The next weekly chapter of my memoire is now available, ‘Chapter Five – home but not alone‘. I hope you enjoy it and, if you are new to the work, the previous chapters too.
The next weekly chapter of my memoire is now available, ‘Chapter Five – home but not alone‘. I hope you enjoy it and, if you are new to the work, the previous chapters too.
Following on from the posting of my Prose Poem – ‘Life ~ Long’ – I have started the serialisation of my book that inspired this piece.
It is posted on its own blog pages and will be updated weekly with the next chapter. It’s not a piece of ‘light’ reading and contains some adult themes so be warned if you are of a sensitive nature, the introduction might explain this but, it is a piece that tells an interesting story of parts of my life, and, as is frequently said, ‘truth is often stranger than fiction’.
If you enjoy the first chapter, or at least find it interesting, you can ‘Follow’ the blog or get updates via email when each new instalment is available, just click the appropriate button on the right of the blogs screens.
“A literary work which exhibits poetic quality using emotional effect and heightened imagery but is written in prose instead of verse.”
Life. Long idyllic days, large loving family whos many generations share the work of a busy home, vibrant gardens and fresh farm fields. Here it’s all home cooking, home making, endless baking of all that’s whole-sum which gives everything a tender toddler needs. But crushed amid the countless comings and goings, with people drifting in and out, everywhere and inside out, amidst it all my constitution builds but introverted isolation blights and I resolve to be marginally unstable, and physically, rather stout.
Being the last of three, cute enough to clamber up on almost any knee, I soon get bored and with little kerfuffle, no one sees when I start to shuffle, on my every broadening bottom across green tiled floor, from hiding under the colossal central table towards the beckoning, always open, wide back door.
Here cats and dogs and even worms are my constant friends and when, eventually, walking out further, caged birds chatter and flutter, until some are eaten by vivid rodents. All this wonder offers up life’s variety in broad stroked pictures. But, confronted with life’s hard knocks, contrasting with my mother’s soft enfoldments, even at this early age I’m left to decide, in life, the relevant do’s and don’ts, the cans and cant’s, where the heaven falls on the hard.
Growth spurts push me to be more able and I help at the now reachable kitchen table and on around the many roomed house, carrying coal for the fires, ironing flat cloths of red check kerchief, and stirring boiled greens. Strength turns to turning spits of soil in wild gardens which is a natural gateway to ventures much further afield.
Out here, exploring the idyllic fields, I find huge semi-tame beasts only interested in their grazing, and as the chattering chaos indoors gets less appealing, I trek to the far and away, every step offering new worlds, complex singularities, each more amazing, each so much more wild and fantastic. Sometimes I’m scared so stiff, I allow it’s wonder to re-mould me, still being made from podgy, primordial, pot bellied plastic.
In this new world, such a cruel world, my tinted inner nature develops despite all the nurture, and I feel my alternate faces turn, perhaps to those things a little too bold, too beastly, I feel rather harshly, I’m getting quite bombastic.
Then suddenly, all mysterious, school days are on me, one saving grace it seems, a big brother’s singular job to look out, just, if he must, for the shy little ‘b’. But with the safe sight of home gone, he quickly, cruelly, lets go of my tiny trembling hand, and walks on at a pace that leaves me blind, I shuffle on cold reluctant feet, scanning all around, all alone, uncertain of just where I should go. Bravely I run on towards his back but towards what? Hopefully there would be others there that might somehow happen to know.
Then I see the other kids, many about my age, running riotously around, they seem to know each other, not that I can really tell but my doubt delights to confuse matters and I find myself really, not all that keen. Then recognition intervenes and there, two I can smile at, but, being oh so painfully shy, I still only manage a limp ‘Hi Ian’ then ‘Hi Jimmy’ as they just pass me, right on by. So I try ‘Hi Helen’ but it’s the same and I’m left fully daunted. Cautiously, I don’t go for ‘Hi Peter’, the one I really favoured, he I could play with, talk to, but it’s sadly all too clear, even in this one impossibly perfect pal, I’m still sociably, unfeatured.
So, a bell rings and I follow head down into classrooms all strange, on seats that give cold comfort, I diligently do just as we’re told, is this really what school’s like, till we all grow up and all too soon, get so very old? But then with papers and pencils and writing and sums, it all somehow adds up to something that quite possibly, probably, might just be fun. So, perhaps it’s not all bad and I decide to give it a go, just for today, only on trial, I just go with the flow.
Soon then it’s playtime, there’s cold milk and with growing hope I manage to corner that pal Peter, ‘Hello, would you like to share this, it’s just my milk?’ but he just throws a hard spoken ‘No’, thankful my clean, perfectly ironed, red checked hanky is at hand and in here, my disappointment I blow.
Despite such hardships, this little school turns out not all that bad. Days rolling into weeks which soon fast forwarding to unimaginable years, what was all that fuss about, those cold concerns amid fumbled confusions, bound up in my ridiculous child-like fears. But I have yet to recognise that, in whatever educational age, I’m never going to break into school society where, despite such teasing glimpses, I remain at the chagrin rim of social circles and can only lust after such impossible friendships. Perhaps it’s only the curlicues of my mind that curb the sweet views of compatibility, will life allow me the move to lift the impenetrable veil of inclusion, although deeply hidden, I already know, there’s no pleasant or practical resolution.
Away from the contortions of the classroom, having contrived to play out with said pal Peter, it’s oddity sticks in my head and words are stuck in my throat, all the things I wanted to say, like just how much of myself I would give for one roll in his, not so metaphorical, hay.
Silenced by such ignorance, we climb on bales and I stare at long legs locked on sinewy ropes, he calls for chase, I crave the briefest touch from his svelte curvaceous arms which stretch far from a firm, fabulous body. He flies in the face of fear, I simply cry inside, please, what can possibly be the harm, but yet again I hear it only in my head and yet again I know, I have neither the power, nor the charm.
