Suffer the little asshole

The bitch took over 2 hours to arrive, so I was pretty fucking drunk by the time she had turned up. It was cash on arrival of course, with extra payment due depending on the request. I started slow. Lights dimmed. Some Miles Davies playing softly on the stereo. I offered a glass of champagne, I wanted it to know just how some people lived. The blind was wide open, the city skyline forming a wonderful neon speckled backdrop to the room. She seemed pleased with this. There was also explanation for the delay, the reason I had been waiting so long was due to of the London public transport system. From the accent I guessed her to live right on the edge of the East End, zone 5 shit, Upney or Dagenham, or somewhere else as equally depressing.

I imagined this skanky jizz-hole preparing her little bag of goodies before trotting to the tube or bus stop. No where else to be on a friday night except selling its asshole to whatever willing buyer might give the call. It made me sad, sad that anything so pathetic could actually seem optomistic, for she was full of upbeat chat. The whiney cockney twang stupidly commenting on my furniture, or the tastiness of the wine, or a photograph that captured attention.

I allowed the ‘champagne’ to be finished before the business began. I had stopped drinking now, I didn’t want to lose the details. Sitting in my black leather easy chair, I gestered her towards the tarpaulin that I had placed into the middle of the room. Exactly why I had placed it there was unknown to me, for if I’m honest I still didn’t know what I was planning to do. Either way, I didn’t want any fluids, mine or her’s to stain the velvet pile that covered most of the room. 

I asked her to strip for me. She did this in a forced and awkward seduction that made me ill. As she lowered her skirt she turned so that her ass was facing me. Even in the soft ambient light of the room, I could see the dimpled cellulite of her 46 year old rump. A road map of wrinkles and saggy skin lined her abdomine. Stretch mark central. I smiled at the sheer number of random cocks this bitch must have sat on. Did she know which one spawed slag junior, 1, 2 and 3? Probably not.

I got her to suck my cock for a bit. I was medium hard,

House calls

I’ve changed my mind on the Valium. I’ve been sitting here drinking and trawling online, looking at the some of the cheap sluts that do the house calls. I don’t mind getting a pro in every once in while, although in the past I’ve always used an agency based in the West End. High quality shit. You know what you’re going to get. I’ve never bothered to look at the online escorts. It’s fucking funny though. These slags have their own websites. Contact numbers, little galleries with descriptions of what you’re going to get. I’ve just spent the last 2 hours drinking and looking through images of these losers.

I’m going all out tonight. Gone and ordered a desperate mature tart called Mandy. Her website is an hilarious DIY affair, homemade snaps of herself in various states of nudity around what is undoubtedly a council flat. She’s a tease though, in all the pics her face is shyly covered from the camera. Her 46 year old body is sagging as you’s expect. Droopy ass, tits like sacks of glue. Pussy shot to fuck. I’m thinking at least 3 kids have been spat out of it. Her description insists that all I’m paying for is her company, anything that happens beyond that is between two consenting adults. In her lists of likes is anal and pissing. There are no dislikes.

I’ve just given her a bell and arranged it. She sounded all hurried as if she was on her way some place, but she’s made herself available. £250 for four hours. That’s fuck all. This has cheered me up no end. She asked if she could bring anything over, sexy underwear, toys. I got her to run off the list of what she has. I’ve settled on some crotchless panties and a prosthetic arm. I’ve got my own tarpaulin. This should be amusing.

Not good

Today has been a low one. I get them sometimes. I left work at lunch, saying I had a meeting at head office but just walked instead. Walked trying to rid myself of the anger, to clear the head, but my path only made it worse. It brought out the hatred for the life I lead, of the city I live in, the streaming ratfuck gaggle of tourists, or the delusional suits, weaving through the crowds with unknown purpose.

I walked at my own pace, out of sync with all those around me. I didn’t alter my path to avoid contact with them either. In fact I wanted it. To touch someone, to bump shoulder to shoulder and scream. Scream in the middle of the street. To punch and kick and rape and stab. To make them all realise how ludicrous they all are. That there lives amount to fuck all. Like everyone else. Pointless organisms, dying with every milisecond that passes.

When I feel like this there’s fuck all I can do but ride it out. Even the filming seems ridiculous today. Puerile, a short fix at best. I’ve got a bottle of rum and a pack of valium that I’m about to sink into. Time to numb the thoughts. Tomorrow, I’ll be too hung over to give a fuck.

DIY snuff movies

I’ve managed to get my ass into gear today and made some progress on the filming. I haven’t contacted the Metro about putting an advert in yet. I’ve spoken to Mike my mate in Notting Hill. He’s got a shit load of empty apartments at the moment, the market is really tough for him. (I think he could do with the couple of hundred quid I’m gonna give him to have a set of keys for a bit.) My bro is cool to get me a camera.

