Surely we are all in denial about something. That’s why our social world is so divisive. Partial truths warring against partial truths. If only some deity would come along and force us to see where we are full of shit. As an unbeliever, perhaps I’m suffering from Apocalypse envy, but sometimes I wish the world could just be blasted with a thunderstorm of incontrovertible truth that would put us all on the same page.
This is my first proper YouTube video, an experiment in finding a new way to express myself. There is an appeal to consuming information and ideas in colourful bite-sized chunks on YouTube. It runs for about 9 1/2 minutes and contains a small amount of me and a larger amount of pretty pictures.
You know how it is in dreams. How you aren’t always yourself.
Well, last night I was Gordon Ramsay.
I was about to give the Kitchen Nightmares treatment to a lady chef. I already had my shirt off as I strode into her large kitchen, resplendent with metres and metres of sparkling aluminium surfaces. There she was washing vegetables at the sink. All she was wearing was an apron. And she had the most gorgeous arse I’d ever seen, round and pert and gloriously pink. She had the figure of a fifties sex goddess, from her broad shoulders to her womanly hips and fleshy legs which tapered down to exquisitely well-turned ankles. She slowly turned to face me.
It was Nigella Lawson.
“I’ve been dying to poke around your pantry, Nigella,” I told her.
“You think you’re such a rogue, don’t you Gordon?” she scolded me playfully, a naughty twinkle in her eye. “But you’re really just a boorish brute. Jamie is much nicer. And cuter. Even if I can really spank his bottom when it comes to cooking.”
“What are you trying to make?” I asked, shaking my head as I came over to examine the contents of the sink, and, at the same time, shamelessly fondle Nigella’s nude bottom.
“I’m making a tomato surprise,” she explained.
“I don’t see any tomatoes there,” I pointed out.
“It doesn’t have any,” she said. “That’s the surprise.”
“What’s the main dish?” I wanted to know.
“This is,” she replied. “We’re serving a vegetarian meal.”
“Fuck me!” I cursed. “Why would you want to do that?”
“It’s healthy,” she maintained.
“Nothing wrong with the good old fashioned English meat and two veg!” I cried.
“Gordon! Gordon! Gordon!” she sighed, shaking her head.
“Here’s one I prepared earlier,” I told her, pulling down my chef’s pants and waving my stiff cock and balls in her general direction.
“Unimaginative,” she declared, raising an eyebrow as she stared at my cock. Then she gathered a droplet of pre-cum off the tip with her finger and placed it between her succulent lips. “But boldly delicious none the less.”
The next thing I knew the kitchen staff arrived from out of nowhere. Twenty female cooking students between the ages of 18 and 25 of all different body types and hair colours, and all stark naked. They weren’t even wearing aprons any more, and neither was Nigella. This was a dream. None of us were going to get burned by hot fat.
They were all doing a great job of preparing a gourmet meal, but I was Gordon Ramsay, and this was Kitchen Nightmares, so I just pretended they were incompetent, because it was more fun that way.
“You’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding me!” I cried. “You call that chopping parsley!” The cute pink-cheeked little butter ball was actually doing an awesome job, but I wanted to tell her off and spank her big bottom. And that is just what I did.
They all knew I was just pretending. And they were determined to have fun at my expense as well.
“Now to slice up some salami for the pizza!” cried a skinny freckly redhead, grabbing my cock in one hand and a huge butcher knife in the other.
“Hey!” cried Nigella, rescuing me. “This is a vegetarian dish remember?”
“Oh, dear!” cried a short bespectacled brunette. “I’ve made a mess!”
She had spilled a creamy cheese sauce all down the front of her.
“I’ll help you with that!” I cried, sinking to my knees and enthusiastically licking the delicious thick liquid off of her erect clit.
“Here comes more!” she cried, picking up the saucepan and deliberately pouring it all over her nipples and belly and my own head. The next thing I knew there were wet tongues lapping at my back as the sauce ran down towards my arse.