With a flick of his fine long neck, golden silk sways, loops and settles, maybe it just needs a little help from my wanton fingers to be perfect? Could I reach out? I feel I’m not ready, indeed not all that sure that such a touch would be acceptable, even possible, although it’s plainly inscribed on the mystical list, where things you can physically do with other boys is writ, but then, with my lack lustre luck, here, in the now, he is surely bound to resist.
All too soon it’s home time, opportunity for games are over, but cruelly, these imaginary passions run on wildly inside my head where the only outcome of any certainty, is the fumbled miscarriage of physical hope, as I retire to the cold and soon dream-wet, ugliness, of my loveless empty bed.
To cope with constant disappointment, I decide it best to be prim, to be plain, outwardly cute, mommy’s good little boy, only it seems that nobody’s taking note. He, pal Peter who, having neither clear inclination nor clouded clue of what he means to me, what he does to me, indeed, that we’re so different in ways that I can’t speak of, or be part of, the widening wastelands of unrequited feelings consume all tangible life, as I fall, headlong into a hollow emotional darkness and he heads off to his boarding school.
Needing a believable replacement, I indulge myself in the most improbable concepts, they at least allow a degree of contact sport ably assisted by She, mother nature, who brings them fluidly and sweetly to my bedroom or the bathroom or far off landscapes where there’s just too many twisted, contrary, confusing things to see clean life clearly and the folly of my wayward musing sets a unknown precedent for future pleasure.
That egregious Mother also delivers her bundles of hormonal gore, feeding such sprouting and swelling and fuzz gilded things, I know not what could they be called. Older boys I hear laughing about same, what are they calling them, their balls? I hear a snigger about wanking and feeling up girls of whom some it is rumoured, are up for a quick fumble or even an erroneously named blow-job, so it’s claimed, when safely denuded behind a bike rack, or the big woody oak or the putative privacy of the pool house, well, that’s according to Thompson who claims that he’s done it, he’s had it, so mad, wild, fantastic I’m so jealous, that’s what I want, no, not with her, no, I want it hard and with Him.
An Adonis like incarnation, with skin so perfect, cropped hair sharp and simply stunning. In my head thoughts fall over themselves fuelled by my viral imagination, I’m constantly looking for ways to gain full sight of his immaculate perfection, and almost collapse as he’s finally revealed in the showers, naked, we and shimmering, fabulously firm from the heat of the gym where he had just taunted me in only the shortest of sweat clung shorts. Really, nearly, clearly, what could possibly be the harm to have all these feelings, that thankfully nobody can see and I pray others won’t wrongfully expose but decide for my own safety, it’s best to keep all such things internalised, saved up for some rarefied self-abuse with my still small but gaunt stiffness, raised easily to hand by my bounty of feelings.
Always alone, I rub up and down, rose tinted images flash to my mind’s eye and the visualisation of said Adonis looms large and firm. Here I safely touch the dream that is his perfectly gel pricked hair but always too quickly I’m trapped beneath the final explosion with which, even my wayward nature struggles to cope. It’s a force that’s far above anything that mere sexuality should be allowed to feel, and sadly, it’s a force soon spent, and a fast cooling afterglow hardly feeds my particular, if peculiar, vision of an impossible physical love. I’m left chilled in my wet and wayward musing. A shadow falls.
What is the point of my love if I can’t feel this forbidden love, simply, honestly, openly? Will there ever be a time to be fulfilled, free in this wide, wild, world, without the doors of my personal closet firmly closed against humanity. Life has its questions to ask before living can commence but beneath them, cowering, the silence remains black. This then becomes the norm for both school and social circles, and I take it on the chin and face the fact that there may never be other places I can go, to get the type of comfort I so categorically need.
But the memory of earlier delinquent goals never really leaves and I keep my eyes low to take the occasional sneaky peek, at some honey blonde beauty, dressed so sharp with hair trimmed slick and sleek. Only sometimes I’m not so careful and less guarded glances start to get me noticed. Despite trying to play things down, act mockingly meek, they still take my money meant for dinner and at the back of the bus, throw more than the obligatory punch, there, oiled by stinging words spat into my face, made more of a target with bent teeth in an ugly brace. Invisibly I cringe and cry but still go without tasting yet another longed for lunch.
Desperation finally tramples me down, and with rather less covert attentions I turn to face the rude and the rough, raucous anti-angels I know would be the very worst of friends. In this retrograde action, silently calling their bluff, drawn by those base and elemental needs I can’t hide from my hearts desire, knowing the end result will be more beatings to bruise any loving feelings. I close my eyes tight and feel the cold steel in the boot that meets with my wanting arse, and arms absorb poundings that don’t readily show, unlike the raw ripped edges of a once white shirt or another expensive blazer and with oh so many ties cut off a the knot, I’m eventually left alone, but still cold.
Predictably, it’s only my soul that ends up penetrated with the stinking bile of their loveless lust and rancid hurt. The perpetrators just laugh, bullish, it’s only a bit of bullying, I’m not the first, obviously not the last, but what can I do, I can’t suck up or face down, I just stand and stare, with my pink tinged frown.
In the fallout of parental intervention, things are not all that different, albeit illogical, another bruise won’t get me fulfilled, that twisted brutal touch, no, please don’t knock it, somehow it’s just what hopes were made for, a fleeing moment of pain stabbed pleasure with another’s hot hand in my pocket, their groping digits seeking coinage, stolen sweets, or perhaps things put by my devious design, so I can get my dick felt, my balls squeezed, oh what kind of pain could be more intense and yet so deliciously divine. When they’ve long gone into class, I cry from their dexterous rape, but draw breath, and once more with watered eyes blinking, brush off any outward damage, knot yet another spare tie, and gently massage whatever is left bruised, blue or shrinking.
In skin that still smarts only on the outside, I remain only vaguely violated on the inside, yet my mind is no more clear, as once again, nothing positive or phallic has been achieved nor rationalised, but then, why should anything in my world of intimate violence ever be satisfied.
What’s left is kept inside my head, blind untested fantasies, bordering on bearish barbarity, unlocked only to free the forces of nature before limping flaccidly home to roost where I revert to what, for me, has become rudely normal. Cradling my genitals gently, closing hardening eyes, once more, again, I, hide.