I’ve been thinking about what I want to film all day. It’s been giving me huge fucking boners at my desk, a welcome distraction from the slaughter house images normally playing through my skull at work.

A bit of research has brought up this tart below. Really does turn me on. Great tits. I wanna fuck a bitch covered in blood. Fuck and destroy.

Click on the tits to see them move - I want to slice them

Rape Porn

I think I miss Lisa.

No fuck it, I don’t. It’s confusing. I think I just need to get laid.

Last night I watched porn on my projector for over five and a half hours. With my DVD player connected to it I can beam cocks the size of baseball bats onto the wall. It gets into your head watching an ass being pummeled by something that large. I like the gang-rapes. Black blokes hung like freaks brutalising white teenage holes. More cocks the better. I want the sluts ripped apart. I think I’m getting to the edge of the threshold of what I can buy legally and still get off though. None of it seems to do much for me anymore. How can it be rape if the holes are getting paid? Knowing its fake is taking the edge off. I got the Japanese shit out last night, watched some prepubescent girl having live eels placed into her rectum. I just stared through it. Bored. I didn’t even wank. I need to start making my own films.

Finsbury Park

The house party was a fuck up. I got chucked out for barking at people. I blame the pills. I used to love the shit during my undergraduate days. Even half-financed my way through the third year selling it. That’s the thing though, when you keep them by the hundreds in your bedside cupboard, everyday becomes a pill day. I would take them before seminars just for entertainment value. Anyway, that’s another story, another life. Lets just say my body couldn’t take it anymore, the little round wonders started having an adverse effect.

Which is why I shouldn’t have bothered getting them in for Saturday. I fell into the usual, nothing happening, these must be shit, lets take another one to see if it does anything type trap. The first first went down in the cab. The 30 minute journey meant I was dunking another with my first beer at the party. Another half an hour and still coherent enough to be pissed off with the lack of decent cunt so I have one more. Another half an hour and I’m barking like a dog.

I remember most of it. I think the whole episode came about as a type of protest. I was upstairs queuing for the toilet, the fact I was in a dire need of a shit clear proof that I was coming up. I’m always edgy as the drugs kick in. My tolerence for idiots is miniscule at best, so it wasn’t the best time for some charged fuckwit to rant three inches from my face about the latest fucking Arsenal signing.

I couldn’t even look at this guy. I stood there fighting the urge to headbutt him in the face, my hands pinching the flesh of my thighs through my pockets in an attempt to regain a sense of equilibrium. But still this fucker chewed on, and the queue hadn’t moved. I felt a surging mix of amphetamine fuelled rage. My bowels on the verge of prolapse. My mind screaming ‘shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up’.

And then I started barking. A deranged, rabid dog stuck behind bars at a warehouse type shit. And once I’d started I couldn’t stop. I have no idea where the inspiration came from. I just stood there on the landing barking at this bloke, my head jutting forward as I snapped between barks, baring teeth, lips snarled. It was fucking out there. Others circled in watching me, and I snapped at them too. Growling and snarling. A girl started laughing so I targeted her. Into character now I began sniffing around her neck, a deep gutteral sound trembling in my throat. She cowered away, backing up along the wall. I was about to unleash, when a hand grabbed my arm yanking me backwards.

I turned, lunging forward, fully in the mind of a fucking dog now, I sunk my teeth into the hand. I heard a grunt and a ‘what the fuck’, before more hands were closing in on me. I started shaking then, flipping myself free, legs and arms flailing everywhere as they started dragging me towards the stairs. I remember barking and spitting in every direction. All three pills had properly kicked in by now. My vision trailing, a hyper-reality closing in on the shadows that make up the scene. I remember voices, and faces and my head thumping the steps as I was clumsily dragged out of there. I think I was laughing by the end, it took more than five of them to chuck me out.

Outside in the cold my guts finally gave way. I managed to shit in the front yard of a neighbour before walking around the streets of Finsbury for what might have been two minutes or two hours, the aftermath is a series of image blips. I remember buying a can of redbull close to the station and cowering in a doorway for a while. I remember thinking I wanted to go whoring, but couldn’t be bothered to move. Its kind of blank after that, the mundane act of getting home lost in a quagmire of similar memories.

I still don’t know what to make of it all. So I probably won’t. I’ll never see any of those fuckers again anyway. I’m clearly too old for grotty house parties. 

Sunday I went to play golf with dad. I was shit.

