Slipping Over The Line – my last post

This isn’t the post I’d planned to write when I proposed “Taboo Or Not Taboo” as this week’s topic.

 

I’d intended to attempt a light-hearted piece, accompanied by some provocative graphics, that discussed whether erotica needed to be inherently transgressive or whether we betray ourselves and our readers when we seek to make the violation of the sacrosanct arousing.

 

OK, when I say it like that it doesn’t sound light-hearted but I’d like to think that I’d have made it work.

 

Instead I find that I have quite a different message. Perhaps even the message that my subconscious was trying to send to me when I selected the topic. It is time for me to stop being Mike Kimera.

 

Taboo is derived from a Polynesian word meaning both sacred and forbidden. Taboos are are meant to be markers, lines we should not cross, that honour the sacred and protect us from following instincts that will diminish our humanity.

 

I am not by nature a rule follower. I am one of those who feels no need to respect the marks others have made when they label this or that behaviours as taboo. Sometimes I descend into a petty, “I’ll do it just to show they can’t stop me” kind of attitude.

 

Yet there are some things that you should not do, especially if no one has the power to stop you.

 

Today I realized that I have crossed a line that I should not have crossed and in doing so I have lost something precious to me.

 

I stopped writing a while back because there was too much emotional turmoil in my life and because I wanted to put my wife back in the centre of my world. I stopped for two years. Then I started again.

 

I’ve learnt that I need to write. I told myself that by writing again I was doing no harm, that in fact I might be doing myself some good by getting my emotions on the page.

 

I see now that it isn’t writing that’s the problem; it’s being Mike Kimera.

 

Mike Kimera is a name I hide behind. Mike Kimera pushes my imagination towards things that I will not admit to in public and which I do not incorporate in my own life. Mike Kimera is someone my wife doesn’t love.

 

The more time I spend as Mike Kimera, the less time I spend living my real life.

 

On the whole, I like Mike Kimera. That’s part of the problem. I’ve grown used to having him around, I’m proud of at least some of the stories that he’s written. I’m flattered and pleased that people read his stories and write to him.

 

It is the nature of taboo things to be attractive; if they held no attraction they wouldn’t need to be protected or forbidden.

 

I see now that, to be the person I want to be in my real life, to live with authenticity, I must stop mentally sneaking away to be someone else. I should spend that energy in my marriage.

 

Mike Kimera is a man who sounds like he always knows the answers. I am a man struggling to understand how I came to be where I am: unhappy with myself and unable fully to express the love that I feel for my wife.

 

I have decided that I will carry on writing, but not as Mike Kimera and not writing erotica. I will write stories I can share with my wife and show to my friends. I will still try to write the truth. I will still listen to hear what the truth tells me about myself.

 

I hope that I will find my way back to a place where expressing my love is as natural and as necessary as breathing.

 

My guest on the blog this week is Nikki Magennis, with a great post on book burning. I recommend it to you and I apologise to everyone for my sudden change in direction

 

This is my last post on “Oh Get A Grip”. I have been honoured to take part in this blog and I wish it continuing success.

 

My thanks to all of you who have read my stuff.

 

Good bye and thank you for your kindness.

Hope and Gloria – a work in progress

A while back I wrote “Photographic Memories” a story about a damaged photographer trying to find his way back to happiness. He said: The camera is a machine for trapping time. Flypaper for moments of truth.

That thought was in my head when I saw the black and white photograph below. It got me thinking about when the moment was and what truth it captured. My imagination led me to the first part of a story. I’ve shared it here as an illustration of where my ideas come from.

The text is of course fiction and does not based on any factual information about the women in the photograph.

Like all fiction, tt is only as true as the extent of your belief.

Enjoy.

 

Photograph by Hans Steiner

Hope and Gloria

© Mike Kimera 2011

 

“Thank you for agreeing to meet me, Ms. Denton.”

The researcher is young,  pretty and dressed to display her athletic form without actually revealing any of it. I assume that the publisher thought I would be more open in the presence of this fetching ingenue. Sadly it seems that the girl herself has not been briefed on her role and, instead of flirting with me,  she is speaking slowly in deference , I assume, to  my great age.

“Agreeing to meet you seemed to be the only way to avoid endless tedious phone calls with your boss. Is she always so anal about every detail? It seems to me that she is the sort of woman who would benefit from Rhett Butler’s advice to Scarlett O’Hara…”

I’ve clearly caught the girl off guard by attacking her boss and I’m fairly sure that she has never seen “Gone With The Wind” but one of the few privileges of age is being able to discomfit the young, so I  look her in the eye, lower my voice by an octave and say: “You need kissing badly. That’s what’s  wrong with you. You should be kissed and often and by someone who knows how.”

The poor girl’s eyes have gone wide. This one is as straight as a die, I think. There was at time when I would have taken that as a challenge, but not today.

“Do take a seat, my dear.” I say, as if nothing at all odd had happened.

She perches her tightly clad bum on the seat opposite me, crosses one leg over the other and leans forward in a way that may be meant to create intimacy.

“I’m sorry to trouble you with this, but my editor asked me to do some last minute verifications before your autobiography goes to press.”

Her smile takes her from pretty to adorable. I forgo the pleasure of asking her if she is accusing me of lieing.

“What is it that you would like to verify?”

“Well, the story you tell in Chapter Three is quite startling. My editor is excited, of course, but…”

“She’s worried that Gloria Smythe’s litigative descendants will try to sue? You can’t libel the dead, my dear. Your boss should know that.”

“Well, Gloria Smythe was the sex symbol of British Cinema in the 1950s. People have a special place for her in their hearts. We’re concerned that your story could attract a lot of bad press.”

“Don’t give me that ‘Nation’s Darling’ crap,” I say, allowing my irritation at the girl’s book-blub sentence to show. “Gloria’s relationship to sex was more than symbolic. She was a sexual omnivore with an insatiable appetite for the novel and the naive. The first time she ate me, I was both. Do you know, I think she only fucked me because my name is Hope and she couldn’t resist the opportunity for us to be Hope and Gloria?”

The girl actually blushed. Where do they find these people?

“The thing is, Ms. Denton, we would feel more confident in going to press if we had something that substantiates your version of events.”

My version of events. She makes it sounds as if having more than one version is a flaw rather than an inherent attribute of the human condition. Still, at least she had the backbone to raise the point.

“Well, Gloria is dead and her spineless excuse of a son burned any papers that he felt were inconsistent with his mother’s image. In those days we didn’t have the option of filming ourselves having sex and posting it to YouTube. Dear Christ, if we’d  been able to do that, Gloria’s film career would have been much more interesting. All I can offer you is this.”

I hand her a photograph and a journal. True to the ways of her generation, she looks at the photograph first.

“That’s me and Gloria. We were drying off from our swim. I’m the one looking at her. She’s the one looking into the distance.It was the last day of summer. The last day we were together. I was no longer either naive or novel. I didn’t know it then but Gloria had already lost her appetite for me.”

The girl, I really should have tried to remember her name, looks from the photograph to me and back again, trying to find that young swimmer in my face. She’s wasting her time of course. That swimmer drowned in grief decades ago.

“You both look so young.”

“I don’t think Gloria was ever really young. I on  the other hand was an absolute puppy. Look at me. Look at us.It is all there for anyone to see.”

“Who took the photograph?”

Hah, this girl may be brighter than I thought. That’s an excellent question.

“My mother. At the time I thought she knew nothing of what Gloria and I were doing. Certainly she never spoke of it. But a picture like that is not born of ignorance. My mother was addicted to seeing life through a lens. She took her camera with her everywhere. She once told me that life without a lens lacked focus. She always shot in black and white. She said that it removed the distraction of colour and the pretense of documentation and presented each picture for what it was, a choice on how to show the world to others.”

I realise that, while I’ve been evoking my mother’s ghost, my little fact-checker has opened the journal at the place that I had bookmarked.

“It’s my mother’s journal of course. I found it after she died. I rather wish I hadn’t. It demonstrated that while I’d never really known my mother, she had known everything about me.”

The girl looks up at me. Her mouth is open. She looks stunned. “Your mother…”

“…watched Gloria Smythe finger fuck me and then went back to her room and wrote it all down. Fascinating isn’t it?”

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

Ok-That’s as far as the picture has taken me so far. I hope that the next piece will be an extract from the Jounral. If it arrives in my head I will bring it to you.

 

Not A Lot Of People Know That

Michael Caine convinced me that, combined with enough dry wit and self-effacing charm, trivia could be cool. Mind you, he also looked good in those horn-rimmed NHS specs that were the bane of my early teens.

I acquire trivia the way a white shirt acquires coffee stains; there’s no plan involved, I’m just certain that it’s going to happen.

I’ve always been able to play “Six Degrees Of Kevin Bacon” without breaking a sweat. I grew up listening to radio stations where you had to be able to build chains at least seven songs long with each song sharing a lyric or a theme or a performer or a writer.

Things only became seriously uncool when I fell prey to addiction. At this point I should shuffle to my feet, hang my head, wring my hands and murmur: “My name is Mike and I’m addicted to etymology.”

As my fellow addicts will already know, etymology is the study of the true sense of a word – coming from the Greek word etymon meaning true sense and logos meaning reason, idea or word.

At first I told myself that I could handle etymology, that it was just a means to an end, that I was the user not the used. I rationalized that words were the instruments by which I brought meaning to my life, shaping my thoughts, memories and perceptions so it was only natural that I should want to know more about what words mean, where they came from, how they evolved, and how they are still changing.

By my late teens, even I had to admit that what started as interest had turned into addiction. I owned three etymology dictionaries. I lost hours following chains of meaning from one word to the next and yet seldom used these words in the presence of others.

I started acting out a school.  In the grip of my addiction I could not understand why teachers reacted badly when I explained that it was illogical to ask me not to run in corridors because corridor came from  correre, meaning to run and was originally used to describe galleries at the top of fortifications that soldiers could run along while remaining protected. Nor did I understand why they were unimpressed by my assertion that gym-kit was a contradiction in terms as gymnasium was originally a place for training naked, taking its roots from the word gymnos meaning naked.

As I matured, I came to accept, that non-addicts saw things differently.

Non-addicts used words as if they were blank Scrabble tiles, cramming into them whatever meaning seemed to fit the ear and then repeating it often in the hope of making it true.

Non-addicts seldom felt drawn to use a dictionary of any kind and those who did dip into them could stop after a single word if they wanted to.

Non-addicts did not feel the seductive pull of etymology and often branded the hard-won fruits of my research as trivia.

Not many people know this, but trivia is the plural of the word trivium meaning the place where three roads meet; implying well beaten ground that everyone has access to. Trivial became the descriptor for grammar, rhetoric, and dialectic. These were the artes sermocinales, or language skills and were seen as the least important three of the seven Liberal Arts.

By the way, the Liberal Arts were so named because the Romans believed they were the things that a Free Man needed to study to enlarge his intellect without being immediately useful for anything.

I accept that I will always be an addict. Like many high-functioning addicts I hide behind the mask of the creative process and tell people that I am a writer searching for the truth and not a wordster jonesing for his next high.

Did you know that Jonesing is believed to have become a term for addiction because of the high incidence of drug addicts who lived in Great Jones Alley, off Great Jones Street, between Broadway and Lafayette Street?

This is slang of course, and so not entirely respectable, but then slang was originally a term used to describe the secret language used by beggars and thieves to prevent outsiders from understanding them.

I could continue… beggars were originally lay brothers who helped mendicants.

But I should… Mendicant comes from the Latin mendicantem meaning beggar but also cripple (menda meaning fault of physical defect), which creates a link to mendacious meaning to lie and deceive.

STOP.

Writing Blind

Writing Blind

They say that the first bite is with the eye, but it’s not the bite that you remember, it’s just the one that lures you in, the tease but not the taste.

If you close your eyes, clear your mind and summon up the memory of the last good sex you had, what do you recall?

Is it what your partner looked like?

Or their taste in your mouth?

Or the wet warmth of their sweat-slick skin?

Or the sound they made, gut-deep and involuntary when the rapture finally hit?

