Bathed in the flickering light All dreaming the same dream Outlaws riding a dusty trail Pirates drenched in ocean spray A femme fatale weaving a web of lust A funnyman shaking in a haunted house Lovers kissing on a moonlit beach Every week a ticket to another world A thousand things to escape and one place to go
Image by Pablo Lys (Ukraine) : https://www.123rf.com/profile_pavlolysThe waves slide in To erase the prints Of feet which will never Pass this way again
Just because someone is good at articulating a philosophy doesn’t mean they are always good at living it. In recent times I have struggled with anxiety and depression and needed to look to others to teach me how to quell it (while also having the help of medication.)
One idea I picked up from television. I assume the guy I saw being interviewed was Hugh Van Cuylenburg of The Resilience Project. I’m very familiar with the cover of his book from the library where I work, but have not, as yet, read it.
In talking about gratitude he suggested something very simple. Just write down three good things which happened each day.
I latched on to this and found myself ending each day by writing a list of around fifteen things which were positives. The key was that nothing was too small. A stranger returning my smile. A tasty meal. An enjoyable conversation.
A psychologist I’ve been seeing said that this is just the way to do such a technique. Those who are not helped often say each day : “I’m grateful for my family. I’m grateful for my health.” The key is to draw attention to the little things which might go unappreciated.
We all tend to have a negativity bias. This makes sense as we need to be aware of dangers and to focus on problems in order to solve them. Our ancestors were more likely to die from being inattentive to negatives than unappreciative of positives. And if we feel a pain in some part of our body, it is a call to attend to a problem.
But sometimes the problem alert signal – in the form of anxiety or depression – becomes a hindrance to addressing the problem itself.
Keeping a gratefulness diary counters the negativity bias. We will still be able to focus on solving problems as needed, but by appreciating the things which go well we will draw more sustenance into our psyche with which to power those problem solving activities.
What I have found is that I am more likely to wake in the morning feeling optimistic and excited about the day to come because I have reason to believe that it will be filled with similar small but precious gifts to the one before.
My suggestions are :
1. Make the list just before going to bed.
2. Write down as many things as you feel like. If you can only think of one, write one. If you think of fifty write fifty.
3. Survey the day from start to finish in your memory, but don’t feel you have to write things in chronological order. If you remember something afterwards, just add it to the end of the list. If you remember something the next day which you’d forgotten, you can always add it then.
4. Remember all your senses and how they can give you pleasure. (I always think of the Iranian movie A Taste of Cherry (1997) (dir. Abbas Kiarostami) in which one character tries to persuade another not to commit suicide by reminding him that to be dead is to forgo the pleasure of tasting a cherry.)
I’ve been experimenting with writing poetry. This one is based on one of my favourite science fiction films.
You're never as alone as you are in space Adrift in a sea of eternal silence Star-spangled ebony stretches to infinity The ship's cargo more precious than any treasure The womb in which we grew, our pre-human family A sampling of the forests, the lakes, the seas and the ice The creatures that crawl, hop, climb and swim EarthPlus™ needs but people and circuits now The order came to burn Mother Nature like a witch Destroy the ship and return to Earth Some orders are made for defiance It's just me and the robots now On a journey to nowhere and forever
They first met on Halloween. They were just kids then. She was dressed as a pirate, with an eye patch and a hook and a papier-mâché parrot which kept falling off of her shoulder. He was a ghost. His mother would be furious when she learned that he had cut holes in a perfectly good bedsheet.
She was coming down the path from the Hinkle place as he was was walking up.
“Hardly worth the bother,” she informed him. “You’ll only get an apple.”
Her parrot fell off once again and hit the ground.
He bent down and picked it up and handed it back.
“I think you should keep it,” she said. “I think it’s as dead as you are.”
Later in the evening they ran into each other again and spent some time comparing notes on their takings. He thought she was strange. He liked strange people.
That was the Halloween of 1968. They were ten years old.
On Halloween of 1978 they took each other’s virginity.
