Scripting It

This is a slightly dark piece about a man who seems to hate women.

Sound’s on. Let me just adjust the camera angle so that I’m in the centre of the shot. Nice equipment by the way; better than the stuff the Department had when I went to this University.

So, let’s get the formalities out of the way. I am participant number 63: 29 years old, 5′ 11″, 185lbs, single, heterosexual. I confirm that I am taking part in this sociology study of my own free will and that the material in this tape can be used anonymously for academic research.

Actually I should start by saying how disappointed I am to be here.

I was so intrigued by your advert in ‘The Guardian’: “Honest, first-person, accounts of sexual preferences outside the mainstream wanted for PhD research project.”

Given that you’re doing a PhD in sociology, the idea that a first-person account can be honest shows you have a sense of humour, while the phrase, “outside the mainstream” allows the weirdoes to self-select and will look wonderful on a book-jacket. I bet your Prof got all excited when you pitched the idea to him.

I was looking forward to getting all excited myself. I thought I might even be able to persuade you to be all excited with me. Is that why you gave your name in the advert? Did you intend me to think you were going to play Clarice to my Hannibal? Now I discover that I don’t even get to meet you; I’m in this oppressive little room, all alone, talking into this camera. I feel like I’ve been invited on a date and ended up donating sperm into a plastic cup.

I’m sure that the anonymous camera is meant to simulate the privacy of the confessional but to me it’s more redolent of a peepshow with one-way glass. I can almost smell that spunk-smoke-sweat stink that’s always present in those places, like a wine stain on a linen tablecloth or blood on the sheets.

So I’m going to help things along a little here. I’m going to rewrite the script. Scripts are very important to me.

The new script is that, although you told your supervisor that you were afraid that face-to-face contact would inhibit the participants, the real reason you set it up like this was so that you could get-off as you got turned on.

Yes, I like that image. You sitting naked in front of a big plasma-screen TV, franticly frigging as the sordid but honest revelations of us “outside the mainstream” folks slip deep into your mind with the urgent insistence of a strap-on up the arse, or a knife twisting in a shallow wound.

No, don’t switch off. I’m going to give you what you want. You’ll get your plastic cup-full. But I write the script. I always write the script.

Let me give you a taster. I’ve had sex with over 200 women. And I’m a virgin.

Is that far enough outside the mainstream for you?

Does that hook your interest?

And no, I’m not one of those pussy-licking wimps who get off on eating bitches out and saying “thank you” nicely afterwards. But you knew that just by looking at me, didn’t you?

For me it’s about getting it right. I’m a perfectionist; I have to get it right. If it’s not right I’d rather not get it at all. I want sex to go EXACTLY according to plan. My plan. My pleasure. Paid for with my money.

All but one of my women have been whores. What would the world do without those mercenary little cunts?

All your attention is on that first cunt, isn’t it? I’m sure you’re wondering about her. What did she do to me? What did I do to her? What relation was she to me? (Ah the sweet shiver of the forbidden that that question sends through your mind). But I’m putting her outside the scope of your research. I’m going to tell you about me and the whores.

In England, men who use whores are called punters. They go for a quick punt with the same enthusiasm that they go for a quick pint. They use a jargon all of their own: OWO oral without a condom, CIM come in mouth, BBBJ bare back blowjob, Greek for anal sex, relief massage for a handjob, full service for freestyle fucking, girl-friend-experience for a whore that will kiss you and pretend to care. They are the trainspotters of the erotic underworld, pathetic men who let themselves be led by the dick and milked by the women who invented all of this jargon and who use it to control the men they fuck.

I’m not a punter. I don’t punt. I make my whores work. They put up with it because I pay them well.  Whores aren’t easy to control. They’re used to handling men in every sense. But money gets them. I ask their price for the whole deal: OWO, followed by sex followed by Greek, followed by CIM. When I know what they think they’re worth, I double the price. Then they’re mine for an hour.

Sometimes I meet a whore who I know just wants to tell me to go fuck myself. I increase the price. Then I make her work harder. I smile when I give her the money. Then, a few day’s later, I come back and I make her do it again. I love to watch her eyes while she decides to do it a second time. I relish her recognition that there really isn’t anything she wouldn’t do if the money was right. Sometimes I go back several times. Eventually, when I see her getting used to it, getting comfortable, thinking that she knows me, that she can handle me, I make her stop in the middle and I leave. I offer no explanation and I never go back. I want her to think about it. I want her not to be able to stop thinking about what went wrong. About why she failed.