Or that sensation, immediately afterwards, when you and they momentarily merged into an us warmed by a post-coital glow?

The truth does not lie in what you see; it is etched in flesh by sweat and tears.

The eye is too easily tricked by glamour, too readily rejects the unusual, too willingly settles for observing without touching. Those who feed only with the eye breath without living.

It is the eye that gives porn it meretricious sparkle. It by-passes the thoughts and emotions and memories that make us who we are and clamps itself to our optic nerve, juicing us up until we jerk and twitch like severed chicken-legs strapped to a car battery.

Perhaps I have a twisted view on this. My eyesight is not standard issue. I have no binocular vision, so no depth of field. I literally lack perspective. I can’t see the 3D in 3D movies, and I’m colour blind. I long ago learned that what I see must be tested before it is trusted

Not surprisingly perhaps, my stories rarely start with what my eyes tell me. I write with my ears instead, most often starting with a voice, not a face. My characters speak to me and I write down what they say.

My two most recent stories start more or less with the first thing that the character said to me.

“Bar Snack” starts

“Sandie was my type of woman: alone, a little drunk, more than a little overweight and flashing her flabby flesh like a fritzing neon sign on a rundown whorehouse.”

I can hear this man. His accent is modified received pronunciation with just enough of the edge shaved off to stop him from sounding posh.  I know immediately that I don’t like him. He is a repellent mix of high insight and low humanity. He is intelligent, introspective, even witty, which makes it  harder to forgive that he is a narcissistic prick bastard.

What I don’t know is what he looks like. It turned out that the plot required him to be attractive enough to be out of Sandie’s league but that is all I know about his appearance.

Can you see this man? Have you met him? Would a physical description from me have helped you see him any more clearly?

“The Sisters” starts

“My name is Jonas Kale. I am forty-six years old. I was married two days ago. By dawn the Sisters will have taken the last of my breath from me and I will be dead. Most of my strength has already been drained away. The face I see in the mirror is that of an old man, hollowed out by life.

I have determined to spend my last hours recording what has happened to me. I know it will be difficult to believe. I ask you to remember that I am a dyeing man with nothing to gain from lies and nothing left to lose from the truth. I do not intend to rail against my fate. I am the architect of my own demise. I hope that by exposing the Sisters for what they are I may save some other soul from their clutches.”

This man’s voice tells me that he is in shock. He knows what’s happening to him, he just cannot quite absorb it. He is a self-regarding man, slightly pompous, slightly too serious, who has somehow become engaged in something that will suck his life away.

Can you see him? Do you know the kind of man you would cast to play him in the movie version? Perhaps not quite yet, but by the end of the story you will see him even though I never describe him.

The only time that I start with an image is when a painting catches my attention. Even then, I don’t really write about what I see, I write about the voice I hear from the painter.

It seems to me that painters are even more obsessive than writers. They spend weeks focused on making a single image perfect. When they get it right, I can spend months, sometimes years, navigating the layers of meaning that they have  built up one brushstroke at a time

I’m currently drawn to the work of the work of Katherine Doyle.  The picture below is one of hers.

Katherine Doyle is sometimes described as a realist figurative painter. It seems to me that the reality she presents is very specific. It is a riddle hiding in plain sight. The images seem natural but they are not in the least neutral. The colours, the point of view, the body language, create an atmosphere that has a distinctive emotional flavour.

There is a secret in the picture of this young woman that I can almost grasp. It calls to me just a plainly as the voices I hear in my head so I have set about trying to write a story based on it.

The process is a little like holding a séance: I clear my mind and listen for voices. In this case I hear a woman’s voice: not the woman in the painting, the woman looking down at her. I sense love tinged with guilty desire, heightened by fear and sustained by hope. I don’t know her story yet, but I know that she wants it to be told. Perhaps, if I keep my eyes closed and write blind, she will speak to me.

If she does, I’ll let you know.

Bar Snack

This is one of those nasty brutal stories that either does it for you or it doesn’t. Writing this kind of story takes me to territory I rarely explore. The main character is the kind of man that I would cheerfully eliminate from the genepool and yet I know he has at least some appeal.

Read, enjoy and don’t feel guilty about it afterwards

Bar Snack

© Mike Kimera 2011

Sandie was my type of woman: alone, a little drunk, more than a little  overweight and flashing her flabby flesh like a fritzing neon sign on a rundown whorehouse.

She was a fading thirty-something still trying to convince herself that she hadn’t changed since she’d left college.  The dress she was wearing had been designed to hang loosely on a young nymphet, displaying her blossoming womanhood. Stretched over Sandie’s full and just starting to sag curves, it displayed only one thing: desperation.

That, of course, is what had attracted me to her.

Desperate women don’t complain. Desperate women do what they’re told and afterwards,desperate women know in their hearts that it was their fault and that they only got what they deserved.

I’d spotted her leaning against a pillar, scanning the early evening “Bar Rouge” crowd, nursing her drink, pretending she was waiting for someone rather than just hoping for someone. “Bar Rouge” is a trying-to-be-trendy place at the top of a glass office tower. It has great views over the city but everyone here was looking inwards. It’s a pick up place for singles. Sandie looked like she’d been single for a little too long.

I didn’t approach her until I was sure that she was about to give up and go home. When I asked if I could buy her a drink, her face lit up as if Prince Charming had just  turned up with one of her used glass slippers.

I could see in her eyes that she wanted me and that she was more than a little surprised that she might actually get to have me. We both knew I could have done better. Physically I was out of her league.  I wondered how long it had been since she had had anyone she wanted to fuck with her eyes open.

I led her to the bar and helped her perch on a stool that was both too high and too small for her to sit on comfortably. I felt up her arse as I positioned her. She gave me a nervous little smile and said, “I can see I’m going to have to watch myself with you.” It was her only insightful comment of the evening.

I sat on the stool next to her, leaning close, publicly claiming her. I’m sure that if the stool had been wider she would have preened with pleasure. Each time I handed her a drink I touched her, on the wrist, on the arm, on the hip. She pretended not to notice but by the fourth drink she was waiting for my touch.

I fed her drinks for about an hour. She gulped the alcohol down so fast; I hadn’t even had to add anything to her drinks to put her in a more receptive frame of mind.

I asked her where she came from and how long she’d been in the city and listened attentively as she told me about how she was far from home in a job that should have become a career but was turning into a dull routine.

She was isolated, disappointed but still hopeful; a perfect little Bar Snack.

When I asked her what a passionate woman like her was doing alone in a bar on a Friday evening, she leant forward to give me a better view of her Grand Canyon sized cleavage and told me that she was looking for someone who would appreciate what she had to offer.

My smile in response was genuine. Sandie was about to find out that I knew exactly how to show my appreciation of what she had to offer.

I ordered Sandie her final drink of the evening and held it far enough away that she had to turn unsteadily on her stool to reach for it. Her thighs splayed, her dress rode up as far as it was able, disclosing the tightly stretched tops of her thigh-highs. I took the opportunity to slide my hand rapidly up her leg until my fingers tips pushed into the soft indentation at the top of her thigh.

She reached down with her free hand to push me away, smiling but saying, “People will see.”

I kept my hand in place long enough to show that she lacked the strength to move me, then I withdrew my hand, stood up from my stool and took a step away from her, keeping my face impassive.

Anxiety flickered in her eyes. I did nothing to reassure her.

“Don’t go,” she said taking my wrist in both her hands.

The pleading tone in her voice aroused me more than touching her flesh had but I didn’t let that show in my face.

“Please,” she said, guiding my hand back under her dress, “Stay.”

I stepped closer and pushed my hand up further until my fingers were pressed against her panties. Her legs clamped shut, she leant forward so her head was on my shoulder, but she didn’t push me away.

“Let’s find somewhere more private,” I said.

She looked into my face, searching for something. I ran my thumb along her slit. Her eyes closed.

“Now,” I said, pulling my hand from between her thighs and stepping away.

Sandie stood up, shouldering her handbag, ready to follow me. I took her hand and pulled her through the crowd so quickly that it was all she could do to keep her balance on her high-heels.

The emergency exit doors at the back of “Bar Rouge” opened out onto a landing in a bare concrete stairwell. The ambience was public car park meets latrine; just what I was looking for.

I span Sandie in front of me, pinned her against the far wall, forced her legs apart with my foot and clamped my hand on her cunt.

By the time she got her breath back, I had my mouth at her throat and a finger inside her. It wasn’t easy, but then, I wasn’t being gentle.

She didn’t slap me and she didn’t cry out. She just said, in a quiet voice that sounded more disappointed than shocked, “You’re hurting me.”

I kept my finger inside her, rubbed my thumb over her clit, looked her in the eyes and said, “What did you expect, a candle-lit dinner for two? That special moment when our eyes meet and two hearts beat as one? You must have known I was dragging you here to fuck you. Isn’t that what you’ve been offering for the past hour every time you pushed your big tits at me? Isn’t that what you were begging for when you pulled my hand between your legs? So now you’re going to get fucked. You should be happy.”

The expression on Sandie’s face was the best part of my evening. It was as if all the alcohol had suddenly been expelled from her system. I had the real Sandie in front of me now. The one who looked at herself naked in the mirror each morning and knew exactly what she was worth. The one who’d given up on Prince Charming and was now searching for Mr Not Too Bad Most Of The Time. The one who knew that she’d met a predator and offered herself up on a plate.

There was a moment when I thought that she might cry or scream and I’d have to let her go. Then something changed in her eyes and I knew she’d reached her decision.

“You don’t have to hurt me,” she said keeping eye contact as she reached down with one hand to search for my erection. “I do want you. Really I do. Let me show you.”

She stretched upwards and kissed me. I slipped my wet finger out of her and slid my hand up to squeeze her breast. Sandie traced the line of my erection through my trousers and pushed her tongue into my mouth to show me her enthusiasm.

I put both hands on her breasts and pushed her back against the wall.

“That’s not where I want your mouth,” I said.

Sandie made her way to her knees without much grace. I unzipped and left my erection bobbing in front of her face. She reached out to grab it but I swatted her hand away.

“Just your mouth.”

She looked up at me with wide eyes but managed a smile before she took the tip of my cock into her mouth.

I stroked her face gently and smiled at her. She put a little more effort in, using her tongue, sucking in her cheeks. No one could accuse her of not trying.

When I’d had enough, I told her stop. She looked disappointed. Maybe she’d thought a quick blowjob was all I was looking for.

I helped her to her feet like a gentleman and led her to the banister at the top of the stairwell.

“Lean over it, spread your legs, and hold on. You’re about to get a fucking you won’t forget.”

That much at least I was sure was true.

I ripped off Sandie’s panties and put them in my pocket. Her cunt was moist rather than wet but I got in without too much effort and with only the most muted of grunts from her.

Finesse would have been wasted in the circumstances so I concentrated on speed and power, slamming Sandie against the banisters hard enough to make them rattle. Sandie didn’t bother faking an orgasm. It seemed to be all she could do to catch her breath.

I love taking women from behind. I found the sight of Sandie bent double, braced for impact absolutely irresistible.

A couple of minutes in, I knew I was almost done. Sandie must have sensed it too. She looked back at me over her shoulder and said, “Please don’t come inside me.”

I liked the please.

I stood still, hilt deep inside her and asked the obvious question: “So, Sandie, tell me where you want me to dump my cum.”

Sandie tried to find the right answer in my face. I raised an eyebrow and gave her another thrust.

“On my face?” she said, hesitantly.

Perfect. I knew she’d always remember saying that, begging a stranger to come on her face.

I laughed.

“I like this view better,” I said, “I’ll come on your fat arse. Hold it open for me.”

Sandie pulled her arse cheeks apart like a good little whore and waited for my cum to run down her legs as I tossed off over her.

“Don’t stand up yet,” I said.

I used my iPhone to take a picture of my cum sliding down Sandie’s arse cheek, just to the right of her gaping cunt.

“What are doing?” Sandie said, straightening up.

“Making a little souvenir of our evening together.” I showed her the picture on my phone. “If you give me your number I’ll send you a copy.”

Sandie stared at me.

“You are a sick bastard.”

“And what does that make you, Sandie. Think about that.”

