Saturday, December 09, 2006

Adventures in Hairdressing - a bio piece from 2001

I wrote this bio piece before I had a blog. I think it still stands up so I thought I'd share it here.

Adventures in hairdressing

(c) 2001 Mike Kimera All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from

Last week I went to get my hair cut and, as I waited for my turn in the chair, I reflected on how my tastes have changed over the years. No, I don't mean that I wear different hairstyles (although I have at times been through everything from ponytail to military style brushcut) but rather that my taste in hairdressers has changed.

For years I used to go to a fancy salon. Remember when exposed brick walls with halogen spotlights and lower case chrome lettering logos were cool? I would sit on a sofa upholstered in whatever that year's fashionable contrast colour was (this year the salon is in lilac and white with chrome contrasts of course). The staff would remember my name, serve me espresso in ridiculously small cups and play the same CDs that I'd been thinking of buying that week. My hair would be washed and my scalp massaged by strong gentle fingers. No chitchat, just personable women being nice to me as I sat in a comfortable chair in a softly lit room. The haircut itself was almost secondary to the "haircut experience". How 90s that concept now seems.

Then, almost 3 years ago, it all started to feel cloying, too sheltered and packaged. I found I had become impatient with it. For my last haircut I went to Supercuts "no appointment, no credit cards, no fuss". I could come here four times for the cost of one trip to the other salon. The ambience is more launderette than salon; strip lighting in plasterboard ceilings, plastic chairs and radio tuned to the local commercial station "GWR bringing you the better music mix with sounds from the 80s, 90s and today" as well as 15 minutes of ads for every hour of broadcasting. Bland bands for bland lives. You take a number and wait for your name to be called sitting on hard plastic chairs placed too close together and marked "for customers only".

But here's the thing. They cut my hair well. I don't get coffee and the staff turnover is too high for anyone to remember my name. I find that I no longer want the haircut experience. I just want my hair cut with no fuss so i can get on with other things. I think it is a trend. A move away from the over serviced 90s to whatever the next thing turns out to be; the informal functionalism of the 00's?

Back in the early 80s, when I was 24, in my first job after college, I once had a completely different haircut experience. In those days I was slim, maybe 150lbs, chest only 38", my cheekbones not yet offset by the slabsided face cheeks I was left with after contracting mumps in my 30s, the bald patch at the back wasn't even a trend and my hair started lower down on my forehead than it does now. When I looked in the mirror I just saw someone who most people's eyes just passed over.

Looking back at the photos I can see that I looked young, gentle and just a little androgynous. I also used to wear tight jeans and no underwear. It's surprising how easy it is to tell that just by looking at the photos.

I was working in Croydon, an old town raped by the planners of the 70s and turned into a concrete, soulless wasteland. I went to what we then called a unisex salon but where most of the customers were still women.

One of the hairdressers led me into a back room, equipped with one sink and two chairs but away from the heat and stink of perms and dyes. She was taller than me, a little over 6 foot, dressed in a skinnyribs roll neck and a tight fitting dogstooth mini skirt that descended into dark wool stocking that were somehow erotic in a girlish way. Her dark hair was cut short in a boyish sideparted style not dissimilar from my own. She had small high, apparently unsupported, breasts that I wanted to touch and tried hard to deny the existence of. She was probably a few years older than me.

I was intensely attracted to her and so tried not to look at her directly and didn't speak to her at all. Only the pressure of my cock struggling to readjust the denim surrounding it showed my interest. It never occurred to me that she would notice this.

She sat me in the chair and put a gown over me. Then she lowered the chair and tilted it slightly backwards. This was odd but I was too busy watching her in the mirror to pay it any attention. She started to cut my hair. Slowly. Her long fingers would frequently rearrange my hair before cutting it. She was standing very close to me. I could smell her. She smelled as if she had just woken up. I closed my eyes. I love that smell. Then she touched me.

Her fingers were on either side of my head repositioning it, when I felt her touch her pubis or belly, I couldn't be sure which, against the back of my head. I didn't say anything. I kept my eyes closed. She continued to cut and continued to rub.

I was educated if inexperienced (nothing much has changed) I knew what this was called. Frottage. How typical of the French to have a word for getting off by rubbing against something, or someone. I knew the word but I'd never felt the effect. It was electric. I allowed my thumb, concealed under the gown, to trace my erection. The contact with my head was constant, just persistent. It could almost have been accidental.