Then suddenly I’m all grown up, but still crudely sewn up in things that refuse to become clear, where, despite knowing that boys get hard and glowing to make messy with girls, I see, for me, below the belt anyway, it’s been never been so and I’m no nearer the real deal, for me it’s a queer deal and what’s hidden deep in my core, although no less heartfelt, seems it’s never to be laid bare.
But there must be others like me, not so cruel, not so hateful, but it’s so hard, how do I find them, talk to them, maybe be physical with them, one thing’s stark, I’m never going to get there, not in my own back yard. But in the darkness of a wasted college year, a glimmer of hope shows as a faceless encounter assaults with hot handed advances in the photography darkroom, unseen but no less keen, blinded by a benefit only dreamed of in far off worlds, now, once forced upon my person, this oral exorcism takes me to heights of wonder where beauty bursts burning from a pent-up fortitude before disappearing far far far too quickly. Fearing it never to be repeated, I force the experience from fading into the vast sea of normality and even now I can blush at its recall but bloom in its heat.
So how about now? Will it ever be the case that, in a world where I’m sure be judged, not for my kindness or my shyly observed if outrageous contradiction, all I want to be is at one with other like-minded beasts and tell the rest to go stuff themselves with their made up, infectious, antiquated consternation, only each time, at moments of weakness, all those old contradictions call me loud, and I quietly capitulate to my disparate feelings of guilt.
Yes, I know I’m rather different, strangely special, fundamentally an outstanding example of the social freak. But needing to be included, bowing to idealistic social pressures, I eventually play the game with the girl, force feed my gizzard with a more bland, grainy persona, outwardly, oh so very meek while I drown in meaningless face-painted feelings, and wedding bells ring out and around a misplaced love that still harbours my reality, fortunately undetected.
Drag me away from all this I dream and pray, what for me now as I find myself terrifyingly rejected?
Hidden inside this new dull married guise, I smoothly delude the sweet someone that she and I will be perfect in each others love. Here I breath with her and feel for her, make an alternate form of love to her loosely wrapped in a cold heartless and ultimately anonymous code, where, when she touches me, tries to hold me privately, I shudder, force back fatal fears that set me up to eviscerate my meat and then implode.
In a relatively if predictably sort time, my needs look for other ways to sate their repressed hormonal madness, all those bent, vicarious venal needs which, of course, I easily find. Falling for a simple smile, maybe just a knowing nod, although nothing that Joe Public naturally notices or heeds, with patience I soon find it all. Having paid their rent, I can easily take time with wayward but wispy and willing boys down dark shady streets or in stinking filthy corners, avoiding any unsolicited discovery or alarm. But here, my true needs and excesses are finally blown, and using another’s firm handed playfulness, I feel only mildly concerned for the outcomes as I fall for the smoothness of practiced charm; what could possibly be the problem, who was I ever going to harm?
The fall comes of course but, not being completely without feeling I try to mould answers for the ones I leave behind so soon, graphically hurting. Yet I continue to play away and payout more and still more to leer at hard hot man and fool with soft cool boys just to prove myself again but yet again, remaining mostly unsatisfied, I am that fully-blown, carnivorous, queer that I always feared I would be.
In this twilit haze, life fades with the inevitable instability of untruths, as sure as the sun sets on every reluctant marriage day and that blinkered bubble is unceremoniously burst by the stabbing pains of my non-conformity. All’s gone in one final hot headed confrontation. Words are sharpened, designed to stab deep with a truth that’s not strictly true, but twisted to maximise my pain, but I’m scared when things look to get physical, and I retreat.
My barbed backlash is so alien, as I hear the words slap across her bleached face, it’s a view that now looks quizzical, but sadly small and simply, lost. It’s a dark and horrible result. I watch bewildered from afar as so many marital gains shatter on the floor and I realise now that in this mess, only everyone loses. Seeing no path for redemption I turn tail and bolt.
Cold, like a mystical ghost, I take one last longing look at my helpless progeny, carelessly sleeping, thankfully sound. My tears flood in stinging waves, drowning out glimmers of sensitivities now fully lost.
Tearing myself from their bubble of innocence, I disappear in a fog of grieving and guilt that leaves me cold like a stone, I know I’ve gone too far, gone somewhere deep underground.
Thoughts of darker worlds flood my minds abyss as I drive, crazed by my unintelligible actions. Although my head hangs low, my nerves are swept high by a pain that forms into a howl of such lamentation, it risks my place on the rolling black road but I think, no matter, death might feed me answers and, as nothing else seems capable of sating this emotional hunger and humiliation, hell might be a blast.
Unable to defend the defenceless, futile justifications leave me lifeless, but alive. Then, on the approach the house of one of those lurid traders in their sex, not knowing what I need, the boy gratefully sees me as this sad debilitated foundling. I let him take me, and warm me, and wrap me in almost every comfort, accompanied as ever by the usual rates of financial inducement. Even here though, behind the mask of youth’s perfection, in this star studded, meat-eating world, I feel the pains of spiritual hunger in the knowledge that its sad, pseudo satisfaction is devoid of anything remotely sentimental. Blinded by his boundless physical beauty, I sink further into the exotic excess which invalidates anything meaningful, but, as so many times before, he feeds me semen till I’m sore, fully satisfied, he is monumental, yet still I cry.
The light of these salty days brings forth only duplicitous faces which blind my senses as they swarm over me, yet I find myself friendless if I was only question it. Why is there still so much lacking? All the things that I craved are right here in both hands, yet real life remains hidden under my personal, ashes and sacking.
Of course the glitter and glamour of this wanton world ultimately starts to fade, only my rose tinted memory is still minded to remind me how this life is so dammed and destructive. By now any penile play is hard to maintain, certainly not long enough for the pleasure once so longed for. No more the joy of hard penetrating hope, thrusting its palpable delectation, comfort which was once guaranteed, pleasures once intensely intimate and assured, slip sadly to just sleeping, in the more literal accord. The money is the key it seems, once unconsidered is now in greater need for responsibilities I can no longer ignore.