I fished three twenties out of my wallet and offered them to her.

“Taxi money?” I said.

“Fuck off.”

“Been there, done that. Have a good evening, Sandie. It was a pleasure fucking you.”

I thought that was a pretty cool exit line. I’d have to remember that one.

I found a cab as soon as I hit street level.  As we pulled away from the curb, the cabbie grinned at me and said, “You smell like you’ve had a good night, mate.” I took a deep breath and realized that, in the confines of the cab, the just-fucked smell was impossible to miss. I grinned back at the cabbie, pulled Sandie’s panties from my pocket and held them up for him to see.

Before I could say anything, my iPhone rang.

“Hi, babe,” I said, “Yeah, I know, I’m late.  I had to take some clients for a drink after the meeting. No I don’t need food. I just had a bar snack. Did I miss the kids? I’ll make it up to you. I’m gonna hit the shower as soon as I get home. When I’m done, I want to find you in the bedroom wearing nothing but thigh-highs, heels, a little lube and a smile. No you may not start without me. Nor unless you want a spanking. You’re right, it might be worth it. Now go and get ready, I’ll be home in a few.”

I closed the call. The cabby made eye contact with me in the mirror.

“You lead a bloody charmed life, mate.”

“You’re so right,” I said and settled back into my seat to flick through the photos on my iPhone.

SCAR – Chapter 2

-2-

At some level, I know I am dreaming. This is not how it was. At the time, I didn’t see her so clearly; didn’t hunger for her as I do now. Then the taken-for-granted future stretched before us; now only the severed stump of might-have-beens is left to me.

For a few seconds I am both actor and audience in this mind-movie directed by my subconscious. Seeing myself, drowsy and inattentive, I want to shout “Wake up. This is important. You will never have this moment again.” But I find I can make no sound. Instead my awareness narrows, and I become, for a time, a man who has not yet realised that this is the happiest he will ever be.

*****

“What?” I ask, opening my eyes part way.

Her lopsided smile is just visible in the blush of the post-dawn light, which matches so perfectly our post-coital glow. She is laying next to me, leaning on one elbow, her small fingers lightly touching my chest just above my heart.

“You are the gentlest man I know,” she says.

“Thank you. I think.”

Sex is still new between us and I wonder what I have done that makes her see me this way.

She sits up on her heels, comfortable in her nakedness. Looking up at her, I am reminded of how young she is, ten years younger than me. Her skin is smooth and firm and in my mouth tonight, she tasted like springtime: tangy and vigorous.

Placing her hand on my wrist she says, “Don’t ever change – ever.”

There is something in the intensity of this statement that pulls me from my languor and makes me pay attention.

‘”We all change.” I sound old and weary.

She smiles at my maudlin tone, takes my hand in hers and says, “Then become even nicer. Nice makes me feel warm all over.”

“Mmmmmm,” I reach for her “let me check that out.”

“Sceptic.”

“Yes, this bit is warm…, and this.”

“What about this?”

“Warm but also moist”

“I think you should explore further”

“Like this?”

“Exactly like that, except faster and deeper”.

“Yes ma’am.”

*****

I wake with cum on my belly and tears in my eyes. Nina. Always Nina.

5:45 a.m. I’m alone in a bed that I share only with ghosts: my ghost and Nina’s.

I’m sticky and I need a shower, but not here. Even the shower downstairs seems too close this morning. I throw on some sweats and my favourite Reeboks and decide to run down Haverstock Hill to our office in Camden Town.

Early as it is, there are still people moving purposefully through the streets, running through the mazes of money and need.

At the office, I shower and change. I always keep clothes at work. Once it was so I could change when the working day started shortly after the clubbing had finished. Now it is because I get mornings like this, when I can’t bear to stay in the house in which Nina died.

My office overlooks Camden Lock. Soon the stall holders will start to set out the stands that Nina so liked to browse through, but which always seemed to me to be filled with tat, sold by middle class dropouts, who thought it was cool to pretend to be poor.

Nina would laugh at me for comments like that. “You’re hardly the vanguard of the urban proletariat,” she’d say, “You’re a working class lad in a middle class job. Comes the revolution you’ll be the first to be put against the wall and shot.”

This is a media company so my staff won’t be here until ten or so.  I switch on the full size Gaggia coffee machine and make myself a fierce double espresso with Illy coffee; another pretentious piece of fashion-victim posturing that Nina would have treated with playful derision.

Nina had no class hang-ups. She came from a middle class family that had been furnishing the Labour Party with intelligentsia for three generations. In a way, it was the Labour Party that brought us together.

It was May 1996. Mangle Media Productions had just had its first successful year. Tony Blair’s ‘Cool Britannia’ gang had just kicked the Tories out and we were holding a fringe party (dress code: black tie and Raybans) for the great and the good who wanted to demonstrate their media connections and swig free champagne. The room was dominated by a huge TV screen with a live link to the official Labour Party bash. Tony made his entrance as D Reem where playing “Things can only get better”. He started to give his famous “New Labour, New Britain” speech.  I smiled as a cheer went up from the affluent crowd at our party, we could all see the gravy train pulling out of the station and we knew we would be on board this time.

“They’ve already got their snouts in the trough haven’t they?”

I turned my head to see who had spoken. Then I turned all the way round. My body had decided that it wanted to be facing this lovely young thing. In a year when every woman I knew was wearing a little black number, this girl had turned up in emerald silk that clashed wonderfully with her bright red hair.

“Do you speak, or are you restricting yourself to non-verbal communication?” she asked.

I realised I’d been staring and that my mouth was open. I went for the smile. I have good smile.

“Hi, I’m David Jackson” I said confidently.

“I know,” she said “we’ve met.”

Crash and burn I thought. It must have shown on my face.

“Of course, I was much younger then,” she grinned, enjoying my reaction.

How could anyone who was only twenty-two or so have been much younger then?

“I doubt you noticed me. You were too busy trying to fuck my older sister.”

“Nina? Nina Posner?”

“So you do remember me. Did Rachel ever let you fuck her? She never would say.”

Rachel Posner never let me fuck her, she always fucked me. I was a junior lecturer at the Manchester Business School and she was a first year student, yet she was the dominant one. Rachel had shown me what sex could be, perhaps what I had always wanted it to be. She made me see that I’d let shame and guilt and other people’s expectations keep me from what I most desired. My face heated as I remembered how I had struggled against the bonds that held me, erect to the point of pain, desperate hoping that I had pleased Rachel enough to have earned the release her fingers could give me.

Nina was smiling at me, waiting for an answer. It was hard to believe that the innocent-looking girl in front of me could come from the same stock as Rachel.

I focussed my attention on the soft curve of Nina’s smile and said, “I’m not surprised she didn’t tell you. You were only about five and way too young to know such things.”

I was trying desperately to remember just how uncool I had been back in 1986. Shit, did I still have the ponytail then? I hoped Nina wouldn’t remember.

“I was twelve and she wouldn’t tell me because she knew I had a crush on you.”

My cock suddenly turned to rock and I was sure Nina knew it.

“There you are, darling,” the voice belonged to a Hooray-Henry with no chin and an accent that could cut glass, “We really must be going or we’ll miss dinner with Tony and Cherie.”

Neither of us looked at him.

“Nice to meet you again, David,” Nina said. She leaned forward to give me an air kiss. Her hand on my arm felt as if it was scorching my suit. In a whisper, she said, “I still think you’re cute, ‘specially now you’ve lost the ponytail.”

Then she was gone.

My espresso is cold. I’ve been in the office for an hour and done nothing but visit the dead. I need action.

I power up my ThinkPad and check on my Hollowman mail. I don’t know if I’m disappointed or relieved to find nothing from Scar. Maybe she has vanished into the ether.

This morning’s snailmail has already arrived so I flick through it. There is an A4 brown envelope addressed to “Hollowman” and marked “Personal”. There is no stamp so it was delivered by hand. No-one here knows that I am Hollowman. I rip the envelope open, thankful that my early arrival meant I could intercept it.

There are two sheets inside the envelope. The first is a printout from Kyoko’s webpage. It has pictures of her and describes her services and prices. The pictures have been altered using Photoshop. Someone has done a painstaking job of putting a jagged scar along Kyoko’s left cheek.

A handwritten note at the foot of the page says, “Is this what you wanted to do to her?”

The second sheet is a full-page black and white photograph of me coming out of Kyoko’s building. Yesterday’s date is stamped on the picture. On the reverse “Hollowmen” by T.S. Elliot, a poem about debasement through the rejection of good, has been handwritten.  The hairs on my neck rise. This poem was the source of my on-line identity. Sections of the poem have been picked out in garish yellow highlighter:

“Those who have crossed

With direct eyes, to death’s other kingdom

Remember us – if at all – not as lost

Violent souls, but only

As the hollow men

The stuffed men.

And

“Between the desire

And the spasm

Between the potency

And the existence

Between the essence

And the descent

Falls the shadow

And then the only line that everyone remembers but which most people misunderstand

“This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang but a whimper”

A handwritten note in the margin says, “I will be your shadow until you make my world end”.

There is no signature. None is needed. It would seem Scar has not vanished after all.

-2-

At some level, I know I am dreaming. This is not how it was. At the time, I didn’t see her so clearly; didn’t hunger for her as I do now. Then the taken-for-granted future stretched before us; now only the severed stump of might-have-beens is left to me.

 

For a few seconds I am both actor and audience in this mind-movie directed by my subconscious. Seeing myself, drowsy and inattentive, I want to shout “Wake up. This is important. You will never have this moment again.” But I find I can make no sound. Instead my awareness narrows, and I become, for a time, a man who has not yet realised that this is the happiest he will ever be.

 

*****

 

“What?” I ask, opening my eyes part way.

Her lopsided smile is just visible in the blush of the post-dawn light, which matches so perfectly our post-coital glow. She is laying next to me, leaning on one elbow, her small fingers lightly touching my chest just above my heart.

 

“You are the gentlest man I know,” she says.

“Thank you. I think.”

Sex is still new between us and I wonder what I have done that makes her see me this way.

 

She sits up on her heels, comfortable in her nakedness. Looking up at her, I am reminded of how young she is, ten years younger than me. Her skin is smooth and firm and in my mouth tonight, she tasted like springtime: tangy and vigorous.

 

Placing her hand on my wrist she says, Don’t ever change – ever.

 

There is something in the intensity of this statement that pulls me from my languor and makes me pay attention.

 

We all change. I sound old and weary.

 

She smiles at my maudlin tone, takes my hand in hers and says, Then become even nicer. Nice makes me feel warm all over.

 

“Mmmmmm,” I reach for her “let me check that out.”

“Sceptic.”

 

“Yes, this bit is warm…, and this.”

 

“What about this?”

 

“Warm but also moist”

 

“I think you should explore further”

 

“Like this?”

 

“Exactly like that, except faster and deeper”.

 

“Yes ma’am.”

*****

I wake with cum on my belly and tears in my eyes. Nina. Always Nina.

 

5:45 a.m. I’m alone in a bed that I share only with ghosts: my ghost and Nina’s.

 

I’m sticky and I need a shower, but not here. Even the shower downstairs seems too close this morning. I throw on some sweats and my favourite Reeboks and decide to run down Haverstock Hill to our office in Camden Town.

 

Early as it is, there are still people moving purposefully through the streets, running through the mazes of money and need.

 

At the office, I shower and change. I always keep clothes at work. Once it was so I could change when the working day started shortly after the clubbing had finished. Now it is because I get mornings like this, when I can’t bear to stay in the house in which Nina died.

 

My office overlooks Camden Lock. Soon the stall holders will start to set out the stands that Nina so liked to browse through, but which always seemed to me to be filled with tat, sold by middle class dropouts, who thought it was cool to pretend to be poor.

 

Nina would laugh at me for comments like that. “You’re hardly the vanguard of the urban proletariat,” she’d say, “You’re a working class lad in a middle class job. Comes the revolution you’ll be the first to be put against the wall and shot.”

 

This is a media company so my staff won’t be here until ten or so.  I switch on the full size Gaggia coffee machine and make myself a fierce double espresso with Illy coffee; another pretentious piece of fashion-victim posturing that Nina would have treated with playful derision.