It was after a costume party. By two in the morning they had had their fill of dancing and laughing with their crazily costumed comrades. Laura was dressed as a zombie – mask with greenish skin and one dangling eyeball, tattered dress and body paint to indicate decaying flesh and exposed bones. Sam was The Wolfman – hairy mask with built-in fangs, thick chest wig under a leather jacket, and torn jeans with hirsute and clawed feet which slipped easily over his own bare feet.
Sam drove them to the top of the hill overlooking the old Shepherd place, a farm where they loved to walk, to hold each other and to kiss.
“People have always told me to beware of the Big Bad Wolf,” Laura smiled, reaching over and burying her ghoul fingers in his fake chest hair.
“You should be afraid, very afraid, Little Red Rotting Flesh,” he purred. “I get very hungry when the moon is full.”
“So do I, “ she replied. “I think we are just going to have to eat each other,”
He pulled the mask off over his head and set it aside. Then he pulled Laura’s off too. With her disheveled hair and pale sweaty skin she looked unspeakably ravishing to him.
“Do werewolves have hairy boners?” she asked, unzipping his jeans and fishing out his rock hard cock.
“You’re awful hot for a corpse,” he growled, reaching up under her torn dress and hooking his fingers into her panties. “This body paint tastes terrible though.”
“I don’t have any paint on my pussy,” she pointed out.
On Halloween ten years later they were married and they owned the Shepherd Place. For eight years they had been living there and growing corn. It wasn’t enough to live on, so she had an on-line clothing business and he was a part-time mechanic in the nearby town.
Now they celebrated Halloween on their own, cuddling in front of a scary movie, eating pumpkin pie and ending the night with some appropriately-themed role-play.
“This movie is scaring me stiff,” he would always say at some stage while watching the movie.
“Good. Stiff is the way I like you best,” she would reply.
“Are you enjoying the movie?” he would ask.
“It’s scaring my pants off,” she would answer.
“Good. That’s the way I like you best,” he would respond.
By the end of the evening the lounge room had become Camp Crystal Lake. The fire crackling and popping in the fireplace provided campfire vibes.
Sam crouched behind a chair wearing a hockey mask and holding a plastic replica of Rambo’s knife.
Laura lay naked and masturbating in a pool of moonlight. A perfect, sexually uninhibited, victim for Jason on this Halloween Friday the 13th. With her left hand she fondled her full soft breasts. She licked her lips and moaned softly. The moonlight glistened on her slick wet fingers and as they slid in and out between the soft swollen lips of her pussy.
Sam thought he’d never seen a sight so beautiful.
“When are you going to attack me?” she whispered, between moans.
“All in good time,” Sam whispered back. “God, I love watching you.”
“You’re supposed to be angry about what a slut I am,” she scolded. “You’re supposed to be more interested in my intestines than my pussy. If you don’t jump on me soon, I’m gonna cum.”
And she did. She started to quiver all over and then she squirted all over the rug.
Sam jumped out from behind the chair and straddled her, holding his knife aloft. He could feel her juices soaking into the seat of his pants.
“And so you fall into my trap, Jason,” she cried, swinging her right fist up to knock the knife out of Sam’s hands. Then she rolled him over onto his back and quickly tied his hands together with a piece of rope which had been lying near the fireplace.
“Let’s see what lies beneath the mask,” she mused, pulling it away and coming up close to look deep in his eyes. “Mmmmm. Kind of cute. Pity you are an unbelievably evil serial killer.”
Sam spat in her face, deciding he should play up to his characterisation and somewhat frustrated by his character’s inability to say anything.
“You cheeky sod!” she exclaimed. “I have a better use for your saliva.”
The soft silky globes of her bottom, glowing golden in the firelight, descended onto his face.
While Sam sucked the juices from her warm pussy lips, she unzipped his pants and pulled them down to free his stiff cock.
“This is the only thing I want to be stabbed with, Jason,” she purred, giving it a playful lick.
She stood up, turned around and then slowly lowered herself onto his manhood, carefully guiding it with one hand.
