WRITING

A NEW START

I pay the taxi fare and get out. I breathe in the cool winter air. It feels great after the stale air of the taxi ride.
A couple of punk kids stop and stare as I light a cigarette. ‘FREAK,’ they yell as I continue on my way. Well, I had better get used to it now: what’s done is done.
Outside the gate I pause as my nerves kick in. Will she understand this? It is a lot for anyone to figure out. How can I explain to her? How can I explain that I needed this? Well, no going back now: what’s done is done.
I ring the bell.
I hear her old clunky feet make their way to the door. She looks through the eye hole. She screams.
‘Ma, it’s me.’ I say. The door unlocks and there she is, shaking and crying, looking back at me.
‘Oh sweet Jesus, what have you done?’ she says.
‘Just let me in.’
She opens the door and I hug her. I follow her into the kitchen. She lights the old stove and puts the kettle on to boil.
‘Still milk, two sugars?’ she asks. I nod and I tell her about the tea I had had on my travels. Not that interesting really, but it keeps the conversation moving.
She keeps looking at it. Her face shows the horror.
‘Why son?’ She asks.
‘I just had to do it. It had been eating away at me for so long.’
‘But if you had had a sex change or something.. But this.. Son, it’s not right. You’re a freak.’
‘Thanks Ma. You know, I thought there just might be a chance to talk to you about this. A chance that you might actually understand what I’ve been going through.’
‘But son, it’s just not right, is it? I don’t even know how to...’
I look at my reflection in the glass window. I see it hanging there on my forehead. I guess trying to make her understand why her only son has a dead woman’s hand grafted to his forehead was never going to be easy. I want to tell her that I am now complete: that I am now how God wanted me to be. I want to tell her that my sickness had all circled around me knowing that God’s plan for me had not been fulfilled. That the Lord had been mad at me and my selfish two hands. But now I had made this sacrifice, I will be welcomed back into his flock. I want to tell her all about the visions I have had for years, about how glorious I should be in all my three-handed wonder. With my real self marching hand in hand with the Lord. No more failure, no more sickness. The Lord is my Shepherd.
I want to tell her all this, but don’t. My mouth stays closed and I begin to cry.
The tears pour down my cheeks. I feel mother’s arms around me, with her tears wetting my shirt.
‘I’m finally better, ma.’ I tell her through the tears. She doesn’t reply, and just keeps hugging me. Her warm arms comfort me, and I want to stay there, in her safety, forever.
‘You need help, dear,’ she says.
I break free from her arms as anger takes hold. All I’ve been through, all these sacrifices I have made to get well. How can she be so cold, so unloving? Her only son is trying to get better, to be the man he is meant to be.
‘I should go,’ I say. She tries to hug me again, but I push her arms away.
‘I’ll always love you, son,’ she says as I make my way out of the kitchen. I wipe my tears away as I make my way back outside. I feel eyes staring at me as I walk down the street back into town.

Back at the hotel I turn on the television and lie on the bed. The television is showing a news story about the never-ending war in Afghanistan. I turn it off and go to the bathroom.
I look at myself in the mirror. The hand’s skin has started to change colour. It’ll soon have to be removed and replaced. How I am going to pay for that is another problem for another day. For now it is there, and I have to use this luck whilst God is happy with me.
I wash the fingers of the dead hand. I wonder who it used to belong to. Maybe she was a model, or a nun. Would she be happy knowing that her dead body part had saved me?
I hold the hand and a wondrous euphoria shakes me. Everything is going to be okay. Life is there waiting for me: this new chapter in my life waiting to be told. Everything is going to be okay. It’s finally going to be okay.
Tomorrow it’s time to reveal the new me to my wife. It’s time for our lives to start over again.
She needs to understand.

