Death is coming, it’s true. Turn around and you’ll see him waving over there. Wave back if you’d like, that’s how we got talking. Sends me a birthday card every year.
Not today, maybe tomorrow. For the last 31 years, this has been my mantra. Though I’ve come to fear looking back because of it, I’m my own Orpheus of unfulfilled dreams.
And when I realised this to be the case I decided maybe my mantra wasn’t all that great.
My new mantra going forward then is… well, I’ll decide on it tomorrow.
Why do these covers weigh me down so?
I sat at my desk looking at the vast workload. Four press releases to complete with less than an hour to spare, five an hour is the target I heard. He said get them done quickly, or else.
Or else what? Continue reading
The hairless naked man led on a sofa jacking off. After a few moments of overtly loud groaning and going, ‘you like that, don’t ya?’, to himself, he flipped his legs over his head and began sucking down on his own junk. The video came to an end when he sprayed his load over his gums. I wasn’t watching the video for pleasure, but because I too wanted to perform this art of ‘ultimate’ pleasure. Continue reading
There are many examples of this, such as etc., etc., etc., etc., etc., etc., etc., etc., etc., etc., etc., etc., etc., etc., etc., etc., … yes, many examples.
Future entrepreneur Robert Bald came to inspect the new flat. He opened the newly fitted white door and this is what he saw:
You know the score, you saw what he saw.
Heart made of sequins, stitched onto a cushion.
I rest my head against it every night.
I hear it beat. It’s weak.
Sequins fall off constantly and into the sheets.
Can you fix a broken heart?
Adam Rose arrived alone at the restaurant, ‘Love Hole’, carrying a bundle of red poppies. He was wearing a suit, his hair slicked back. As he waited outside checking his watch, couples trundled on in, everyone dressing to impress. About ten minutes of loitering, he gulped and stepped inside. It was his first Valentines.
‘Love Hole’ was brimming with activity, each table packed and couples chatting away over wine and crumpets. Adam waited by the front desk shaking slightly. A waiter with a tidy moustache approached and took out a book.
‘Name?’ he asked as he began to flip through the pages, each booking written in fine handwriting.
‘Adam Rose, table for two. At 7.15pm.’ Adam replied, and the waiter nodded, leading him to a table in the centre of the restaurant. The waiter pulled a chair up for him in which Adam hung his jacket.
‘I presume your partner will be here shortly?’
‘Oh, already here. Don’t worry about it.’ The waiter bowed and walked off, Adam chucked the roses out of the vase, replacing them with his own red poppies, then sat down, slamming his feet on the other chair. As he sat alone surrounded by couples, he smiled.
He consumed his meal alone, with a few whispers of ‘stood up’ and ‘loner’ being uttered among the teems of men and women buying pricey wine and holding back personal discontent for just one night. Adam didn’t looked beaten, instead he blushed as he glanced at himself with his pocket mirror and stroked his hands inbetween bites. Once the meal was done, the lights dimmed except for the one hanging above his own table, and a waiter waltzed out carrying a slice of red cake. Couples looked bemused as Adam stood up and took the cake into his hands, thanking his beautiful self for a year of loving. He pulled a ring from his pocket and placed it on his finger.
‘To my beautiful self I engage with.’
It was about ten at night when Adam left. He caught a cab back to his flat, a small place by a gentlemen’s club and a takeaway. He pulled his key out and stepped within.
His room was on the fifth floor, a suitably cosy room, if a little musty. Pictures of himself aligned the walls. Adam eating fish and chips at a pier. Adam smiling by a sunset. Adam posing topless. Adam lying on a bed. He chucked the poppies to the floor and unzipped his trousers, and jumped onto the bed. He placed his hands into his pants and began to grind against the bed. The bed shook something fierce, a truly passionate grind date.
In the next room an elderly couple watched TV holding hands. They couldn’t hear the creaking. Not even the groaning.
Above a couple danced to their favourite club anthems. They danced and danced, grinning while they did, both topless, both mixing sweat and saliva to the beat. And neither heard the gasping down below, only their own. They recorded each other on their phones.
And Adam lay in bed looking at his cum stained hands. He looked at his hands and did nothing more. Until he got bored and licked his fingers dry once more.
‘I’m happy,’ he said.
If you click right here you’ll find yourself on another site, Clarissa Explains F*** All, that’s where you’ll end up. I wonder what letters those stars are censoring out? Flump, it must be flump.
Anyway, I’m guiding you over for purely self serving reasons. The pop culture blog has recently put together a SICK AF series, with creatives posting videos, non fiction, poetry, and short stories, about how their sickness effects them in terms of getting a foot through the door in the creative industry. I’m in there too. I wrote about feeling like an alien living inside a bunch of flabby human skin. And maybe you too have sometimes felt like that. Give it a read, give them all a read, and then delve deeper and read all the features about horror and awkward sex scenes.
Promise you’ll come back here still?