destiny and destination
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VACUUM OF DESIRE a
short correspondence Part Two |
There was only a stain on the rug.
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From: John Anthony, I was very upset and angered by your e-mail. One thing you must understand is that my name is John, always has been. I have never been called Paul and I am not like him so you must never subscribe his 'attributes ' to me or indeed anyone else. Unfair!!! Should you wish to remain in contact maybe a nicer e-mail would be good. John
Just because I was angry and rather upset didn't mean to say that I had stopped loving you. However I am not available to speak, text or e-mail 24 hours a day. I do work hard and although the job I have is stressful, I do like doing it. When I come in from work the first thing I do is to switch my phone off, charge it and go for a rest. It keeps me sane, or as sane as I think I am. If you like I could come down on Friday for a few hours, I am unfortunately working early on Saturday so the visit would be a short one. Let me know what you think. John
Dear Sweet Man, I have to go to a Medical examination on Friday. But I am free Monday and Tuesday. Are you ? John
Hope your willy passes the medical test today. Will they hang weights from it ? Will they squeeze your balls and ask you to cough ? Dr Wolf
Do you mind if I stay over till Tuesday morning ? The medical this morning went well, my blood pressure was a little on the high side of normal, but this was probably due to having to wait for over an hour before I went in. A full bladder too! So now I am free to apply for a NI driving licence and will do so when the holidays are over, no point in rushing the application so that it sits for 3 days in the sorting office is there? I hope all is well with you now and your cock is dribbling, you're making me so horny that I may be forced to rape you on my visit! You sexy wonderful man!
Not sure I want to be raped immediately we meet. (Wonder should I get a straitjacket for you - then I could do all sorts of wicked things.) I wouldn't mind a bout of kissing first!# Please don't wash the rapecock.
I want to taste under the foreskin.
I'm so tired that I'm having difficulty
concentrating on my spelling and grammar, so please forgive any
lapses. I'm not too fond of smegma so maybe a slight wash would
be better for me, I will leave it in your hands, unless you'd
rather I washed it for you? I do have an English driving licence but I want to get a NI one as it will enable me to change my bank account, all banks I have visited so far require a form of identification with an Irish address on it, and at present I don't have one. One thing though, I was not asked to cough at the medical, the doctor didn't even look at my fluffy bits let alone handle them. We will kiss a bit first, but I am
feeling a little horny and am suffering from coitus fuckallus!
The melon I have been using had a headache last night. So, be
prepared!! John
A very strange thing
happened yesterday. I was crossing a busy street in Downpatrick
when the driver of a passing car waved at me, then indicated he
wanted to talk to me. I reached the opposite pavement and he drew
aside from the stream of traffic, causing yet another minor obstacle.
It turned out he
was staying on the other side of the fjord. I continued on my
way to Malcolm's. - Lovely house you
have here. The silent boy indicated
one that he liked - one of the landscapes I had brought from Malcolm's.
A rather good landscape (photo attached) recalling the "basket
of eggs" landscape of county Down, with fields forming segments
of the circular hillocks known as drumlins. The boy obviously
had a good eye. - Who painted that
one there ? He indicated one I have by my kitchen cooker, featuring
hide boats (curraghs) in the west of Ireland painted by a 'holiday
painter'. I had bought this for £25 a few years ago because
I liked its distortion of landscape. - Ah. (Pause.) OK.
I'll phone you tomorrow before I come over on the ferry. I couldn't live
somewhere I had to lock. Our house was never locked when I was
a child. I rarely lock my car (and never the boot). When I stay
in other people's houses, I go through the distasteful procedure
of locking with...distaste! But I think I may have said this before!
