by Alan Rogers in London
Byron Bay
2012
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?
Nice
I only feared one thing
The mother of all fears
Rejection
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
Agreed.
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
Anything
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
Regulations
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.
Sometimes
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
Non-stop
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
Because
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.
Now
That the dust
Had settled
I knew her even better
NICE.
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.
Then
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
Crows
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
Accidently
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.
Alan.