After a slightly longer than usual period of non-contact I opened my eyes. In the mirror I could see the lines of the skinnyrib jumper distorted by her erect nipples. She was watching me. We made eye contact. She said, touching my hair at the temples "Is that what you wanted?" "Um yes. Thank you. Very nice." I said and felt her pubis on the back of my head once more, just resting. "Do you want anything in it?" she said running one hand backwards through my hair "Gel? Blow dry?" I was sure she was laughing at me now although it didn't show in her face or her voice. I declined the offer.

She righted the chair, removed my gown and started to brush hair from my collar. As she leant forward from behind to brush hair from off my shirt front I realised three things: she could have done the task more easily from in front of me, her nipple was grazing my head, she was looking at the small damp stain on my jeans.

She led me back to the main room. I wasn't thinking straight. I couldn't quite take in what had happened. She gave me her card at the till. Her fingers brushed my hand as she passed it over.

I came back 6 weeks later (I know, I was an idiot) and was told she didn't work there any more. Did I imagine her movements? Had it all been innocent? Was she running another service on the side? Did she, perhaps, find me attractive? How pleasant it is to be able to ask but not to answer those questions

(c) 2001 Mike Kimera All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from

Monday, November 27, 2006

The three Fs of story writing

Writing is a refuge from my day-to-day, deadline-driven, write-to-order world of management consultancy. It’s a deadline-free, non-goal-oriented zone where I try to make no demands on myself other than to write good stuff on the day – whatever that turns out to mean.

I don’t mean to give the impression that I’m careless about what I write - one of the joys of writing is that it takes my full attention - I only mean to say that I am not writing to a schedule.

The combination of having a compulsive need to write and no pressing requirement to publish means that I always have several unfinished stories on my C Drive at any given time. As of this morning, my WIP file (Work In Progress file – hey, I’m a management consultant, of course I have a WIP file) has thirty stories in it.

When I feel the need to write, usually when I’m away from home on business, often in the early hours of the morning, I open up my WIP file and browse the stories until I feel one call to me, demanding completion.

Sometimes I’ll open a story, make some progress or do some tidying up and then pop it back in the WIP file until the next time it calls to me. Sometimes I open story after story without stirring my own interest. Then, if I’m lucky, a new story will push its way to the front of my mind. If I’m very lucky, most of the story will be in my head already, waiting to spill out over the keyboard. The only question then is whether I can write for long enough to get it all down before the creative tide ebbs.

But most new stories aren’t like that. They give up little pieces of themselves, like young girls wearing clothes that hide and display at the same time. I capture what I can- plot, dialogue, imagery, character - and leave myself clues about what I haven’t yet seen – what might happen next, how the characters feel, phrases they might use, images that aren’t yet connected to the body of the text. Think of them as jig-saw puzzle pieces that have been selected because they’re probably pieces of sky but you can’t link them yet and besides they might turn out to be part of the ocean.

Recently I’ve been trying to figure out what it is that gets some stories completed while others remain as creative driftwood, just attractive enough for you not to want to throw them away but not really useful for anything.

For those with an editor to placate, bills to pay and a deadline to meet, I suspect the answer is focus and will power. That’s how I turn my words into cash in my day job.

I’ve been looking for a different solution for writing stories: one more in keeping with my dilettante motivations. It seems to me that sailing provides the metaphor here. Sailors go where the wind blows. The speed they travel at and their ability to choose a course depends at their skill on harnessing the wind and their ability to navigate.

I need to find a way of harnessing the creative breeze so that it will carry me further and with greater control.

So, being a management consultant, I analysed the data and developed a hypothesis. Don’t worry, I won’t be using gant charts or PowerPoint slides.

I decided that there are three parts to writing a story and I couldn’t resist the alliterative opportunity of having them all start with F.

So here are the Mike Kimera 3 Fs of story writing: Finding, Fixing, Finishing

Finding is about the new, the joy of the blank page, the endless possibilities of beginnings, the buzz you get from making new connections to old ideas. Finding involves reaching into the great swirl of stimulus and response just below the conscious surface of my mind and pulling out things and making patterns. It’s a little like fishing – you need to be still and calm so as not to spook your prey and it helps if you can cast a hook to catch them on. Finding is also a little like fresco painting: you have to act boldly before the plaster dries and nothing more can be added. I Find best when my mind is open and my emotions are engaged and when I feel so full that if I don’t write something I will burst. I Find badly or not at all when I’m empty or jaded or tired or depressed. If I keep trying to Find when that mood is on me I either come away empty-handed or I fool myself into seeing silver where there is only tin. In the first case I feel sterile and talentless and in the second I feel foolish and frustrated.