SEVEN GRAND

John looked at himself in the mirror. Middle age had not been kind on him. He sighed at the thought of what age had done to Mary, his wife, too. Life is nothing but decomposing, he rationalised.
The new receptionist Melanie welcomed him as he entered the building with a sprightly ‘morning Mr. Jones’. John smiled back. He liked the new receptionist. He had interviewed her himself. She had come for the interview in a light white shirt. Her young skin so delicate and new, she looks like a china dolls, he thought. She wasn’t like the slappers he’d seen on TV. I bet she’s a virgin, he thought, I bet she never even swears.
John sat at his desk and removed the files from his briefcase. He clicked on the computer and waited for the thing to turn on. His mind went back to the receptionist. He imagined himself with his hands under that white shirt, tracing his hands down that delicate skin and finding her soft pubis.
‘Bitch’, he said aloud as he imagined that body against his.
Sitting there half erect he was interrupted from his fantasy by Jonas, the new account director he had hired seven months back. The young lad seemed so confident and his portfolio housed some truly exceptional work. Yet now John felt a certain pang of hatred towards him. This kid was too confident. Maybe what really annoyed him was it made John remember what it was like to be his age. How socially awkward he was, how bogged down in his own insecurities and self hatred he had been. He could never look people in the eye or start conversations never mind walk into his boss’ office so confidently like Jonas had just done.
At lunch John sat in his office and thought some more about Melanie. Maybe if I offered her seven grand she’d let me fuck her, he thought. He imagined her taking the money coyly as her Father needed surgery. Oh how he wished that she really did have a dying Father. Just think what kind of evil I could do to her for seven grand, he thought. I’m saving her Father’s life so she must suffer a little for it. John felt his penis rise as he imagined her soft face as her forced his fist inside her, or as he made her lick out his asshole. He pictured it: her crying as he laughed and screamed ‘THINK OF YOUR POOR DADDY!’
Seven grand is a lot of money, he continued in his soliloquy, I bet she would consider it. I mean it’s not everyday someone offers you seven grand just to get fucked.
When Melanie was back from work John called her into his office. He told her to sit down. John was sweating and nervous. He was never as confident as he was in his daydreams. Melanie smiled softly as she waited for John to speak.
‘Melanie, I want to ask you something. What would you do for seven thousand pounds?’ John smiled and nervously scratched his face.
Melanie’s face went red; she’d understood clearly what he meant. She got up went to her desk picked up her purse and jacket then left the building.
John sat there nervous and closed the door, then opened it again. Jonas appeared ‘What was all that about,’ he asked. John smiled ‘What would you do for seven grand?’
Jonas closed the door.
‘Anything.’

