Millie and Molly

23/03/2013 § Leave a comment

“Molly and Millie!”
said Millie to Molly,
“We’re Molly’s and Millie’s
and that’s not a lie”.
“But which one is Millie?”
said Olly to Illie,
“And is that one Molly?”
was Illie’s reply.
said Molly to Illie,
“It’s me that’s a Molly!”
“And Olly is I”
was Illie’s reply.
said Olly to Illie,
“You’re Illie you Willy!”
“Don’t lie to Millie
or Molly may cry!”
“I’m Molly!’
said Molly,
“And Molly’s don’t cry!
We’re rough and we’re tough
till the end of our lives!”
“I’m sorry”
said Olly,
“I thought you were Millie,
But Millie is Illie’s
and Molly is mine”


17/03/2013 § Leave a comment

There are several authors who touch me in ways which leave me breathless and with shivers down my skin, one woman in particular who I’ve been unconsciously influenced by for several years now. Really good writing often has an effect not dissimilar to deja-vu in that I can relate so deeply it’s as if myself and the author share part of a soul, and they are calling up a past memory or idea I’ve previously glimpsed inside me. Usually the relation is not of place or action but of something more abstract, an emotion, an understanding of the world.

One thing I’ve learnt is how to endure, practised cultivating the ability to hold still deep where it matters. There are multiple ways to do this but they aren’t comparable, no more than you can compare the body language of a dog, to the mind of a tree as it multiplies cells and grows, to the private thoughts of Obama as he sends his troops to another country. It just doesn’t fit.

Most people believe they’d be able to talk about any aspect of life to anyone if they wished to, putting aside factors such as embarrassment or privacy, of course. The idea won’t hold for me. The same way I can’t hold the idea of the 9th dimension in my head as ease of comprehension stops at the 5th, if not the 4th – widely agreed as time. Look, imagine dimensions were something different and were shards of my perception, some people exist in the 7th to me, some 8th, there are places in the 9th which can’t hold people, the 10th are days which did not fold in a linear way from the ones before or after, the linear days are in the 11th, a scrap of clothing in the 12th. When these worlds cross they disturb me, wind me. As it would if you found an old friend you haven’t seen in a long time in the bottom of a tree made from leaves coloured in the way of an online game you play, holding a dress from a future birthday and recalling a dream from yesterday you couldn’t remember until it was spoken.

I heard a quote from an artist which I can’t remember accurately but the gist of it was that being unique is easy, we all are, and what’s far more interesting is how to be less alone, less unique, how to make connections and form communities. What’s interesting is the ways we merge and fold.

Paths become easier when you remember there were so many before you. Countless people of all genders have fucked for money and gone home to make their breakfast, wash their clothes, walk to the library, feed a pet dog, smoke a joint, wash so many different types of hair with different hands the thought leaves me paralysed in multiples- the way you would be frozen if you tried to look at a thousand different screens. I imagine a black female escort in a dusty city after an appointment with a client, washing long rough hair with her hands in an old shower, smoother skin and flatter nose than myself, thinking of her day ahead. The thought calms me. The knowledge that others existed, were there, exist, are there, will exist, will be there, leaves me whole and lifted in a way which allows me to open my throat to the world and accept air.

No emotion is unique, you are never alone.


16/03/2013 § Leave a comment

The lovely Nigerian who worked in a bar and helped me break the body barrier, who regularly looked over his shoulder as we walked down streets as a habit for survival retained from his home country. Possibly many things were untrue or I misunderstood them and missed a great story.

The boy with the long blond hair and the missing heart and the great body and the other girlfriend, I was too innocent but if I met you now I would have fucked you differently and eaten you alive, dear.

The virgin atheist born as a Muslim who when drunk screamed ‘fuck you Allah, you never did shit for me and you don’t exist!’ I would have fucked him if I’d had the chance but it was cold and he was nervous and couldn’t get it up.

The unhappy Indian man with the soft lips and the smooth skin who was my first client, I was so nervous he’d realise I was a ‘fraud’. He told me how an escort many months ago had tricked him into taking the money and leaving. At the time I was determined to never do this.

The Chinese man with the bad breath who kept asking me if I’d consider a sugar daddy, I bled on him and was happy about it because he wasn’t.

The giggly retired man who worked on a longboat and mistook young femininity as naivety, he would have made my skin crawl if I’d let it.

The sweet, submissive one whose cooking experiment for work failed and who worked in a vineyard. I held his hand as we slept, sometimes it’s so pure, sex, and connections with people.

The self-deluded doctor who worked at the same hospital my sister was training in.

The bi-polar lover of Metallica with the fluorescent green condom and the high alcohol tolerance.

The one training to be a doctor who just didn’t fit me nor I him.

The charismatic Dom who didn’t or couldn’t weather a storm of his making and disappeared, his cock was so big I’m glad we never ended up having sex.

The long haired vegetarian who was a waste of oxygen and tried to make a deal which angered me. I wish I’d got the details of that website before I broke up with him.

The gardener and his partner, the bitter lady.

The bachelor with the great pet.

The virgin transsexual play partner who didn’t understand the concept of ‘inside voice’ and was really into fisting.

The Polish Caribbean girl with the soft boobs who I shared a few kisses with.

Almost certainly others, drifting away at the edges of where memory fails. And you my dear, the best of the lot for me.

Where Am I?

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