When the glamour of the initial Find wears off you realize that sparkle alone is not enough. A good story structures imagery, dialogue, character, plot and pace to create something coherent, something that presents the sparkle effortlessly. The structure is something that should not draw attention to itself but is absolutely fundamental to what’s going on.

One of the reasons that a story lingers on my C Drive is that the underlying structure is broken. Something doesn’t work. The next piece of the story refuses to be grafted on to what went before or else simply refuses to reveal itself. This is where Fixing comes in.

Fixing is an ineffable process; a hybrid born of craft and intuition. A sculptor was once asked how she turned a piece of rough marble into a life-like statue of a dog. She replied that she simply cut away all the stone that wasn’t dog. This kind of intuition helps you sense where there story is broken and how it needs to be reset to grow whole. Craft provides the tools to make the repairs. Sometimes the break is because the narrative thrust has run out of steam and the whole thing is taking too long. Sometimes the plot dead-ends or you have no idea what the character will do next. Finding the break is a little like searching for the puncture on tire that seems to be whole but deflates under pressure. Once my intuitive sense of the story locates the break, I lay out my craft tools to fix it: can I change the point of view, edit down the text, put more exposition in dialog, change the tense or the timeline or simply leave stuff out. I Fix best when I’m focused and patient and intolerant of imperfection. I can’t Fix in a hurry. I can’t Fix until I have some distance from the story.

For me, the hardest of the three Fs is Finishing. Finishing is the eldest child in the family, the sensible one that is right more often than they are fun. A person can lose themselves in endless rounds of Finding and Fixing because they are fun to do. But without Finishing, Finding is just a game and Fixing degenerates into tinkering, a triumph of craft over purpose. Most stories, when you read them, have a beginning, a middle and an end. But when you write them, stories are not at all like that. The middle demands that you move it, the beginning wants another turn and the end refuses to come when you call.

Finishing is about discipline and clarity. It is how writers keep their implied contract with the readers. Mondrian’s work has been described as taking a line for a walk. The writer takes the reader on a journey and has the responsibility for deciding when the destination has been reached. Finishing involves being able to hold the whole story in your mind and survey its proportions. Like Fixing, it involves intuition – this time of the “is it done yet?” kind. In some ways Finishing is the antithesis of Finding. It is about resolving probabilities to 1 or O not about extending the curve.

Finishing requires judgment and confidence. If Finding is infatuation with a new love, Finishing is affection for a long term friend. I Finish best when I am alert but not excited. When I feel the pull or structure and order. I Finish badly when I am frustrated or bored or out of time. In those circumstances I end the story rather than finish it.

So how does a dilettante like myself use the three Fs to get produce stories without feeling like I’m back at work? The first step is to be clear on which F I’m going to use today – each F is a sail I can catch the wind with but I can’t put up two sails at once.. The next step is being able to link my mood, my reason for writing today, to the appropriate F, there’s no point trying Find when I’m tired, or Fix when I’m urgent or Finish when I’m still in the love with the idea.

Saturday, November 11, 2006

Erotica Books to ask Santa for: “Cream” and “Best New Erotica 6”

If you want to add some spice to your Christmas reading, than ask Santa to put these two anthologies under the tree for you.

“Cream: the best of the Erotic Readers and Writers Association” Edited by Lisabet Sarai

This year the Erotic Readers and Writers Association (ERWA), one of the best sites for short erotic fiction on the net, celebrates its tenth anniversary by publishing a selection of of stories that have appeared on the site in the past decade.

Lisabet Sarai, a long term member of ERWA and a talented author and editor, has put together an anthology that reflects the diversity of talent that is one of the joys of ERWA. it. She’s also included a selection of ERWA’s “flashers” – each of these one-hundred word stories punches above its weight. They are the erotic writer’s equivalent of essential oils, distillations of lust and love that are as intense and memorable.

I’m very proud to have a story “Up In The Morning” and a flasher “Punter” in this anthology.

If you’d like to know more, read this interview with Lisabet by William Dean.

“The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 6” by Maxim Jablowsky.

