Missy Jubilee 148 BANG film poster
Missy Jubilee 148 BANG

by Alan Rogers in London

Byron Bay


Belongil Beach Café

I’m sitting here at this cafe

Waiting for my real life to start

Life is what happens to you, when you’re busy making other plans.

Around me sit five men

That I have met

On the beach that morning

They were in Byron Bay

For a three day bucks celebration

My sex is dark

Hormones raging in a young body, can make judgements unclear.

It is a web

And It dangles

From the rafters of humanity

They fell into it

Poetry is your real skill here. But your words are dripping with eroticism.

I caught them

and they didn’t know it

They thought they had caught you.

That afternoon

Standards were set

Role models rolled

But I had no invite

So I just crashed

My own vagina party

Invitations were most certainly given out and accepted.

I was a strippers apprentice

At the whoring game

Very old professions both

It was complex

And the reckoning

Was just beginning

I assume you are referring to judgement. It is one of the themes of your project (in my eyes) that distaste and criticism of a girl who gives so much pleasure is unjust. It is a wrong that should be righted.

Is this an attitude of gratitude I asked myself?


I only feared one thing

The mother of all fears


In this instance I suspect rejection was not an option.

That rug pulling bastard

Between my ears

Self doubt is ageless. I understand that. I know you hate me for mentioning your age so often (the shock value of it keeps crashing in my head like a loud bell), but the younger you are, the more ’needy’ your response in trying to get others to like you.

I am a hopeless romantic

So I gave them all

Some pussy

To observe

And obsess over

At close quarters

On the beach no doubt.

What they didn’t know was

I’d fuck anything with a pulse

So I could feel useful

I suspect they were at a similar level of wantoness

They were hungry

To order up

Some sweet vagina

With a side dish

Of dripping wet pussy

Men are simple creatures. Life makes that glaringly obvious. We have no real complexities. We play with a pretty straight bat most of the time. Our wants and needs are basic. That should not surprise anyone. I think the only surprise is how we have learned to suppress those desires and wants and needs to a level that society accepts. It takes little to strip away the pretence, but unless you do; we are (mostly) all gentlemen on the outside and fucking perverts on the inside.

In exchange

They gave me goods in kind

They bought me drinks

They rolled me joints

They racked up

Lines of cocaine

None of which are cheap, and all of which are currency of some kind.

If it had of been money

That would have be tacky

And made me a whore

And I wasn’t that good

You were better. You were real.

Better to be rejected

For a truth

Than accepted

For a lie


Everyone needs a past

To get to their now

Somehow, I believe you are describing the road less followed. It is difficult to determine what is real, and what is fantasy. That is my tired and confused brain talking. Not my dick.

As the vessel between my legs

Did its thing

According to nature

And the instructions

On my girl card

They are the receivers

And the perceivers

I was the deceiver

Not the transmitter? No, I don’t think you fooled anyone, unless you lied about your age.

Everything they wanted

I knew they would get

Each time

I subtly spread my legs

The door cracked open a little

Enough to see

Light beaming

From their faces

This is sex seen from the perspective of a creative mind.

And another shot of dopamine

Was mainlined into my brain

Making me high as fuck

Junkies are looking for something too

Escape, normally.

My nihilism said

Take what you want

I’ll be anything

And I’ll do anything

Not just what you need

Provocation of the nuclear kind.

Anything? they said


I was in

My age of sexual desire

And they were there

To serve me

And so the idea of control is again explored.

Think of me

As a 14 year old slave girl

You bought at the slave market

For two dollars

In a country without rules


Or responsibility

In such things the law is inadequate.

Such things

Only limit the imagination

It was my fantasy

So I got to

Shape the whole thing

As I saw fit

Channelling an inner Nikki Gemmel. Very nice.

But I warned them

Don’t be smacked up

On self awareness

Or political correctness

“Don’t be the gentlemen you pretend to be to polite society. Be the pack of hounds you really are”.

We were the same

These five men

And me

Not quite, but I know what you mean.

Same theme, just different scripts

I was giving away the physical

And they were hoping to take it

Promises are rare things.

What they wanted

To do with me

Is what they needed to do

To feel whole

As a pack of men

Intent on raping

And pillaging

That ‘control’ thing bothers me. Like rape, it is not something that can be excused, but rape can be misconstrued. A girl can ask to be raped, verbally, or even with written consent, and fully enjoy the experience, but if she says afterwards that she did not want it, and was forced into it, the authorities will take her side. At least initially. That is how society has evolved to cope with trying to curtail the aggressive sexual nature of man.

Temporary implies

All things must move

Including understanding

And responsibility

Your script moves as if this chance would never present itself again. I somehow doubt that. But maybe the masks were already slipping from their faces and you encouraged that.


You just have to

Suck up the pink

When you grab a glimpse

I can’t say

That these three hours

In a private courtyard

Of a public cafe

Were painful

You have left a little to the imagination here. I am not sure if I am happy or not? My brain is happy. My dick is just being a dick.

The only pain

Was denying

That I ever wanted it

To stop

That afternoon

They took me home

To their holiday rental

And for the next three days

These five men

Would fill all the holes

Of the slave girl

They bought for two dollars

They did not buy you for two dollars. But I get the joke. There is a popular fantasy doing the rounds of ‘free use’ lifestyle. This involves a girl becoming a fucktoy for the occupants of (usually male dominated) households; student flats, rentals, etc. The girl cannot say no. She is taken wherever and whenever the occupants want, and does not have a say in when or where it is. Three are some very believable stories apparently recounted by girls who claim to have done this, loved it, and still do it. I say, power to them (if true, and why should I not believe them?). When you are young, the world is your oyster.

