleefully depositing incredible monster bogie in Joey's Aunt Cecilia's cut glass vase (revenge for trivial offence).

- Spitting into chalice at holy communion (pact with Satan).

- Feeding former boss a) various kinds of rotting food b) carefully prepared slices of cake with very long hairs wrapped around them c) coke spiked with entire pack of Sweetex d) items discovered on kitchen floor (unorthodox but highly successful technique for restoration of sanity).

- Cheerfully making date with man in park, who said he wanted to cook a three-course meal for me at his flat, writing down address, listening attentively to directions to flat, waving goodbye and calling "See you later" while fully aware that I was never going to turn up (weariness).

- Telling all of Jan's friends that Jan's sweet but tame girlfriend had only moved from Hungary to Sweden because "Hungary wasn't pervy enough for her" thereby creating interminable running joke that was eventually publicly related to Jan and his girlfriend in my presence at a party attended by his friends, parents and potential customers (flippancy).

- On being visited by ex-boyfriend with drippy new girlfriend in tow, secretly retrieving cat's fork from open tin of cat food in fridge, giving it cursory rinse under cold tap, presenting it to her as an ordinary piece of cutlery and then gleefully watching her eat with it and attempting to disguise continual fits of uncontrollable giggling as a naturally bubbly and friendly nature (punishment for always leaving a pointless token leftover amount on every plate, no matter how measly you make her portions).

Wednesday, 21 January 2009

My First Embarrassing Orgasm

As a girl, it's exceedingly difficult to have an embarrassing orgasm - and heaven knows I've tried. Now obviously, I've frequently found myself throbbing at my desk at the precise moment that a customer calls; or when performing a "Jedi wank" on a plane, I have found myself falling into a euphoric swoon, just as the stewardess is attempting to ascertain whether I want Worchestershire Sauce in that. But somehow, that never feels inappropriate enough to count. In many ways, I merely feel immensely proud of my ability to maintain such an impeccable professional front. (Although, in moments of self-doubt, it sometimes crosses my mind that I could be quite mistaken about this. Perhaps it is flagrantly obvious that I am mid-climax. I mean, just say that someone did notice - what exactly could they possibly say? "Excuse me - sorry for asking this - but did you just orgasm at the precise moment I said "Worchestershire Sauce?")

But let us put such thoughts aside and move on to my happy news. Readers, it gives me great pleasure to announce that yesterday afternoon, I finally made my first serious foray into the world of cringeworthy orgasms. At last I know what it is to plunge from ecstasy to a clammy feeling of sheepishness. Hurrah!

And so, here it is for your delight: Zora's First Embarrasing Orgasm. I was lying on the sofa under a blanket. A video was on. I realised that I needed sexual relief - and fast. Four or five minutes later, I was pulsating inside. As the convulsions commenced, my eye focussed on the screen before me and, to my misfortune, I registered what it was that I was looking at. It was Petunia Clarke. She was standing next to an upright piano. Her hand was outstretched and between her thumb and forefinger dangled a small silver fish. To my chagrin, my orgasm ignored all these warning signs and continued to hurtle me upwards and onwards towards the giddiest heights of bliss. As my pleasure peaked, so too did the cringe factor, for it was just then that I heard Petunia say, "Rolf! What's this fish doing in your piano?" And then, moments later, as my body was shuddering and the delicious twitches were slowly starting to subside, Rolf the Dog said, "Oh, that's the piano tuna", clapped his mouth wide open and swung his head around to the audience for a long "Aaaaaaaah-aaaaaaah" Muppet laugh.

I wonder, can any of my readers beat that?