“Can you see now that there are some things which are even more fun than killing and disembowelling teenagers?” she asked.
Sam nodded vigorously and then they came together.
“Pity I can’t trust you,” Laura sighed. “I’m still going to have to keep you tied up in my cellar. But don’t worry. I’ll look after you well.”
Ten years later, Sam was dead and Laura was living in the farmhouse alone.
Strangely enough, it had happened on Halloween night three years previously.
For six months, Sam had been away working on an oil rig. They hated being apart, but the money was good. Halloween was their special time though and they were determined to spend it together.
It was a stormy afternoon as Sam drove home. All going well he should arrive in the early evening. The windshield wipers were barely up to the job of clearing the wall of water from in front of his eyes. The wind was shaking the trees. Every so often he had to drive around a fallen branch. There was the flash of lightning and the boom of thunder.
With a splintering crash a huge branch fell across the rode in front of his truck. There was no way he would be able to move it. But he was damned if he was going to spend Halloween night sitting in a truck in the rain.
It was only another half mile to get home. He would walk it. He thought about the warmth of the fire once he got there. That and the warmth of his wife’s love.
The rain drenched his clothes instantly. The rain blinded him. But he ploughed on.
He pictured his destination in his imagination. He pictured it on a sunny day. The blue sky, the green fields of wheat, the scarecrow Laura had dressed in some of his old clothes, the old-fashioned farm house, the old tree with the tire swing…
It happened just as he crested the hill and saw the light in the windows. It was just a blur to his rain sodden eyes but he knew were he was.
And then he was gone. He didn’t even see the flash of the lightning which took his life.
Laura had an anxious night. The following day was the worst of her life.
Now, three years later, she felt that the moments of joy in her life were respites from a larger sense of emptiness. And Halloween was hard to bear.
This year she went to bed early.
And she had a dream.
It began when she looked out the window of the farmhouse and saw something unusual. The scarecrow was waving at her. She waved back.
The next thing she knew, there was a knock on the front door. She opened it.
“Don’t be scared of me,” said the scarecrow.
“I’m not,” she replied. “I suppose you are just looking for directions to get to the yellow brick road.”
“I’ve been watching over you,” he explained.
“I’ve felt you,” she confessed, and now she didn’t feel like she was talking about the scarecrow.
“I came this way, because he was already wearing my clothes,” the straw man added.
“Sam…” she began, a tear falling from her eye. “I’ve missed you so much.”
“I haven’t missed you at all, because I’ve never been away,” he told her. “I couldn’t let go. You’re supposed to let go. But you held me like a magnet. I flow in nature now, but I only flow in those places which are close to you. The frustration is that I can’t touch you. I can be the breeze that caresses your naked skin, but I can only be it, I can’t control it. I can’t make anything happen that would touch your life. Except this dream. Because it’s Halloween and Halloween is magic.”
And the more they talked the less he was a scarecrow and the more he was Sam. Eventually he was Sam as Sam had been and they were lying naked in each other’s arms. He made love to her with three solid years of hunger and she received it with three solid years of yearning.
In the morning, she awoke feeling satiated. No more did she long for Sam. To her it seemed that Sam was everywhere and always. She and Sam were one.
When she went out into the cornfield she saw that the scarecrow was gone. Where it had been was a newly sprouted pumpkin vine.
“We’ll be stealing from the rich and giving to the poor,” Robin Hood explained as he leant back against a large oak tree hidden deep within the forest.
“The Lord did forbid stealing,” replied Friar Tuck. “It’s one of the big ten no-noes!”
“Property is theft!” the green-clad leader of the Merry Men declared zealously.
“That being the case, I’ll just rescue this piece of ill-gotten loot,” the Friar laughed as he gobbled down the shepherd’s pie Robin had cooked for his lunch.
“Not my property, you pig!”
“I’m afraid I’m a slow learner in the ways of wickedness.”
“We’ll be helping the poor,” Robin started again. “That’s in your line of business, isn’t it?”
“To be sure. Feed the hungry, shelter the homeless and clothe the naked,” the holy man declared with satisfaction.