METAL COCK

Mary put the thing she’d read about and heard about for so long on the table. The ugly metallic cock: 13 inches long and 5 inches wide. Mary looks excited and puts the batteries in the thing.
‘Majestic,’ she says. I look at it and then at her. She notices my look.
‘Don’t worry, it isn’t a threat to you,’ And with those words, the thing springs into life - buzzing and twitching.
‘It’s amazing where technology has taken us,’ she says, ‘I mean, all these technological advances from faster internet to tiny cameras. But I mean this is a pure sign of our development - a machine to really get a woman off.’
I go back to reading my paper. Then I hear those words again, ‘Majestic.’ I look up and she’s licking the shaft of the thing. Noticing me, she stops and puts the thing back on the table.
Mary is in the bedroom with the thing. Her screams loud and piercing. At the arc of her orgasm, she squeals loudly and then screams ‘FUCK MEEEE. OH JESUS, OH JESUS.’
I go in and she’s staring at the ceiling. Eyes glazed over and body twitching slightly. Her hand comes out from under the sheet and puts the metallic thing on the bedside cabinet. I get into the bed with a hard-on figuring I’d fuck her brains out. She pushes me away.
‘Please Peter, don’t. I’m very tired.’
And with that, the light is turned off.
The next day I get home and I can already hear the sounds coming from the bedroom.
‘FILL ME. STRETCH ME. FUCK ME JUDAS, FUCK ME.’ I figure she might have a man in there and go into the bedroom ready to kill someone. But it’s just her with the metallic cock. She doesn’t see me, her eyes half back in her skull. Her neck is tight and intense.
I leave her be and go for a shit.
‘Who’s this Judas?’ I ask her at dinner with a mocking tone. I am mocking but also frightened.
‘Judas,’ she begins, ‘betrayed Jesus. But it is also believed that Jesus gave Judas the task of betraying him.’
‘Cut the crap. I mean, I heard you in there. You were shouting JUDAS, JUDAS… Why Judas, why not my name?’ She then laughs a little.
‘Your name? Why would I use your name? You are nothing to do with what Judas does. I am betraying you with Judas and also I am sacrificing my body to it. Judas opens me up; Judas knows more about me than you could ever know.’ I say nothing and finish my dinner.
Smarting from her words, I feel the devil rise in me. He’s rising bitter through my veins. I have worked all my life to offer her the life she wants. I work hard and she can’t even fucking orgasm with my name. That pussy belongs to me, I have bought it. I have worked hard for it.
In the bedroom, she is resting post-orgasm. I see Judas and pick it up and throw it against the wall. Her face shows terror. I meet her face with my fist. I release all my energy and hatred into her face. Pop! It’s all broken skin and blood. I smash her face again. I undo my belt and open her legs and fuck her with everything I have.
She’s still asleep in the other room as I get up for work. I write YOU DID THIS TO YOURSELF on a post-it and hang it on the fridge door.
At work, I am in a pissy mood. I have interviews all day for my new documentary film coming out. The film is about politics and corruption. I tell interviewers my aims and what I wanted to show - how politics is a dirty game and how power corrupts etc. It is all very boring and predictable stuff.
At home, I can not see Mary. I call her name but no reply. I see Judas on the table. The batteries are next to it. It’s probably broken now. I go into the bedroom, figuring, she’s probably moody after last night but she’s not there. I sit on the bed to think. I don’t see her approach me from behind but I feel the force as she hits me over the back of the head with, what feels like, a bat.
And I’m out.
I awake in agony. I am bound at the wrists and ankles by strong cord and she has stuffed my mouth to stop the screams. Blood is flowing over my chest and onto my naked cock and balls. Mary comes into vision clearly. She has a black eye and her lips are swollen. She is smiling and whistling ‘I SHOULD BE SO LUCKY.’ She picks up my penis and starts to cut it off.
I black out.
I awake and my penis is lying severed in the middle of my chest. Then I see it.
Where my old cock was stands Judas. Judas attached over the bleeding wound with duct tape. The metallic cock covered in my blood and Mary’s juices now joining with my body to become one. I want to tell Mary that now I am the full version. Now I am everything she ever needs. That we can start again, now with Judas everything will be okay.
But Mary has long gone and my head is getting heavy.

THE CANTRELLS

Hubert Rupert Schubert Cantrell 1100-1170

Hubert was the first Cantrell to actually be able to stand vertically up. Before the Cantrells were a horizontal family. Which in a way was good as the Cantrells had a long history of prostitution.
Hubert started working at the age of 3 as a bin man. But he was pricked by a dirty syringe in a bin bag which gave him a small case of HIV. Which he cured by a prescription of leaches and being bled.
At the age of 12 he became an actor in the Westend. Performing in Cats, Hair, Rent and other musicals. An opium smoker and a homosexual he was the first social kingof London.
Yet, at the age of 23 he had turned into an Ikea table after a fight with a high voodoo princess called 2gugjf. Yet, despite this setback he was the lover of the King, and various other noble fellows.
In later life he was the main table in a taxi firm in the EastEnd of London.
He died aged 70 of woodworm cancer or something like that.

Julius Augustus Neroni Cantrell 1200-1240

Julius was born without a face. His parents worried that a future Mel Gibson would make a film about him constructed him a face out of wood and clay.
This early childhood trauma obviously led to some psychological problems. He was sentenced to ten hours of community service for cutting the faces of hookers and children.
Later he entered the priesthood and spent years misquoting the Bible. Laughing as he told the church-goers to 'Slay thy neighbour', and ,' Impale the meek'.
After being thrown out of the priesthood he married a dog named GABBA GABBA. A time-travelling dog who got Julius involved in some robot dog from the future scenario.
He died aged 40 after a drunk smashed his skull into a mush with a rock.

Ted Red Red Red Ted Cantrell 1900-1980

Ted was the proud son of Fred Bread Bread Cantrell. He was born aged 12 and became a missionary at 14. He went to Africa where he contracted various STDs including the nasty Metal Crabs. Where tiny metallic pubic crabs bore through your skin and into your spine. He came first in the annual Whore Killing World Cup in 1922. Amassing an amazing 22 slain whores in 32 minutes!!
At the age of 40 he returned to the UK where he worked as a King and slayed imaginary dragons.
He died aged 80 of Pappaooomomo or something.

