As I told you, I felt I had to take Meph. this week, hoping it
would lift me from despond and torpor. It also had to be when
I was alone. So today I got around to it.
16h30 (as it is written in France).
Took it (in delicious sour milk) and then spent over an hour editing
new pictures for the prehistoric monuments website, which is ever
(if slowly) improving. By the time I was finished, I was a bit
woozy-oozy so I had a little smoke - about 4 inhalations of your
September 2010 grass (due to my obsessive frugality, there is
still some left - and I remember it to have been good even in
my septuagenarian condition).
happened: an aphrodisiac surge. So I put on some nice flowy music
- in this case one of my compilation CDs with Frisell, Pink Floyd
at Cleveland in 1971 [probably their best performance of *One
of these Days*, not least because they made the lift/elevator
sounds with their instruments], Trio Joubran, and David Parsons.
Then I turned on my Porn Input: a slideshow mostly of sperm-spouting
dicks and to-me-erotic faces...some of them Harmless and Wholesome
Images such as this:
always have a glass of something to sip - in today's case, a very
nice, dry white rum agricole from Martinique.
as today, I wrap my week-worn underpants around my head so that
the cock-nest part is at my nose. I love my own smells: one third
scrotum, one third ripe cock and one third piss. (Is this far-end-of-the-spectrum
narcissism ? or just sensible sensuality on one's own ?) At any
rate, it's nearly as good a mix as Horse - but easier to manage.
So I run
my porn slideshow, of high quality pics collected from the Web,
with which I'm so familiar that I have the strange feeling that
I have actually touched these cocks and these people (which is
why The Masses, constantly presented with images of Hitler and
Stalin, actually felt that they knew them and even were related).
I guess that heterosexuals also get this 'familiar' effect with
their porn, too. Oh, we're getting into deep stuff here...
though, my mind took a different course to usual - I started fantasising,
not just about sucking on and/or squirting over the cocks and
men in my slideshow, but about M.
I really shouldn't be doing this without offering inclusion to
M., for him to accept or reject.
taken me longer than M, to realise that there is no possibility
of either of us finding a nice little fuck-buddy like Gina is
(basically) to you. It's totally bizarre: the first sexual interest
of gay men is another man's cock. If you're not fascinated (or,
for that matter, repelled) by cocks you're definitely not on the
andro-erotic end of the spectrum, but comfortably into cunts and
their wonders, secrets and revelations.
think that in our free and open society, men could just stand
in the street with their cocks out, while both men and women (not
to mention children and dogs) walk past appraisingly. They wouldn't
have to stand more than five minutes before someone would find
the cock attractive, or want sperm in his/her mouth/beard/hair.
On the other side of the street would be the women offering teats
pathetic, odious and hypocritical 'Normals' would be surprised
at the takers.
fact, it is extremely difficult (especially for 'abnormals' like
M.or me) to find other gay men in such a state of liberality,
except, occasionally, and in the pre-HIV days) unlit orgy rooms
where guys fucked and sucked and groped and tickled each other
as in a huge gentle, friendly rugby scrum. Wonderful! one of the
few Dionysiac or Priapic rites since about 500 AD, and a much
better way of dealing with a natural fascination with other men's
genitals than by cutting them off and collecting them or stuffing
them down throats, which is a traditional - if exceptional - military
men seem to be offering themselves like Ming vases at Christie's
- with high 'reserve' prices. They make male prostitutes seem
pretty wholesome, simple and rational.
guy I actually find (after 5 years) in France, who ticks
all the boxes for cuddliness, idiosyncracy, sweetness, sexiness
and maturity, etc. turns out to have one foot in the grave, and
almost certainly won't have the same holo-sensuality (or metasexuality)
as I have.
the first time since at least the second millennium, I fantasised
M. with me. And I realised that M and I, knowing each other so
well, so intimately, should make another sexual/sensual effort.
We each have hang-ups (like everyone, I guess - and certainly
about each other) which have kept us apart, but we should devise
some strategy for discharging our very low sex drives. (Once every
2-4 weeks for me, once every week to fortnight for M., I think.)
So I would
take the initiative and simply have my normal self-sex ritual
with cannabis and alcohol and groovy-woovy music - but with M.added.
