midnight rambling on the astral plane

deception occurs all the time. look around you to see. it’s everywhere. abuse of power can be a dark business. free your mind of contrived smokescreens & open up your soul to other levels. prepare to be astonished as you delve into those murky waters that lie deep beneath the swamps & shallows of stifled consciousness.

concepta sinks into sumptuous soft furnishings. the purples crimsons & gold brocades of a clichéd bohemia. original persian weaves hang heavy upon the washed-out painted walls behind her. artworks of conflicting oil & water break up the crumbling plasterwork. splinters of sunlight force their way through gaps in the velvet drapes. a spent opium pipe lays discarded on the oriental low table. candle flame & incense smoke dance together in the draught. the dark wet dreamer watches from his reading chair. concepta unfolds her silk-clad body into the supine. becoming one with her day bed.

the dark wet dreamer has bodily intent. a host of nefarious acts he could never risk within the grounded world. & so he has found a more iniquitous way. a conduit for his self-perceived holy narcissism. a ruse to escape detection. he has perfected that technique well known to incubi. unleashing the secrets of virgin birth. where the purity of concepta’s delicious curves awaits him. he will pursue his egregious urges with weinsteinian megalomania.

the dark wet dreamer synchronises his breath with that of concepta. it is cyclical. minimal. his eyeballs roll. heartrate slows. muscles slump. the weight of physical existence pins him to the chair. his consciousness rises. he floats above the ceiling. although the ceiling is no longer there. the ornate cornices ceiling roses & chandeliers do not exist from this perspective. it is only himself & concepta. along with the ectoplasmic slaver of his tainted spirit.

concepta inhabits her dreamworld. alcohol & opiates colour her consciousness. innocence ignorance & illusion. these three strands plaited together define her circumstance. she is vulnerable beyond belief. a victim ignored by unbelievers. the dark wet dreamer is already at her body. pulling poking tearing & scratching. in ways that concepta would never even dream of consenting to. yet all the while he leans back into a comfortable smirk. rooted to his reading chair. somehow physically tasting forbidden delights. as his astral presence busies itself with disgusting encroachment.

beneath sleep there are juices flowing. excitements building. transferences of energy. stimulation & engorgement. the dark wet dreamer searches out concepta’s hidden delights. those sacred places only she should ever hold sway over. on one plane he acts. on another he enjoys the sensuality. a warped crossover of consciousness. a distorted connection between the projected & the physical. concepta is violated. & yet there is no embodiment of this assault within reach for her to fight back against. were her name mary & his gabriel the story might be similar. likewise for rosemary & beelzebub.

there is always hope however. & for every act a consequence. opposite poles may attract. until one flips. & a different reaction is born. triggering repulsion. concepta cries out to her higher self. calling upon inner resources. the dark wet dreamer drools at the prospect of engendering female ejaculation. his astral phallus fills her being with the violence of an eternally-expanding galaxy. the tip of his physical penis dribbles a weak solution in pathetic anticipation. but this grubby agent of destruction is destined to become disappointed. & more.

concepta reaches deep into her awareness. then deeper still & beyond. a wry smile colours her face. she knows this because she looks down upon it. multiple perspectives drift before her. the victim’s own astral self has arisen. she has found a way to stand up to the control of the dirty wet dreamer. she has equalled his power. no longer a victim. & so now all that is left to do is best him. extinguish his hellish flame. a new plan of redemptive revenge emerges fully formed from beneath the bondage of concepta’s pain & humiliation.

the dreamer in the chair snorts with demonic pleasure. soaking his body with the putrid satisfaction of undetectable rape. wallowing satanically in shadowy & filthy smugness. each ugly thrust of his disembodied spirit jarring physical nerves into ever-increasing ripples of stolen ecstasies. yet still he remains unaware of the role his crude self-absorption will play in the alchemy of his own downfall.

concepta’s astral presence prepares to trouble the flesh of her attacker’s body. just as his is troubling hers. she grasps at the pile of occult pamphlets that litter the low table beside him. but with only spectral fingers at hand a physical connection proves fruitless. & so it is by the force of unbridled spiritual will that these papers are swept up and fashioned into an instrument of protection. swirled through the ether & loosely coiled into a cone. a vortex of magick incarnate. a horn of diabolical symbols & mephistophelian incantations.

