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 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.
When I saw a diary laying in the lounge room with the title Wanda’s Wet Dream Diary written in flowerly letters on the cover I knew I had to read it. I also knew that it was very wrong of me to do so. I weighed up the potential suffering involved in reading or not reading it. If I didn’t read it, I would be tormented by the knowledge that it existed and most likely obsessed with speculation about what it might contain. If I did read it I would feel guilty and not be able to look my flatmate Wanda in the face.
I hate the thought of opportunities lost, and if I had to stare down Wanda’s impressive cleavage instead of looking her in the eye as a result of taking advantage of that opportunity, it was a sacrifice I was prepared to make.
Wanda is a psychologist. She’s 28, six years my junior, and makes up in the boobs and butt department what she lacks in height. She’s a redhead with the face of a pixie and the body of a burlesque dancer. We had been sharing a flat for three months. I’d been jacking off to dreams of her every night. But she seemed to look at me as a lower life-form because I’m unemployed and like to watch wrestling all day long. She, on the other hand, could have been living in her own house by now except that she insisted on working at a struggling youth centre instead of in private practise.
I picked up her journal and began to read :
July 17 2011
Last night I had a very perverse dream. I was walking down Main Street and I had pants on. It was everyone else who didn’t. Everyone was bottomless – women jogging in the park in just t-shirts, business men with brief cases but no trousers or underpants, policemen patrolling the streets with their guns hanging parallel to their flaccid cocks… I was wearing a Guess t-shirt and straight leg denim jeans.
I hopped on a bus and bought a ticked from the bare-assed bus driver. The seats were unusually wide, so I was able to sit between two guys wearing suit jackets, black socks and dress shoes, but nothing else. In front of us sat a couple of middle aged women with perms. They looked after the hair on their heads, but I had noticed as I walked past that their pubes were rather unkept.
“Nice cocks, guys!” I said, grabbing one in either hand and giving them a friendly squeeze. “I’m Wanda the wanker.”
“Wow!” cried one of the businessmen. “I’ve never met such an inhibitionist! Actually going out in public with pants on!”
“Mmmmmmm,” I sighed, “aren’t I naughty! I just love the feel of clothing rubbing against my cunt.”
“I bet you love this,” said the other businessman reaching over and pulling the zip of my tight jeans up and down.
“Oh, God, yes!” I squealed. “Some people complain about rudeness on public transport, but I always find that commuters are so friendly when you’re tugging their tallywhackers.”
By now both of the guys were really stiff and oodles of pre-cum was soaking the top of my hands.
“What do you think you’re doing?!?” cried one of the middle-aged women looking around. And the other turned to see what she was responding to. “Take you’re pants off this minute, and leave those poor gentlemen alone!”
Just at that moment the men cried out in unison and I aimed their big throbbing cocks so that spurt after spurt of hot creamy cum splattered all over the women’s shocked faces.
“That was a cheap trick!” the second one exclaimed. “We’re going to report you to the Dream Police!”
July 20 2011
Last night I dreamt that I was Jane Austen. I appeared to be in some alternative universe writer’s colony with writers from various historical periods.
I was wearing a lovely frilly BBC period drama kind of dress which I had pulled up so that I could finger my juicy unclad pussy. Meanwhile I was writing with a quill pen : “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man with a nutsack full of jism, wants to get his knob gobbled…”
After I’d finished the sentence I looked around the room.
There was Percy Shelley exposing himself and declaring : “My name is Ozymandias, kings of kings : Look on my cock, ye Mighty, and despair!” And, sure enough, his erection was fully two feet in length and wearing a mini-Sombrero.
His wife – Mary Shelley – smiled proudly. “It sure is a monster!” she exclaimed.
“Merde, but I am a prophetic writer of science fantasy tales,” put in Jules Verne, stroking his beard. “The world will fall at my feet when they read my latest masterpiece. I have entitled it A Journey to the Centre of Uranus.”
“To pee, or not to pee, that is the question,” mused William Shakespeare, normally a conservative individual in the bedroom, when all three Bronte sisters invited him to a golden shower orgy.
July 22 2011
When I dream about being someone other than who I am, I don’t expect them to be a fully fleshed out character. After all dreams are fairly short. But in this one I was literally two-dimensional. I was a Playboy centrefold. I was laying on a bed and in the photo I was also laying back on a four poster bed feeling very skinny, partly because I was a Playboy model, and partly because I was less than a fifth of a millimetre deep. Hmmm, come to think of it, that’s pretty normal for Playboy models too. But I was actually a photo of a Playboy model. I was also feeling a bit fuzzy, like I’d had too much to drink. Perhaps that was due to the airbrushing. I was naked and I had my legs spread.
There was a guy looking at me and masturbating. He was kind of fat and sweaty. I couldn’t respond in any way. I just stared out of the photo at him as he stroked his stiff cock with one hand and rubbed one of his chubby hairy nipples with the other.
“Oh, baby!” he sighed. “You want it, don’t you? You really want it. I can tell.”
“I already got it,” I thought to myself. “A cool $20,000 as Playmate of the Year.”
“I’m licking my lips, baby,” he groaned. “But I’d rather be licking yours.”
Eventually he moaned and shot his spunk into a Kleenex.