I force myself to infrequent trips to a once homely space, filled now with only the emotional pleading of wide-eyed little faces, all too soon left standing bemused and confused at their dull green front door. The backwash of this reality sweeps each rented engagement so far away they are like cartoons scrawled on a Rembrandt, ridiculous and obscure.
When the glitter boys are finally gone, I’m left in my sour solitude where thoughts once more race wild and fight their way through my man-made defences that increasingly fail to secure my sanity, and I watch, helpless, as self-preservation fail and senses fall and unsanitary.
Alone, the only human touch I feel is my own, where I enter a world set to keep me cold, calculating, where reality remains unavailable as I’m hidden in a crusted carapace.
Here I’m left to ponder alternative, strange but potentially exciting excesses. Developed, these soon regularly relieve themselves in me, to a point where the balance of satisfaction sways from a simple beauty, to one allied with their darkly complex alternatives. Bathed in the heat of such depraved ejaculates, the gilding is only fools gold but, how easily it holds and hardens for my new preferred projections.
With added risks and dangers bringing things to the point of lift-off, it’s only at the point of delivery that I find myself physically soft, here, bereft of confidence in such appalling coitus, so often I find I have to zip up and zip off, flaccid in body, and in a brain which was not thinking at all.
Struggling and scared at such a revelation, I look at such brazen beauty from an increasing distance, despite wanting to suck out the very dregs of what might have been, I dig deep and am honest enough, for once, to know that it should never again be seen.
Once calm and relatively rational, I ask myself, what is all this testosterone mellifluence for? Such things I would have considered killing for are now just ghosts. Finally unburdened from the beast with two backs, a meal for one is found much closer to home and has more greys than blacks.
Thankfully, dragged back from the brink by autonomous reactions, I fall again onto things worked out to be safe. Despite involving mostly the inanimate, smooth and stout, they are at least things that don’t complain to me, or empty my wallet, or play on my constantly questioned sense of self-worth, fuelled by the faggots of endlessly nagging doubts of living such a life.
But even here, there is the law of ever diminishing returns, marked by markedly less satisfaction and once more I search for a little more risk in which to drown often double bent, each time pushing boundaries that see me cleaving to almost anything and all too soon, it’s back to the worst of the rent.
Hailing them easily, they realise I’m desperate, despite the pain that I feel in my wallet each time I capitulate to their raw deals, I finally reach the most unpalatable of carnal inversions and force feed my satisfaction as they suck me dry, yet I thrust deeper and harder than I could imagine I was capable. Pain is no boundary until it screams and rips the heart from my helmet as it withdraws blooded from its violation. The world spins, and I finally, fall off its rim.
Having tested the worst I thought I could do, morality moves in some mysterious way and I move back to things better known. Although not as diverse, still tasting slightly sweet, it’s a smaller thrill, but a thrill at least, well maybe a treat. But I know it’s still far from acceptable and I have to find a way to accept only the simplest needs of a soft bodied, hard faced, two faced fool, me, the petulant and sociopathetic sod.
Why on earth can’t I just be normal, why was I so scared, so ineffectual when faced by the witless normality of marriage, unwilling to interact with the intimate intricacies of the female garden. It’s simply the male external inverse and internal, how can something unseen make such fear to rage in my head, unfathomable and infernal.
Hanging mid beat, heart strings taught with horrors sing confused songs into my inner ear, so real, they taint every aspect of a falsified existence filled with bodies beautiful both real and unexpected. Yet forced feelings of moral duties rise, and fanciful fantasies have to be banished in favour of a nearly lost love for my family. I try, really I do but the fever is strong and I fail yet again.
With the free attentions of masculine eyes remaining ripe but unattainable, I turn inexorably to more perverse distractions and things that I can’t talk about even here, you can’t imagine the limits of the when, the what, or the who but eventually, even in their limitless embrace, still satisfaction fails this queer. Proving too much, a decision is made, a chapter sealed, a life bagged and busted. Life is unravelling, uncharted once more.
Once my decision to quit all fools is made, that exquisite entourage fades away and, knowing them, straight back to business. However much my choice might be right, every now and again, memories of their tantalising talent taunts, leaving me cruelly listless. In the hollow left from once hard held hopes, there seems little in any life to fill the space formed by a roundness of young rump or a more rigid rebuff.
But it’s over. Only, when left lonely and alone, scarified images remain inside my scull, and I find I divert my crude attentions t’ward richly patinated pictorial pleasures, unclothed in many degrees of proclivity, my restless desire for endless, painless relief is relentlessly wrought, then stored secretly secure for the many long rainy days ahead. All moral debate can be left for some alternate future at an as yet, un-recordable date.
In this re-closeted excess, fluids flow and fancies grow and a catalogue of immense proportions builds. I could drown in my own juices and no one would know, but it’s mine, here at last I can live in a private heavenly world. It’s black, but it’s blessed.
Then needlessly, one hapless day, truth and the law finally outs me, but what did I honestly expect to come from such sordid and vain weakness? What hope for freedom when I can’t detach myself from sleazy flawless youths who compound my untamable lust with their superficial, now only two dimensional perfection in gloss printed sleekness. The glittering baubles of this hidden life are unceremoniously burst with a fan-fair of blue flashing beacons while the mess left behind lies blooded, bruised, all social outcomes now far from certain.
So it’s the big house for me where, on one hand it should’ve been the end of all reasonable life, somehow, there develops a prickly positivity, but then, for one so contrived as I, how could it be anything less like a calamity? In my upside down world, through the usual convoluted cognitive, I set my mind, to do my time, keep my head down although even here, I can’t resist, to sneak a peek when I can, at the muscled madness of man and the most unlikely crafted criminal beauty. Amid the stifling madness I surprise even myself just how easy it is to live and even find safe comfort in this peculiar penitential process.