Having mentioned unlit orgy rooms above, which I found only 3-4
times at most, in Paris, I think I want M. to be invisible. Just
standing behind me, working my balls and my lowest chakra as he
does every morning we're under the same roof. An invisible sex-partner
of course is very exciting. It could be a tiger - or or a Solomon
Islander, or Johann
Friedrich the Magnanimous, Elector of Saxony, or
Steve - or Sigmund Freud, or
scenario could be marvellous for each other, because though it
is intimate, it is also distant and 'open-ended' so to speak (an
exit always possible between two who know each other so well and
are so honest and open with each other) - and a nice counterpoint
to us being together face to face for meals and life under the
same roof in Saint-Antonin. We could each pretend that someone
else was involved, and each of us would know that the other might
well be pretending some fantasy was there. This could be enormously
take it from there. In my increasingly-good (it comes with age,
you know!) self-sex sessions, I press my lowest chakra against
the top edge of a chair - and the cushioned typist's chair I just
bought in Saint-Antonin, new for a tenth of its price, is just
perfect for this. I could have both sensations: the gentle firm
pressure of the upholstered chair pressing up behind my balls,
and M. gently caressing them - or caressing my amazingly-sensitive
I fantasised was that I would go through with my usual wank procedure,
which can take hours, but M. would be present, largely unseen,
but very instrumental in the psycho-erotic process, not least
because I like and respect him so much, for more or less the same
reason that I liked and respected the guy we went to see last
week in Lomagne, and have liked and respected the dogs in my life.
on my part did not occur, it would not matter. M. could of course
be wanking, and even ejaculating, and we'd have to see if he would
want to exit the session or not. He could of course do so at any
time, because I am definitely not into sexual dominance except
as a fun-rôle, preferably reversible.
case, the NEXT session would be dictated by M.'s desires,
even if some of them corresponded with my own. On the computer-screen
would be a slide show or web-page - or no computer-screen - of
his choice, and he would do, or ask me to do, what he wanted,
and I could be in the background or the foreground.
It is 20h20
and I am still under the influence of Mr Grass and Mr Meph. I
have written this after a few really passionate volleys of self-sex,
punctuated by Photoshopping one of my porn-pics (yes, really!)
and dinner, which wasn't great because I wasn't quite up to cooking
properly, one (if not both) hand(s) being occupied squeezing and
massaging my genitals.
two things missing from my self-sex scenario. The first is: kissing.
I tried once kissing myself in the mirror as a psychological experiment.
It didn't freak me out, but it wasn't satisfactory - maybe because
of the coldness of the glass. And (of course) I just adore kissing
a nice hair-fringed mouth. But life is a series of compromises,
adjustments - and, when it comes down to it, just micro-currents
thing missing is a pair of balls and a perineum to sniff and nuzzle
and lick. On the other hand, I have the photos as eye-candy and
the underpants to sniff... On the whole, I have found self-sex
to be much more satisfactory than most of the sexual/sensual experiences
I have had with men - with significant but fugitive exceptions.
how my balls and my nipples are far and away more demanding than
my cock! yet my cock is probably more sensitive (e.g. to Alan
Rowland's incredibly gentle tongue; and tepid water
drizzling from a shower). Even more strange how my bottom chakra
in the perineum seems to fire all the chakras - because I start
thinking Intellectual Thoughts 'under the influence' and writing
them down. Some of them turn out to be crap, but others are genuine
is being sent to you and M. at the same time, since I think
he would prefer the 'distance' this allows him to have by being
referred to in the Third Person. We have to move gently and totally
consensually. I think, since we got on so well in the past three
weeks - due to M.'s emotional intelligence - he might be
ready to enact or at least discuss my plan. But, of course, if
he isn't and/or doesn't want to, I won't mention the subject again.
have excellent sex on my own, involving my feet and my scalp and
a lot of places in between. I can't say whether M.'s wank-sessions
are satisfactory...but there is the possibility that if we merged
them we might get the kind of satisfaction that I associate with
my heterosexual love-making fifty years ago - and which I think
is rare between most men whether they indulge in penetration or
not. (Do I sound confused ?)
there were cocks in the street to kiss and suck, and that, perhaps
on the other side, there were vaginas to worship with lips and
tongue ! We'd have a damned sight healthier society, with nicer,
more open, more humorous, accepting and giving, honest people.
this I got cruised on badoo.com by a gorgeous piece of
rough trade aged 20 - who just wanted money sent to him "for
the train journey" ! Sounds a bit desperate and sad to me.