Scatman Ron Cantrell 1600-1670

Was born singing "Be baba ba ba ba, calling out to Scatman", to the astonishment of the hospital staff. After continuing this singing for two weeks the Father, Scotman Gon, cut the kids vocal chords. Ending the boys early singing career.
He later travelled to India where he was immersed in the Hururytrtrur religion. He travelled all of India telling the word of Huururur the prophet. The Prophet, Huururur, was actually a dog but a really smart dog that could do tricks. Like rollover, fetch etc.
He married Dead Post Hummer in 1640 and together they had a daughter called Groper Roper Cantrell.
He later settled in Berkshire and died aged 70 of a slipped anal bone.

Panty Hanty Shanty Cantrell 1880-1910

Panty Hanty led a short and empty life. Spending his youth buried up to his neck for reasons still unknown.
At age 20 he got engaged to a pretty girl named Canty Manty Ganty who he murdered by slicing open her stomache and ripping out all her organs.

Jerry Merry Cantrell 1300-1340

Jerry was indeed the first ever guitarist for Alice in Chains. Not the grunge group but the earlier New Romantic group. Enjoying hits like, 'Baby shave your back', ' Baby I love your stump', and so on.
After the music business Jerry went on to become a preacher at the Church of Epar Lana. A controversial sectarian church believing that to be a true believer you needed to slice open your arms and bleed to death.
The church was forced to close in 1330 due to pressure from the authorities. Jerry spent the last ten years of his life visiting and maiming prostitutes in the name of The Lord.
He died aged 40. Reasons unkwon.

Pong Tong Cantrell 1600-1672

Pong Tongue was born boy yet grew into a girl in early childhood. Growing a womb on her back and a vagina on her forehaead.
She attended Oxcockburnford University where she studied Pencils. Gaining much recognition for her thesis paper 'The HB Pencil, it's position in time and space'.
She later patented the Virgin Hole Mchine. Which basically was a drill for drilling holes in your partner for that virgin appeal. It did not take off.
She married John Lucas Thelepor in 1640 and bore him two children. Both of which turned into the boxes for Deal No Deal at the ages of 18 and 21.
She died aged 72 of hair starngulationititis.

Mulcher Fister Cantrell 1860-1895

Mulcher Fister Cantrell was born without skin or bones. Yet, despite this set back she became the face of Pear's Soap. Although, to be fair it was the companies least successful piece of advertising.
At the age of 14 she became pregnant, some believe, by her Mother. The Cantrells go beyond normal biology. She gave birth to a girl which she called Yuppy Fister Cantrell.
She met the famous touring serial killer Mansin Dancin Prancer in 1888. They toured together where they performed mass killings to amaze the paying crowd. Mansin died after an out-of-control toe nail slit his throat.
Heartbroken, she spent the rest of her life working as an executive for Sky TV.
She died at the age of 35. Causes unknown.

CONFESSIONS OF THE FILM DIRECTOR

MONDAY

The room is a horrid mess of stone flooring and minimal design. The type of place one of those interior design magazines would be proud of.. The expensive stone flooring, the original art, the Italian chic design furniture.
The party is starting to get a little more lively now. Beautiful rich women in sleek dresses and expensive tans mingle with handsome rich men. I look down at my suit pants - grey with pink stripes. I see myself for what I am. I am not one of them. I am an awkward creature, a mess of nerves and anger.
Karen kisses me on the cheek. Karen is sex. I have masturbated many a time thinking of those long legs and sleek body. When her husband died of heart failure she went a little wild and slept with a lot of men. It hasn't been offered to me, of course.
Karen married into money. Lots of it. Now with her millions and time on her hands she likes to invest in art and film projects.
'Have you seen Mike's new film?' She asks. I shake my head.
'Oh it's amazing. I put up half the money for it. Wonderful piece about this one armed guitar player. Powerful, so powerful. It teaches us about the human spirit, about not giving up.. I mean he can't play it well but still it is sooo moving'. She touches my hand softly and smiles.
'You're pretty', I say sounding like an asshole. She looks at me with a look of pity. She then smiles and walks away.
It is now much later and I'm a little drunk. Some young guy has his shirt off and shouting bad poetry in the middle of the room. He is a small bodied boy of around 23, a mass of hair with a shitty looking beard.

