I can't stop writing at the moment. Sometimes the mind is so fertile, and usually, unsurprisingly, when it's been churned, ploughed, manured, and scattered with seeds. Seeds of doubt, of excitement, of pain, love, indecision, certainty... every multicoloured variety of every emotional species. And they have sprouted in abundance.
My latest - and it springs forth from several sources - concerns friendship, platonic love, unrequited sexual yearning, quantum mechanics, the multiverse, and a cat neither dead nor alive. As an experiment (though it was akin to dropping a stone in a pond to see if it creates ripples), I gave it an ambiguous and 'emotive' title, one likely to attract the wrong sort of people altogether, if truth be told, yet I couldn't resist it. I wanted to see what it would do to my readership figures, and now I know. Within a couple of hours it had received as many views as my last story did in a week. Bloody perverts! Don't you just love 'em?
On a serious note: I have always considered incest - both the actual act of shagging a blood relative and the fantasising about shagging a blood relative - to be the province of the half-witted through to the criminally insane, and I now add to that the act of shagging - or fantasising about shagging - a relative by marriage. Aren't there enough people in the world that you have to do it with someone in your own household? What kind of fucking moron are you? Incest always contains an element of abuse. Sometimes that abuse is as bad as abuse can possibly be. As a society, we deny that at our peril.
Sermon over. My latest story is here. If you are one of the 'shag a relative brigade' and you got so far, you might as well read it now. You probably won't understand it, but hey-ho, there you go... :)
The Day my Stepdad Destroyed my Beautiful Pussy
Pit. Pat.
More tears fell, splashed against the cardboard between my feet like dirt onto a coffin. In many ways, it was a coffin. As I reached down to open it, Ian grabbed my hand, his pretty face ashen, his wide blue eyes glistening with tears.
'No, don't...' I shook my head and tried to pull my hand away, but his grip was insistent. 'If you don't look then it might still...'
I shook my head in exasperation.
'Jesus Christ, not fucking Schrödinger's cat again! What a fucking heartless time to bring that up!'
Though my voice was hushed, somehow the expletives were amplified and rang around the hard-walled waiting area. As one creature, the room shuffled its feet, shifted in chairs, averted its eyes. Ian was instantly apologetic.
'Sorry, Alex. I didn't mean...'
I ignored him, hissed a cutting repost.
'So if I'd never asked if you were gay, you still might not be?'
Ian, along with the rest of the room, cringed at that, but unlike the rest of the room, he instantly forgave me, spoke quietly yet clearly, as though we were the only ones present.
'No, I'd still be gay. That will never change,' he smiled, 'much like Schrödinger's cat will always be a cat.'
The silence was punctuated by a fluttering of feathers from the covered cage that sat in the chair to my right.
'Why will it?'
My beautiful young friend clasped his long fingers about his knees, and turned his searching face towards me.
'Because that's not the thing in question. Listen: in his thought experiment, Schrödinger had a cat in a box. That's the one thing he was sure of. The uncertainty lay in whether the cat were alive...' After glancing around and seeing that all eyes were on him, he coloured slightly, leaned closer and lowered his voice, 'whether the cat were alive or dead. Till he opened the box he couldn't be sure, so the cat was effectively in both states simultaneously. Alex, I've explained all this before...'
Again I was dismissive.
'Yeah, I know. Too many fucking times.' He again looked hurt, but what did he expect? I was upset, about to be distraught, and his unfortunate scientific metaphor was too close to the bone. 'But what's the relevance of the fucking cat?'
He breathed deeply, clearly losing patience with my inappropriately colourful vocabulary.
'The relevance, my darling Alex, is that in the quantum world, in the province of the unimaginably small, a particle's properties - it's spin, say, or its position - can be many different values at once. It's only when a measurement is taken that we get a single reading.'
'So?'
'So the cat in Schrödinger's box is both dead and alive until someone opens it to check.'
From the ether, I somehow spontaneously formulated a bawdy scientific joke.
'Well then, I'm Schödinger's cake - you can have me and eat me at the same time.'
Ian didn't laugh at that, but nodded and smiled broadly, a look of curious admiration shading his face, the like of which I had never seen. He growled.
'I fucking love you, Alex.'
He leaned back in his rickety chair, rested his head against the sickly green wall and slid down in his seat. His ripped blue jeans rode up, making his bulging crotch even more impressive than usual. The tight white T-shirt also rode up, exposing a tanned crescent of his taut abs. Females old and young were staring. Men were staring too. And it was no secret as to why: from the top of his spiky platinum head to the tips of his turquoise toenails, he was gorgeous. Not only that, but he was a fucking genius too. Maths, physics, English, drama, music, football, nothing seemed too difficult for him, no skill was beyond him. I loved him, and it was plain to all that he loved me too. But not like that. Not in a boy-loves-girl way. He fucked men. He sucked men. He was regularly fucked and sucked by men, and habitually told me all about it in lurid graphic detail. And though I giggled and rolled my eyes, gasped extravagantly and punched his arm playfully, it broke my heart.
Read the conclusion of this torrid tale plus eleven further stories in ' The Big Bag of Sexy Allsorts', a tooth-rotting collection of concise erotica, available now exclusively on Amazon.
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