 

Nina had no class hang-ups. She came from a middle class family that had been furnishing the Labour Party with intelligentsia for three generations. In a way, it was the Labour Party that brought us together.

 

It was May 1996. Mangle Media Productions had just had its first successful year. Tony Blair’s ‘Cool Britannia’ gang had just kicked the Tories out and we were holding a fringe party (dress code: black tie and Raybans) for the great and the good who wanted to demonstrate their media connections and swig free champagne. The room was dominated by a huge TV screen with a live link to the official Labour Party bash. Tony made his entrance as D Reem where playing “Things can only get better”. He started to give his famous “New Labour, New Britain” speech.  I smiled as a cheer went up from the affluent crowd at our party, we could all see the gravy train pulling out of the station and we knew we would be on board this time.

 

They’ve already got their snouts in the trough haven’t they?”

 

I turned my head to see who had spoken. Then I turned all the way round. My body had decided that it wanted to be facing this lovely young thing. In a year when every woman I knew was wearing a little black number, this girl had turned up in emerald silk that clashed wonderfully with her bright red hair.

 

Do you speak, or are you restricting yourself to non-verbal communication?” she asked.

 

I realised I’d been staring and that my mouth was open. I went for the smile. I have good smile.

 

Hi, I’m David Jackson” I said confidently.

 

I know,” she said “we’ve met.”

 

Crash and burn I thought. It must have shown on my face.

 

Of course, I was much younger then,” she grinned, enjoying my reaction.

 

How could anyone who was only twenty-two or so have been much younger then?

 

I doubt you noticed me. You were too busy trying to fuck my older sister.”

 

Nina? Nina Posner?”

 

So you do remember me. Did Rachel ever let you fuck her? She never would say.”

 

Rachel Posner never let me fuck her, she always fucked me. I was a junior lecturer at the Manchester Business School and she was a first year student, yet she was the dominant one. Rachel had shown me what sex could be, perhaps what I had always wanted it to be. She made me see that I’d let shame and guilt and other people’s expectations keep me from what I most desired. My face heated as I remembered how I had struggled against the bonds that held me, erect to the point of pain, desperate hoping that I had pleased Rachel enough to have earned the release her fingers could give me.

Nina was smiling at me, waiting for an answer. It was hard to believe that the innocent-looking girl in front of me could come from the same stock as Rachel.

I focussed my attention on the soft curve of Nina’s smile and said, I’m not surprised she didn’t tell you. You were only about five and way too young to know such things.”

 

I was trying desperately to remember just how uncool I had been back in 1986. Shit, did I still have the ponytail then? I hoped Nina wouldn’t remember.

 

I was twelve and she wouldn’t tell me because she knew I had a crush on you.”

 

My cock suddenly turned to rock and I was sure Nina knew it.

 

There you are, darling,” the voice belonged to a Hooray-Henry with no chin and an accent that could cut glass, “We really must be going or we’ll miss dinner with Tony and Cherie.”

 

Neither of us looked at him.

 

Nice to meet you again, David,” Nina said. She leaned forward to give me an air kiss. Her hand on my arm felt as if it was scorching my suit. In a whisper, she said, “I still think you’re cute, ‘specially now you’ve lost the ponytail.”

 

Then she was gone.

 

My espresso is cold. I’ve been in the office for an hour and done nothing but visit the dead. I need action.

 

I power up my ThinkPad and check on my Hollowman mail. I don’t know if I’m disappointed or relieved to find nothing from Scar. Maybe she has vanished into the ether.

 

This morning’s snailmail has already arrived so I flick through it. There is an A4 brown envelope addressed to “Hollowman” and marked “Personal”. There is no stamp so it was delivered by hand. No-one here knows that I am Hollowman. I rip the envelope open, thankful that my early arrival meant I could intercept it.

 

There are two sheets inside the envelope. The first is a printout from Kyoko’s webpage. It has pictures of her and describes her services and prices. The pictures have been altered using Photoshop. Someone has done a painstaking job of putting a jagged scar along Kyoko’s left cheek.

 

A handwritten note at the foot of the page says, “Is this what you wanted to do to her?”

 

The second sheet is a full-page black and white photograph of me coming out of Kyoko’s building. Yesterday’s date is stamped on the picture. On the reverse “Hollowmen” by T.S. Elliot, a poem about debasement through the rejection of good, has been handwritten.  The hairs on my neck rise. This poem was the source of my on-line identity. Sections of the poem have been picked out in garish yellow highlighter:

 

“Those who have crossed

With direct eyes, to death’s other kingdom

Remember us – if at all – not as lost

Violent souls, but only

As the hollow men

The stuffed men.

And

“Between the desire

And the spasm

Between the potency

And the existence

Between the essence

And the descent

Falls the shadow

And then the only line that everyone remembers but which most people misunderstand

 

“This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang but a whimper”

-2-

At some level, I know I am dreaming. This is not how it was. At the time, I didn’t see her so clearly; didn’t hunger for her as I do now. Then the taken-for-granted future stretched before us; now only the severed stump of might-have-beens is left to me.

For a few seconds I am both actor and audience in this mind-movie directed by my subconscious. Seeing myself, drowsy and inattentive, I want to shout “Wake up. This is important. You will never have this moment again.” But I find I can make no sound. Instead my awareness narrows, and I become, for a time, a man who has not yet realised that this is the happiest he will ever be.

*****

“What?” I ask, opening my eyes part way.

Her lopsided smile is just visible in the blush of the post-dawn light, which matches so perfectly our post-coital glow. She is laying next to me, leaning on one elbow, her small fingers lightly touching my chest just above my heart.

“You are the gentlest man I know,” she says.

“Thank you. I think.”

Sex is still new between us and I wonder what I have done that makes her see me this way.

She sits up on her heels, comfortable in her nakedness. Looking up at her, I am reminded of how young she is, ten years younger than me. Her skin is smooth and firm and in my mouth tonight, she tasted like springtime: tangy and vigorous.

Placing her hand on my wrist she says, Don’t ever change – ever.

There is something in the intensity of this statement that pulls me from my languor and makes me pay attention.

We all change. I sound old and weary.

She smiles at my maudlin tone, takes my hand in hers and says, Then become even nicer. Nice makes me feel warm all over.

“Mmmmmm,” I reach for her “let me check that out.”

“Sceptic.”

“Yes, this bit is warm…, and this.”

“What about this?”

“Warm but also moist”

“I think you should explore further”

“Like this?”

“Exactly like that, except faster and deeper”.

“Yes ma’am.”

*****

I wake with cum on my belly and tears in my eyes. Nina. Always Nina.

5:45 a.m. I’m alone in a bed that I share only with ghosts: my ghost and Nina’s.

I’m sticky and I need a shower, but not here. Even the shower downstairs seems too close this morning. I throw on some sweats and my favourite Reeboks and decide to run down Haverstock Hill to our office in Camden Town.

Early as it is, there are still people moving purposefully through the streets, running through the mazes of money and need.

At the office, I shower and change. I always keep clothes at work. Once it was so I could change when the working day started shortly after the clubbing had finished. Now it is because I get mornings like this, when I can’t bear to stay in the house in which Nina died.

My office overlooks Camden Lock. Soon the stall holders will start to set out the stands that Nina so liked to browse through, but which always seemed to me to be filled with tat, sold by middle class dropouts, who thought it was cool to pretend to be poor.

Nina would laugh at me for comments like that. “You’re hardly the vanguard of the urban proletariat,” she’d say, “You’re a working class lad in a middle class job. Comes the revolution you’ll be the first to be put against the wall and shot.”

This is a media company so my staff won’t be here until ten or so.  I switch on the full size Gaggia coffee machine and make myself a fierce double espresso with Illy coffee; another pretentious piece of fashion-victim posturing that Nina would have treated with playful derision.

Nina had no class hang-ups. She came from a middle class family that had been furnishing the Labour Party with intelligentsia for three generations. In a way, it was the Labour Party that brought us together.

It was May 1996. Mangle Media Productions had just had its first successful year. Tony Blair’s ‘Cool Britannia’ gang had just kicked the Tories out and we were holding a fringe party (dress code: black tie and Raybans) for the great and the good who wanted to demonstrate their media connections and swig free champagne. The room was dominated by a huge TV screen with a live link to the official Labour Party bash. Tony made his entrance as D Reem where playing “Things can only get better”. He started to give his famous “New Labour, New Britain” speech.  I smiled as a cheer went up from the affluent crowd at our party, we could all see the gravy train pulling out of the station and we knew we would be on board this time.

“They’ve already got their snouts in the trough haven’t they?”

I turned my head to see who had spoken. Then I turned all the way round. My body had decided that it wanted to be facing this lovely young thing. In a year when every woman I knew was wearing a little black number, this girl had turned up in emerald silk that clashed wonderfully with her bright red hair.

“Do you speak, or are you restricting yourself to non-verbal communication?” she asked.

I realised I’d been staring and that my mouth was open. I went for the smile. I have good smile.

“Hi, I’m David Jackson” I said confidently.

“I know,” she said “we’ve met.”

Crash and burn I thought. It must have shown on my face.

“Of course, I was much younger then,” she grinned, enjoying my reaction.

How could anyone who was only twenty-two or so have been much younger then?

“I doubt you noticed me. You were too busy trying to fuck my older sister.”

“Nina? Nina Posner?”

“So you do remember me. Did Rachel ever let you fuck her? She never would say.”

Rachel Posner never let me fuck her, she always fucked me. I was a junior lecturer at the Manchester Business School and she was a first year student, yet she was the dominant one.

Rachel had shown me what sex could be, perhaps what I had always wanted it to be. She made me see that I’d let shame and guilt and other people’s expectations keep me from what I most desired. My face heated as I remembered how I had struggled against the bonds that held me, erect to the point of pain, desperate hoping that I had pleased Rachel enough to have earned the release her fingers could give me.

Nina was smiling at me, waiting for an answer. It was hard to believe that the innocent-looking girl in front of me could come from the same stock as Rachel.

I focussed my attention on the soft curve of Nina’s smile and said, “I’m not surprised she didn’t tell you. You were only about five and way too young to know such things.”

I was trying desperately to remember just how uncool I had been back in 1986. Shit, did I still have the ponytail then? I hoped Nina wouldn’t remember.

“I was twelve and she wouldn’t tell me because she knew I had a crush on you.”

My cock suddenly turned to rock and I was sure Nina knew it.

“There you are, darling,” the voice belonged to a Hooray-Henry with no chin and an accent that could cut glass, “We really must be going or we’ll miss dinner with Tony and Cherie.”

Neither of us looked at him.

“Nice to meet you again, David,” Nina said. She leaned forward to give me an air kiss. Her hand on my arm felt as if it was scorching my suit. In a whisper, she said, “I still think you’re cute, ‘specially now you’ve lost the ponytail.”

Then she was gone.

My espresso is cold. I’ve been in the office for an hour and done nothing but visit the dead. I need action.

I power up my ThinkPad and check on my Hollowman mail. I don’t know if I’m disappointed or relieved to find nothing from Scar. Maybe she has vanished into the ether.

This morning’s snailmail has already arrived so I flick through it. There is an A4 brown envelope addressed to “Hollowman” and marked “Personal”. There is no stamp so it was delivered by hand. No-one here knows that I am Hollowman. I rip the envelope open, thankful that my early arrival meant I could intercept it.

There are two sheets inside the envelope. The first is a printout from Kyoko’s webpage. It has pictures of her and describes her services and prices. The pictures have been altered using Photoshop. Someone has done a painstaking job of putting a jagged scar along Kyoko’s left cheek.

A handwritten note at the foot of the page says, “Is this what you wanted to do to her?”

The second sheet is a full-page black and white photograph of me coming out of Kyoko’s building. Yesterday’s date is stamped on the picture. On the reverse “Hollowmen” by T.S. Elliot, a poem about debasement through the rejection of good, has been handwritten.  The hairs on my neck rise. This poem was the source of my on-line identity. Sections of the poem have been picked out in garish yellow highlighter:

“Those who have crossed

With direct eyes, to death’s other kingdom

Remember us – if at all – not as lost

Violent souls, but only

As the hollow men

The stuffed men.