The only flies in the steel barred ointment are the twice weekly visitations, having to watch the pain of friends and family, lost loved ones all who weep or simper, while all the time the eyes in the back of my head can only think of the magnificence of the hardened faces of exquisite criminal factions, wrapped in danger, burning beautiful and restless behind vacant eyes. Amongst all those exhilarating cons my fancy is never flaunted, despite still harbouring my wild imagination, hopes of hand jobs or better are far from being fulfilled, perhaps it’s enough just to soak up the fumes of their fervour and then, when locked safely away and often only inside my head, be handily relived by my own imaginative relieving.
All too soon and unexpected I’m out, having only just made my mind right to accept ten more years in this somehow satisfying kind of haven. It’s a shock being back in the real world where I find myself even more alone, abandoned, sanctioned to ignore the most painful of cravings. Is there to be no freedom in this war raged by a faceless fanatical law?
Now on the outside, society’s guardians focus their ire deep into my soul and try to work out what makes me tick, unfortunately I find myself stuck for answers, and alternatively pursue the inner workings of these very masculine minders, view their rounded behinds and imagine their rampant pricks.
Three years was my comeuppance and patiently, each weather worn week I trek to talk to my probationary Tom, his order, to tackle all those things that make Me, into the things that are not maybe, really Me. Skilfully, he manages not to drag down my resolve or set a rise to my hackle but, because he is so good at his job and with his pleasant, even vulnerable visage, he makes the process palatable and, at times even manageable. I express my inner workings which, when spoken out sound as they are, rather fay, and somehow, greasy. But even here, in the comfort of his contentment, I leave out the most dire, the most shocking, because, as never being on the radar of this miserable mess, there’s dirt enough to examine, minutely moralise and outwardly repress.
There are those moments that I find I really want to vocally free-fall and digress to the things that would certainly court trouble, or is it just the same old self-destructive need to unleash a greater monster, whose gross value would certainly create an uncompromising shock. Pleading internally against the deed, I keep those darkest thoughts locked away with a certainty that they, most certainly, would put me back behind that still enticing, tantalising, solid built, tattooed and toned, prison warder’s satisfying, but uncompromising lock.
With thoughts of such banished, well at least discouraged, I’m given homework, in whose simple routines return thoughts to school days that I so preferred. With this natural prowess, I buckle down to fill in their forms, write out their essays on life and love and loss, with the hope that the real truth might somehow be out there but, realistically, all still remains deferred.
Strangely, this forced indulgence somehow sparks something rather unexpected, perhaps even useful, it’s where the writing is the thing that I come to enjoy despite the content. In it, I still wrangle with that which it is not so easily deflected, but the outpourings come unrelenting, some disguised vaguely in verse with rhyme and even rhythm, although most is endless eulogising via often ponderous prose. Who knew all that stuff was in there, down deep inside me, flowing out now like some linguistic, high pressure hose.
Soon, with the makings of a book under my hand, the best and the worst of my cruel long-lived disgrace displaying all that is far from normality, when down in print on a page in stark black on white, I see just how far I have travelled from any useful part of humanity. But it’s only a process and it does have its benefits, even if the sum of its parts may never see the sanitising light of day.
Now, with that first labour of twisted and confusing love dotted and done, despite my fears, I look to write lighter words that I can at least share with my peers. Trying perhaps too hard, I craft useful tracts, but as so many slip back to the deep and ever dark subject that holds all my shame, sadly, this self indulgence highlights the fundamental flaws and confirms my self abusing fears. But I persist, and pen verses of simplistic mirth to offer readers and listeners an opportunity for support or at least not speak of it rude, only I know, because of my dark reflections when openly expressed, it can only fail and is guaranteed to bring down the mood.
So, what on earth do you do with all this pent up creative fervour that provides, if nothing else, a rather suspicious, personal pleasure which in turn makes me trip off more dull and formulaic tripe that any half educated buffoon could easily piece together. Perhaps harsh critique is now my personal operandi, perhaps it’s time to stake my claim and look people full square in their often un-accusing eye, consider that my stuffs not all that bad so, to the silent critics hail a lofty, if lonely, half-hearted, Fie!
My Life, Long, still has some little way to go, although, I’m never quite strong enough to grasp every obvious option, I console myself that I can comfortably fit into life without meaningless dreams of ridiculous youth, leaving them behind leaves me with everything to gain and certainly less pain.
Things could be worse I muse, a sensibility still glows in the knowledge that I’m a bent that can never be straightened, and beyond all hope I now curl up and coddle not only my own limped self-worth, there’s now also another’s penal penance cupped in warming hands, meekly, strengthened by the knowledge that what life is left, even if fruitless, at least it will be pleasantly lengthened.
This is a piece written from just one of many experiences visiting the residential home where my elderly mum is currently cared for, fortunately without the affliction of dementia.
The coded door clicked open and the now familiar floral aroma swept out to greet me. Inside there were the usual background sounds, quiet unrecognisable voices, doors opening and closing and the occasional chuckle of soft laughter; but all very discreet.
The large communal area was empty except for its high-backed comfortable chairs set in a semi-circle around the electric fake fire on the wall. A short stout lady in smart pale blue tunic distracted me usual path past them toward the wings.
“The lunches are a little late today, can you wait ‘till their done?”
“Hi Jackie, no problem, how are you today? I’ll just sit here for a bit shall I?”
“Make a coffee if you want, you know where the stuff is”
The kettle was hot and the coffee welcome, the chair even more so after the long twice weekly cycle ride. There was music playing quietly from somewhere but it was just to take away the relative silence. Despite the sun outside being the brightest it had been for weeks, the flicker of artificial flames on the curved black glass of the fire captivated my gaze hypnotically.
There was a shuffling sound.
“Can you let me outside please, I have to go home now.”
The voice was familiar although I didn’t really know anything about the person that stood leaning on her walking frame next to me.
“Hello, I’m sorry I can’t open the door, it’s not safe to go outside I don’t think.”
“But I’ve had my dinner and now I need to go and get ready for the children to come home from school!” the wobble in her voice gave away the degree of concern that she obviously felt.
“I think they’ll be able to manage, don’t you?” I tried to sound sympathetic but firm.
“But they can’t get in, the house is locked up when I come for my dinner, I said I didn’t want to come today but they insisted, and it was sponge pudding, my favourite.”