“Well the hungry now is me, since you ate my lunch!”
But the Friar’s mind was wondering.
“Of course a person can have too much of a good thing, as well,” he explained. “Some of my charming lady parishioners needed to be relieved of their clothes in order that they could have a divine blessing bestowed upon them…”
“Too much of a good thing!” Robin broke in excitedly. “Think of it as a favour we are doing for the rich to rescue them from the stagnation of sufficiency.”
Tuck grabbed Robin’s mug of mead and drained it.
“You’ve won me over!” he cried.
“Will you stop taking what’s not yours!” Robin complained.
“You are going to have to make up your mind, my son,” replied Tuck, and let out a resounding belch.
* * *
Bartholomew and Thaddeus were two of the Sheriff of Nottingham’s best men. It was their job to transport the big bags of tax money from the local towns to the Nottingham Bank. They did this in a horse drawn cart.
On the day in question, the cart was bumping along the rugged road through the forest, the bags of money dappled with the sunlight which penetrated the foliage above.
“Thud!” came the sound of a knife embedding itself in a tree trunk beside the road. There was a note attached.
Bartholomew jumped down from the cart and read the note aloud.
“Dear Bartholomew and Thaddeus (hey! it’s for us!), We are a pair of horny forest nymphs and we are just dying to fuck you! (oh, wow!) Take off all of your clothes and run, don’t walk, down to the riverbank where we are waiting. You’ll have to be quick as we can only linger in the material realm for another fifteen minutes.”
It was a matter of seconds before the Sheriff of Nottingham’s most trusted guards were running naked through the forest, leaving the money unguarded.
“Like stealing candy from a baby,” said Will Scarlet to Robin Hood as they dropped from the trees and dragged the bags of money to their campsite. Friar Tuck grabbed the guard’s clothes. It would be a long time before they showed their faces again in the city.
* * *
The next day, Robin Hood set off to give a share of the stolen money to a person of impoverished circumstances.
He chose Farmer Giles. Farmer Giles worked a farm owned by a wealthy nobleman. In return he received only food and lodging.
“I bring you good tidings!” Robin cried as he waved to the farmer, who was standing on the porch of the farm house.
“Good tidings would be most welcome,” replied the grey-bearded man who looked older than his years.
“You are now a man of wealth,” Robin returned with a grin.
“How can such a thing be?”
“I have a big bag of money for you,” he explained, holding it up.
“What do wish to purchase?” the farmer wanted to know. “I have nothing.”
At this moment, Melanie, the farmer’s auburn-haired daughter, walked out of the barn, having finished her task of milking the cows.
Robin’s eyes were drawn Melanie’s pretty rosy face and her impressive breasts which threatened to burst free from her simple peasant dress.
“Ah, I understand!” exclaimed the farmer. “You are willing to pay much money to fuck my daughter.”
“No! No!” cried Robin in frustration. “Maybe I could come inside for a moment or two and attempt to explain the concept of wealth redistribution.”
“What’s going on, father?” asked Melanie.
“This man wants to give us money, but he won’t say what he wants to buy,” he explained.
“We don’t have anything,” she put in.
“I thought he wanted to pay to fuck you,” the farmer told her. “But he said he doesn’t.”
“That’s a pity! I could do with a good seeing to,” she responded.
“It’s nothing personal,” stammered a flustered Robin. “I do find you attractive.”
“No shit!” Melanie guffawed. “Is that an arrow in your tights! I think I just saw it quiver.”
There was no alternative but to bow to the inevitable.
Robin Hood reached over and squeezed Melanie’s meaty thigh.
Melanie took him by the hand and led him towards the barn. Before they entered she bent down and grabbed the hem of her skirt and pulled it up over her body. She was stark naked as she dropped it in the dust beside her. Robin sighed deeply as he drank in the heaven of her massive breasts and wide thighs and the tangle of ginger pubes that hid her palace of pleasure. Her eyes had a naughty twinkle as she turned around and dragged Robin into the barn, her soft pink bottom wobbling before him.