So, how are you doing, in front of your plasma-screen TV? Are your fingers up your cunt yet, or are you just drawing circles on your mound, waiting for the good bits to arrive?

You want to know what I make them do, don’t you? Have patience; you’ll find out.

People don’t tell the truth about sex, not even to themselves, even when they are alone in their beds, writhing and sweating, in the pursuit of solitary relief. They romanticise it, they coat it in fantasy, they lace it with guilt and goose it with taboo, but they never admit what it’s really about.

Sex is about being used. Fucking is a genetic imperative; your genes want to replicate and they use you to do it. They load you with hormones and sensitive nerve endings. They use your sense of smell and touch to blind you to what’s really going on. My genes want to use me to dump sperm in as many cunts as possible.

Well, I’m not playing.

Sex is like a magician’s trick, once you know what it’s really about you can never see it the same way again. Strip away all the self-serving mendacities that our genes whisper into our subconscious and you see sex for what it is: an undignified, animalistic compulsion.

This is not something that two people who like each other should be involved in. Think about the moment that you come. There is no intimacy there; at that point we are each alone, gripped by a short circuit across the nervous system that strips us of everything it means to be human. We are like someone being electrocuted who cannot release their grip on the object that is killing them.  Think about how you look when you come. Would you like your friends, your family, the people that you respect to see that look? Would you like them to think that that is who you are?

I was fortunate; I met my sex-magician when I was young and even as she worked her trick on me, I saw it for what it was. I saw it in her grin when I came; that look of triumph. Even as my cum slipped over her fist and ran over her wedding ring, I knew that I was never going to fuck anyone I cared about. That I was never going to let my genes make me into a twitching meat-puppet. That I was never going to let her touch me again.

Hmmm. That got quite impassioned for a moment there didn’t it? Sorry about that; it must have spoiled the rhythm of your finger-fuck dance. Let’s get back to me and the whores – academic minds demand to know more.

I suppose another man, having decided not to fuck, might have chosen abstinence, or failing that, would have resigned himself to adding wanking to the eating, drinking, shitting, pissing routines that our bodies impose.

I went a different route. Abstinence is not an option. I have a strong sex drive. Wanking seemed like just another form of defeat.

I hit upon the whore solution by accident. I was in my teens, still with more money than most but not yet understanding the power it could buy me. It was a miserable grey London day soaked in a persistent passionless rain that seemed to seep into ever pore. I was taking a shortcut through Soho to Piccadilly when an old whore, hair wet, mascara running, raincoat wrapped around what little clothing she was wearing, stepped out of a doorway and said “Would you like a nice time, Deary”.

The cunt must have been sixty. She was using a line that had died a generation before. She was on the street because she couldn’t even get a job in a walk-up. Her face had the wrinkled look of a peach that has just started to rot. I would have walked past except for the expression in her eyes. She was completely desperate. My cock hardened at once.

Knowing what I know now, I realise that she picked me because I was young and she thought I’d be easy to handle and that I wouldn’t be able to afford anything better. Things didn’t go the way she planned.

“You have a place?” I asked.

She stepped back into the rubbish-littered doorway, trying to smile.

“We can use here, if you’re quick”

“How much?”

She licked her lips. “£20 for a standup”.

Something predatory rose in me then; something ancient and male. I smiled, held out a fiver and said, “I want you on your knees with your hand on my cock.”

Her will collapsed as she took that fiver. She was so old that getting down on her knees took concentration, but she did it.

She went to pop me in her mouth with the casual ease of someone sipping coffee but I grabbed her thin wrist. When I had her attention I said, “Just a handjob. I don’t want your spit all over me.”

She tried to smile but I could see the first small prickle of fear, yet she started to tug at my erection all the same.

She wasn’t very good but I was enjoying the situation and I was in a hurry. I told her to go faster, to put her face closer, to slap my cock against her cheek. I held her in place when I came, to make sure I got everything onto her face. She didn’t even try to stand when I finished. I took another fiver out of my pocket and said, “Wipe your face with this Grandma, you’re a mess”

She started to curse me then. But she took the money. I walked away with a spring in my step.

Of course things are different now. I don’t do it in doorways any more and a tenner wouldn’t even buy me a smile.

Now I get my whores off the internet, mostly off http://www.Punternet.co.uk. Punters review the whores. Many of the whores have websites with pictures and prices and lists of services.