Whore

The fucking whore ditched me. She set up the entire dinner and wine as a lubricant to some patronising crap about us being on different paths. Well yeah bitch, you’re a dumb actress living high times off daddies money while you wait for the non-existent knock of celebrity to appear at your door. I live in the fucking real world.

I was so caught off guard when she started the spiel. I was actually sitting there considering my own opening gambit, when her conversation flowed from some shit about a tart friend, onto us. By the time I realised what was going on, she had actually said it. We weren’t working out, that we clearly wanted diffrent things. The momentus ‘we should take a break for a while’. As I hurried to get in my bit, started explaining that I was there to do exactly the same fucking thing, she started with the ‘oh baby’ shit, grabbing my hand and telling me its alright, that it was natural to be angry. Fucking too right – you got in before me.

I was so livid I couldn’t construct sentences, but this made it worse, she saw this as unabashed emotion, thought I was so fucking cut at her leaving me that I couldn’t speak and that the water works were just moments away. As she rose from her seat, all doughy eyed with compassion, her hands stetched out reaching for my face as if a little Lisa hug might make it all better, well I flipped.

Slapping her hands away I grabbed her by the neck and told her to get the fuck away from me. It was a red mist, as if I momentarily blanked out. Reached a higher order. The next thing I know I’m holding her against the wall, spitting off the names of all the birds I’d fucked since I’d met,  including an in depth description of the toe fucking incident. Her hands clawed at my arms, scratching them up, but my grip only tightened. She began coughing then, her eyes bulging, her face a bright shiny red as she struggled. ‘you’re a fucking liar’ she croaked. I smacked the back of her head against the wall. She managed to spit in my face, and actually smile.

I cupped her cunt with my other hand, and the idea of fucking some sense into her flashed across my brain. It was a total thought, clear, as fully realised as if it and the act were one and the same thing. I smiled back, both hands tightening.

She must have known what was coming, for as I was about to shove her to the ground, her knee came up to my groin. She caught me square, no ricochet, no obstruction, full knee cap to nuts. I went down like an A-grade sack of shit. I puked, straight up, all over her wood flooring. Through the blur of the pain I remember being hauled out of her flat, shoved onto the landing, and my jacket flung down the stairs. Then came the dead bolts. I sat there for a while, nursing my pain, regaining my composure enough so that I could speak, and call myself a cab.

That was last night. So here I am birdless for the weekend. I’m happy about it. My balls seem to be okay too. I’ve managed to jack off today at least. And tonight I’m going old school. There’s a house party happening in Finsbury Park. That will take me back a bit. I used to live around there before I was qualified and actually had cash. Haven’t seen these boys for a while. I’ve even got a few pills in, a kind of good will gesture as i haven’t been around for a while.

It should be loose anyway. Last time I was at one of these parties, I was snorting K off a park bench at 10.30am, while sharing a beer with local hobo. The bird I was with was so fucked her face looked like melted wax. I don’t really want a repeat performance of that, however, after the pretencious crap I’ve been too with Lisa of late, a dirty house party is just what I’m after.

Sex, lies and DVD, I have an idea…

I saw an advert in the back of the metro today. Just a poxy little box in the classifieds, must have cost about £15 to put in there.

“Earn £1000 extra income per week, Men and Woman needed to appear in adult movies. Immediate start.”

Followed by an email address and telephone number. If you live in London you’ll have seen them before. They’re in there all the time. It’s really got me thinking though. There’s obviously a market for this shit. I have no interest in answering the ad. But think of all the sluts that do. Especially in a recession.

I could post my own advert, get them to send in the pictures, pick and choose who I want to fuck. See how far I could take it. I would get them in. Set up a little fucking studio. I could get hold of a decent camera off my bro, probably lights and all sorts of shit to make it seem professional. I wouldn’t do it here though, to much in potential come back. I’ve got a mate, an estate agent across in Notting Hill. That would fucking do it. Grab some keys off him one weekend, one of those Georgian terraces.  That would help loosen the pussy up too, they wouldn’t expect anything sinister from a guy in a 3 million pound house.

I’ve filmed myself fucking birds all the time, even hidden camera’s, but this would be different. I’d be paying these bitches, and paying them well. I could push it, see where it takes me. This has got me excited. I’ll keep you posted.

It’s dinner with Lisa tonight. She’s cooking for me over at her place. I’m tired of this domestic shit. I think I’ve got to end it tonight.

Public Sector Bollocks

I’m at my desk as I write this, and I’ve come to realise that my job is a joke. I get paid substantial amounts of money to sit in meetings thinking about the various ways I would hack up and dispose of the the limbs of the fucking idiots around the table. I’m telling you that’s what I do.