“How’s this?” asked Nigella, walking up and deliberately sprinkling a herb and spice mix over her pussy. “I’m not sure if I’ve got the mix quite right?”
Soon all the girls were getting me to taste stuff off of their stiff clits.
“I’m getting a stiff back here,” I complained. “Let’s do things a little differently. I’m not the only one with taste buds you know.”
So from that point on all of the tasting was done by the girls, off of the end of my erect cock. Those lasses were a lovely lot of lickers. And, this being a dream, I came and came and came, filling all of their mouths with my own special recipe sauce for afters.
The weirdest bit of the dream was when whipped cream started shooting out of the end of my cock and the girls took turns to use me to decorate cakes.
Finally the meal was prepared and we all sat down to eat it.
By this time Nigella had been hitting the cooking sherry and was happily plastered.
“We don’t have glasses,” she pointed out. “So everyone will have to drink wine out of my cunt.”
“A red, I think, with this meal,” I suggested.
“I don’t care, as long as it’s bubbly,” she slurred. “I love the feel of bubbles up my boo boo.”
So she stood on her head with her legs spread while I poured a sparkling red up to the brim of her cunt.
“Ooooooh, it tickles!” she cried. And we all lined up to drink the fizzy liquid and give her clit a friendly flick with our tongues.
Of course it all ended in a food fight. And we had to lick all of the food off of each others bodies.
Just as I was laying back feeling tongues lapping at my face and nipples and fingers and balls and cock and toes and…. everything, there was a loud knock a the door.
“We heard that there was a major culinary event underway, so we thought we’d drop in,” explained a gruff voice.
It was the Hairy Bikers. Thank goodness at that moment I woke up.
I was arguing recently against the concept of free will and the expression came to my mind that we are the painting not the painter. In other words, what we are is the product of circumstances.
In thinking about this it occurred to me that this is too simple. We are the painting and the painter, because we are capable of identifying not just with our particular self, but with the creative process of which we are an expression. We can know that we are life itself.
This is why the concept “God” is relevant to me, even though I don’t believe in the supernatural. We are an expression of something universal from which everything comes, and there are advantages in opening up to this reality.
I think what it comes down to is the degree to which we identify with our wounds and the degree to which we identify with the healthy flesh which lies beneath those wounds.
It is suffering, physical or psychological, which temporarily locks us into identification with the wounds. We become ego-embattled or ego-enchained and lose awareness of ourselves as expressions of the creative thrust of life itself. The ego – the conscious thinking self – can be a faithful servant to life. It is perhaps its most wonderful invention. But if its attention is mostly directed towards itself it is liable to just spin in circles, something which is both unproductive and unsatisfying.
Even though I don’t identify as a Christian, I’ve been very influenced by the gospels, because my sense is that the faith which Jesus advocates is a trust in, and opening up to, the creative principle of which we are an expression. To be too concerned with our particular flaws – our “sins” – is to allow ourselves to be drawn away from its healing power.
The other day I was reading some discussion about the nature of human psychology and the state of the world. Someone pointed out that we know the central dilemma. The world would be a far better place if we all gave more than we took. But how to achieve that.
One way it won’t be achieved is to say that we should give more than we take. The problem with “shoulds” is that they come across as a criticism of how we are now. Criticism tends to undermine self-acceptance. “Shoulds” are liable to make us either defensive or guilty. A lot of psychological responses have this characteristic that they can take an active or passive form. When we are defensive, we are actively fighting back against the criticism. When we feel guilty, we are passively accepting the criticism and feeling worse about ourselves as a result. But what both of these responses have in common is that they sap us of energy and they direct our attention towards our self. Guilt leads to navel-gazing and defensiveness means adding bricks to the walls of our ego castle.
The reason for giving more than we take is to ease our troubles and maximise our bliss.
It’s all a question of economies of scale. What do we give or take? Capital (money and material resources), labour, time, attention… These things are not like a pile of apples where the benefit they confer remains the same and it is only a question of how that benefit is distributed. We often use the expression “two can live as cheaply as one” to acknowledge that resources shared can do more.