I do like your cock very much indeed.! I want to be filled to overflowing with yours and I want to fill you with mine. This will mean penetrative sex but I do want to have your love juice inside me and to have you kiss me passionately at the moment of ejaculation, and you will get the same from me. I will carry a little bit of the man I love in me till we next meet, which to me is such a beautiful thought. I will wash your cock for you, (without soap,) and would be honoured to cut your hair for you, (NOT THE BEARD!) We will both be naked when the ceremony is performed. I have not washed myself at all since
yesterday morning before work, should I? My unwashed penis is
a little 'sniffy' at present but you can always wash it for me
if you think that it is too sniffy. My cellphonee is playing up terribly
at the moment, I will have to get another one soon. John
Only recently I made a medical discovery which of course is one of those things that no-one tells anyone else, least of all doctors. The simple cure for smegma, from which I have suffered itchingly for years. Washing the cock only makes it worse. Fungicides don't work. But all that is needed is, once a day only, to retract the foreskin and give the organ some air so that it dries up. After 2 days of doing this, I encountered only pleasant, pheromonal smells on pulling back the foreskin, and the smegma problem has vanished - at the age of 63! Something else boys
never learn at school. I would have been 43 when I first encountered pornography! When I was a teenager there was little or no porn around, and, in any case, I wasn't attracted by breasts or buttocks. I had satisfied my curiosity about vaginas when I was a kid - by examining those of my female playmates. I certainly had no idea that there was homo-porno. I don't know that I would have been interested, since dicks didn't attract me particularly. It wasn't until
I discovered that there were hairy bearded men, and that I was
attracted to their doggy hairiness, and - crucially - that some
of them found me a turn-on, that I found (some) cocks and many
balls beautiful. Subsequently I discovered hairyporn. One day
I'll probably prefer my chosen screenshots to actual men! xxx Oh destiny! that brought us -
incredibly - together!
My dear, I have ordered a phone from argos so there is no need to take your spare one, though the offer is very much appreciated. You haven't explained yourself at all well re. fucking. This is something that I want to do to you and want you to do to me. Maybe I should give you more time to get used to me, but I will say this. It will happen. I need to express my love for you in this way. John
Although I rather like being fucked
by one of those few who have the sensitivity to know how to, I
am of the (physiological) opinion that fucking is for cunts not
for arseholes - not least because of the shit-hazard!
...or: JUST ANOTHER STAIN ON THE RUG I have never had a correspondence quite like the above - a fantasy-reality in itself rather than a prelude to reality. Today I spent the morning preparing to receive Mr Bus in true romantic fashion for his overnight visit. Celery and potato soup; avocado and green peppercorn dip. I baked a loaf. I chopped up the spinach-like sea scurvy grass with lots of garlic for a pasta and cheese dish with baked red peppers. I selected wines, laid the fire, chose the incense, replaced candles in the candlestick, and so on. I met Mr Bus (off a bus) in the early afternoon. I took him to see Brocks' Acre (about 10 km away from where I picked him up) where I planted a shrub. He was not too good at ducking under branches or hopping over barbed-wire. He is only 48 and I - who can hop over or crawl under barbed wire as I always could - am 63. He was not exactly dressed for 2 days in the country: red shell-suit bottoms, some styleless top thing, and sneakers. I commented that he had not brought his toothbrush - nor indeed any little treat for our love-fest. Then we drove to my house, where I served him tea as requested, before we both went upstairs to the Love-room, where I turned on some spacey-flowy music and lit the incense. There we stripped and he cut my hair to #1 with the clippers while I nuzzled his balls and kissed & licked his cock. This symbolic and exciting job done I opened the Crémant de Limoux and we we dove under the duvet. We had an amazingly kissy couple of hours or more: he is a fantastic kisser, despite almost permanent allergic nasal blockage - which means that he snores even worse than Malcolm. I really think (in my incipient or romantic dementia) that kissing is the most satisfying thing in the world, especially when lubricated with champagne (or in his case with champagne and my champagne-piss). Eventually Mr Bus came copiously and satisfyingly three times in succession over my face and beard. Yum, yum. And we continued to kiss. But something was preventing me from wanting to ejaculate (though I had several