“Best New Erotica” Is one of the staples of the erotica publishing world. Every year it brings together established names and new talent to display erotica in all its forms. It’s a huge tome of a book with something in it for everyone.

Maxim was one of the first people to publish a story of mine: “Deserving Ruth” appeared in “Best New Erotica 3”. Each year since then I’ve sent Maxim a selection of stories and so far he’s always taken one for his anthology.

Maxim’s tastes are eclectic and I can never predict what will appeal. Somehow he knows my stories better than I do. The ones he selects are the ones that stay the distance. That’s one of the things that makes him such a successful editor.

This year he’s picked “Eve’s Freedom” which is a quirky piece about how love, even when unrequited, can set you free. Of course it’s also about masturbation but then that’s what makes erotica intriguing isn’t it?

Thursday, October 19, 2006

"Perfume" and a smile on the side - a movie post

I love movies as much as I love books so I thought I'd post a couple of movies things that have worked for me. Last week I went to see the new movies "Perfume: the story of a murderer".

Now I read Patrick Susskind's "Perfume" about 20 years ago when it first hit paperback. It was one of those original and compelling books that grabs hold of your imagination and just won't let go. The idea, thelanguage, the brutally frank execution of the idea, the complete immersion in the world of scent via text left me excited and illuminated.

I recommended the book to anyone who would listen and a few who didn't.

I never thought I'd be saying "Go SEE the film".

Firstly, Hollywood would never tackle something so gruesome and honest.

Secondly, how could you possibly do scent in a movie?

Yet I find myself saying "Go SEE the film".

It's not Hollywood (although some Hollywood faces are in it) its mainly German.

t doesn't shrink (much) from the imagery and ugliness of the book.

It does manage to convey scent graphically and convincingly


the quality of the prose sublimates into wonderful lighting, perfect use of colour and inspired camera work.

Go see this. You won't soon forget it.

At the other end of the spectrum, I've just found "How It Should Have Ended" a site that gives animated satirical alternative endings to the movies we've all seen. It also has a good review section. Give it a try here

( The alternative ending to 7 - click on the graphic opposite- is my favourite)

Wednesday, October 18, 2006

"He's on Top: Erotic Stories of Male Dominance and Female Submission“ - I’m in good company

Rachel Kramer Bussel’s anthology "He’s He's on Top: Erotic Stories of Male Dominance and Female Submission" has just been published.

The anthology is filled with stories that get you under the skin of the male dom including one of my stories, "Christmas with Mary and Suzy". This story was meant to be a jolly little tale of Christmas bondage in a friendly threesome. Then found myself wondering how these guys met and how the Dom came to know that he was a Dom and the story took a turn for the better. The Yuletide bachanalia is still there but the emotions run deeper, giving the story more of a kick.

And that’s the distinctive thing about this anthology – all of the stories have something extra the pulls you into a world that most never experience and give you a sense of what it might be like to live there.

I was pleased when Rachel told me that my story would be in the book. I was delighted when I saw that it will sit amongst stories by some of my favourite writers: Lisabet Sarai, Gwen Masters, Amanda Earl, Shanna Germain and Rachel herself.

So if you fancy walk on the Dom side, buy a copy and get ready put on a new skin for a while.

Here’s what the publisher says about the book:

He's on Top pays homage to those irresistible men who control their partners with a glance, a tickling whip, or a measured smack on the bottom. As true tops, the bossy hunks in these stories understand that erotic BDSM is about exulting in power that is freely yielded.Contributors such as Amanda Earl, Mackenzie Cross, Alison Tyler, Mike Kimera, and others cover the full range of the male dom's brand of sensual sadism, from spanking and bondage to public sex and power exchange.

And here’s a list of the stories:

He's on Top: Erotic Stories of Male Dominance and Female Submission Edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel

Not Until Dawn by N.T. Morley
Incurable Romantic by Lisabet Sarai
Seizing Monica by Debra Hyde
Confession by Gwen Masters
Yes by Donna George Storey
In Control by M. Christian
A Good Reference by Mackenzie Cross
Boardroom Etiquette by Lee Ash
The Sun Is An Ordinary Star by Shanna Germain
On The Twelfth Day . . . by Andrea Dale
Thrill Ride by Matt Conklin
Catherine When She Begs by Jason Rubis
Brianna's Fire by Amanda Earl
Christmas With Mary and Suzy by Mike Kimera
Reclaiming by Teresa Noelle Roberts
Late for a Spanking by Rachel Kramer Bussel
Schoolgirl and Angel by Thomas Roche

Wednesday, October 04, 2006

"Traces" the story of a piece I can't find a home for

I know that the person who writes a story is not always the best judge of its merits. I'm in love with all of the stories that I write at the point that I finish them. If I wasn't, then I couldn't finish them at all.