If we all give more than we take within a community in which benefits flow fairly smoothly to all, then we will gain more than we lose, because what each person gives will often have a multiplier effect where it is of benefit to a number of people rather than one person.
Let’s look at an example. We all have a certain amount of money and time to create a garden. We could all create our own private garden in our back yard. Or we could put the same amount of money and time into a group activity to create a public garden. In our private garden we would be able to sit quietly in the evenings reading the newspaper. But the public garden would be bigger and more beautiful and it would be a place in which we could walk our dogs, socialise with others, play games… A place where single people might meet their future partner and old lonely people might be able to enjoy being amongst people of all ages and seeing the children play.
If we are going to try to cultivate this as a way of operating in the world, what should motivate us is not a vision of ourselves giving, but a vision of everybody else giving to us. Our giving is a small price to pay for that.
What this approach requires is faith. We need to believe that “casting our bread upon the waters” will not be in vain. But there is nothing to stop us investing in some little miracles and working our way up to believing that the big one of healing the world is possible.
Lisbeth Salamander never paid porn site subscriptions. That was one of the fringe benefits of being a professional computer hacker. She hacked into the billing company’s computers and signed herself up using the names and identities of government ministers or members of the clergy.
Lisbeth had a boyfriend, a young investigative journalist named Michael Plumfist, but she was one horny goth. Being fucked twice a night just whetted her appetite, and if she couldn’t sleep she would log onto the net and look for something to wank to.
She loved wanking, and she loved porn. She also liked to be comfortable. Sweden can be pretty cold, but Lisbeth had central heating so she was able to sit cross-legged on her computer chair wearing nothing but her spiky dog collar as she played with herself while gazing at sexy women and men doing all the naughtiest things. She had all sorts of toys, but she liked to use her fingers best. She knew just how to give herself pleasure – gently pulling on her nipple piercings, rubbing around and around on her clit and sometimes sticking a lubed finger up her butt-hole. She always laughed at Michael insisting on using his own keyboard when accessing information stored on her computer. He was such a tease. Hadn’t he stuck his tongue up her butt-hole plenty of times?
Michael had been working hard on a big case involving government corruption and was sound asleep in their bed, which was up against the far wall. He might be asleep, but Lisbeth suspected he was dreaming of her. How else could she explain the fact that his cock had turned the bed sheet into a tent worthy of Barnum and Bailey? She was tempted to go have a peek, but she knew that, if she did, she wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation to touch it, maybe kiss or lick it, perhaps wank it up and down with her fist, or even bounce her cunt on it. If she did that he would surely wake up, and she knew he couldn’t get by without his rest. Much better to content herself with a bit of visually-assisted wanking.
“Watch real people doing rude things while they look at porn! They don’t know anyone is peeking!” screamed an ad for a website.
Lisbeth chuckled to herself. People were so gullible. They wanted to think they were seeing something illicit and the web masters would always promise it, but, of course, it was all fake. They would have a bunch of models sitting in front of webcams masturbating, but not acknowledging the screen, so that it looked like they were being spied on without their knowledge. The oldest trick in the book. But, what the hell, some of them might be cute, and she wasn’t going to pay for it anyway.
Getting herself a membership was the work of but two minutes, her fingers dancing across the keyboard with lightning speed. One strange coincidence did impress itself upon the lust-filled landscape of her mind. The real name of the company behind the site was Phoenix, the same name as the manufacturer of her computer. Still, it was a common enough name in the world of business.
The blurb on the opening page claimed that the individuals depicted inside did not even know that their web cams were on. They were truly being filmed without their knowledge. “Ever wondered what girls really do when looking at porn or reading emails from their boyfriends?” it asked. Apparently there were guys on the site, too, but Lisbeth realised that no-one wondered what they did when looking at porn. Everyone knew.
There was a ranking for most popular cams. So Lisbeth went straight to the top of the list, already starting to rub pussy juice around her stiff clit as she double clicked on the link, anticipating some hot action.