“Look the other way, Bessy,” she told the cow.
When they arrived at the mound of hay in the corner, which seemed the ideal location on which to fuck, she pulled down Robin’s green tights. The amplitude of his ardour was demonstrated by the rigidity of his rod.
“I don’t know why you tried to deny that you want me,” she murmured, lightly running her fingers up and down his stiff prick. “Just shy I guess.”
She covered his cock with kisses and then began slurping on it like it was some sweet delight.
“I like this better than milking cows,” she sighed.
Soon Robin was naked and she was astride him in the hay. He loved the way her naked breasts pushed in soft warmth against his sweaty hairy chest, and she loved the way he spanked her bum as she rode his cock.
“Ooooooohhhhh!” Melanie quivered as she came, and a second later Robin spurted inside her.
* * *
“They wouldn’t take the money except as payment for something,” Robin explained to Will Scarlet and Friar Tuck. “I had to accept sexual services.”
“That’s a coincidence. Me too,” replied Will.
At that point, the ironically named Little John entered the campsite leading a very old skinny cow.
“They insisted that I take it,” he sighed.
“Who did you give your money to, Will?” asked Robin.
“Old Horace the Hobo,” Will informed him.
“But I thought you said you had to accept sexual services,” Robin queried.
“I’m trying not to the think about it,” he groaned.
* * *
“Let’s try a drop and run policy,” Robin suggested. “We can leave a bag of money outside people’s houses by night. They won’t know where it came from and so we can save ourselves from being ideologically compromised by commercial transactions.”
So that’s what they did. They delivered ten bags of money by the front doors of ten houses in the middle of the night.
The next morning there was a knock on the door of the Sheriff of Nottingham.
“Come in,” he said.
A peasant entered his office. He didn’t know his name. He didn’t pay much attention to peasants.
“Sir, a rich man has obviously been careless and lost a bag of money. I found it near my front door. I’m sure he will be missing it,” he explained.
“Hmmmm. And I suppose you are expecting a reward,” the Sheriff, grumbled.
“Only the reward that comes to all righteous souls when they act as their brother’s keeper,” he explained with a bow and a tug of the forelock.
Another face appeared around the door.
“Sir, I think this big bag of money must belong to a rich man…” the newcomer began.
Soon, there were ten bags of money in the Sheriff of Nottingham’s office.
The central form of human dysfunction is selfishness. This has to be distinguished from self-interest. It is natural and functional that we should desire a pleasant and meaningful life for ourselves and our loved ones. Selfishness is when we have a need – other than the physical requirements of continued existence – which is so strong that we satisfy it at the expense of our own well-being or the well-being of others, either in the short or long term.
Selfishness is addiction. We can see how addiction to drugs, alcohol, unhealthy foods, gambling, sex, etc., is defined by the detrimental effects, either on ourselves or others, that temporary satisfaction of the need brings with it. And greed (addiction to the accumulation of wealth) can lead to decisions where the well-being of other individuals or collective well-being (think of damage to ecological life-support systems) are undermined.
If selfishness disappeared from the human species we would all have a chance to live lives much richer in pleasure and meaning. In theory, even the least well-off individual would be better off than the most fortunate individual now, because to live on a imperilled planet full of misery is a burden that no amount of wealth can lift.
Of course, as long as there are generous people and selfish people, the generous have to be judicious in how they mete out that generosity. It would do nobody any good if they were simply taken advantage of by the selfish.
But if selfishness is our problem, what is its cause?
An addiction is a strategy for temporarily escaping the pain of existence. In some cases this may be physical pain, but more often it is psychological pain.
So if we are to improve our ability to thrive as a species, the key frontier is understanding our psychological pain and how to relieve it naturally, thus freeing us from our addictions.
The problem with utopian ideas, such as communism, is that they try to treat the symptoms instead of the disease. At least access to the means of satisfying one’s addiction has a pacifying effect. Leave the need and take away the means of satisfying it and you breed even more hostility.