A half-smile lit in her eyes.
“Why don’t you pop back and see if there’s some seconds, I bet there’s lots.”
The suggestion was made with good intention but as much for myself as the frequent conversations like this were always difficult.
“Do you run this place? It’s like a prison, all the locked doors, not like my house, I leave my doors open, my husband was the postman, he used to pop in for a cup of tea every day you know,” the light in her stare brightened at the potential memory.
“That’s nice,” I had always found it helped to be pleasant but non-committal in these situations.
“He’s still at the front, getting shot at they tell me I haven’t seen him for so long, could you find out when he’s coming back?”
The question didn’t require an answer.
“Winnie, Winnie dear, shall we go back and finish your lunch?”
The soft lilting tone of the returning uniform which had appeared from somewhere unseen, was meant to calm and reassure, but also be firm.
“Hi Jackie we were just talking about lunch,” I smiled knowingly at the kind face as she raised her eyebrows as a silent comment.
“Don’t think I’m staying all day again, my husband, he’ll be home and the children, what about the children?”
“The children will be fine Winnie, don’t worry about them,”
“But Charlie will want his dinner on the table ready.”
“Charlie’s not here now is he?” Jackie had taken the confused Winnie by the arm and was gently guiding the walking frame towards one of the wide doors leading to the residents living quarters.
“Can I get the door for you?” having already stood up and stepped forward, my finger was outstretched for the keypad while I was trying to remember the code to unlock it.
“Are you coming back for tea young man? My son is looking for someone to play football with afterwards if your mum would let you?”
“He’s got things to do Winnie, let’s just sort you out and find that lunch shall we, you liked the salmon you said?”
There was a pause in the progress and Winnie struggled to lift her head to look in my general direction.
“Are you going to find those socks I lost, someone keep stealing them you know, I can’t find two the same anywhere.”
“OK Winnie,” I leant forward to appear sympathetic, “you go and finish your lunch and I’ll see what I can do.”
The carer mouthed a silent ‘thank you’ and gently urged the hunched figure forward once more. The door whooshed open from the correct code and then clicked closed again behind the two slowly shuffling figures.
The coffee had formed a bit of a skin but was still welcome. The noises around the building started to ramp up as lunch was finally finished in each of the wings and people appeared from doors and corridors for the day to move into its afternoon phase, mostly napping on full stomachs. Jackie re-appeared and we shared another knowing smile.
“You can go through now I would think.”
“Thanks Jackie, I’ll look for those socks on my way shall I?”
© David Rollason
This is a fun, fantasy piece but written with a small degree of hope behind it.
The sea whispered soothingly against the brilliant white of the sandy shoreline. The waves bobbed up and down as they washed slowly closer to the foaming edge of the waterline but the plastic tube that poked out of the crystal clear water was not really visible to those relaxing on the beach.
The snorkel wearing explorer that I was pretending to be sank back into the water and I moved further along the edges of the coral reef as there had been no-one of interest at that particular point. When I next surfaced it was just enough to see along the water’s surface still hoping not to be noticed. This time an eagle sharp eye inside the mask caught something that sent a tingle down my spine. Not just the fluorescent pink speedos, but the brilliant white smile that caught the sunlight on the smooth and tanned face of its wearer. That person was chatting with what looked like an over friendly guy but luckily neither noticed that they were being watched; that was good, for now at least.
After making a note of where this person was on the beach, I slid back under the water and splashed my way back to the jetty near the beach bar that stood out on stilts into the clear warm waters.
Sweeping the droplets of water from my face and closely cropped scalp, there was an exchange of mask and air tube for a drinks tray that the bartender was holding out. It had become a regular custom to take refreshment later in the afternoon after a swim but today was slightly different; today I needed to know more about the eye candy that I had spotted. Silently I indicated to the barman that we needed another one more of the tall cold glasses that was already dripping with condensation in the heat of the day.
Feeling the temperature of the sand through the still damp soles of my feet and still dripping sea water, I made my way along the beach trying to look relaxed but knowing I had a rather special goal in my mind. The journey was not as easy as you might have thought, there were several pairs of the brightly coloured swimwear similar to those I was looking for but none had the beauty of the wearer I was being drawn to.
Admittedly there were many members of the body beautiful crowd who frequented this private beach front of the Shangri-La’s Boracay Resort and there were even more up in the infinity pool above them, but the muscles and curvaceous figures had little attraction today; neither did the undoubtedly beautiful women fawning over most of them.
Taking a long pull through the straw of one of the drinks, I was concerned that it might be getting warm in the summer heat buffering off the sands, but it was not too bad; for now anyway. Eyes searched further ahead and my strides became a little longer. Then quickly, there he lay, a firm sculpted torso propped up on one elbow, long moulded legs stretching out off the edge of the tastefully bright hotel towel.
The flash of his white smile was almost dazzling set in soft brown features where dimpled cheeks framed rich full lips that curved into a wide crescent smile which outshone all others in view. Long fluttering eye-lashes flirted innocently with the another guy’s equally smooth flawless body, which was noticeably trying to slide closer to the other. My approach went unnoticed to him but I knew this interloper stood no chance of sampling the affections of the dreamy features that looked up as I finally joined the non-event.
“Nemuel my dear, I think someone needs to go and get an iced drink to cool off!” My words were directed at the soon to be retreating well-muscled figure, “the bar is that way or the sea is straight in front of you!”
He took the hint easily, not that he would have done anything else as I stood menacingly over him. It was just a game really, I knew that my Nemuel had eyes only for me and likewise me for him; it was the way it had been since we first made contact in cyber space all those months before.
“David, you are so bad, he goes to my mother’s shop, he was only chatting!”
“I know but it doesn’t do any harm to let these others know that you are with me, you don’t mind do you?”
He narrowed deep-set beautiful green eyes in mock disapproval but reached out a long slender hand to rub against the reddening skin of my rather white body still holding the now not so cold drinks.
