OBJECTIFIED
Games Perverts Play
www.gamespervertsplay.wordpress.com
Edited by Quiet Riot Girl www.quietgirlriot.wordpress.com
The Man Who Wasn’t There
Yesterday, upon the stair
I met a man who wasn’t there.
He wasn’t there again today,
I wish, I wish, he’d go away.
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I am often drawn to men who are not there. A blankness, a disconnection, a lack of identity. I like the space they present to me, the possibilities. The lack of someone concrete and known, the lack of risk that they will want to know me fully.
These men come in many different guises. Some are lost boys; some are married and attempting to lead a ‘double life’; some have deep psychological problems. Some are just men, living in that hole that won’t be filled, called ‘masculinity’. That great unploughed field that none of us really understand. These men don’t know who they are. The detective in me enjoys trying to find out.
But it never comes to any good. A blankness will never accept love and it won’t love me back. It can’t examine itself analytically and with compassion, the way I attempt to examine it and understand the man that isn’t there in the void. Often these men are angry, confused and frustrated, and they don’t like a little girl coming along and prodding them to see if they react. I have had them lash out at me before now.
Men who are there are much more enjoyable company, and they notice and value and seek to understand me, as a person. Sometimes I think of these kind of men as somehow less ‘manly’ than those other, disassociated ones. That seems so unfair. They love and they talk and they are not scared to show their feelings. And my sexist, submissive subconscious comes to the stereotyped insulting conclusion that they aren’t proper ‘men’, not men I’d like to fuck, anyway. The fact that some of these men are in fact gay just adds more complexity and possibly paradox to the whole situation.
My best loved man who wasn’t there isn’t here anymore. I knew him as a boy. I played with him on the canalside and I scrutinised his freckled face for clues of who he was and how he felt. But he suffered from self-knowledge, from knowing there was a deep chasm inside his chest. He knew he wasn’t there, and never would be, symbolically or emotionally, so he decided to not be there at all.
I wish these men who aren’t there would go away. Not to the extent my friend did. But so that I stopped being so transfixed by their absence. I wish we would all find a way of being present, and of accepting the presence of those we come into contact with. We are all here. We may as well face up to what that entails. I see you. Stop hiding. The game is up.
By Quiet Riot Girl
Lot’s Wife Regains Her Integrity
I’ve a worm’s eye view of what, seven, eight fat fleshy worms directly above me? Writhing, waggling, wincing worms. Death with the lights on? For them maybe, if they weren’t so blind.
For it isn’t humus they’ve come to churn.
Six, seven, eight, and perhaps more stretching back beyond my line of vision. Churls. A diverse rank parade of manhood and hooded maleness. My bondsmen, in thrall to me. Eight of them skirt the perimeter of my body. My flower bed. Brimful of rising sap.
Marking off my rosary, my paternoster octet can look though they aren’t permitted to touch. Yet I notice they barely bring themselves even to look. However gleefully they throw back their membranous cowls.
I am the abdomen and they my eight appendages.
Though in truth I know I cannot maintain such a fiction. For when one limb withers and falls away, another steps forward to replace it.
They pulse smoothly round the circuit of my prone body. A relay team yet to drop the baton cradled between their fingers. A sushi restaurant’s carousel. Bukkake self-service deli. Milky marinades and roux sauces for tenderising my skin. Not that any of the basters will be permitted to take a bite. No delectable mouthfuls are on offer here. Maybe an icing nozzle more fits the bill of fare.
Varnish me. Lacquer me. Burnish and buff me. Cover me. Enamel me. Glaze and fire me. Embalm me.
Indelibly linked by viscid silky grapnels. Tossed from their own spinnerets. But for this brief liquid moment spanning one to the other, we shall never couple. Being fluid, once it flows to wash upon my shores, it has irrevocably relinquished its source.
Adult musical chairs has delivered the first man on line now, parallel to the top of my head. His prick the pointer over the sundial of my face. As he thrusts over me, his paunch occludes his face. He seems nothing more to me than an overflow pipe projecting from masonry. His pebble-dash flesh. Simply waiting for the water level to rise to the level of the run off drain. And there he blows.
Relief? Yes, etched all over their fizzogs. Release? Who imprisons them in such a straitjacket of desire other than themselves? You can see why they call it ‘La Petite Morte’ as all the creases and puckered contortions depart their faces. Demise at their own hands. That last gasp, a final convulsion. And then dismissal. Left to kick his heels, his shrivelled serpent in the heel of his hand begs not to be pounded any further. A small nudge in the ribs from the spare hand of one of his peers moves him right along and out of the firing line. “Don’t come first. Don’t come first” I imagine runs through each of their minds. The solitary time in their life that any of them so exhort their competitive selves.
He at least can content himself that being the first, he had free range of play over my body. That he couldn’t miss in laying down his marker. He managed to stipple my belly. I wonder if that was deliberate? That what he really desires is to impregnate me. Most favour effacing me. Else the wishful open sesames of either forlornly rapping at the barred gate of my sex, or mimetic invocatory spilling of their own creamy trails around my breasts. That they can control the trajectory is not in doubt. But I’m never quite sure if they can determine the propulsive force to any degree? I read that sneezing causes the fastest extrusion from the human body. Is the human sperm cannonball perhaps too swift to direct on to the heart of a bull’s eye target? Certainly it gets harder for those who come to the fray late, to lay claim to their own territorial splash of me.
The sightlines and blocking are good. At least from my recumbent vantage. And let’s face it, that’s the only one that counts. Shuffling along my periphery, their scuffling bare feet the only sound, save for the hammy cuts of bovine exertion. Each seems to know his place intuitively. Prompted only by the crowning soliloquy of the preceding protagonist striking his mark. I am the executive producer of all this. The choreographer for the entire corps, though I’ve uttered not a single word to any of my stage hands. Do they credit themselves to be improvising? They’re sticking rigidly to my script and following my silent direction.
Here they go round my mulberry bush, with its glistening purple fruits. Yet they won’t taste of its goading dark flesh. Only I drink of its fermented juices. It’s just me who gets to mull and sweeten and ripen on the vine.
They revolve around me like clockwork figures primed to strike the hour. I know from past viewing that there are only ever three moments of slight hiatus. Firstly, that moment of arrhythmia just before they climax, when all focus and control is sundered. The next when they waft and squeeze their members to wring out every last draggling drop to ensure none is wasted that could be adorning me. (Of course in doing so they veer violently from their locally beaded furrow and cross the ‘i’ or dot the ‘t’ of someone else’s tilling; less yin yang, more an adulteration, a clumsy cocktail shaking). The third? That beat thereafter, when they are at a loss what to do next. Unwilling to draw a veil over themselves even as they have drawn a milky one over me. They are finished. Spent. While I am still lush, fluid and charged. A teeming player when he’s been benched. Ceding me to the next man who will be similarly timed out.
This second one jerks his hips forward like he’s playing a guitar solo. His tongue protrudes out the corner of his mouth. His eyes are closed so he’s certainly flying solo. He’s metronomically on the beat. On automatic pilot. Not a wisp of turbulence floats across any of his sensory instrumentation. Until the chill air crash-lands him back into the here and now. Dead eyed if not dead eye. Dead eye dick, the stupid wanker has overshot my landing strip. He takes flight, disorientation slathered all over his fretful face. Which is more than could be said of his jizz on my unclad body.
Chop chop. Let’s get this thing going again. No slacking off.