I reserve judgement on a story until some time has passed. When I can open the story and read it as if it was written by somebody else, then I'm in a position to know what I really think about it. Sometimes I'm pleasantly surprised (WOW, did I write that?) Sometimes disappointed (Oh God, is THAT what I wrote?). Most of the time the story is pretty much what I thought it was.

When I wrote "Traces" I thought I was trying to do something clever - what if I could tell a story using only the traces that people leave behind them: emails, voicemails, hand written notes. It was meant to be a kind of 21st Century "Jacob's Room" idea - define the story indirectly.

When I read it later I realised that while that described the form of the story it completely missed the intent. I wrote "Traces" in 2001. People close to me died that year. I realise now that most of this story is about grief forcing its way to the surface and the hope that you won't drown in the grief.

I liked the story. I still do. It's one of the pieces I'm most proud of. But I've never been able to get it placed, either on the Web or in print.

Maybe it falls between too many stools: not erotica, not mainstream, not romance.

Maybe it's too experimental for people to connect with.

Or maybe it's just not as good a I think it is.

Anyway, I decided to place it on my blog to give it an airing. I'd love to know what you think about it.


© Mike Kimera 2001. All rights reserved. Word count 3,464

Do not reproduce without written permission from



Have you ever noticed how sex is everywhere when you’re not getting any? It wasn’t like this when I was married. You know how it is after you’ve been married for a while. Gill and I were happy. We had sex at least once a week, sometimes twice. It was good; like being able to take a really hot shower whenever you wanted one.

I miss it. I miss her.

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get to that. I hate to cry in these sessions.

Dr. L:

It’s OK to cry here John.


Yes I know you think it’s all right, but I don’t. Wounds don’t heal when you pick at them and make them bleed.

Dr. L:

You were telling me about sex, John.


Sex. Yes. Everywhere I look there are images of naked women: on TV, in magazines, newspapers, billboards, everywhere.

Then of course there are the real women. Women in the office, on trains, in cafes, at the supermarket. All of them sexually active. All of them attractive.

Dr. L:

All of them?


Well yes maybe all is an exaggeration, but I’m getting good at finding the attractive bits. I can be brought to a halt just by the way a woman lifts her hair from her neck on a hot day.

Dr. L:

And that bothers you?


Well of course it bothers me. I’m not like this. I like women. I’ve always found them easier to talk to than men. My doctor, my dentist, my lawyer, and you of course, are all women.

Dr. L:

Is that why you selected me John?


No I selected you because you have an excellent reputation as a shrink; your gender just made things easier.

These past weeks I’ve found that I keep seeing women as sexual objects. It’s distracting. It’s more than distracting, it’s disgusting.

Let me give you an example. I was on the plane home last night, tired, not looking forward to coming back to an empty house, but glad to be leaving an empty hotel room. I was sitting at the front in an aisle seat in what passes for business class.

Dr. L:

Did you ask for an aisle seat?


Yes I chose the aisle. Don’t get gnomic on me Doctor, it’s just a seat choice not a personality trait. I like aisle seats, always have.

Anyway people were still boarding. I’d never noticed before that, when you are seated, you are just at breast height. I’ve started to notice breasts. I mean I always knew all women had them. But they weren’t the first things I’d notice. I didn’t find myself wondering about the colour of the nipples or how the weight would feel in my hand. Now I do. I’m obsessed.

There must have been men getting on the plane as well but I didn’t notice them, just this parade of breasts. The pair I noticed most were round and high, seeming large against the small frame that carried them, but not heavy. They were clad in white cotton T-shirt that read ‘Some girls do. Some girls don’t. This girl might’.

Once I would have been amused, now I could hear myself thinking ‘Fuck yes’. I was still reading the T-shirt when I registered the wide smile of its owner. She was early twenties, regular features, shoulder length brown hair, and dark dark eyes. She spoke again and this time I heard ‘excuse me’. I must have looked an idiot trying to figure out what she meant. I thought perhaps that it had something to do with the T-shirt. Then I realised she had been assigned the seat next to mine.