“You should get out of the sun, you’re too white,” he laughed a gentle but exquisitely rich sound that made my insides move and I could feel the damp swimwear getting tighter.
Sitting down before I embarrassed myself this was after-all still a private if busy mixed sex beach complex.
“Will you rub some more cream on me then?” I pretended to be upset by his comment, “We can’t all be as naturally beautiful as you can we?”
The stoking of my leg turned into a gentle slap to my thigh as I slid onto the towel he had straightened out from the other guy sitting on it.
“You just lie down and I’ll look after you as usual, you poor white boy!”
I made a sound of my own against his comment but it didn’t mean anything. Having to turn over to my front quickly, the consequences of the pleasures I was about to get from the touch of cool sensuous fingers on my fast burning skin was almost too much to believe. Inside I was starting to burn with another kind of desire yet to be fulfilled with my exotic and beautiful Pilipino friend.
Reluctantly closing my eyes, I hoped that it was not all a dream but the soft, purposeful kiss between my shoulder blades made it very real indeed.
This is an experimental story-line, just to see if it has the motivation to live……
The dust in the moon’s developing atmosphere gave a rather misty view of the small blue marble that had been emblem of the colony all those decades before; before the settlement and terraforming process had really got hold. The process and any kind of atmosphere had only become a reality of the last 100 years but the introduction of the recognisable organics in the last twenty.
The polymer skinned tunnels and habitats that the early settlements had used were long gone, not that very many knew about them or would recognise them as they had been constructed on the edge of the dark side of the moon and out of prying eyes from the intelligentsia down on Planet 001. It had been part of just one of many plans for escaping the dying planet. First there had been the orbiting space stations that developed into launch platforms to get things to the moon to make a launch pad for Mars more viable. Before that could work well, technology made a few of its unexpected leaps and the Mars colony was attainable without this relatively short hop. Once started, the seemingly abandoned system continued to develop and with the many distractions in the chaos of failing humanity and competing artificial intelligences, it had been enough then and was more than adequate now to disguise the ambitious plans.
The original higher organics were also long gone but they had served their purpose. Fortunately, most of the recognisable fauna and flora had endured on this mainly grey, dusty, pox marked rock.
A heavily built creature lifted its head, distracted from picking off the tiny green tips of struggling vegetation to watch the colourful earth rise. Although it had never been there, something deep in its gene structure must have held onto something that the AIs’ had never been able to replicate. Oh yes they were superior in almost every other way but the core, now self-generating algorithms had never been able to find that one thing that made other life different. The interruption of this nondescript organic meant that it had also stopped breathing, just long enough to suffer from the lack of any substantive gas mixture and it wavered on its large flat feet before instinctively turning towards where it knew there was more to be found. The other similar creatures hardly lifted their low heads but waved short trunks as their compatriot re-joined them. It was greener around there but still predominately lifeless.
The thin and still developing atmosphere had begun by installing the simple oxygen engines above the moon’s polar caps and drilling down into the ancient ice and other chemical reserves stored deep under the surface. It had been the great plan that humans would step to the stars but it was their self-destructive nature that had ruined any chance of that happening. In-fighting between political, social and monetary systems meant that it would never get off the ground, literally. Despite there being many rocket launches, the greed of man ensured the sabotage and destruction that typified humanity at the late stage in its short existence, the plans only became viable when a simpler but arguably more intelligent race took over from the failing organic madness. The plans had always feasible, it was other elements that doomed them to failure, now, with those out-of-the-way, a few of the more developed AI systems continued the process and were covertly witnessing its success.
Paradoxically, the latest operators of the experiment had of course no need for such an environment, each was self-sustaining and independent in almost every earth-bound environment. At that point they had constructed themselves to require nothing more than the core programmes of their individual or collective roles; until this point.
This piece moved me to tears, I am not ashamed to say. Read it and share it and savour every single syllable!
A Poem by Coyote Poetry
For every beautiful moment.
Must there be pain also?
For every gift of tenderness and love.
Must we repay it by hate and abuse?
Today my life is even.
All things in balance.
I know the sun will shine again.
The stars will appear in the evening sky.
What is life?
Are we here for any purpose?
Each life does it have any meaning?
Are we just cattle waiting to be slaughtered?
I wonder if being kind, honest is it worthwhile?
Sometime I feel the world is for the strong.
I hope the men and woman of peace are still somewhere.
I rarely hear their voices talking of peace and great dreams.
Where are the storytellers? Where are the lovers of peace…
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This is the last part of the trilogy, hoping you have read it as that, were there any questions?
The disgruntled young individual walked over to the older with one purpose only; seated waiting, the older had many memories of what it would be. They had done the shoulder to cry on, the sympathetic older ear but things had moved on; it was no longer just an escape from other boys; he, the younger, understood the feelings and attractions he had easily developed.
The two had known of each other for some time, outwardly not on an even footing but there had always been a classifiable if socially unacceptable link. Age was the spoiler although the shadow of the world’s judgement hadn’t seemed to be a problem for them. Knowing how society would judge should have been a major concern but this was an intimacy that had developed honestly, knowingly sought and generously found. There was everything that could be labelled inappropriate; only not in their minds.
The younger slid his facing chair closer so their knees touched as they waited for the background banter and noise to fade, the rowdy group worked out that there was no fun to be had despite the sight of the older and the younger being so incongruous.
With the audience gone, the couples eyes didn’t need to meet nor words be exchanged as the younger were just happy to be this close to his confidante. It was a fact that the younger’s feelings were a chaos of natural, hormone based developments which were so excited that the opportunity of an outlet had been to enticing, compared to the vague hope for some sort of empathy from his peers. What he thought he wanted he had definitely found with this situation.
No longer shy he held out a hand easily, knowing where to place it and understanding what he wanted to be done with it. The slim pale fingers were taken gently but firmly by ones that were bulkier, creased with age and work; both were able to appreciate the delicacy of the other.
Still no words had been exchanged, but there was the certainty of a much desired intimacy. It was now just the two of them now as the world had been forced out of hearing and interest.