And

“Between the desire

And the spasm

Between the potency

And the existence

Between the essence

And the descent

Falls the shadow

And then the only line that everyone remembers but which most people misunderstand

“This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang but a whimper”

A handwritten note in the margin says, “I will be your shadow until you make my world end”.

There is no signature. None is needed. It would seem Scar has not vanished after all.

A handwritten note in the margin says, “I will be your shadow until you make my world end”.

 

There is no signature. None is needed. It would seem Scar has not vanished after all.

Promoting The Digital Me

I’m an amateur writer. I’m fortunate enough to be able to make my living doing something else so I’ve taken the view that I don’t need to be paid for what I write. Publishers get twitchy if they can’t pay you – paying you is how they know they’ve bought something – so I sign a contract that donates any income to the Red Cross. So far they’ve been happy with that.

This is self-interest rather than altruism on my part. Not having to get paid is very liberating. It means that I only have to self-publicise to attract readers and let them know where they can find my stuff.

The self that I promote – Mike Kimera – is an internet construct. He only exists as the guy who writes erotic stories and contributes to blogs. It’s logical then, that his existence is promoted primarily through the internet.

More by luck than judgement, Kimera was born with a name that is not widely used, so if you google for him you come up with list like this full of links to his stuff. This makes him easy to find once you know you want to look for him.

I brought Kimera to people’s attention by getting my stories on ERWA and Clean Sheets, excellent venues that are widely read and have a reputation for good quality. Getting Kimera published there made him visible to editors like Susannah Indigo, Maxim Jakubowski, Rachel Kramer Bussel, Alison Tyler, Lisabet Sarai and Seneca Mayfair, who have been willing to publish my stories, and in in Susannah’s case, even to edit a collection of them.

Once Kimera had things in print, I promoted them primarily through lists on Amazon and on Good Reads and I set him up with a blog “Inside Mike Kimera”

I did this for about nine years and slowly Mike Kimera started to get some name recognition but I had no idea how many people read my stories or what most of them thought.

Last year, with help from the internet savvy Remittance Girl, I set up a website on WordPress for my stories: “Mike Kimera’s Erotic Fiction”

This is perhaps the ultimate self-promotion on the net. Vanity publishing of a kind. I invest in it because I can see the traffic I’m getting and which stories are being read and because some of the readers take the time to comment on what I write.

WordPress provides an impressive stats tool that lets me know that I typically get between 100 and 200 visits a day and that on some days, for reasons that I don’t understand, I hit up to 280. I know that hits go up as I publish new stuff and that the more regularly I publish, the higher the average number of hits.

I also know what searches bring people to my site. Last month, for the first time, the top of the search list was no longer “Dominance and Submission” but “Mike Kimera”. I was very happy about that.

The website changed things for me in ways I didn’t expect.

I had to come up with a visual identity for Mike Kimera. Not just the Gravatar that comes after my name but a look and feel for the site that sets some expectation of its content. I had a lot of fun with this and it started to shape how I looked at my own work.

I had to find ways of classifying my stories and tagging them to make them easier to navigate. This made me analyse my work and sensitised me to the themes that run through them.

I started to get comments from regular readers and I look forward to finding out what they think about a particular piece.

Once the website was up, I found my way to twitter. I’d never understood what twitter was for but I was intrigued to watch what Remittance Girl was doing there so I signed up. I discovered what fun it is to write twitterfiction live in little slices of 140 characters a time and I discovered that when I posted links to new stuff on my site, I got more readers.

Recently it has occurred to me that Mike Kimera now has a brand. People read his stuff with an expectation of what they will find. For the most part this helps me to have happy readers. Sometimes it means I disappoint. Clean Sheets posted “Sex With Owen” a few weeks ago. The title is perhaps poorly chosen because the piece, while graphic, is a kind of romance. One reader commented that the story wasn’t up to my usual standards and that he preferred my earlier, grittier stuff.

Which poses the question, what happens when I want to write outside the Mike Kimera brand?

At the moment I have two thoughts about this: I’m adding catagories to my website to incorporate the mainstream and erotic romance stories into the brand and I’m setting up another website for stuff that is too dark or too violent for Mike Kimera.

I’m considering creating another internet construct for this: Kim Remaike an anagram of Mike Kimera but more sexually ambiguous, with a less Western background and a fascination with the beast within us and what happens when it runs free. The look of the website is edgier and pulls on the erotic images (copyright free) of Egon Schiller.

The main thing that gives me pause is whether I have the energy for two internet constructs or whether I should just show people that there is more to Mike Kimera.

What do you think?

SCAR – Chapter 1

This is a dark piece that won’t be to everyone’s taste. If you want something jolly, try a different story

SCAR
© Mike Kimera 2011 All rights reserved.
Do not reproduce without written permission from
mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk

London 2001

-1-

The moment I come in the whore’s mouth my self-disgust takes over. She is still sucking my not yet limp dick. On her knees, looking up at me with her soft brown eyes, naked apart from the too-short school skirt that I asked her to wear; she is a perfect picture of submissive beauty. She calls herself Kyoko and claims to be nineteen years old and studying in London. This is the fifth time that I’ve paid £300 to use her for an hour. I looked up her name on the web. It’s the kind of thing I do. It means mirror. I doubt that she selected it by accident.

Unlike English whores, who control you from the start with their back massages and their rules about what costs extra and what can’t be done at all, Kyoko is completely compliant; mine to use however I wish.

Do you know how frightening that thought is? How it corrodes my soul?

I have shown restraint today. I promised myself I would. No bonds. No pain. Just my hands on the back of her head, holding her in place while I pushed fast and hard into her mouth.

Yet, even now, with my tension released, I know that it was not enough. I want to see that flawless skin bruised and torn. I want to annihilate her with my lust. I want to wrench some involuntary, pain-driven moan from her that acknowledges what we are really doing here. Who I really am.

Instead, I say, “Enough,” and immediately she sits back on her heels, hands demurely placed on her thighs.

We still have fifteen minutes left but I can’t bear it any more. Without a word, I go to the en suite and clean myself.

When I return she is still kneeling, waiting. I have a sudden image of slapping that beautiful calm face, hitting her until the bones break.

As I touch the door handle, she says politely, “Good bye, Mr. Jackson. Please return soon.” I leave without turning back.

Do you believe in Hell? I do; I live there.

A Jesuit once taught me that Hell is the absence of grace. I didn’t understand him at the time; didn’t know the sorrow that the loss of grace can bring to us, the damaged ones.

I take a taxi back from Mayfair to Hampstead. The driver doesn’t attempt conversation. It must be something in my demeanour. Progress through the traffic-clogged streets is slow, even in mid-afternoon. I scan the faces of the pedestrians we pass, looking for the lost and the damaged. Misery loves company.

I close the door behind me in my ridiculously over-priced house in Flask Walk and let myself slump against it. I catch sight of myself in the mirror of the incredibly ugly Edwardian umbrella stand; the first and only piece of furniture Nina bought for the house. I see a tall pale man in his late thirties; close-cropped black hair turning silver at the temples. He is dressed in a fashionably casual lilac shirt, open at the neck, long black coat, black dress pants, and handmade ankle-length boots.

“I am the very model of a modern media general,” I sing to myself, wondering what Gilbert and Sullivan would have made of London’s media elite in this, the first year of the new Millennium.

I step closer to the mirror, staring into my own eyes. It’s said that vampires have no reflection because they have lost their souls. I was taught that the eye is the window to the soul. I try to look through that window, moving past the long black lashes and the blue iris, to the darkness of the pupil. I wait. If this were a movie, my eyes would glow a sickly electric green at this point to show the evil within. I see nothing but endless darkness. It seems appropriate.

I use the shower downstairs. I don’t use the en suite bathroom any more, not since Nina’s death. Friends are surprised that I stayed here. I will never leave. I need that pebble in my shoe.

Naked, glass of whisky in my hand, I sit before my computer, browsing my e-mail, trying to find something in my work that I still care about.

There is some good news. Channel 4 want to develop the documentary series idea that I pitched to them last week. It’s called “Ex and Why?” We pick a person, we call them subjects, it sounds more scientific, and then gather together their ex-spouses and lovers. We get the exs to build a profile of the subject on camera: pet hates, what they were like in bed, how it ended. We’ll intercut the subject’s own observations about their ex’s, encouraging them to be colourful and funny. At the end, we will play the subject the tape and film their reaction. The programme will be full of pain and recrimination and gratuitous, voyeuristic sex. The ratings should be huge. We will be able to sell the format across Europe, maybe even to the USA on cable. I find myself depressed that one of our worst ideas should be so readily accepted. The boys from “Media Mangle Productions” have done it again.

Enough work. I go to the one of the free porn listings and start opening windows showing every sexual act known to man. The more often I do this, the more extreme the site has to be to make my cock stir.

I find a torture site. Once I would have turned away, wondering why some people like looking at this stuff. Now, as I click on the thumbnails, I find I am studying the photos to see which are real and which are fake. I open a set of pictures sent in by amateurs. A woman in her twenties, with soft curves, a slightly heavy build and an innocent face, is having her breasts beaten with the edge of a steel ruler. I find myself hoping that this is fake, although I can see that it is not. I download the picture set.

Time for the chatroom now. On the web this past year, I have been going under the name of Hollowman. I chat, post stories, occasionally exchange e-mail, but nothing lasts very long. The room I use is called “The Pit”. There are no taboos here. The system says that there are 128 users. Jesus Christ, where do they all come from?

I watch the moronic chat and wait. Sometimes I see a name I want to explore. Mostly I let others approach me. Someone breaks etiquette by going straight to private message. I like that. The whois/ command shows me the person is female and dialled in from the UK. Her name is SCAR.

SCAR: I know what you want

SCAR: I know what you need.

I remain silent

SCAR: I know the termites that hollowed out your soul.

Hollowman: What do you mean?

SCAR: Guilt and fear laid their eggs in you and their offspring left you hollow

Interesting. Most people assume I lifted the name from the movie “Hollow Man” last year’s remake of “The Invisible Man”. They think I’m playing six degrees of Kevin Bacon. I decide to see what game Scar wants to play

Hollowman: So what do I need? What do I want?

SCAR: Me

Hollowman: I don’t know you

SCAR: But I know you. I’ve read every twisted story you’ve posted.

Hollowman: Why are you called SCAR?

SCAR: Guess 🙂

Hollowman: What do you want?

SCAR: I want you to torture me.

SCAR: I want you to kill me.

This was not the way it normally went. Scar has my full attention. My cock is stiff. I wait.

SCAR: That made you hard didn’t it

SCAR: We will meet. I will let you do anything. Anything at all. Then you will kill me

Hollowman: Why should I kill you?

SCAR: You won’t be able to stop yourself.

I wonder if that was true. My mind plays detailed scenes of hurt and pain. I roll back my foreskin and release the musky reek of my desire.

SCAR: You’re touching yourself

SCAR: I like that

SCAR: I want your cock to trace my scars.

I groan, feeling the insensate scar tissue brush against my glans, following the lines of deadened flesh.

SCAR: I’m going now

SCAR: One last thing

SCAR: I know what happened to your wife

Nina’s face flashes before my eyes as my cock belches cum onto my thighs. By the time I realise what Scar had said and what it meant, she was gone.

Was that a cheap shot or does she really know? Has she found out who I am? I sit up in the chair, staring at the screen, reading the last line again and again.

If she does know, what then? I should be afraid, angry, filled with adrenalin; instead, I am calm, as if I had been waiting for this all along.

A little envelope appears on my taskbar to tell me that new mail has arrived. I open it, knowing it will be from her. It’s not hard to find my address, it’s on every story I post.

From: ficticious-address@yahoo.co.uk

To: hollowman@hotmail.com

Subject: enj 🙂 y

Think of me as you browse these.

Don’t waste time tracing this address; it’s a one- off.

SCAR

She has sent me urls: a medical site looking at the treatment of scars; a site condemning the practice in rural India of using battery acid to scar the faces of women who reject you; a site on female circumcision; a site on mastectomy.