What she saw was her own face leering back at her.
Barton Banger was the head of Phoenix Global, the world’s fourth largest computer manufacturer. He prided himself that, while his company was only the fourth largest, it was the most unscrupulous. His latest dastardly scheme had been to install web cams in his computers which, when the user was connected to the internet, could be controlled from his central offices in Zurich. Most of the time, nothing of interest was revealed, but sometimes he was able to obtain pictures with which he could blackmail the computer users, and at other times he lucked onto hot individuals of either sex who spent a lot of time wanking to internet porn. These connections provided the basis for his Peek at the Peekersporn site.
The most popular girl on the whole site for the last month had been some super hot Goth chick named Salamander. Hell, Barton and rubbed a few out to her himself. She had enthusiasm. She wanked like a wild thing. And memberships were going up and up through word-of-mouth (or rather word-of-email) because of her.
“She’s putting in quite a performance today,” he commented to Miss Bergman, his officious secretary.
“Yes she is,” she replied matter-of-factly, watching Lisbeth finger herself.
“Do you ever do that?” he asked her, trying to peek down the minimal cleavage revealed by her sensible business shirt.
“When you first asked me that question, Mr. Banger, my answer was that it was not an appropriate question for the head of a major computing firm to ask his secretary,” she explained patiently. “The fact that you have persisted in asking me the same question another sixty seven times in no way alters my initial judgement.”
“Prude…” he muttered under his breath.
Never had Lisbeth been so glad that she was an expert at one-handed typing. She wanted to find out how this scam operated, but she didn’t want to attract attention, so she kept on wanking as she hacked. She didn’t have to pretend. She’d never been so turned on in her life. The thought that thousands of guys and probably women too, all over the world, were watching her finger herself was driving her crazy with lust. She was the most popular! Perhaps she had been stiffening cocks and clits for months without realising it. She wondered how many litres of hot cum had spurted out of guy’s cocks while they watched her writhing around with her finger up her arse. But she mustn’t let her excitement interfere with her hacking. She had to find out who was behind this.
“Hmmm… Barton Banger, hey?” she said to herself as she licked the juice of another cum off of her fingertips.
“Is she still masturbating?” asked Barton when he returned from his extended lunch.
Miss Bergman looked up at the screen.
“No, not at the moment,” she replied. “She seems to be talking.”
“Talking?” queried Banger. “What about?”
Miss Bergman turned up the sound.
“About you, sir,” she answered.
“Me?!?!” he cried. “She shouldn’t be talking about me! Why would she be talking about me? What is she saying?”
“She appears to be reading out your credit card details,” Miss Bergman informed him, coolly.
“My what!!!???” he screamed, red in the face.
“Oh, and your home phone number…” she added.
Once Lisbeth had finished righting wrongs she began to consider the upside of this situation. It would take a while for Banger to close down the network. In the meantime Lisbeth wanted to keep together her fan-base. Not everyone would be as happy about having been an unknowing porn star as she was, but she also hoped she could help anyone who did like the idea to keep in touch with their fans too.
It didn’t take her long to collect an email list of all the customers and all the “performers”. She wrote an email explaining what had happened and explaining that she would use one of the many under-utilized hard drives on a government computer network to keep the webcam switchboard going for any who still wanted to take part. She especially emphasised to her fans that she wanted them to keep watching her. She told them that, now she knew they were watching, she was determined to stick lots of things up her bottom. And she also said that she would love for it to be two-way. She couldn’t watch all of her thousand or more fans jack off to her, but she intended to watch as many as she could.
She ended up staying up all night, and when Michael woke up the next day he found that his goth girlfriend was now the mistress of ceremonies of a world-wide web of wanking.
“Don’t look! Don’t look!” she insisted, as he came over to see what she was up to. “It’s a surprise!”
He covered his eyes but poked her impatiently in the shoulder with his erection. He was, however, careful to keep it away from her spiky dog collar.