The suggestions I make in my book How to Be Free for doing something to heal the pain of existence are quite modest. I’m sure there is more to know and more and better techniques.
Let’s attack the problem. Let’s share what we know. Let’s seek to know more.
Barney was eighteen years old and he was very unlucky. Apart from having to share his name with a really annoying purple dinosaur, he was a virgin. This might not have been a problem if he wasn’t horny. But he was horny all the time. He had only to see a girl’s round ass encased in a tight pair of jeans or firm young breasts bouncing bra-less beneath a t-shirt and his cock became rock hard. This made him very self-conscious. But he kept looking. And he longed to see more than just clothed girls on the streets. Of course he looked at magazines full of naked women. He could jack off to them all day. But he longed to see naked girls in the flesh. That is why he came up with his grand plan.
He might have been timid when it came to women, but he was a bit of a daredevil in other ways. He loved to go rock-climbing and he loved to hang-glide. A few miles from where he lived there was a nude beach over which towered a massive limestone cliff. He decided to hang-glide off of the cliff and glide over the beach so that he could get a bird’s eye view of all those naked girls.
From the top of the cliff all of those girls looked like little white or brown ants. In fact he couldn’t tell which of the little figures were men and which were women. But he grabbed onto the big kite and walked to the end of the precipice. He took a deep breath, and then he hurled himself forward out into the sunny afternoon sky. While it was a very hot day, thus ensuring that the beach was packed, it was a little windier than usual. Barney had to use all of his strength to guide himself in the right direction. He glided out over the sea and then circled back so that he could fly over the beach at a lower altitude.
Once he was gliding above the beach itself he found that its occupants were a very mixed bunch. There were a lot of fat old men whose leathery brown bellies hid their genitals just as well as clothes would have. And their were old women whose withered breasts hung almost to their knees. But there were also plenty of girls around his own age, of varying degrees of attractiveness it was true, but when he saw the gorgeous ones, with their firm bouncing breasts, jiggling bottoms and their bald or hairy pussies shamelessly displayed, it was all worth it. The feel of his dick sliding across the soft cloth of his briefs inside his denim shorts as it swelled and stiffened was almost enough to make him cum in his pants. Some of the girls even looked up and waved, just inviting him to feast his eyes on their delicious nakedness. This had definitely been a good idea.
But when a girl with a particularly lovely bottom bent down to pick something up so that her bum was presented directly towards him with just a hint of furry pussy peaking out, he forgot that he needed to start pulling up if he were to avoid crashing into the beach. At the last moment he pulled up sharply, but a freak wind lifted him and propelled him far over the local neighbourhood. At some point he was going to have to land, but where? Now he was above a patchwork of backyards and their accompanying houses.
There was a very large swimming pool. Now was his chance. He let go of the handle of his glider and fell into the water. The glider was whipped up by the wind, turned over and then landed on the roof of the house.
“It looks like someone has dropped in for a visit?” said one of three attractive women in their forties who chose this moment to walk out of the house and into the backyard with long drinks in their hands. All three were wearing brightly-coloured bikinis which showed off their tanned bellies and generous boobs.
“I’m sorry,” Barney spluttered as he dragged himself from the water. “I lost control.”
“We all know what that’s like,” chuckled the woman, a redhead in a hot pink bikini.
“You really must get out of those wet clothes,” suggested a blonde wearing tropical print bathers.
“I’m Rebecca,” put in a brunette in black, holding out her hand. Barney looked bewildered. He didn’t take her hand, and he didn’t take off his wet clothes.
“Brandi is my name,” announced the redhead, “and randy is my nature.”
“This is my home,” the blonde informed him, “and my name is Sue.”
“You look ridiculous standing there all wet and bedraggled like a half-drowned kitten,” declared Brandi. “You’re among friends. Take off the shorts and t-shirt. You can leave on your underpants if you are feeling shy.”
“Awww, does he have to?” asked Rebecca with a wink.
