Dream Diary
2000
Sat Nov 11 05:00:00 GMT 2000
I'm walking around in my home town, with a sidekick in tow. It's dark, and the sodium light glistens on the wet ground. I'm watching myself as if looking on from the distance as we wander the streets. We walk past a pub, and an old woman is crawling away from the door across the street. She is dessicated, dishevelled, and drunk, and represents to us the decay and depravity that is intrinsic to this backwater dive.
I watch myself as we go over to her, offering no assistance. She tries to shout at us, blaming us for the state of the world and her problems, but her voice wavers uncertainly, as she tries to splutter through her mangled gums, rasping phlegm up from the burnt cilia in her lungs. We start to kick her in the stomach, watching the warmth in her cardboard frame bleed into the cold ground.
Some people come around the corner and see us at our unseemly work, so we decide to move away from the scene. We retreat to the relative safety of the pub that I own, walking down seedy backstreets to avoid the police that might be looking for us. We spend a few hours in the pub, with me holding court amongst the locals, a mottley bunch of drop-outs and vagabonds. However, the smokey and stagnant atmosphere in the pub is ultimately bad for my constitution, so we decide to revitalise our spirits with a little more late night air.
Whilst walking along, doing our best to look inconspicuous with patrol cars sweeping the area, we enjoy laughing about the evening's adventures. My accomplice, who is new to my employ, is intrigued by my intimations that the beer served in the pub is far from the usual fare.
"So, what exactly are you putting in the beer?" he asks. I realise that no level of bluffing is going to throw him off the scent, so I decide to milk the opportunity for a laugh, and to win his confidence and respect.
"Well, it's not so much a case of what I put in the beer... in fact it's not really a case of serving beer at all..." His eyes light up with interest, but he tries to cover this up by narrowing them in suspicion.
"So what can it be if it ain't beer... I mean you've got the whole set-up with the vats and the brewing an' that, you're running the whole system in front of the customers' eyes!"
"But did you ever see what goes into the vats?" I laught in as sinister a fashion as I can muster, having told the story to countless henchmen. "This town has a big problem with dogs. Well, at least it used to have a problem. The people here are so fucked up, they can't even look after dogs let alone their own children..."
"So you mean you put dogs in there?" He can't contain his genuine surprise now, but I can tell that I haven't pushed him too far, that he is malleable and that I will be able to coax him gradually into being a useful ally.
"Yep, we only sell one hundred percent extract of steamed dog residue. In fact, you see that what I'm doing in this town is starting to really have an effect on the culture."
I point at the ground, and encourage him to see what is there. "If you look at the light reflecting off the ground - not at it but try see through it - you can just about make out the dog flesh..." and pointing at the ground whilst covering his mouth with one hand, he sees the tattered remains of the dog corpses strewn across the street, sticking to lamp posts, lining the walls with a purulent sticky layer, like the walls of a rancid womb containing the unwanted souls during their pointless, disease-ridden gestation.
We stand quietly for a while, admiring my handy work. It will take a while, but we will break down this place.
What's a stool between friends?
Wed Sep 6 06:00:00 BST 2000
A friend and I are staying at my parents house. We are sleeping is single beds in the same room, so it is just the half light of morning. He is telling me about what he did to someone as a practical joke. He climbs on top of me under the covers - neither of us are wearing any clothes. He explains to me that the other guy didn't realise what he was doing, and that it was funny how shocked he was when it dawned on him what was happening...
At this point the demonstration started to take full effect; as he was squatting over me, he strained a little before releasing a warm stool, which flopped across my scrotum and fell against the side of my leg. As he continued to explain the experience that I was living out, my mind focused on the sensation of the warmth bleeding into my penis from the steaming coal that had been deposited there. I was trying not to move, to avoid squashing the material into a paste, as I was worried about how I was going to clean it up.
When he had finished, I turned around in the bed, and a number of the stools were crushed between my thighs. I exclaimed that it was now going to be awkward, and proceeded to get up. I started to pick away at the larger areas of material with tissue, trying to clear it away without it touching my fingers. but it was inevitable that I would have to pick up some of the stools directly, as I was not able to go through the house to the toilet whilst still emblazoned with excrement.
I reflected as I cleaned that it had actually been a very sensitive and close sexual experience, although in a sort of mental way, as there was no physical stimulation and I did find the physical contact with the hot sludge disturbing. But I felt closer to my friend, with whom I had shared many conversations about sexual fantasy and experimentation. But I felt that I had to shower and wash it off very carefully...