cerebral orgasms), something veiled, unrevealed, unrevealing, unforthcoming, sealed off…about him. A physical intimacy without any intimacy of spirit: quite different from my (misled) feelings of galactic interpenetration with Paul. We kissed and nuzzled a bit longer, and then I started talking about dinner and what flavour of ice cream he would like me to make. He then announced that he was not staying overnight after all, since he had to work next day. This was quite a slap in the face with a flaccid willy. The day was Easter Monday, with very basic bus services which I had to phone up about. I realised that the clock in the love-room had not been advanced for Summer (Daylight Saving) Time, so it was an hour later than I thought: 19.30. I rushed downstairs, and couldn't get through to the bus company. So I just went upstairs again and woke John up (!) and said I would run him home to Belfast (30 miles) immediately since I hate driving in the dark. Even if we had had dinner, I would not have been able to drink wine before driving him either to the last bus (which turned out to be at 20.30) or all the way to Belfast. Next day (Easter Tuesday) was also a Public Holiday with a special bus service, and all drivers on that day, too, earned twice the normal rate. It was highly unlikely that he had suddenly been called in to work, since drivers always and naturally compete for such a remunerative shift on a day when they are otherwise at a loss to know what to do. And so, without a word spoken between us, I drove to Belfast, where he recognised a bus-route and told me brusquely to leave him at a bus-stop (only 3 miles from his house) - though, being Easter Monday he might have had to wait half an hour or more for a bus to come. I got the impression that he did not want me to come anywhere near his house. I also suspect that his house-mate ex-lover, was the reason why he had to report back that night. I drove home, chagrined that I had made one of my rare trips to the city without being able to go to shops for one or two items which I will have to ask Malcolm to get for me. I lit the fire, and, some time after 21.00 hrs, had some of the dinner and wine I had prepared, to music that I had selected that morning. I hadn't eaten anything since breakfast. So ended the non-relationship with Mr Bus - a man who (it turned out) dislikes roast parsnips and has no interest in breakfast, landscape, art, philosophy, poetry, stones or wine. I don't expect to hear from him;
I doubt if he will have the integrity to apologise. Sometimes
I feel that I am one of the few reliable romantics in the world!
And now I am feeling rather good. He was very good at kissing
- that's all. Once I realised that he was dishonest I just felt
glad to detach. This capitalist society is so controlling of people's lives that its culture of career- and work-slavery actively inhibits people from having friendships outside their jobs, or relationships beyond television, family and child-rearing. In the next two or three days a digital camera will arrive, for Mr Bus asked me to go halves with him to replace his that was broken in transit from England. I spent a lot of time on the internet researching good-value digital cameras with decent optics for non-professionals, and found a bargain on the Amazon Marketplace site (a second-hand one still within its guarantee period). So now (unless a really unlikely thing happens and he sends me £100 and a request to forward the camera to him) I will have a digital camera which I do not want. Perhaps I will sell it on eBay. Can I be bothered ? As a friend said after my report on these events - it's just another stain on the rug! Both 'love' and sex are, differently, hoardings behind which hide desperate competitions. Hugs, Volchya
Oh, Tonchya, what can
I say ? Indeed, even saints rarely escape this, I'm afraid. Only the wise heart could do so, and the owner of such a heart might be just an ordinary, absolutely undistinguished man (except for this gift). In that sense the more complex and developed a person you are the more problems it brings to you in relations with other human beings. Probably that's why so
often the only apparent solution is to I think only the Christian-orientated mind could see the tragedy in this state of things. Buddhists might say that if you were born human there were certain 'reasons' for it. You're very fortunate
to have the capacity to be aware of suffering (but that's another
topic). Human hugs from Tyomka PS Remember what I wrote
to you at the very beginning, on seeing his photo: "he
looks like he needs sex every half-hour".
I think it's curious that he had you drop him off only a few miles from home. An obvious reason would be if he were married or lived with someone else - can that be ruled out? Or is it that he needs to preserve something separate from you? I'm thinking of Artyom's observation about the strength of your personality. We will see. F.