Reluctantly Barney pulled his t-shirt off of his well-formed six pack and unzipped and pulled off his shorts. He was very much aware of the fact that his wet black hipsters did nothing to hide the shape of his currently flaccid cock.
“I’ll go get you a drink,” said Sue. “And I won’t even ask to see your I.D.”
“Well, we can see everything else,” smiled Brandi, looking very directly at the front of Barney’s underpants.
Sue came back with a tall glass filled with an orange coloured drink. It had a lemon slice and a paper umbrella. Barney sipped it and realised that it was very strong.
While Barney was distracted by tasting his drink, Brandi came up behind him and yanked down his underpants. He went bright red and quickly covered his dick with his free hand.
“He’s so shy,” Brandi chuckled, while groping his bare ass.
“I’d almost think he was a virgin,” Rebecca told her, “if I didn’t know that they were an extinct species.”
“I’m not a virgin,” Barney replied. “I’ve banged lots of chicks.”
“You like sex, do you?” asked Sue, sidling up beside him and stroking his face.
“I love it!” he declared proudly.
At this point the three women simultaneously reached behind them, unclipped their bikini tops and shrugged them off. Their big soft boobs hung low, the previously unexposed areas pale compared to the tan elsewhere. Then they hooked their fingers into their bikini bottoms and pulled them down their legs. Rebecca and Sue had their pussies shaved bare, while Brandi sported a well trimmed area of flaming pubes.
“If you love sex so much,” purred Sue, “you’ll be absolutely crazy about having a foursome with a trio of sex-crazed cougars.”
“That’s disgusting!” cried Barney. “You’re old! You’re even older than my mother.”
“So you don’t like older women, hey?” queried Sue, while gently nibbling on his earlobe and rubbing her bare pussy against his hip.
“No,” Barney replied.
“You’re dick’s telling us otherwise,” said Rebecca in a sing song voice as she pulled his hand away from his cock to reveal that it was now standing fully erect.
“Traitor!” cried Barney to his erection. He put down his drink and gave his cock a hard slap. “Ouch! Fuck!” he screamed, hopping up and down.
“I’m afraid we can’t let you do that sort of thing to your cock,” Sue informed him. She pulled his hands behind his back. Brandi brought over her bikini top and together they used it to tie Barney’s hands together.
“We’re members of the SPCP,” she informed him. “The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Penises.”
“Yes,” added Rebecca, “you’d be surprised at the number of penis owners who mistreat what should be their best friend. They squeeze their penis into extra tight pants. And with so many guys, if we don’t keep an eye on them, they start beating their meat.”
“And it isn’t just what they do to them,” Brandi explained. “Oh, no, no, no… Deprivation is a big problem to. If we left you to your own devices you would deprive your cock of the joys we want to bestow upon it. That, my little virgin friend, would be cruelty.”
“I told you, I’m not a virgin,” Barney insisted.
“Cougar’s know how to trust their instincts,” Brandi told him. “If you weren’t a virgin our mouths would not be watering as much as they are at the thought of sucking your cock.”
“The first time you have your cock sucked, you want to have it done by an expert,” Rebecca informed him. He looked over at her and found that she was sliding two of her fingers in and out of her cunt which was dripping its juices all down her legs.
“How do we decide who goes first?” asked Sue.
“It’s your home,” said Brandi, reasonably. “You go first, then Rebecca and then me.”
“She wants to make sure she’s the one who gets a mouthful of spunk,” laughed Rebecca.
Sue crouched down between Barney’s legs and sucked on his balls, then she licked up the underside of his shaft which was leaking pre-cum onto his belly from its head. She licked up some of the slippery liquid and then slipped her lips over the head of his cock and swallowed it down her throat. The other two were watching closely while squatting down on either side and enthusiastically fingering themselves.
The other two took turns in sucking his cock.
“Oh, God!” he exclaimed as he filled Brandi’s warm wet mouth with jets of creamy jism. She pulled her mouth off of his softening cock and then opened it up wide so that he could see her tongue all covered in his love juices.
“If you promise not to run away or do violence to your penis, I’ll untie you,” Sue informed him.