All of them with pictures.

I go through every site, slowly, compulsively. The images burn into my memory.

“I know what you want. I know what you need,” she’d said. I wonder if she is right.

My legs ache from sitting in the chair too long. The central heating has switched off for the night. I drag myself to bed. I know when I sleep I will dream of scars.

Writing For Happiness

I’ve never been good at happiness.

Maybe it’s the way I’m wired: serotonin seems to kick in more slowly with me.

Maybe it’s the way I was raised: to be suspicious, not to hope for too much, not to be surprised if I get less, never to let others know what I want in case they try to take it from me.

Whatever the cause, the effect is that happiness is not something that I have a lot of experience of.

This is not as dire as it sounds.

For me, happiness is like a favourite holiday: I’m always glad when it comes around, I look forward to it, I cherish the memory of it, but I don’t expect it to happen every day. Mostly, I’ll settle for not being depressed, afraid, lonely or miserable.

Over the years I’ve developed the habit of distancing myself from immediate emotional reactions. Partly that’s a natural pre-disposition; partly it’s a professional hazard. These days, the emotion most likely to penetrate my defenses is anger.

I’m really good at anger. I do the full range from the slow smolder, through vicious wrath, on to all-consuming rage. Anger, like luxury, comes as a guest to take a slave. Anger is the enemy of happiness: mine, the people around me and particularly the person that I’m angry at.

I started to write out of loneliness more than anything else.

I was traveling too much, alone too much, disliking myself and my surroundings too much. I needed an escape. Alcohol doesn’t work for me, I need way too much of it before it has an effect and the effect often leads to a clarity of thought and vulnerability to emotion that turns an escape route into a cage. Drugs have never appealed; there seems to be too much loss of control involved. I’m not a people person. I hate small talk and abhor rooms crowded with people that I don’t know.

So I turned inwards, not pursuing happiness, just inuring myself from life. To my surprise, I discovered happiness.

It turned out that, for me, writing is what the psychologist Mihály Csíkszentmihályi describes as a “flow experience.” Csíkszentmihályi was one of the few psychologists who treated happiness as problematic. He felt that happiness needed to be explained. His research revealed that many people experienced joy, sometimes even rapture, when they could immerse themselves in a task that took their full attention, that was challenging but at which they could succeed and which required them to harness their emotions.

Some people get into the flow in sports or playing video games or dropping their bike into a perfect line through a curve. I get there through writing.

When I write, time slows, the world fades and there is nothing but me and my imagination. It is, in its way, a little bubble of happiness.

At first I thought that I had found a way to daily happiness, but the more time I spent in the bubble the more I realized that the activity was similar to masturbation: a pleasurable relief but not a sustainable source of joy. I began to understand that real joy, real happiness, required something more: love.

As the words produced by my time in the bubble spread out behind me like a snail-trail, I saw that, subconsciously, I was using my writing to tackle all those things that impeded me from living a loving life. My characters, like me, were largely not happy people. Unlike me, they all tried to do something about that: to reach out to others, to make a change, to seek a form of redemption, maybe even to achieve happiness.

Looking back, I realized that I was telling myself a story, sending myself a message. My emotions had found a way to send me an email.

Surprisingly, some of the emails they sent me where funny. I discovered that I could write about people who were witty and kind and offered each other love. It took me longer than it should have to realize that these were actually the most important emails of all.

The message was a trite truism: those who love themselves and open themselves to others spread happiness like a contagion. Love is the mechanism through which happiness is passed on.

O.K. You all knew that. I knew that. I just couldn’t bring that knowledge to be an active part of my life.

My writing, the content of it, the need for it, the inspiration behind it, slowly convinced me that I needed to love myself a little more and I needed to give that love to others.

Oddly, this resulted in me stopping writing for a while. I decided to get to know my wife again; to see if I could show her the love that I felt, rather than assuming that she knew it was there beneath my angry, difficult exterior. I wanted to centre myself on that love.

Of course, life is never so simple. We went through two years in the shadow of other people’s pain and death. But we went through it together.

When I started to write again, I let my subconscious play its established role and waited to see what message I would receive.

I smiled when I saw that I had started to write stories that were about love and perhaps even romance; about people who were pursuing happiness even though they knew that they might not find it.

I’m still deciding what to do about that. Maybe if I write some more, I’ll find out.

Falls The Shadow

Falls The Shadow

© Mike Kimera 2011

 

Knowledge has a name.

Speaking the name makes the knowledge real and grants it power over your life.

The name cannot be unsaid. The knowledge cannot be un-known.

Knowledge is irrevocable.

Knowledge is dangerous.

My family understood that.

Knowledge makes you culpable.

Knowledge makes you choose.

Knowledge is the source of all guilt.

In my family, we chose not to know; we refused to name the things that were most important to us.

We were masters of inference, innuendo and unnoticed silences. If those failed us we fell back upon evasion, deflection and denial.

By this means we remained a happy family.

We did not know that my father’s fits of impotent anger would be followed by long silent drinking sessions that must never be interuppted.

We did not know that the bruises on my mother’s thighs were made by my father’s belt.

We did not know that my older sister was afraid not of the dark but of the deeds that darkness cloaked and which could not be named in the daylight.

We were a happy family. Happy families are all the same. Aren’t they?

I knew my father taught English at the Grammar School.

I knew he was a kind and gentle man, much loved by his students. You could ask anybody. They would all tell you that.

I knew that his favorite poet was Eliot. I even knew his favorite verses from “The Hollow Men”:

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow

And:

This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

I knew that my mother was beautiful and that my sister was brave.

I knew that one day soon I would be as tall as my father

I knew where my father kept his gun.

My father’s suicide opened a sluice-gate that brought knowledge flooding into our family with such force that it was all we could do to avoid drowning in it

The police knew that my father and I were alone in the house because my sister had broken her arm in a clumsy fall and my mother had taken her to the hospital.

Our family Doctor knew that I had been so distraught at finding my father dead in his study, his gun still in his hand, a half-empty bottle of whiskey on his desk and a blood-spattered copy of “The Hollow Men” open in front of him, that I had had to be sedated.

The Coroner knew that my father was being treated for depression and should not have mixed whisky, Temazepam and a loaded gun.

My mother, my sister and I knew that things would never be the same.

I knew that sometimes knowledge falls like a shadow and fills the world with darkness.

I knew that a world can end with a bang that starts with a young girl’s whimper.

Pillow Talk

Pillow Talk

© 2000 Mike Kimera  Do not reproduce without permission mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk

“When you tell yourself the story of your life, is it a book or a movie?”

No fair. How am I supposed to concentrate on questions like that just after I’ve come? I want to lie back and enjoy the warm glow; maybe nap a little. Of course, with Helena, that is out of the question. She is resting her head on my belly, apparently fascinated by my now limp and sated cock, which she is playing with like a bendy toy.

“Huh?” I answer, displaying my Cambridge education to the full.

“Are you a ‘I was born on a dark and stormy night’ sort of guy?” she says, moving her head further down my belly.

“You know, linear memories bound by the three unities of time space and action.” As she names each unity her finger and thumb test the degree of elasticity of my foreskin by way of emphasis.

“Or do you visualise your life in flashbacks, freeze-frames and fantasy sequences?”  Helena lets the back of my cock rest on her cheek as she laves my post-coital stickiness with her tongue.

“Er, I don’t know” I say, completely distracted.

“How…” a pause while she sucks most of my, now rather less limp, cock into her mouth. She turns her head to face me, nimbly avoiding twisting my flesh beyond return despite the continuous suction. Looking me in the eyes, she pulls me from her mouth, as if removing a lollipop, in order to speak, “…can you not know?”

One elbow is now between my legs.  Resting her chin on her hand, she places the tip of my penis on her large closed lips and raised one eyebrow in playful interrogation.

Enough. I am awake now and I’m not going to take this lying down; I need to be kneeling. But Helena has me in the palm of her hand. Before I can act I have to find a way to make her let go.

In her progress down my belly, Helena has insinuated her body closer to mine.  Her breasts are pressed against my thigh. Her hips are flat to the bed with one thigh snuggled in to my ribs. Her legs are parted just enough to display my cum oozing out of her. I know an invitation when I see one.

“Well books are difficult.” I say. Her eyes watch my hand rest on her buttock then caress the curved edge, fingers gently moving slowly into the dark recess. She slides her tongue under the length of my cock and presses her thigh closer to me.

“You find them inherently problematic?” she asks, as if we were discussing this in a seminar group.

The palm of my hand is now on her inner thigh, the fingers placing gentle pressure on soft skin below the labia. She opens her legs further and waits.

“I never know whether to say ‘Mark’s fingers pushed insistently into the cum-slickened centre of Helena’s sex’ or  ‘My fingers and thumb clamp on to your pubis from inside and out, the fingers buried in your warm wet folds, the thumb torturing the erect nub of your sex’ Tense is so important. Point of view is critical. Don’t you agree?”

“Oh yes” Helena says, releasing my cock and rolling on to her back. “From my point of view it is vital to find the perfect tense.”

I bend both fingers inside her, exploring the ridged flesh, relishing the touch of her muscles, eager and enticing. Trying not to break my rhythm, I move around the anchor of my hand until I am kneeling between Helena’s legs.

“Movies can be so much more immediate.” I say. “You know the kind of thing: scene opens with extreme close up, side view, of woman’s slender fingers caressing her own breast. Nipple is very erect. Male mouth lowers. Tongue extends, touches nipple. Low groan (female) is heard. Man’s mouth closes over entire nipple”.

Helena allows me to play director and throws herself into her role with enthusiasm, emit a low throaty sound that stiffens me. We improvise the dialogue-free action scene for a while, my mouth and her breast questing for ways to do something new with form but always returning to the traditional suck and bite formula, cliched yet effective.

Alas a director’s work is never done. My body is telling me that it’s time to move towards the denouement, or do I mean climax?

“Yep. It would have to be a movie.” I say, sitting back on my heels, my hands sliding under Helena’s buttocks.

“I particularly like sequels” I say moving her ass up my thighs and letting her wrap her legs about my waist.

“How’s about ‘American Beauty 2: the second coming’?” Helena suggests “with me covered in rose petals”.

“Sod art” I say, pushing into her.  “Let’s do a porno: ‘Helena takes it all – again’ ”

I bring her legs from behind me to rest on my shoulder, both ankles held in one hand. The serious work is about to begin.

“OK big boy” she laughs “Run VT”.

Brief Encounter

Brief Encounter

© Mike Kimera 2000 All right reserved. Do not reproduce without permission mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk

Summer on the subway. People packed too close to fall over. Each person in their little envelope of private space, avoiding eye contact, shutting down their sense of smell, letting their minds take them somewhere-else.

I hang from an overhead bar, swaying like seaweed in the tidal flow. My body is stretched and loose at the same time. I close my eyes and track the progress of a bead of sweat down my spine. Bodies press against me on all sides, moving to the rhythmic song of the train.

At the next stop, as bodies flow on to the platform, I am buffeted and twisted in the eddies of the crowd and come to rest against the opposite door. I place my forehead against the glass and feel the rumble of the track move through me.

A body moves against mine then moves away. I am certain the body is male and that the contact was deliberate. I stay looking ahead, tense now, waiting. A finger, on my hip, large, strong, sliding and then gone. I discover I have been holding my breath. I wait. Two fingers: firm, insistent, stroking. Brief but purposeful. My personal sonar senses a large presence behind me, very close, walling me off from the crowd, a coral reef for my lagoon.

At the next touch I place my hand over the fingers, trapping them on my hip. They pause. My pulse races. I tense my body but don’t turn my head. I curl my moist palm around the fingers. Slowly, steadily, they push in and out of the hollow I create.

As the train sways I stay still. His body moves against mine and does not move away. A long hard shape pushes into my buttock. I press my shoulders against his chest, making my back into an S. One arm holds the rail above my head, the other clasps the invasive fingers. My eyes are closed, my lips slightly parted, my legs open just enough so that they don’t touch at any point along their length. I can smell my own sex through the thin material of my summer dress.