I like to pick the older ones, usually over 40, slightly heavy, proud of their big tits and their lack of inhibition. I let them know by email or phone that I have special needs. It never seems to bother them until we actually start.

My last one called herself Lisa. She had an allover tan that had accelerated the aging process, a barrel shaped body topped by fat tits that slipped toward her armpits when she lay down and an arse the size of a sofa. She specialised in anal and rimjobs. Which meant that she had a cunt you could park a car in, so fucking her arse was the only way you’d know you were in her, and she’s ready to push her tongue anywhere you tell her to.

She did business from her flat. She wanted to take me to her bedroom. I told her I wanted her in the toilet instead.

“I don’t take golden showers love, but I’ll give you one if you want.”

“I don’t want your piss,” I said.

She smiled at me. She already had my money. She was ready to be indulgent.

The bathroom was clean and bright. I told her to strip completely. She hesitated because I was still fully dressed and carrying my laptopbag, but she shrugged out of the clothes she’d been wearing.

I got a new dildo, still in its packet, out of my coat-pocket.

“Put one leg up on the toiletseat and fuck yourself with this. Don’t put on a show. Just fuck until I tell you to stop.”

The dildo is twice the size of my cock but her cunt swallowed it without effort.

At first they always try to put on a show; looking into my eyes, gaping their mouths, trying to show me how much they’re loving it. But I walk around them and don’t make eye-contact. I like to get very close, so that they know that I see every blemish, every bruise, every needle-track mark. Then they start to pay attention to the dildo. They start to work it so that they will come. They figure that’s what I want. They don’t understand that they should be learning how pathetic it is to get hot fucking a piece of plastic.

Lisa took to the dildo right off. Her website says that she loves toys. She was in familiar territory and starting to enjoy herself. I watched her face start to flush and her nipples rise. Just before she came I told her to stop.

Annoyance flashed across her face for a split second before her professional smile returned.

“Leave the dildo in, put the toilet lid down and sit.”

“Oooh, we are creative aren’t we,” she said in a silly voice she must have thought was sexy.

“I don’t need you to say anything. Just sit.”

She planted herself on the toilet and reached to undo my belt.

I held her hands by the wrists. She didn’t like that. She particularly didn’t like how strong I am. I think she was becoming concerned that I might be outside the mainstream.

“Don’t touch me until I tell you to,” I said.

When I took out my cock her smile was real. I have a good cock. Even a stretched cunt like hers would feel it.

“Hold out your hands”, I said, “And close your eyes.”

They hate having to close their eyes.

I squeezed cold KY gel into her palms, making her jump so hard the dildo must have shifted inside her.

When she saw what I’d done she felt foolish at being alarmed but she remembered not to speak.

“Use this on my cock. Slowly. Wank me onto your face. Slide my cock over your face. DO NOT put me in your mouth.”

After a few minutes she realised that I don’t come easily. She was waiting for me to give her a new command. She assumed that I wanted to fuck her. Then she looked in my eyes. She seemed to know then. I was using her. And I was enjoying the process of using her. If they had any self-respect, they’d throw me out when they realised that; she just worked my cock a little harder.

In porn movies the guys come almost as soon as the women suck them. That’s another lie. It takes much longer than that. I usually last twenty minutes or so; twenty minutes when the whore and I are both silent and the only sound, echoing off the bathroom tiles, is of her beating my cock with her hand and rubbing it across her face. It creates a tension you could touch.

When I was finally ready to come I told Lisa to put the tip of my cock on her forehead, give rapid, short strokes and keep going until I told her to stop. I came silently. Even when my sperm started to make snail trails across her forehead, I think Lisa’s main reaction was relief that it was almost over.

“Stop,” I said.

She let go of my cock, resisted the urge to wipe my cum from her face, and smiled up at me.

“Was that good, Love?” she asked.

I didn’t reply. I was done there. I put my cock back in my pants and turn to go.

“You can keep the dildo,” I said, as I left the room.

So what do you think of how I script it? Does it ignite your little researcher’s heart or turn your stomach? God, I wish I could see your face.

Now ask yourself this question: have I told you the truth? Which is the more troublesome idea, that I like sex this way or that I have the kind of sick mind that would make this up?

Good luck with your thesis. I’ve got to go.  I’ve got a whore to meet.


© Mike Kimera 2004 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk


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