“O.K.,” Barney replied. “I really don’t want to run away now. This feels wrong, but in a good way.”
So Sue untied him and they sat around chatting and sipping their drinks. Each of the women had her legs spread and was playing with herself as they socialised. Occasionally one would have to pause in her conversation to let out a moan of orgasm.
“You really don’t want to squeeze a large cock like yours into a young woman’s very tight vagina,” Rebecca lectured him. “What he wants is to be stroked by the tender caress of an older pussy which is juicier and less constricting.”
And indeed, by the end of the afternoon he had not only fucked all of their wet and tender pussies, but also Brandi’s tight butt-hole. (Which just goes to show that the ladies were somewhat hypocritical in their views on putting cocks in tight places.)
“Take this,” Sue told him, after he had dressed and gathered up the remains of his hang glider. She handed him a little black book.
“What’s this?” he wanted to know.
“It has our phone numbers and addresses and also those of all the other 108 members of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Penises,” she explained. “If, at any time, you feel that you might be in danger of mistreating your penis, ring one of these numbers and help will shortly be at hand.”
The End
The psychological wounds we acquire in the early part of our life have a tendency to impose a restrictive conceptual framework on our way of experiencing the world. We draw from our experiences a story in which the world is characterised in some way – a dangerous place, a place where you have to please others to get what you want, a place in which you have to exercise control over others to get what you want, etc. We may have been a victim of someone or something and continue to view ourselves in that role. Or we may have experienced some victory and view ourselves as essentially a winner, something which can also be a hindrance if it shuts us off from acknowledging our weaknesses and appreciating the importance of the contribution of others to our life.
The beauty of religious concepts is that they are often powerful symbols of aspects of life which can illuminate our experience even if we don’t share some of the metaphysical beliefs normally associated with them. Jesus talked about the importance of being “born again”. We are born free, our consciousness engaged with the world of which we find ourselves a part in a way which is hungry to learn, to find meaning in the apparent chaos. We need to start building a conceptual framework from what we observe. But if we end up with a framework which lacks the responsiveness and flexibility needed to have a spontaneous relationship to others and to the world at large, if we lose our freedom to a straight jacket of the mind – what William Blake called “the mind-forg’d manacles”, then it becomes a hindrance rather than a help.
To view this restrictive conceptual framework as a new womb rather than a prison may make all the difference. Why are we in it? Because we felt the need for the comfort of certainty. Our hope lies in taking advantage of that temporary peace to grow the strength we need to come out of its protective embrace and launch back into the chaos the way we did when we were born the first time.
Perhaps we will need to be born again many times. Life is a process of exploration and retreat. The key is that we continue to learn. The first time we were born we were born in ignorance. If we can bring the benefits of our experience to the flexibility of a free mind we have the best chance to thrive in the face of the challenges life presents us with and to be a centre of sanity for others.
Self-control is a good thing, right? It’s what we should aim for. Or is it?
There is no doubt that impulsive behaviour can cause major problems. But where do we really find the control impulse?
If we feel angry and we hit someone, if we feel psychological pain and we take addictive drugs, if we feel lust and we act upon it in a way which endangers us or transgresses the rights of others… then, in each of these examples, we are exercising control – or attempting to exercise control – over an aspect of our self. Rather than sit with and accept our anger, we try to exercise control over our experience by taking action which might change that experience. And the same thing with our pain or our lust. Impulsive behaviour consists of attempts at control of our situation.
What we want is the capacity to be patient, wise and reasonable. Each of these qualities is actually about being willing to surrender the control impulse. Patience is about accepting things we would like to change until such time as a manner of change becomes possible which doesn’t make things worse. And wisdom and reason are patterns of understanding larger than ourselves to which we have to surrender if we wish to receive their blessing. Even the non-religious do well to look upon them as one might look upon a God.
Who is the self in the “self-control”? If the ego is what needs to be controlled, how can the ego be its own controller? But the ego can surrender to wisdom, something larger than itself.
Funny Smut and Thoughtful Thoughts 