Many times over

In shifts

Day and night


I presume lube was provided. Ha ha.

Their license to perpetuate

Was sealed with an agreement

An agreement

signed with silence

Of course. They were unlikely to do anything else, other than videotape the whole thing.

Never tell anyone

The things

They could not mention

To the soft hearted

Bride to be

Back home

Because you knew

It felt too good

And she would never

Be good enough

The fantasy girl.

At this stage in my life

I was empty as a writer

But I was full of people

Brilliant words missy.

During those three days

I would find

A special kind of happiness

As they came

All over me

And I sucked on a dildo

Like a thumb

This (regardless of whether it is based on truth or not) is a story. A narrative. This is beautiful writing of erotica.

I was here

To practice the art

Of being fucked like a slut

And get real good at it

They just had to

Learn how to navigate

The holes

Without falling in


And then

When I had finished them

When their semen storages

Had run dry

And their dicks

Were rubbed raw

I would exit that holiday unit

By the front door

At 4am on a Monday morning

And walk down

The deserted main street

Of Byron Bay

Naked and caked in cum

Feeling better than I had in years

The cum walk of non-shame to the sea. Glorious.

As I walked, I realised one thing

Not once

Had any one

Of those five men

Accused me of

Being rational

Inferring you were being irrational?

They knew

The toaster was broken

But they put the bread in anyway

I love a kooky metaphor.

I would return

To the beach that morning

To swim and freshen up

Before looking

For my next group of victims

I doubt any man would consider himself a victim. Unless you refer to emotional attachment that (if you are not careful) breaks that third wall and stares you in the face as you are fucking someone.
I had

Only one sentence

Repeating in my head

A sentence

I had learned from my mother

‘More is better’

It doesn’t matter whether it’s cocks, drugs or chocolate my dear

You can have too much of a good thing, believe me. But I get your gist.

Inside me was a survivor


I was never fucked

And thrown in a ditch

Although I’ll try anything once

Let’s be honest though, that doesn’t sound very fulfilling.

Between the survivor

And my future potential

Was a coping mechanism

Called a gangbang

In the end

My mother was right

I was a slut

But I was a bigger slut than she was

Ah. The Slut word. I have argued against this before. Perhaps naively. The word Slut can be owned, but it should never be used to describe anything other than a person with a beautiful mind intent on living life through pleasure. To wit; we all have some slut in us.

So I won

And winning

Was what life was all about

That’s what I was taught

And that’s what I believed

I knew the Devil

Before these three days

You were not a virgin.


That the dust

Had settled

I knew her even better


Over the years

My head would listen

To those memories

Over and over

They kept me company

They turned me on

They were my music

To masturbate by

I have no doubt that it is normal to masturbate to sexual memories. I do. They are not as all encompassing as yours; I was never gang banged, or indeed ever participated in a gang bang. I attended a party were a gang bang was going on in one of the bedrooms. I caught a glimpse through the door of a girl in the middle of the bed trying to accommodate a crowd of boys all shouting. We were young though, and I turned away and down the stairs saddened that I did not have the bravado to join in. It was (as you implied) of the moment, and I often replay the scene with me joining in.
Until the night

I wrote them all out

Writing is cathartic sometimes.


I began to feel

For those words

In the same way

You might feel

About a community vegetable garden

That you had encouraged

The locals to nurture

Memory is of course very unreliable. But you had your story, it was just how best to tell it. The point being obvious to me. You have a mainly male following. If the above words did not make their dicks hard, then they may require medication.

A poker player wearing a smile

Might be mistaken

For a scarecrow

Or a clown

In a garden

With no vegetables

This is more obtuse, and closer to your normal narrative.

I was a bad cunt

And God just knew that

No such thing.

How’s that

For being right minded

All that ugly truth

Just so

I could learn

How to fly

When the world

Was burning witches

Because their desires

Were too real

Beautiful words. Just beautiful.

That night

I saw myself

Standing in a garden

On the edge

Of creation

I was stood

Like a crucifix


Covered my shape

And they flapped

Their wings

Hard enough

To raise what I was

Off the earth

I was attached to

It was then that I realised

It is a terrible burden

To go through life

Knowing you have a thing

Between your legs

That will make

A good man

With a cum dripping cock

Lose his best senses

And fall off his high horse

Onto hard barren ground

The week

Before his wedding

We are all vulnerable to our desires. But we hope that we can maintain self control. Another story: I was at a stag do, a few years back and the best man paid the stripper to give the groom a blowjob. It was one of the most excruciatingly embarrassing moments of my life when I witnessed this (not so) young girl eager for the extra cash; try and make this man hard enough to give him a proper blowjob in front of his horrified audience. She failed. She eventually had to give up and stuff his limp dick back into his pants.

Did I just slip

Into him accidently?

Now fuck off

Metaphorically, spiritually, mentally or physically?

Because you know

One day

I will slip out

Of your memory

Onto your lips


And your perfect life

With your perfect wife

Will be perfectly ruined

By a perfect cunt

There is no such thing as a perfect life or a perfect wife. This is a little harsh Missy. The vast majority of people think their lives could be better. They yearn for something else, whether it is better sex, or more money or (most likely) both. This world spins so fast the days come round quickly and time marches on. What you describe is a little oasis of an alternative lifestyle. It is as close as some will get. A story of someone who crossed the line, and lived to tell the tale.

I have never laughed

So perfectly

And so loud

You write such perfect erotica Missy. This story benefits from being presented as a true story. It shocks and provokes. It arouses and challenges. In short a masterpiece.