I started to rise just as she lifted her bag into the overhead locker. I could see she was wearing a sports bra. White. Smooth. Holding her firmly in cotton I knew would be warm from her skin. OK so I lost the plot. And I got an erection. So now I’m standing in the aisle, holding my paperback copy of “Hannibal” in front of me and trying not to look like a complete letch. She slid past me and sat in the window seat. I tried only to look from the side of my eye as she reached behind her to find the seatbelt. I felt like such a pervert.

You know when AMEX surveyed business class passengers on their main fears about flying, top of the list was having to talk to the person next to them. That’s one reason why I was carrying “Hannibal”, to put people off. Normally I’m good at it. Normally I’m not sitting next to a woman with a provocative T-shirt whose breasts I urgently want to suckle.

Dr. L:

You wanted to suckle her breasts? Why suckle?


Suckle? Do you think it’s an odd choice of verb? Well it’s what I wanted to do. Not bite or squeeze, just suckle.

Anyway, it turned out that Natasha wasn’t a frequent flyer and didn’t know the rules. She introduced herself, told me she was from Australia, working for a while in Lausanne and that this would be her first trip to London. She was polite and friendly and I got beyond her breasts and started to talk to her. I told her my name and my job. We talked about working abroad and then about London. The hour went quickly. Neither of us bothered with the plastic food but we both took the champagne.

When the plane landed I stayed seated for a while, I hate the way people stand hunched over waiting for the door to open, and she said. “Did my T-shirt bother you?”

I smiled and said “What T-shirt?”

“It was a present from my sister and I’m meeting her when we get off the plane. Look, it’s been good talking with you. Maybe sis and I could meet up with you and your wife sometime over the weekend?”

“My wife?”

“Gotchya. I spotted the wedding ring when you were holding Hannibal so strategically.”

My face must have changed. Her voice trailed off as she was saying, “I guess you’re left handed…”

“My wife died six months ago.”

I didn’t mean it to come out like that. It sounded angry. She apologised. We were both embarrassed. I wished her a good weekend.

Dr. L:




I hate it when you move me on like that. And… you say, like I’m missing the point or hiding something. I know, I know, I’m projecting.

Well the And is that, that night, before I went to sleep, I masturbated, thinking about her breasts.

Dr. L:

How do you feel about that John?


How do I feel about that? Jesus H Christ I don’t know why I come here. I tell you the most intimate parts of my life and you ask polite non-directional questions. Do you get off on that? Are your knickers damp between those crossed legs of yours? Are you laughing at the pathetic little wanker who can’t cope without his wife? ARE YOU?

Dr. L:

Please sit down John.


I’m sorry, Jennifer. I didn’t mean that. I get angry so quickly. Nothing’s been the same since… Nothing.

Dr. L:

Our time is up for this week John. Let’s pick this up next time


Next time? Yes. I’m sorry Jennifer.


You have reached the voicemail of John Rivers on Friday 30th March. Please leave a message after the long tone. Beep, beep, BEEEEP.

“Hi John. Look, I’m sorry to call you at work but it was the only contact number I had for you. Oh this is Natasha by the way. You met my T-shirt on the ‘plane and talked to me afterwards?

Anyway, I’m sorry about my foul up with your wife… shit that doesn’t sound good does it. Look mentally delete that part OK. Well don’t delete it but make it sound better.

Anyway I’m calling you cos I’d like the chance to talk to you again. Sis and I, her name’s Cheryl by the way, are eating out at Covent Garden tomorrow night and I’d love you to come.

No pressure, just a relaxed meal with two beautiful women who will make all the other men jealous. Joke. Well maybe. It’s only Maxwell’s so it’s informal, but I promise to wear a different T-shirt.

Even if you can’t stay to eat, come for a drink, otherwise I’ll know that I’ve really offended you. Yes that was blackmail. Hope to see you there at 9:00.”




Date: Sunday April 1st 2001 18:34 gmt

Subject: and then…

Hi Tash,

How’s life back in Lausanne? It’s still raining here. Does this place EVER have a summer.

So. I know you’re dying to find out what happened on last night with “Hannibal” after you got that oh-so-convenient txt msg calling you away (I can’t believe they still fall for that).