I’m only two years qualified, so while the partners at the firm jack each other off to the tune of billion pound insolvency cases, I get the Mickey Mouse leper shit. I’m working on a contract for the NHS at the moment. These cunts haven’t got a clue. If you want to see inefficiency of mind-fuck proportions check yourself in to the offices of a government department for a day. It’s no wonder they’re paid peanuts, they don’t do anything. They conduct meetings, about the meetings, about the up and coming meeting on how much coffee is being used in the dispenser. It’s hideous. 

The average age is about 72. These fucker’s sign up for the job for life on the tax payers cheque book, and that’s it. Dead man’s shoes. If a job takes 3 people, they’ll assign nine and still come in over time and over budget. You’d find more ambition in a Tower Hamlet dole queue.  

I was originally contracted for three months. I’ve been there five and they’ve just extended until March. I want to fucking die. The project is all about securing services for the next bout of swine flu. A complete waste of everybody’s time. I’m surprised they can afford me. But then billy-bob-joe tax payer is footing the bill so who gives a shit hey. No one there seems too.

There’s not a sniff of decent fanny in the whole fucking building either. I’d sooner stick my dick in an industrial blender than I would the scrotum faced bitch in charge of the project. She actually smells faintly of urine. It fucking offends me. How can anyone get  into a position of authority, if they can’t even wipe their twat properly after taking a piss? That’s what I’m dealing with here.

The only other female on the team is a 40 year old Irish thing with the demeanor of a recent rape victim. The woman fucking fliches if you look at her. I’ve never seen a more pathetic spectacle than this bint attempting to speak in a meeting. She’s mound of broken nerves, shaking and stuttering, I cringe every time she has to open her mouth. I’ve not seen bruises, but if I was married to that I would end up beating the shit out of her. Some people are just born to take a punch.

So yeah, I hate my job. Seven years of legal training for this. It is so depressing when I think about what that means.

Rape

I was thinking this at my desk today. Every girlfriend I’ve ever had, has fantasised about being fucked by a stranger. And I don’t just mean a one night stand with a guy they don’t know. Or even a dream-like passing in the night, by a dark mysterious man. They mean fucking raped. The scenario they fantasise about is the masked intruder, breaking into the house and fucking them. Ripping their knickers aside, unknown cock violently penetrating them, grappling in the dark as a large dirty hand smothers their mouths to stifle the screams.

By simple extrapolation, the fact that throughout my life I’ve dated, reasonable, intelligent women of normal dysfunction, basically means all woman fantasise about being raped. Don’t let yourself be fooled otherwise.

Of course they would say that it is just that. A fantasy. They like the idea of being taken. That intoxicating mixture of death and sex. Absolute fear for survival. Sex is a difficult thing for a woman to come to terms with, to accept in the same way as a guy can. For a bloke its nothing but a physical release. Whether its inside a piece of meat, or while looking or thinking about a piece of meat, it is just that, a superficial, visceral experience. With a little aesthetic if you’re lucky. Emotion does not enter the same fucking universe as sex for men.

For woman, the complete opposite is true. Emotions are so inextricably bound to a woman’s understanding of sex, it goes along way to explain all of their dysfunction. Even your average liberated nymphomaniac still has issues when it comes to sex. They’re far from liberated by its effects. They may fuck the entire football squad in a 14 cock orgy that leaves them limping for a week, but emotion is never far behind. It’s just in those instances the fear and self-loathing is disguised by the extremity of the act itself. ‘I’m in control, it’s my choice how many blokes I fuck’. Yeah, bullshit love, wake up to yourself.

So being raped removes all guilt from a woman’s mind when it comes to sex. If they had no choice in the matter, how can they be at fault? A blameless act. They have been violated and used and abused, all of the things they are taught not to want or like or even think about. But they do, they fucking want all that. To be controlled. A dirty stinking fuckhole, writhing about the floor with a strangers cum dribbling down their legs.

They all fantasise about it. I’m telling you its true.

The rest of my weekend was a bit shit. The bitch with the tits turned out to be Stevey’s cousin. I got the full barage from him over the phone later that day. He’s not happy. I’ll be going elsewhere for MDMA for a while. Lisa and I made up, as I knew we would. She came around to my view that the Director guy was pretensious little prick.

I promised her I’d have a word with my brother again. He’s an Assistant Producer at Endemol. He’s got nothing for her. I keep encouraging her to do porn, I wouldn’t mind. In fact it would turn me on to see her airtight. She gets too fucking offended with that though, wants to be a serious actor. Never going to happen. I keep that to myself though.

It’s been 4 months for Lisa and I now. I was thinking about that today as well. She’s been hinting about staying over more nights a week, and I’ve already found some of her clothes in my fucking wash bin. I can’t see it lasting much longer. I should set her up with my bro…