Footsteps were coming down the hall and he quickly disposed of his tissue full of genetic material in the nearby waste paper basket.
“What are you up to, honey?” came the voice of his wife as she entered the bedroom. She was an attractive woman in her forties with blonde frizzy hair, an aquiline nose, droopy breasts and a little cellulite on her chunky thighs, which were revealed by the see-through yellow baby doll nightie she wore over pink cotton panties.
The man made an attempt to flip the page and make it look like he was reading an article, but he was too nervous and his fingers closed on air.
Suddenly I found I could move within the picture. I stood up off of the bed and pointed out of the picture at Mr. Monkey Spanker.
“He was wanking off over me!” I told her. “That’s what he was doing. You’ll find a spunk soaked tissue in the bin over there.”
“Is Miss December telling the truth?” asked the man’s wife.
“There’s something wrong with this magazine!” cried the man. “It’s malfunctioning.”
“How can a magazine malfunction?” she wanted to know.
“The girls aren’t supposed to talk back,” he insisted.
“Typical male attitude,” was his wife’s opinion.
“Interactivity,” I explained. “The magazines have to compete with the internet now.”
“So how does it work?” asked wifey. “You talk dirty to him and shake your tushie while he jacks off?”
“I could if I wanted to,” I said. “I could even come right off the page and slide my juicy wet cunt all over his fat cock.”
“She’s a saucy bitch!” she declared.
“I only get it for the articles,” he insisted.
“But I don’t think he deserves to have nicely naughty things done to his wiener,” I told her.
“See, I told you it was malfunctioning,” he replied. “I think it must have spent too much time next to Ms. on the newsstand.”
“But you, on the other hand, do deserve a lewd lesbian liaison… If you are into that kind of thing,” I informed her, stepping out of the page and growing to full human size.
“Wow!” cried the bedroom’s resident boner-botherer.
Then I put my thumb in my mouth and blew myself back to my normal shapely proportions.
“A bit fat,” he said.
“Fuck you, pencil dick!” I cried, rolling him off the bed and climbing in to embrace his cute and cuddly spouse.
“I’ve never done it with a woman before,” she confessed, “but my pussy is so wet just thinking about it.”
“I better get your panties off and confirm that,” I suggested.
“I’m ringing Hugh Heffner!” cried her husband. “He’s going to be so pissed when he hears about this!”
July 25 2011
I never expected to have an erotic dream about my loser of a flatmate, Charles, but the subconscious is a strange territory. Well, actually, I have to admit that he is kind of hot. He’s got a great body. But he’s so stupid and uncouth that I sometimes wonder if he has a frontal lobe at all.
In the dream it was me who initiated the sex. I walked into his bedroom stark naked. He was asleep. I bent over the bed and rubbed my titties all in his face until he woke up. Then I pulled off his bedclothes to reveal his super stiff erection.
“I’m feeling peckish,” I told him as I rubbed my pussy up and down his leg, leaving a wet trail. “There is nothing in the fridge, but a mouthful of your hot salty cum would go down a treat. Do you want to help me fill my grumbly little belly?”
“I may have no frontal lobe,” he replied, “but I’m not brain dead. Suck me dry, my sweet little slut!”
Come to think of it, I might actually turn this dream into a reality some time. It would be so easy to turn Charles into my own personal sex slave. I bet he wanks off thinking about me every night. One day I’ll walk into his bedroom and catch him at it.
Wow! I wasn’t expecting that!
So that evening when I found myself with a stiff cock on my hands, I decided to make use of what I had found out from Wanda’s diary. I got out of bed. I was wearing pyjamas. My hard prick was poking out of the fly and I followed its lead toward Wanda’s bedroom.
I didn’t bother to knock. I just walked in. Wanda was sitting at her computer with her back to me. She was naked.
“Hey Wanda,” I said, “I’ve got a present for you.”
She spun her chair around. When she saw my cock her eyes opened wide and a big grin spread across her face.
“The only way you could get a stiffy that hard is if you were thinking about sliding it into my sweet pink little cunt,” she theorised. “I bet you’ve been a sticky beak and read the ridiculously nice things I said about you in my dream journal.”
“I did take a peak,” I admitted.
“You shouldn’t invade another person’s privacy,” she informed me. “Journals are very private things. Looking at my diary is like looking at my pussy. Some things are not to be shared. Oh, I see that you are looking at my pussy. Well, come to think of it, I’m a generous girl who likes to share. Come and invade my privates with that beautiful prick of yours.”
Soon we were on the bed and I was balls deep in her slippery wetness…
And that is when I woke up to find myself in my own bed with hot jism pumping over my belly…
Wanda couldn’t believe what she was reading. Did Charles really mean to publish this story (about himself having a wet dream inspired by reading her dream journal and then fucking her) on the internet? This was a nightmare.
And indeed it was. She woke to find her face pressed against the latest issue of Psychology Today on her bedroom desk…
And what of you, dear reader, you think you are in front of your computer (or mobile device) reading the latest Aussiescribbler story at Funny Smut and Thoughtful Thoughts, but perhaps this too is but a dream and you will wake to find yourself in a bed made entirely of blancmange in the elephant enclosure of the London Zoo and wearing nothing but a vintage World War II gas mask…
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.