I feel the human race to be a kind of fable. A story being recited to the universe at large. For entertainment, or instruction, I know not which... atb gerald |
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FOR THE STRANGE AND FELICITOUS CODA TO THIS CORRESPONDENCE
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In May 2005 I finally met Ivor the Artist, the man I confused with Mr Bus in the initial stages of our correspondence. I was delighted to learn that he was actually older than I - oh joy! I have always been looking for a man older than myself who was not a pathetic lurker-in-the-closet. Ivor is one of the few I have found, and, he surprised me by his expansiveness and urbanity present in even a "well-travelled" Ulsterman who exhibits his competent paintings in Brussels, Paris, Marseille as well as Dublin and Belfast. So we lingered over our champagne and talked about plants and painting, music and the Road to Nowhere which is Northern Ireland and its politics, while caressing and admiring each other's surprisingly unravaged bodies and tumescent dicks, kissing and hugging. Some hours passed this way with no 'wham-bam', no urge to detumesce, but a lot of cuddles. We felt hungry, and so, naked, I cooked a quick and partly pre-prepared meal of my own specialities - after lighting the fire. We opened the excellent wine which he had brought from France, and continued caressing and talking and listening - and listening to music. This continued after dessert, and so the two calmly sensual old men (one 63, the other 69) drifted up to bed where, after more of the same, we fell asleep in each other's hours, waking up a few times briefly in the night to kiss and caress. And suddenly it was breakfast time, and Ivor had to drive three hundred miles to Wexford, so I got up quickly and made his breakfast. Although 'nothing had happened' a great deal had happened which would not have happened otherwise. We both felt very sexual, still tumescent, but also deeply satisfied as one rarely does after ejaculation. Ivor texted me a few hours later to tell me that he could still feel my delightfully cuddly body beside him, and this feeling had sustained him over what might otherwise have been a dismal drive (it was grey and wet, too). More texts came from Wexford...then from West Cork...then from Longford...then from his home in county Derry. And a few e-mails. Here is an e-mail from me - and one from him: Hello Mr Cuddly ThickDick, I'm so glad that you appreciate that we had a poetic time together. I prefer poetry to lust - it lasts longer and has no sad aftertaste. Of course lust can be poetic, but unfortunately that's rare. Certainly I prefer the gentle and ungenital evening and night we had to a whambam session that is (as they usually are) a one-off or, worse, a hit-and-run. Experienced sexmen used to call me "a slow burner" (this was not a term of abuse) and I guess I like slow burners myself. Intimacy is far more interesting than sex. And when they combine it's wonderful. Transcendental. Looking
forward to transcendental times, =============== Hi SnakeWolf! It's a bit the same for me.All i know without analysing it to much ,is that it felt good and 'comfortable' to be with you. Sort of natural, as though we'd known each other in some way before-? It was neverthless a sexual experience, like a long slow orgasm - slow burning maybe, but lasting .. and in many ways more complete. It also leaves something for a future meeting and all avenues have not been explored but tentatively suggested at. I do think its better to push the boat out gently and put up the sails a bit after so that you can perhaps gain speed as you get used to handling the craft... want to visit again , but my life here is so hypocritical and difficult, it is most difficult to arrange anything. Hugs for now, IVOR =============== 15th June 2005 Yesterday I
was invited to spend the day with Ivor/Silverbeard/Thickdick
the ?painter. He lives about 80 km away. Ivor showed me dozens of his paintings - not one of which I particularly liked. All were bland and superficial. Many were of irises and pansies, some were of very clean landscapes and needed a wash of burnt umber or a nice muddy dog to roll over them, and there was not a single portrait. Not even of his wife or married/separated offspring. Surely someone who does not paint portraits cannot be called a painter ? Even if he shows in expensive commercial galleries for the crass rich, such as the Galérie Médicis on the Place des Vosges in Paris! After a light lunch of fried rice with egg and a glass of Marquès de Cáceres we went off and looked at a few local megalithic sites in the rain - three of which I had not visited before. One (with lintel and portal-stones) which I had seen some thirty years earlier had disappeared into a vast and hideous quarry, many of which are wrecking the Irish landscape in the name of progress and employment (code for greed and breed-greed).
About 6 pm we returned, and I the supersensitive who is so often out of his depth, noticed an atmosphere in the house. Middle-class conversation skated on the surface of things. Actually most human talk is about nothing and is completely pointless. After all the strutting words have passed, there's just the trampled truth. Or the beggar truth. Then dinner was served. I had
said Don't Make me Vegetarian Food since vegetarian food
made by meat-eaters is always pathetic and usually stodgy (except
in France where they will without a shred of flair or imagination
offer plain cooked vegetables). Along came a dish of potatoes
baked with cheese and cream. Potatoes and sheep-cheese with
salad and roast peppers is my default food when I can't think
of anything else to make, or have nothing else in the house.
Ah, well. I ate it, and there was hollow conversation to match
the cheap (and highly-subsidised) French wine without a molecule
of personality. Our intercourse was like walking on the outer
casing of a submarine. Then I asked the wife what she thought
about Ivor suddenly deciding he was gay. She jumped up and ran
out of the room sobbing. I don't think he will. He is a shallow, self-indulgent, selfish man. What a set-up! How dishonest (as he said)...I'm out of my depth with most people, I just don't understand their closedness and their misery-in-smug-luxury. (Huge rambling house, at least 2 studios, an acre of bowery garden, two cars.) There was poor, handsome, intelligent, sparkly dog outside who was never allowed in. That says all there needs to be said about my day with the greedbreeder normals. Back to my haven of elective solitude, untroubled by people, where a case of excellent wine had been left in the scullery by an obliging van-driver.