“O.K. You can look now!” she said. “Meet my girlfriends!”
Michael opened his eyes to find the whole of Lisbeth’s computer screen covered with small windows in which women of all shapes, ages and colours were shamelessly wanking, sucking on their nipples and sticking things up their bottoms.
“Well, say ‘Hi!'” she insisted.
“They can see me?” he asked.
“Of course,” she huffed impatiently, “now wave your lovely cock at them. They deserve encouragement.”
A bunch of comments started appearing in a chat window down the bottom of the screen. “Nice cock!” “Don’t I make you want to stroke it?” and “Wank that willy!”
Michael laughed and began stroking his hard cock as he looked at all those horny women.
“Why don’t you show your girlfriends that you’re a sucker for cock,” he suggested, gently turning Lisbeth’s head and pressing his hard-on against her lips, while taking care to rest, rather than skewer, his balls on the spikes of her dog collar.
She dropped down, opened her mouth and began licking his balls as a river of pre-cum ran down the side of his cock. Then she licked all the way up to the head, making sure to gather up all the glistening liquid as she went. Finally she planted a warm kiss on his sensitive head. But she didn’t go on to give him what he really wanted.
“I’ll show you how much of a sucker I am for cock!” she cried. “Look at my other friends!”
She hit a button and all of a sudden the screen was covered with images of guys jacking off.
“Billy’s my favourite!” she exclaimed, clicking on one frame so that it expanded to fill the screen. On it a fit young man who looked like a surfer was gyrating around while stroking the biggest cock Michael had ever seen. After a minute he cried out, “Oh, Lisbeth!” and spurt after spurt of creamy cum shot out of the end and splattered all over his nut-brown muscular chest.
“I didn’t really need to see that!” insisted Michael.
“Oh, but I did!” she teased, slapping him on the arse.
She brought back the bank of women.
“So who’s your favourite wanker woman?” she asked.
“You,” he insisted, kissing her on the head and inserting a finger up her dripping wet pussy.
“I know that, stupid!” she replied. “I mean from my fan club.”
Michael thought a moment and then pointed at a redhead in her mid-forties who had really lovely big soft pale boobs and a cheeky smile on her face as she sat with one leg pulled up so that the foot was on her office chair and the other stretched out along the ground. “She looks like an older version of my gym teacher from when I was in college,” he explained. “And I always did want to see Mrs. Stokes masturbate.”
Lisbeth made the web cam image go full screen.
“Michael thinks you look like his old gym teacher,” she informed the woman.
“I don’t believe it!” cried the woman. “I thought it looked like you, Michael. I always wondered what the schlong that flopped around in your gym shorts would look like angry!”
“It’s a class reunion!” laughed Lisbeth.
“Now you be good to that boy!” insisted Mrs. Stokes. “He deserves to have his cock sucked. I just wish I could do it! Yum!”
And so that is how Michael Plumfist ended up filling his girlfriend’s mouth with cum while his sexy ex-gym mistress looked on and wanked off.
“This could be a great tool for networking in other ways,” he told Lisbeth later as they chatted with their fans. “I have to fly to Helsinki the day after tomorrow to research my new story. Maybe we have a fan who lives there who would be willing to put me up.”
“There’s a girl named Katti who lives in Helsinki. She’s only eighteen, but she has her own flat. Here she is,” she added, calling up the image of a blonde girl with her hand down her pink panties. “I’ll see what she thinks of the idea.”
“Very nice,” declared Michael looking her over.
“She seems to like the idea,” Lisbeth told him. “I’ll just turn up the sound again.”
“I put him up,” said the smiling girl in broken English. “I put him up my bum!”
“There won’t be much time for extra-curricular activities,” Michael declared. “If I’m going to break the story of price fixing in the pharmaceutical industry of Finland I’m going to need to do some deep probing.”
“And if you want free accommodation while you’re there I think you are definitely going to have to do some deep probing,” Lisbeth pointed out. Then she laughed so hard she fell off her chair.