I pointed out that he would need two train tickets - the second
one away from here. I told him I could order a ticket online but
he would have to provide an address to receive it by post. The
wrinkled, scurf-skinned and senile Lone Wolf is not THAT gullible!
been a fun evening on my own with Caligula the Computer alias
Lola the Laptop - and now I'm supping stewed plums. I had the
last of my Italian 'strawberry' grapes from above the door, and
the first of my apples from the orchard earlier in the day. My
diet is almost entirely fruit and vegetables, even though I had
two scrotum-liftingly delicious, baked-in-my-own-oven croissants
kiss a nice cock anytime - but now the thought of eating meat
makes me feel sick.
is delicious after I have smoked nice grass! Possibly better than
ejaculation - especially after I have had several cerebral orgasms.
The desired (and previously-experienced) uplift from Mr Meph was
not forthcoming, so I wasn't in good form, and a bit 'out of
it'. But in the evening I took another two lungfuls of the
powerful September 2010 crop, and went straight into another self-sex-session,
complete with the odorous underpants but with absinthe rather
than whiskey, and Indian Dhrupad (Gundecha Brothers) as accompaniment.
This shorter session ended in splendid soupy squirts via several
brain-orgasms. After which I felt much better, and had a good
dinner followed by bed for 3 hours, after which I got up to water
the plants, then retired for another ten hours.
the saintly and nearly-martyred Cynthia
Payne saying that men needed 'milking' at least
once a week to keep them pleasant (or tolerable). For men like
me, with low sexual drive and now seventy - possibly getting senile
in my old age - that could be extended to once every three or
post yesterday I received a request from my hateful private school
to buy a book of stories about it written by 'Old Boys' (i.e.
smug shit-heads hoping to be mistaken for 'the cream of society',
rich and thick) from its beginnings in the mists of time at
the end of the nineteenth century to the present day.
an insipid, mind-numbing establishment of militarist tendency
and inferior pedagogy, where bullying was rarely fatal, and in
any case mostly the pleasure of some of the teachers rather than
the boys. I doubt if any of the
Tales from the Tower
will be about exciting mutual-masturbation sessions deep
in the rhododendrons, or about anyone being held down on the ground
while a future Irish Rugby luminary pissed in his mouth, as happened
to me. Of course, in England, homeland of violence and institutionalised
aggression, bullying was/is much worse than that (Protestant)
Northern Irish mildness of the nineteen-fifties. I hope that the
situation was not worse in St Malachy's (Christian Brothers) College,
where my next-door neighbour's only child went daily in the opposite
direction to mine.
no problem drinking (my own) piss - especially (as I used to)
after a few glasses of Crémant de Loire (or, I wish,
the Krug that I used to be able to shoplift) to wash down
Psilocybe semilanceata. I would certainly drink a lover's
piss similarly enhanced, warm and direct from the source, or,
chilled, from a champage flûte.
remember another member of the First XV who had a huge cock, which
he used to press against me when the physics class was crowded
round an 'experiment'. He displayed it in all its improbable glory
amongst the rhododendrons, beside the lake, beneath the trees.
It must surely have been a hindrance to him in later years, hanging
half-way to his knees.
think of that school, who extracted money from my ever-hopeful
mother but gave her nothing in return but heartache and regret,
I think of the Universal Fascist Hymn:
note I will end this epistle to one who cares for old people.
January evening, M. and I invited a friend to dinner. She brought
not only a bottle of wine, but a joint. So we managed, after eating,
to get M. to inhale a couple of puffs. I had 3 or 4.
ensued was not the above scenario, but an hour of kissing, licking,
hugging, etc.: the metasex which I like so much, and which he
can more or less deal with, given that he has a problem with responding
to erotic sensuality. It was very beautiful, but maybe a one-off...