I am a flower,
I was born into the manure of hatred,
I need the sun of opportunity,
To be planted in the cunt of lady luck.
I walk the streets of loss,
I fuck the ass of time,
I spread my seed in the womb of DEATTHH...

He really screams the last line. He looks pleased with himself. A few people clap and talk among themselves about his shit poem.
YOU FUCKING PRICK, I scream at him. Karen approaches and suggests I leave.
YOU FUCKING PRICK, I scream again. YOU THINK A FUCKING POEM WILL SAVE YOU FROM THE SHIT HEAP OF LIFE. IT WAS A FUCKING SHIT POEM, YOU PRICK. LEARN TO SUCK COCK, IT'S THE ONLY THING THAT'LL SAVE YOU.
On the way home I stop outside a kebab shop. There is a young girl puking down the alley. I ask her if she needs help. ‘Fucking paedo’, she screams at me. I call her a working class cunt and continue my journey home with a smile.

MONDAY

I have been on this train for hours. Time’s stopped and become an unending blur of grey buildings and half demolished warehouses. The carriage is silent as people concentrate on reading their magazines and newspapers.
The old man sitting next to me opens his pre-packed egg sandwich. It stinks and I cringe as he takes a bite.
‘Who are you?’ I ask him. Realising that this has come out a little strange, I amend, ‘I mean, what’s your name?’
With his mouth half full of sandwich he tells me his name is Bert. ‘Bert and Ernie’, I joke. He looks at me a little perplexed and says nothing. Maybe he doesn’t get the reference. He seems a little tense after my attempt at making polite conversation. Probably thinks I’m some train psycho. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not a killer or anything’. I say a little too loudly and I am not surprised when this doesn’t help appease the matter.
Feeling a little foolish I get up and walk into the next carriage. I sit down next to a leggy blonde. Her skin is a little orange and she stinks of cheap perfume. Maybe she’s a porn star on her way to a 12 way with her bag full of lube and butt plugs.
Her face shows a slight annoyance. Why this instant distaste? Maybe I’d fucked her and forgotten.
‘Did we fuck?’ I ask trying to resolve the matter.
The man behind me then grabs my collar and pulls me onto the floor of the carriage. Obviously he doesn’t like my question to the girl. ‘Just fuck off’. He says and kicks me in the stomach. I get off the floor and go back to the other compartment. He’ll probably get a hero fuck from her for that. You know, the brave man saving the girl from the weirdo on the train. Well, maybe he won’t be able to come. Hah hah, floppy cock might not even be able to get it up.
I sit back down next to the egg man and I turn on my iPod. It shuffles to Rod Stewart. I close my eyes and I think about next weeks shoot

TUESDAY

I had my first meeting with Tina today. Joan’s research has unearthed a little gem.
The council estate is full of broken down houses and young girls with prams. Tina’s house is situated in a wonderful derelict cul-de-sac. The other houses lie empty and half demolished.
Tina fits the mould of what we think of a working class single mum. She’s 19, fat, and her hands covered in cheap gold rings. Her face shows the scar of her ex-boyfriends knife attack on her. God this story has it all – rape, violence and the realities of a life on benefits. Her baby is blind and has other health problems. In essence it’s a fat lump of blind shit. It cries the whole time I am there - a screaming blind lump of shit.
She chain smokes through all my questions. She tells me about her rape and cries as she goes through the events of that night. The man came out of nowhere, he was dressed as a clown, he held a knife to her throat as he pulled down his clown pants and fucked her. If I do a re-enactment it’s going to look like a comedy sketch.
Later, I offer her £100 to wank me off. She accepts and I come all over her gold-ringed hand.