I was surprised that for once he was as good looking as you said he would be. And those eyes – sorrowful and wounded. And those large hands. I was definitely getting that must-fuck itch.

Turned out to be a complete bust though. I mean I could never have seen him hooning around with the rest of us but I thought I’d at least get one good night out of him.

What a drongo he turned out to be. We were walking and he eventually got the hint when I “fell” against him and we stumbled into the doorway of the National Gallery.

His hands went everywhere but mainly on my tits. I KNOW he’d been wanting to do that for hours. God he had large hands. He slid the right one between my legs and I just never wanted to let it go. I fumbled to unzip him. Not bad. Nice size. Definitely a stand up guy. He was sucking on my tits like he wanted to draw milk. I was getting ready for a good night. I rolled back the foreskin – God I love Brits with foreskins – and then the bastard came all over me. Stained my fucking skirt.

It was a shock and I said shit or something. I mean I was ready to give him some more time when we got somewhere comfortable. I was about to say “Now I’ll have to take this skirt off”, when he backs away, leaves me with my legs spread, tits hanging out and cum on my skirt and just fucking runs off. Not a fucking word, just buggers off out of there. He was still tucking his dick in when he made Trafalgar Square.

You owe me big time sis.

Well, at least the dry cleaning bill.

I’ll collect when I get over to see you in late June. You can show me all the hotspots in Lausanne. Well I guess that will take care of the first 15 minutes.

See ya



Taped Dream Log: John Rivers Wednesday April 4th 3:45am.

I had the dream again but worse this time. I’m sweating here. The sheets are soaked. Let me try get this while its fresh. Gill was waiting for me. At home. Only it was no place we ever lived. She was wearing the necklace that I bought her in Venice, and a silk slip. Knealing on the bed. Smiling. Then I was with her. On her. Smelling her. The slip was gone and her breasts were in my mouth. Then she’s on top. Riding me. Hands on my chest. This is the part where I normally wake up with cum on my belly. But I wanted her so badly, I made myself stay. Then the necklace started to choke her. But we kept fucking. Her face turned blue. She clawed at her neck, but she rode me and rode me. She fell forward on to me. I couldn’t move my hands to help her. Just watching her choke. But worse, feeling myself come. I woke struggling for air, my palms bleeding from the pressure of my fingernails, cum splashed on my belly. I can’t do this any more. I can’t.




Date: Thursday April 5th 2001 23:55 gmt

Subject: remember me – the sister you never write to?

Hi John,

Anna has been ill again tonight so I’m up and pacing about when I should be in bed, so I thought I’d email my invisible brother.

I know you’re throwing yourself into your work. You’re probably even thinking about staying over in Switzerland at the weekends. I can understand that. I’d need time alone too. But it’s been 6 month’s now and I miss you. The kids miss you. Well Anna’s too young to miss you, but Josh asks about you sometimes.

Why not come and stay with us over the Easter? You could complain about how badly Tim manages the BarBQ and we could sit in the garden getting quietly sloshed. I’d really like that. Please write back and say you’ll come.

Luv and kisses


PS: you are absolutely forbidden to bring Josh one of those Swiss Army knives he’s always pestering you for.

PPS: I do miss you John, and I miss Gill too.



Dr. L:

You look tired, John. I thought you were going to take Easter off


I did. Friday at my sister's.

Dr. L:

Only Friday?


It turned out to be a bad idea.

Aren’t you going to ask me why?

Ah, allowing me the silence to be heard. The police use that technique as well you know.

Well Madame Inquisitor, I left because I couldn’t bear the pity. I was cast as St. John the Widower. They were being so nice to me I wanted to slap them.

Does that answer your silent question?

Dr. L:

How did you want them to treat you, John?


I don’t know. What do you mean?

Dr. L:

What would have been the right thing for them to do?


The right thing for me to have done was not to have gone there in the first place.

Dr. L:

You seem angry today, John. Would you prefer not to be here?


I’d prefer not to be anywhere.

Do you know what it’s like to wake and think “Oh shit, I’m still here”? To know that you’re going to spend another day waiting to join your dead wife?

Dr. L:

Is that what you want John? To join her?


Of course I do

Dr. L:



Why? Why! Because she’s fucking DEAD and I’m not. And I can’t stand it.

Dr. L:

Are you still troubled by unwanted erections, John?


What does that have to do with anything?

Dr. L:

Please answer me.