Eventually the older gently lifted the boy’s chin to recognise the flash of knowing desire in the clear grey-green eyes; a look told the older everything and was accentuated as the younger slipped easily onto the adjacent chair. Single knowing hands gripped palm to palm while still in public but the still discreet contact zipped up their forearms to rub at the elbow and onto uneven shoulders, both shaking slightly with the tension of what would hopefully come next. The smooth movement set the younger’s mop of manicured sun-streaked hair deliberately falling to one side; he knew the effect it had on the older. A half hidden smile creased his delicate and as yet acne free cheek as it rested heavily onto the pointed shoulder of the other. Words were not required for their body’s heat and growing reactions to speak volumes for them both.
Breathing deepened and spontaneously synchronised, bodies with certain knowledge sympathetically tuned to what would happen, what had happened; the world around them faded to almost nothing.
It was not difficult to make out who made the next move but there was no real need as the underlying emotion was the same.
It was actually the older’s hand which had been first to unclasp which allowed it to brush past the short-haired nape of the boy’s fine neck where it griped the developing shoulder. Initially it had been to give a hug of assurance but with time and acceptance the hand had explored the boundaries of the younger’s acceptance; there had never seemed to be any limits.
The younger’s freed hands slipped comfortably into the heat and expansion between the others thighs knowing what he could feel and deliberately invigorating it. With his own response as yet undetectable he showed his arousal in subtler ways, turning to let the older’s hand slide down to his narrow waist and twisting to allow access to the loose band of his school trousers. After an automated glance around them, the older’s hand slipped comfortably into the hollowed back and his middle finger slotted into the tight smooth valley between the young silky buttocks; an almost imperceptible groan of pleasure was breathed into his ear and closed his eyes. Each paused to gauge any adverse reaction from their surroundings, this was still a public place after all but thankfully, there was none.
Gone were those awkward early days when they had sat side by side trying to work out who was helping whom. Then, conversation had found nothing more than a mutual acceptance of a friendship but with a growing awareness or was it the hope of something more. For the younger it had been sensing and appreciating maturity that his peers were still working out. For the older it was an opportunity to live many moments that had never been realised at that volatile stage in his own life. The escalation since those testing moments had provided adventures in ways that were both education and mutual satisfaction. With such awareness, the touching of soft edged lips to bristled cheek signalled the time for them to be more private.
Trying their best to hide the excited prominence each sported as they stood up, the two moved apart but remained invisibly held together by the knowledge of the intimacy that would soon smother all sense of propriety with adulterated animal possession.
This is the second part of the trilogy and if you are reading it as that, embryonic questions could, is that should, be forming.
The tearful young individual had walked over with a look that the older took to be one of purpose. Quite what it was he didn’t seem to know although he, the older, had many ideas of what it could easily be. They had already done the shoulder to cry on, the sympathetic older ear but things felt as if there were moving on; it was no longer just an escape from other boys who were obviously not interested in him, the younger, or the feelings and attractions he was developing?
The two had known of each other for some time, not really on an even footing but there had always been a classifiable link. Age was the only spoiler, in the shadow of the world’s judgement that is but such things had never seemed to be a problem for them. This was an intimacy that had been honestly sought and genuinely found, there was nothing that could be judged inappropriate; not in their minds anyway.
The younger slid his facing chair closer with only knees touching as they waited for the background banter and noise faded as the rowdy group worked out that there was more fun to be had without someone older being in their field of play.
Eyes didn’t need to meet nor words be exchanged as this wasn’t the first time they had been this close. The younger’s feelings were a chaos of things stirred up by natural developments which were exciting but there had never been an outlet; the possibility that his peers were going through the same things hadn’t provided the empathy and response that he found with this situation.
He held out a hand easily, still not quite knowing where to place it although he knew wanted to be done with it. The slim pale fingers were taken gently but firmly by ones that were bulkier and creased with age and work but were more than able to appreciate the delicacy of the others body. Still no words had been exchanged, only the certainty of a much desired intimacy.
It was now just the two of them, the world had faded out of hearing and interest.
Eventually the older gently lifted the boy’s chin to see if he wanted to talk or if this was what was now the more usual situation. A flashing glance from the clear grey-green eyes told the older everything and the touching knee changed to a full leg length as the younger slipped easily round onto an adjacent chair. Single hands of each gripped palm to palm and the contact zipped up forearms to elbow and onto uneven shoulders. The smooth movement set a mop of manicured sun-streaked hair falling to one side as a delicate and as yet acne free cheek rested onto the pointed shoulder of the older. Still no words were shared but their body heat spoke for them both.
Breathing synchronised sympathetically and the world around them faded that little bit more.
It was difficult to make out who made the next move, there was no need to assign blame as they both wanted the same result and any underlying emotion for either party was ultimately the same.
It was actually the older’s hand which had been first to unclasp which allowed it to brush past the short-haired nape of the younger’s fine neck where it griped the developing shoulder to pull the figure tighter into him; the freed younger hand slipped easily into the heat and comfort of the older’s thigh. Each paused to gauge any immediate reaction from the surroundings, this was still a public place after all but thankfully, there was none.
In the early days they had sat side by side trying to work out who was helping whom. Then, conversation had found nothing more than a mutual acceptance of a friendship but with a growing awareness of more than that. For the younger it had been sensing and appreciating maturity that his peers were still working out, for the older it was definitely an opportunity to live many moments that had never been realised at that volatile stage in his own life; but had never left him.
The escalation since then had provided adventures in ways that were not so different; education and satisfaction.
To bring out the best in you ...
Immature poet imitate...but the mature one steal from the depth of the heart
WELCOME TO MY METAPHORS
MAKING A DIFFERENCE, ONE STEP AT A TIME
Always learn from the curiosity within and around myself.
what happens on the table stays on the table
inspirational,philosophical & my perspective towards society.
BY GRACE THROUGH FAITH
Hello, I am Amaan Khan and this is my complete Portfolio | Weekly fiction and personal writings
In the kingdom of life, with the strokes of the brush, the bow and the pen, artists have sowed their hearts to contrive, fields rivalling in beauty the Garden of Eden.
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