________________ 18th June, Hi Anthony. What can I say . It was a good day and I enjoyed exploring the countryside in the drizzle with you.......have been playing the CDs..and equally .. enjoying them and thinking of you...and missing you too. But - she had made an effort, and you took her (and me) by surprise. Had she had time to know you a little better the reaction would have been more considered...However, nothing has changed my resolve to break up next Spring when I intend to sell the house. That would have happened this year had it not been for my inability to finish off various areas to realise the maximum potential. - Necessary to split both ways and leave me with my property in france......... Enjoyed your company. hope you're OK- Hugs Ivor xx
Hello
Ivor, |
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CODA I was offered just enough money for the land - but I had foolishly reckoned without the auctioneer's fees, which came to over € 9,000. So I had to borrow that money using continuing short-term credit-card balance-transfers: 0% interest but a few small fees to pay. Dennis in London (who had been bought out of his tiny rented flat in Notting Hill) most generously lent me £2,000. I hope to clear these debts when the rest of the land is sold, and my debt repaid to me after no more than seven years. The four hectares was re-sold four months later for over € 100,000. I had been shafted. A year after the above non-events, when the lovely little house in Saint-Antonin was mine, and I had stayed there several months (and Malcolm several weeks), Malcolm met a pleasant fuck-buddy in a Belfast sauna: a handsome, very sweet and good-natured chap whose only interests were sex of the crude, penetrative kind; kerosene lamps - and art-déco. George, (a mild satyriatic a.k.a. The Garrulous and Gentle Ramrod), was extremely good for Malcolm, because he had a generous way with him, was sexually very generous, too - and liked Malcolm enormously. His satyriasis is probably a function of his mild depression: many men try to ejaculate themselves out of depression - and, of course, their minds. This had a very good effect on Malcolm's and my non-genital but cuddly and very loving, loyal relationship. For I had become almost completely asexual, with no interest in hairy men beyond (or should I say below) the æsthetic, nor in ejaculation more than once every couple of months. My complete disillusionment with men and my increasing shame of being human had the felicitous result of rendering what sexuality remained in me entirely and peacefully auto-erotic. I have never before felt my mind and body so much in tune. I simply get off on my own smells. No problems of compatibility there! And I rarely wash parts other than my face, hands, feet and arse-crack. What every child knows about sex is that it is fascinatingly silly. The garrulous, restless George and I got on well for very short periods - even though his partner was...Mr Bus...whom George says is "as odd as two left feet". But then I'm as odd as two left eyes. June 2017 John and George were two of the three witnesses at the Ceremony of Civil Partnership between Malcolm and myself, not long after the 25th anniversary of our meeting. George was cheerfully garrulous. John, now suffering from diabetes, arthritis and gout - but can still drive - was very subdued. We entered into this official partnership very largely because of the UK government's decision (following a bizarre referendum) to leave the European Union, plus my decision to live permanently in France, not far from Saint-Antonin-Noble-Val, while Malcolm remains in Northern Ireland, at least for the time being. Who knows what the future may bring ? I, 75 years old, may become incapacitated. He is twenty years younger. One of us may need to look after the other - in France. Civilly partnered with me, an Irish and EU citizen, he, a British citizen, will be eligible for those rights and benefits accorded to an EU citizen and perhaps denied to UK nationals.
<< BACK<< |
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It never occurred to me that sex for most people is some sort of validation. Yet
this might have been part of the soft,
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I have now revised my notion of the Spectrum of Sexuality.
The little hetero-homo spectrum is just a section of the band that stretches
between
polymorphous-perverse to solipsistic and on to null.
I also now think that most homosexuality is simply pathological.
Kids get fixated on one person or incident occurring some time between
the ages of 6 and 16
and their emotional development is arrested.
This is not to say that heterosexuals are not also emotionally undeveloped.
Perhaps most humans, unlike dogs, are specifically emotional cripples.
The function of civilisation is to cripple us and sell us crutches.