Old Research Notes (found clearing through my documents)

Tom is a kid who suffers from Cystic Fibrosis. His mum, Julie, is a reformed junky and now a Born Again Christian. Philip, our cameraman, fucked her some years ago. She doesn’t remember but Philip, with clarity, retells the story very well. How her pussy was dirty and how he felt sick. He still, of course, fucked her but he felt sick all the same.
Tom is seven, thin, ugly and, it has to be said, slow. Sure the disease produces great shots: the tubes, the hospitals, the difficulties to breathe, but Tom doesn’t film well at all. Will audiences have sympathy and feeling for such an ugly boy?
His mother cries a lot. But one gets the feeling she cries for dramatic effect. Her pain does not ever feel realistic enough to feel compassion for her. She probably has one eye on a book deal or a tabloid exclusive about how I’d fucked her.
Her church stuff is very interesting and again looks great on film. Plus all that drug abuse back-story makes a good subplot i.e. woman overcoming the obstacles- no husband, life on benefits, but still surviving. The story is uplifting but again tragic as her son is dieing.
Tom is sick every time we go to film. There are too many shots of hospitals and his pale ugly face. Maybe we need to concentrate more on Julie, maybe it is her fault her ugly kid is dieing. What was she doing whilst pregnant? Who is the father? How much does she get in benefits?

THURSDAY

She's in a pissy mood from my earlier comment about her ugly dress. I guess no one likes it when you say that they look ugly. She turns on the radio and pumps the volume loud. I keep my eye on the road and turn it down. She turns it up again and then goes back to looking out the window. Well, if she wants this game, fine. I leave it be and concentrate on the road.
We pull into the hotel. It is a beautiful place surrounded by trees and a small lake. 'Nice to be out of the city', I tell her. She looks non-impressed as she's a city girl. Our room has a nice view overlooking the water. The room is nicely decorated and I can see why it got such a good review in The Guardian. Denise is still in a bad mood and just grunts about. I point out the lake view and the rooms decor. She just sighs and lies on the bed. I get on top of her and kiss her neck. She warms a little and I kiss her again and a little smile appears. I tell her I'm sorry and that I'm stressed.
'What did you tell your husband?' I ask.
She laughs and replies 'Business meeting'. Her husband, John, had had a stroke. He'd lost all feeling on the left side of his body. He'd also not been able to get it up. Haha, poor old limp-dicked John. And with that I inch my hand up her leg and into her pants

. ................................................

It's late and I'm drunk. She's crying at my last comment about her dead son. I enjoy her tears and pride nyself on my own disgust. She's the face of my failure

. .................................................

She is sleeping now. Her face swollen from crying. I feel the sadness of time as i look at the sagging skin on her arms. She loves me and I can't feel a fucking thing.

MONDAY

It's quiet here. Not many cars pass at all. I am waiting for Julia. She's in that house but she won't see me. This place is quiet, I can see why they're worried about me. I could go in and kill them both and maybe no one would see me leave.
They want to play a waiting game. No probs for me. Last film I made was an observational piece in which we filmed 15 hours a day. If she wants to wait, I can wait...
I go knock on the door. No reply. I scream their names, again no reply.
Finally, Derek comes out and pushes me away from the door. He tells me that I'm a pathetic loser, and that Julia is now with him. I want to give an amazing retort but, as per usual, nothing comes to mind. He sighs and goes back in the house.
Feeling rather deflated I pick up a brick ready to smash the window of his BMW. Derek comes out of the house with a nine iron. Sensing that it is better I leave I make a quick exit but Derek is quick and catches me in the side of the head with a thud from his Calloway.
Lesson learnt: next time do not knock at the door just brick the fucking windows.

SATURDAY

I meet Amy for drinks. She looks and smells great. She's all smiles and sunshine. My mind's all heavy and my words come out all wrong - full of pessimism and self hatred.
She smiles through it all. Her skin is tight and young. I watch her as she tells me of her exciting life as a lawyer but all I can do is picture that time when I almost fucked her. How I'd had problems getting it up and how finally she had to stick a finger up my ass to get me going.
She talks about her husband. How great he is. How happy they are. How great their lives are.
I ask her if she wants to fuck.
She leaves and another lonely night comes to an end.