His breath is on my neck. I lick my lips. Did I sigh or did I only wish it deeply? The fingers vanish. The pressure on my arse eases. The breath on my neck is still there. My shoulders are still on his chest. I think I hear a zipper but the noise is drowned in the opening of doors as people ebb out of the train.

The sticky wetness of his cock in my palm shocks me. Reflexively I grip him. Thick, uncut, hot. How avidly my hand maps the contours of this new but familiar presence. We are both completely still. The train moves forward and he slides through my palm, foreskin slipping back, releasing the salt-musk smell of male sex. My thumb decides to rub along the exposed tip, rewarding me with an immediate hardening of this fascinating flesh.

As if in answer, my neck prickles to the darting touch of a tongue. I melt as my ear, my whole ear, is engulfed in strong demanding lips. My sex is crying with joy. My mind is locked away, pacing its cell muttering “This isn’t me”. I ignore it and listen only to the song of my body. My hand keeps time with the beat of my desire, stroking, squeezing, provoking. Time has slowed and space has stretched as sensation etches strong deep lines in my memory.

My legs have come together from sheer need. I feel my arse tighten against him. His cock, or my hand, I can’t tell which, I control neither, moves faster.

A hand, large, long-fingered, strong, slides up and over my hip then down into the moist shallows of my panties. My head pushes back. My hand strangles the neck of the cock. My cunt lips suckle the fingers, pulling them in, drowning them in juices, closing behind them to block off retreat.

Time accelerates. I thrust and stroke and squeeze and sweat. Blood roars in my ears. Cum splashes on to my hips. “FUUUUUUUCCCCKKKKKKKK” lashes out from my upturned head.

I subside into silence, beached against the door. The train stops. My heartbeat slows. Doors open and close. My mind returns. Behind me is only air and the stares of envious strangers.

The Pursuit of Happiness


The Pursuit of Happiness

© 2005 Mike Kimera. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk

They say that, when you press a conch to your ear, you can hear the sea. When I press my lips against Beth’s cunt, and the sea-salt taste of her floods my mouth, and her thighs press against my ears, I hear happiness.

This is a here-and-now, grab it, savor it, look for it again, kind of happiness that roars in my blood like laughter in a storm. I grin and push my tongue into her.

When I can press no deeper, my hands slide, palms flat and smooth, up the warm flesh that stretches from the depths of her buttocks to the narrow shallows of her knees. I grip hard, pulling Beth’s legs apart, lifting her hips, letting my mouth slip slowly south towards the darker, earthier opening.

Beth squirms as my tongue spirals inwards insistently and my nose presses into the slick-but-sticky folds of her cunt.

If her hands were free, her fingers would be in my hair, grabbing and pushing, torn between removal and insertion. But, Beth is bound tight from wrist to elbow, hands stretched far above her head.

If she could speak, there would be curses and growls and pleas and thank yous, but all Beth can do is bite down on the black leather bit that fits across her mouth like a fat, armor-plated cock.

When I am so drenched in her that I have lost awareness of everything except the pounding of my blood in my now stiff cock, I stand, move hands from knees to ankles, spread her wider and enter her in her tightest hole.

Making it tighter still, I grasp both ankles in one fist and hold them firm against my shoulder.

Beth shudders as I adjust my stance, pushing home until there is no gap between her and me all along the length of her sweat-glazed legs.

Her eyes scream at me, then widen when they see, held high about my head in my free hand, the short, soft, suede, strips of the hand flogger.

Happiness grows like a blush with each stroke across Beth’s belly. I can feel her trying to bounce with joy.

When my arm is tired, and the tears have come, and my cock has spurted its appreciation, I slump to the floor, Beth’s legs limp over my shoulders.

A poet once said, “Man cannot take too much happiness.” Or did he say “truth“? Is there a difference? In my sated state, I cannot tell.

But, I am not a poet and I seek happiness whenever I can.

They say that, when you press a conch to your ear, you can hear the sea. When I press my ear against Beth’s sweat-slick breast and listen to her heart, I hear happiness.

To Boldly Cliché

So, I started to write this devastatingly clever analyse of the function of cliché in the collective subconscious and its role in dreamweaving in Neuro Linguistic Programming and died of boredom part way through. I decided the only way to rescue the post was to fall back on that old cliché ‘show – don’t tell’. This little tongue-in-cheek fantasy was the result.

Enjoy.


To Boldly Cliché

© Mike Kimera 2011

“Is that the Cliché Guy?” I asked Molly.

“Yeh. I told you he was hot. Wait ’til you hear the Brit accent. He could read my grocery list aloud and make it sound sexy. When he reads from his erotica stuff I turn into a puddle.”

I’d let Molly drag me along to her Creative Writing class to see her latest lust object, partly so I could get her to shut up about him and partly because the title of the lecture intrigued me: “To Boldly Cliché – going where other writers fear to tread.” I’d heard a lot of clichéd lectures in my time, but I’d never known a lecturer who advertised that they were doing it on purpose.

“So,” Molly said, almost fizzing with excitement. “Waddaya think of him?”

She was right of course, he was hot. But I wasn’t going to give that to her straight away. Besides, there was something off about the guy; something that wasn’t what it seemed; something that was maddeningly familiar but which I couldn’t name.

“Well, he certainly looks like a cliché. I’d say he’s playing tall dark handsome stranger, pretending to be an academic.”

“You think the geek-glasses are fake?”

“Well, even if they’re real, the tweed jacket with patches on the elbows is way too ‘central casting’ to be authentic, even for a Brit.”

Molly didn’t look pleased at my description, so I threw in a rider: “The jacket does fit him rather well though doesn’t it?”

Molly smiled, leaned towards me conspiratorially and said, “A body like that would look good in anything. Personally, I’m imagining a thong and a tan. ”

I laughed. People turned to look, including Cliché Guy.

When his eyes found us, Molly pretended to be looking for something in her bag. I met his gaze. Behind those ugly glasses, he had beautiful eyes. He raised one eyebrow, gave a hint of a smile, as if we shared a secret and then turned back to his notes.

Not here five minutes and already I was living a cliché; our gazes meeting across a crowded room creating a small bubble of intimacy between two strangers, followed by my heart going all pit-a-pat. And all for a strange guy in glasses.

Suddenly I knew who Cliché Guy was pretending to be; he was Clarke Kent all dressed up to give a lecture. Did that mean he was Superman underneath?

Sheash, it had been hard enough to concentrate when I had Molly’s thong image in my head, now I was seeing the guy ripping his shirt open to show me his big S.

I was about to share this idea with Molly when Cliché Guy started to talk.

“Good evening, everyone. I’m Toby Lambert-Bryce and I’m here to tell you about the joy of clichés”

Toby Lambert-Bryce? He had to have made that up. What kind of a parent lands their child with a name like Toby? And was I the only one with traumatised flash-backs to those drawings of the creepy guy in the beard in my mother’s dog-eared copy of ‘The Joy of Sex’?

Apparently I was. Everyone else was listening to Toby.

“Cliché is actually onomatopoeic. Back in the days when movable type was set by hand, it made sense to pre-set the most commonly used phrases into metal blocks of type that could be dropped into the metal matrix rather than build them letter by letter each time. French typesetters named these pre-set blocks after the noise they made as they slotted into the matrix – cliché .

“The typesetters literally knew how many clichés a writer dropped into their text. It’s a talent many editors would benefit from today.”

He waited half a beat for laughter but none came. I figured he’d lost them at onomatopoeic – which sounded like the kind of volcanic island where Fay Wray gets up close and personal with King Kong. Still, I liked the way he said cliché – with the French accent and a lot of passion.

Addams Family flash: “Ah, Tish. You spoke French”. Now I knew why Gomez reacted like that. It was definitely sexy.

I shifted in my seat to catch Toby’s attention, then I gave him my best ‘You’re doing great and I’m so supportive’ smile.

“It’s tempting to dismiss clichés as the sign of lazy thinking but I believe that would be a mistake. Clichés are the thread from which we weave our understanding of the world. As the much maligned Samuel Goldwyn once said, ‘What we need is new clichés’.”

Again, no laughter. Not even when he used an accent for Samuel Goldwyn’s words. I looked around to see why this was a such a tough house. Then I realised that the group was mainly female and mid-thirities and up and they weren’t really listening to him because they were too busy eating him with their eyes. Poor old Toby had just been dropped into SPECTRE’s piranha tank and hadn’t even noticed yet.

“Clichés are the genes in the metaphorical DNA of our collective subconscious. They are short pieces of code that hold a meaning we all take for granted, so much so, that we have trouble seeing the cliché itself. Clichés evolve from the discourse we hold with ourselves as a society. I believe that clichés are best understood as organisms that have a life-cycle.”

At this point two things happened, Toby started to give his talk directly to me, as I seemed to be the only one reacting to his content (or because he’d fallen madly in love with me the moment our eyes met across a crowded room – yeah, right), and I began to be distracted by what he was saying. It was a bit too dressed-up for its own good but it made sense to me.

“Clichés start life, in their larval state as it were, as insights. Ways of seeing that are at once so distinctive and so accurate that everyone goes ‘ah ha, that’s what I meant’ or ‘of course it is so’. “

Of course it is so? Who says that out loud? Toby desperately needed a translator if he was going to get his message across to Earthlings.

“It is the originality and accuracy of the cliché that results in its widespread use and takes it to the next stage of its life-cycle. The more the cliché is used, the less it is really seen. Its impact is blunted. Its meaning is not lost, but rather is taken for granted. The cliché becomes part of our collective gestalt. It sets our expectations about the truth a writer is describing. It is the establishing shot in the movie, the leitmotiv in the opera, the three basic chords in a Status Quo song. Without clichés, originality would have no place to live.”

I waited for the applause. Anyone who can build Status Quo into a creative writing lecture deserves applause. None came.

“Do you understand what he’s saying?” I whispered to Molly.

“Not a word. But I love the way that he says it. Except, what was with the German accent. Is he faking the Brit thing or what.”

“Gestalt and leitmotiv are German words.”

“Well I knew they weren’t English. You’d think he’d use English in a creative writing class, wouldn’t ya?”

Molly always makes me smile. She puts the dumb act on of course. She thinks it makes her less threatening to men. I think it makes her so non-threatening that they wipe their feet on her as they walk out of her bedroom but I try not to say that out loud.

Toby was still talking but, like everyone else, I wasn’t listening any more. I was watching him remove that horrible Tweed jacket. The shirt underneath fitted him even better than the jacket had. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, hips a teen model would kill for but best of all, when he turned around to hang up his jacket we all got a view of his tight, chino-clad butt. He even managedto make Dockers look good.

“The final stage of the cliché life-cycle comes when it is so over-used that it loses its authenticity, its meaning changes and it becomes either a parody of itself, a source of humour, a sort of Quixotic metaphor that once slew dragons and now tilts only at windmills or it becomes its own shadow and is used to undermine the truth it was once a token of.”

He smiled when he finished that sentence. He shouldn’t have smiled. He’d lost everyone in the room. He should have been feeling at least disappointed if not anxious. There was something else going on here.

I leaned forward to give him my full attention and tried to ignore Molly saying, “Are you starting to drool over him?”

I’d answer that question when I’d worked out the puzzle.

“I’m here today to ask you, as writers, to intervene in the cliché life-cycle. To do a bit of genetic engineering if you will. Don’t bury clichés in the literary landfill; recycle them. Look into the heart of what made the cliché distinctive and insightful. Sharpen the blunt edges. Scrape off the cultural barnacles and find the metal underneath.”

Toby was looking at me now. That hint of a smile was back. I was sure that this was a clue to whatever was going on here.

“Sometimes all it takes is to update one small part of the cliché. Ripley in ‘Alien’ spawned a whole new trope of kick-ass female warriors. The part was originally written for a man. If it had been played by a man, would we have really seen, Ripley? Once the director cast Sigourney Weaver, the edges of the cliché became so sharp they cut themselves a niché in our collective imaginations.”

Ah, now things were getting clearer. I started to see what Toby was up to.