Yes. Yes I am. If anything it’s getting worse.

Dr. L:

What do you think that means, John?


It means that I get randy in my sleep.

Dr. L:

You’re brighter than that, John. You’ve done the reading. You know that grief and depression usually suppress the libido.


So now you think I’m not grieving is that it? You think I’m faking it? That I don’t care that my wife died in a stupid accident while I watched? That all I want is to toss off in the mornings?

Dr. L:

I think you want to live, John. I think you feel guilty about it. I think you know that and it makes you angry.


Well then you do a damned site more thinking than I do.

Dr. L:

Are you still having the dream John? You haven’t given me a log this week.



Dr. L:



And she still dies. If I don’t wake up she dies.

Dr. L:

How often do you masturbate?


I don’t. Don’t look at me like that. I’ve only masturbated once since my wife died.

Dr. L:

Why don’t you masturbate?


Well at first I didn’t want to. My wife had died. And then it just didn’t seem right. Still doesn’t.

Dr. L:

Did you masturbate when you were with Gill?



Dr. L:

Did you enjoy it?


Why else would I do it? Of course I enjoyed it.

Dr. L:

But you don’t want to masturbate now?


Is this a new therapy doctor? You want me to get a grip on myself? To cum to my senses? A wank a day will keep the blues away? I think that’s sick.

Dr. L:

Where are you going, John?


I’m leaving. I’ve had enough of this. I won’t be coming back.

Dr. L:

One question, John: who’s fault is it that you are alive and Gill is dead?


Jennifer, you may be a Doctor, but you are also a bitch. Go fuck yourself.



Hi John,

I saw you leaving this morning just as I was coming down to breakfast. I didn’t know you were working out here. Who’s the client?

It make’s me feel old to admit it but it must be 5 years since we last worked together. I’m so pleased to see you!

I’m stuck here over the weekend as my Engagement Partner has scheduled a Saturday Breakfast meeting with General Management (typical macho crap).

Being a nosy bitch I fluttered my eyelashes at the folks on reception and found out that you’re staying here over the weekend too.

How’s about we get together and you show me what people do for fun here after they get bored of going “what a pretty lake, what pretty mountains”. I hear Le Blu Lizzard hits our normal sleaze factor and has good food too. Come on Johnny, RESCUE ME.


(Room 403 – two door down from yours – I’ll come and find you if you don’t call me and then think what your mini-bar bill will be.)




Date: Saturday April 28th 2001 19:22 gmt

Subject: Guess what!

Hi Sis,

I saw Hannibal last night in the Blue Lizard. He had this really tall woman with him and he was eating her alive with his eyes. Didn’t even notice me. ‘Course she was amazing looking. Very celtic, you know strong features, blazing red hair and very pale skin. I could have eaten her myself (except of course I’ve grown out of that kind of thing now – well apart from the odd irresistable snack).

Anyway, they were just finishing their meal when we arrived, and it looked like they were heading for the club downstairs. I thought about that all through my first course. Then I excused myself and went downstairs.

I couldn’t find them at first. They like to keep it dark down there. Then I spotted them in a corner.

I got close enough to see that he had his head on her breast and he was crying. Sobbing really. Like there was no one else in the room. It was sort of obscene. I’d have felt less disturbed if I’d found her giving him head or something. She was just stroking his hair and letting him cry.

She looked calm but somehow triumphant. Then she spotted me. You know that look that cats give you when you get too close to their newborn kittens? Well multiply by a zillion and that’s what I got from our celtic warrior queen. I got out of there in a hurry. I didn’t even stay for the rest of dinner. Looks like you just missed a weirdo here Sis.

Anyway, gotta go, my boss has offered to take me out to the Beau Rivage. Should be good so it looks like I’d better be. J



(who’s definitely NOT wearing her big knickers tonight)


Poem Handwritten on Scented Paper

Dedication Reads: “To Elspeth for being there”

Angel of Release

By John Rivers

Until she came the channels of my life

Choked with weeds

Grown in a mud of bitter regret

Keeping me clouded and stagnant

When she came the dam of my grief

Burst upon her breast

Flowed across the swell of her kindness

Freeing a torrent of need and desire

When I came the tide of my lust

Turned from ebb to flow

Flooding the harbour of her womb

Filling it with hope and new life

Until we came to the delta of our love

This River was bound

By the sluices of despair and grief

But rushes now to the wide salt sea