NOTES FROM THE WEEK

Been an awful week. A shitty, horrid mess of a week. More bills and bad news. No cheques though. Haha, I have almost given up on them.
Monday I found out that Tina (the girl who wanked me off) had died. She'd killed herself by slicing open her own throat. Big drama and my camera not there! How typical. Still, on the bright side, the producer told me that the funding had been pulled for the project anyway.
Wednesday I had a call from Julia. She's become a real cunt since we divorced. Well, she was a cunt when we were married but since the divorce she has added another level of cuntishness to her game. She wanted to tell me that she knows that I have been waiting outside her house. That she knows that I am stalking her. Derek is not happy and is threatening to kill me. He's getting CCTV put in.
After I hung up I masturbated replaying the conversation in my head.
I still haven't figured out why.

SUNDAY

The naked dancer is pissing over the floor. She stoops over and pushes out her vagina. She licks her lips and pisses over her hand.
Michael is getting excited and downs his drink.
She gets onto all fours and sticks her ass in our direction. She fingers herself from the back. Her vagina grey and housed in old fat and decayed skin.
‘God, I knew this girl called Dee Cee. She was so beautiful. She came for a casting for a Chanel shoot but I just fucked her instead. Once I asked her to piss in my mouth. God it was hot as she had her period too. I came so hard. I think blood has a lot of good properties in it.’ He says with a nod of the head.
The naked girl sits down next to us and lights a cigarette. ‘You guys want more? I can shit, I can fuck, I can fist, whatever you like. It’s a capitalist world, the customer is always right,’ she says with a slight lisp. She is losing hair and the sight of her exposed scalp is somewhat alarming. Michael pours her a drink and kisses her. ‘You know it’s been a while since I got an erection.’ He places the woman’s hand on it. ‘Ever since my wife died.’ He reaches inside his coat pocket and hands her a large wad of notes. ‘You’ll join in, right?’ he asks me as the woman removes his half-erect cock from his pants.
‘You kept the film rolling for this?’ He asks, ‘A fuck-tape could really help my career at the moment.’
I nod and he lubes up the woman’s asshole

WEDNESDAY

Richard is a boring old fuck, a rich boring old fuck. This last point is maybe why I dislike him so much. We’d been at film school together and he’d gone on to make it big. He had the house, car, pool, villa, and a 19 year old wife with pert tits. My life had taken a different direction, an altogether shittier one. Richard meets me at the gate of his mini mansion. He’s all smiles and golden tan. He hugs me and pats me on the back like a real old buddy.
He guides me into his study. The walls are pictures of him and bland film stars. He pours two whiskies and hands me one. He points to one of the pictures.
‘She was a pleasure to work with, one of the best. On the first day of filming she found a lump in her left tit. She did not let it affect her. I told her ‘kid, two tits or one tit I’ll still fuck you’. I think that really helped pull her through’. I say nothing and sip my drink.
He drops some other names - an actress he fucked in the ass, an actor who sucked him off, an actress that shit on his chest.
‘You remember our trip to Thailand together?’ he says. ‘Damn, we had a great time, just two lads straight out of film school. You remember that Thai boy you fucked? What was it you caught off him? I’d never before seen such an infected cock’.
The conversation continues down this road for a while. We talk of hookers and drugs and that weekend in Wales where we hired 5 prostitutes and blew 5 grand on cocaine. Where I thought I’d inject the coke and I got it all wrong and almost died.
He guides me into the next room. There is a camera and a man and woman are fucking on the floor. The man and woman are covered in gold paint. The man is really hung and he is slamming it into the girl. The cameraman moves around the couple, getting different angles of the thing going in and out.
‘Art porn’, says Richard. ‘I put some jazz over the top and sell this shit straight to DVD. The Germans fucking love it; they can’t buy it quick enough. In Japan I sold 12,000 copies last month, in Italy 9,000, in France 11, 000. . I don’t put it out in my name so it doesn’t clash with my commercial work. Fuck art - cocks and pussies sell’.
He laughs and we go back to his study.
‘What happened to you hair?’ I ask referring to his bald patchy head.
‘Cancer’. He says with a slight scowl. He pours two more drinks and hands me one. I look down at my drink, not sure what to say.
‘On the bright side’, he says, ‘Channel 5 will be filming a documentary about me and my fight. Should be a great piece, I mean cancer stories always go down well’.
He points to another picture on the wall. It’s of him with some big-titted celebrity. He tells me how he licked her asshole and she farted right in his face. He laughs real loud.
He’s already told me this story nine fucking times.