“Sometime a cliché can be used to bait-and-switch the audience towards a new truth. Start with the happy couple clichés: meeting, fighting, reconciling, marrying – but add in some serial-killer secret-identity clichés for one or both of the couple and you have yourself a ‘Prittzi’s Honor’ or a ‘Mr. and Mrs. Smith.’.”

That’s when I finally understood what Toby was doing. Even without seeing him in a thong I knew for sure now that the guy had balls.

“In closing, I’d ask all of you to boldly cliché in your work. I assure you, you will be writing at the final frontier. I hope you enjoyed the show folks. Have a great evening.”

There was spatter of applause, then Toby put his jacket back on and people started to file out.

“Wait for me at the door,” I said to Molly, “I’d like a word with Toby.”

“I thought you would.”

Like I said, Molly only pretends to be dumb.

Toby waited for me. He looked relaxed and amused. He had every right to be.

“So, does the college know what you’re doing?” I said,

“That I’m giving a Creative Writing Class on clichés? Sure.”

The Brit accent was gone now, but the smile was still there.

“But they don’t know about your Performing Arts project?”

“No, Professor, they don’t.”

“You recognised me?”

“As soon as you came in. I took your class on the need for a return to narrative at UCLA. You were the hottest prof I’d ever met.”

He took off the geek-glasses. His eyes were a startlingly deep blue.

“I don’t remember you.”

“Tragic isn’t it?”

I was thinking more that not noticing him might have saved me from a serious breach of professional ethics.

“And now you’re doing a Masters in Performance Art?”

“Yes. This is part of my thesis work.”

“And what is your thesis?”

“I’m exploring the role of cliché in dissemblance. The creation of an unreliable narrator that everyone thinks is reliable at first because it’s so clichéd they don’t assess it.”

“The bait-and-switch?”

“Exactly. My contention is that people always believe the body language regardless of the words.”

For the first time he gave me a full wattage smile. My body was telling me that it wanted to speak his language. I ignored it and tried to stay on topic.

“And you have all this on film so that you can analyse the reaction of the audience to the different clichés you present them with?”

“Yes, with the college’s permission of course.”

There was a pause in which a great deal was not said.

“Would it be too clichéd if I asked you to come and have coffee with me?” he said.

My heart did a back-flip and I had to struggle to prevent myself from grinning like an idiot.

“Well,” I said, “I’ll agree on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“Open your shirt and show me what you’re wearing underneath.”

“Hah, I didn’t think you’d spot that.” he said as he unbuttoned his blue Oxford-weave button-down to reveal a Super Man T-shirt.

“There’s a Starbucks around the corner,” I said, linking my arm through his.

As we walked towards the door, Molly gave me an evil grin, waived and left.

Lobo’s Choice




Lobo’s Choice

© Mike Kimera 2000
Lobo is the kind of dog that makes you wonder about reincarnation. Sometimes, when I’m feeling low, he looks at me with those wise eyes of his and its like he’s saying “Hush now Laurie. It will pass. Everything will be OK. Trust me I’ve been there.” And you know, I believe him.

When I first met Lobo he was a little black ball of fluff abandoned at the pound. Now he’s a big dog and I mean big. All that long black fur makes him look even bigger. He weighs in at close on 60lb and all of it’s muscle. People look at me and say “Laurie, that dog’s getting bigger than you are girl”.

He’s a good dog though and over the years we’ve learned to trust one another. Lobo will pretty much let me do anything to him.

Anyway, the thing about Lobo is he knows about people. He knows good people from bad people and he’s never been wrong yet. He meets a person for the first time and he just knows.

Me, I never see the bad guy coming til it’s way too late. Got my feelings hurt more times than enough that way. Some guy flashes me a smile and talks real sweet in my ear and the next thing I know I’m in the back of his car leaving footprints on the windows and afterwards he’s just gone with the wind.

Lobo and I have been together for eight years now. That’s longer than any guy has hung around, including my shit-for-brains husband. Lobo didn’t ever like him. I’d have saved myself a barrel full of grief if I’d listened to Lobo instead of marrying a scumbag with a $1,000 smile.

Now the thing is Lobo likes Gus. There’s lots of folks as don’t share Lobo’s opinion. Gus is a difficult man for some people to feel comfortable with. He’s an old style cowboy. A dying breed. He don’t take shit from no one. He knows a fool when he sees one and that doesn’t win him a lot of friends. Folks look at him and see the hair in a ponytail and that big knife that he wears on his belt all the time and they see trouble. Me, I’d see a guy I’d like to know better, maybe much better.

The thing about Gus is that he’s older than me. I’ve never asked him his age but I guess he’s 55 or so. He has a boy in his twenties who left town a while back, just after his mother died. I’m 37, pushing 38 and some folks think he’s too old for me. His face is lined and his hair’s more grey than blond now, but the man has style, you know? He wears tooled cowboy boots that he’s had for years. Wrangler jeans worn to his shape, striped brushpopper shirts and a big red neckerchief that looks real fine next to that blond grey beard of his. He has a black cowboy hat, custom made for him in Durango, with an eagle feather in the band, and he always wears a set of polaroid amber sun-glasses; only thing he wears that would let you know we’re in the 21st century. Gus’s face may be lined now, but a smile still fits it real easy.

So you know how it is, you see someone around and you smile at each other and say hi when you meet and you know there’s some warmth there but there’s nothing to move it on. You could go on like that for years, know what I mean? I guess Gus and I were like that until a few weeks ago. In a way it was Lobo who changed things. If I thought he’d done it deliberately then I’d know he was part human.

My trailer is off the road a piece, at least a mile from my nearest neighbour. I like the quiet. It was Friday evening, one of those summer evenings that goes on til very late. It was hot and dry. I was sitting in the shade outside my trailer, just letting myself mellow out with a cold one, when I Gus showed up on that fine horse of his with Lobo across his saddle.

“Good evening, Laurie” says Gus. Lobo is looking at me kinda embarrassed and making sure I can see the white bandage on his front paw. I’m up out of my chair and rushing towards them.

Gus looks down at me and says. “Now don’t you fret. It’s nothing serious”. He swings himself out of the saddle as if it’s no height at all and then lifts Lobo down. Even while I’m worrying about Lobo, I’m noticing the strength that that takes and thinking about the wiry muscle beneath Gus’s shirt.

As soon as Lobo is on the ground he limps towards me on three legs, his tail wagging and his tongue touching the end of his nose the way it does when he’s apologising for something. I’m kneeling and hugging him and then looking at Gus and saying, “What did the dumb dog do now?”

“Well, it seems he got a bit over enthusiastic chasing prairie dogs over near the ranch and got his paw trapped in some old fencing wire. I’m sorry about that, Laurie, the wire should never have been left there like that. But he’s OK. I gave him a tetanus shot, put some powder on the wound and bound it up to keep it clean. He should be fine by morning.”

When I stand up, with Lobo leaning against my leg, I find that I’m real close to Gus and I’m looking into his face and not finding anything to say. I’m just sort of lost there. I can smell him. He smells of horse and dried sunshine. I want more of that smell.

Gus is smiling at me, waiting for me to say something. Lobo licks my hand and I come round. “Gus that was so kind of you. And bringing him all the way over here like that.”

Oh no problem, Laurie, old Brandy and I both needed a ride tonight and besides, Lobo said I should bring him straight home.”

I laughed and said “Well I’ve always got time for a man as can speak dog. That’s a sign of real ability. Now you take yourself a chair while I get some water for Lobo and couple of cold beers for you and me”.

Well one beer led to another they way they sometimes do when you just don’t want a conversation to end. We talked about people we both knew and movies we liked. Gus liked that movie “8 seconds” about the rodeo, and of course he had all of “Lonesome Dove” on video but what surprised me was that his favourite movie was “Top Gun”. Next thing I know he’s singing that song: you know – “She’s lost that loving feeling” like they do in the movie. He has a fine deep voice and he’s playing it for laughs. So we sing some more movie tunes. Then we play do-you-remember this TV theme tune?

By this time it’s dark and what with the beer and the singing and the laughing I’m dizzy and tired in a happy sort of way. I’m sitting very close to Gus now and suddenly there’s a silence and we’re just looking at each other. Then he kisses me. He’s looking at my mouth and leaning forward slowly, leaving lots of time for me to move away, then his lips are on mine.

Every nerve I have in my body feels those lips brushing against me. His hand comes up to the side of my neck and I lean into him. He doesn’t rush. Kissing for Gus isn’t a step you take on your way to some place else; he savours it. He sucks my lower lip into his mouth and runs his tongue over it and it’s the sexiest thing anyone has ever done with me. Then his whole mouth is on mine, his beard is stroking my face as he moves, and when his tongue pushes into me I moan.

He pulls back for a second, so he can see my eyes. His hand still on my neck, and says “Laurie, darling, I’ve been wanting to do that for the longest time”.

I give him a big grin. I know my nipples, which are standing up and cheering, must be visible through my shirt, but he’s a gentleman and keeps his eyes on mine. I take hold of his hand and move it from my neck to my breast. It’s a hard warm hand and I lean into it. Gus kisses me again but this time his thumb is moving firmly over my nipple and my hands are in his hair.

I break the kiss by standing up. I don’t say anything; I just keep looking at him as I take off my shirt. Now other men might be scrambling out of their jeans by now or trying to pull off mine, but Gus just watches, watches in a way like I’m unwrapping a present. So now I’m just in my shorts.

Normally I’d feel self-conscious but tonight I feel like a goddess in the moonlight. I grin wickedly, and then do that thing you see in the movies, you know where the woman leans forward at the waist and pushes down her shorts at the same time? It looks so sexy when they do it. Maybe it’s the beers or the size of my thighs but I get part way there and lose my balance. Gus leans forwards and catches me and I’m now naked in his lap with my shorts just below my knees.

I’ll never forget what he did next. I wake up in the night dreaming of it. He pulls my head back gently by the hair, making me arch my spine, then, in one movement, his mouth is on my breast, his finger is sliding into me, his thumb is on my button and he’s playing me like I’m a guitar. Man does he know chords. I come howling into the night.

When I return to earth he kisses my mouth and says, “You are one sexy lady, Lauri darlin”.

“Mmmmmm thank you,” I say. I still didn’t know how we got here so fast so I decide to let him lead. He does. He carries me, like I weigh nothing at all, which makes me feel great, over to the sun lounger. He makes me lay back while he pulls off my shorts and panties. Now I’m naked and he’s fully dressed but it feels OK.

“Laurie darlin, you look good enough to eat”, he says; then he shows me he means it.

Now most guys, if you can get them down there at all, don’t really know what they’re doing. They want you to blow them so they lick you first. They’ve seen it in all those porno movies. But they don’t touch the right places in the right way. They fumble and nip or just press too hard. Some of them are so far off target you want to draw them a map. Gus didn’t need a map. He knew the territory well and he knew how to travel it. Soon my hand is on his head and my hips are bucking. My god I’ve come for the second time and I haven’t even unzipped the man yet.

“Gus” I say, “it’s my turn. Get yourself out of those jeans”.

“Yes Maam” he says, laughing.

I can’t take my eyes off his cock. A man his age you have to wonder if it’s all that it once was you know? But Gus is standing proud and I want him. His skin there feels smooth and hot. I kneel in front of him and kiss the underside, just above his balls.

“Laurie, you do much more of that and I won’t be accountable for the outcome,” Gus says; but he doesn’t move.

I work the flat of my tongue up his shaft then take the head quickly in my mouth. God he feels good.

Standing up I signal for him to lie on the lounger. Now I’m not as limber as I was but this I know how to do. I squat over him and feed him inside of me. I love this part: the heat, the slow slide in, the sense of being filled, the look of surprise when my muscles kick in. I bend over him like a jockey and we start to gallop. I am so wet I have to concentrate to keep him inside me. I’m talking now, little phrases of encouragement, urging him on like a horse in a race. It turns out to be a long race. I’m covered in sweat and my legs are trembling, then Gus lets out this kinda growl, I sink to the base of his cock and stay there while he comes inside me. I love that feeling.

Afterwards, with a blanket around us and Lobo at our feet, I say, “Are we going to be OK, Gus?”

Gus kisses the top of my head and hugs me. “Laurie darlin, you worry too much. We’re gonna be just fine”.