the corporeal eyes of the dark wet dreamer remain oblivious. bloodshot behind fallen lids. & he moans. he moans to the sensations transubstantiated from his invasive astral pleasuring. as thin lips part into a hideous gape. ready to receive the desecrated host. whilst concepta’s burning arrow of the mind approaches. violation begets defiance. comeuppance encompasses the laws of karma.

concepta’s controlled rage connects the physical to the astral. resistance won’t work. for bully-boy predators. the wad of scrunched up papers slams into the dark wet dreamer’s physical maw. bukowski’s red sparrow is coming for this toerag. beak open. now he gets it. his astral self shrinks back towards the physical.

the dark wet dreamer is choking on his own sacrificial words. all power of oppression & manipulation bears down upon that stinking gullet. any oxygen to further evil denied. each victim of his exploitation flashes before him with a fuck-you smile of retribution. he dies in shuddering pain & disbelief. his astral self disappearing up the anus of his corpse. his humiliation complete.

Mad Drunken Love

The night before had got way out of hand, had grown out of control like a disobedient child throwing a tantrum in a supermarket, way quicker than Jack had expected, way quicker than he’d experienced in a long time. And this morning, well, here he lay next to one of the most stunningly beautiful women he’d ever had the pleasure of, well, right now he isn’t really sure. Looking over he is sure he’d remember doing anything with this creature, this beauty, but his mind is gone, all memory of the night before is gone from about the seventh pint and chaser. His nakedness is stark and as he slowly begins to patch his mind back together he realises that his surroundings are different too.

‘This must be her flat,’ he thinks as he gropes for his pair of boxer shorts laying on the floor next to the bed. It then comes to him, why would he want to leave this situation, he shouldn’t bother putting them back on, not yet anyway, this could be something special, something great possibly. Dragging his gaze from the floor to more prescient concerns he lifts the sheet to reveal the fully naked body laying next to him, a truly wonderful sight, a firm breast, a stretch of leg that aches to be touched, or at least that is what his mind tells him as his hand moves in. He brushes her thigh, up her arm and then onto her face, stroking that cheek, shifting her hair to display the bluest of every blue eye he’d ever seen. Moving in to kiss her on the cheek his delight knows no bounds as she shifts her body in his direction, her gaze meeting his at last. They kiss and a communal thanksgiving it releases from both their souls fills the room with an air of pure joy. They kiss and then soon after they fuck, they fuck like wild crazed teenagers high on lust, defying their ages, defying the decades since they’d felt so alive. They fuck and then they fuck some more and finally both lie spent across the bed.

“Pat!” she screams causing Jack to suddenly realise that he has no idea of what this enchanting woman’s name is.

“My son,” she begins to explain, “he builds them good and strong… that and a wee naughty coffee will get us feeling fine in no time at all…”

When the knock comes it breaks the spell of this brand new world that Jack has enveloped himself deep inside since regaining consciousness in this amazing new scenario. Pat enters and the woman throws him a bag.

“There’s some in there, roll us a good ‘un and then fuck off…” she instructs him in harsh tones. He duly follows her instructions, leaving them alone again barely fazed by his presence. Nothing but a young kid anyway, probably fifteen or sixteen at most, he seemed a bit sullen to Jack but then kids that age often are; frustrated at life, unable to live how they want to live. She climbs from their bed and moves over to a little coffee machine set up in the corner of the room, strutting across the room her size is impressive, her body naked.

“Da ya fancy a coffee?” she asks in what Jack has suddenly realised is a northern Scottish accent.

“Sure that’d be nice,” he responds.

“Spark that up for us will ya?” she asks, throwing the joint from the floor where Pat had left it towards her new lover.

“Sure will,” he responds. Sparking the joint to life he lays back on the bed and lets the smoke take hold as his new surroundings grow more familiar with every passing moment. Everywhere he looks he sees something of interest, a beautiful naked woman, a big pile of books on a desk, a stack of vinyl records inside a cupboard, lots of psychedelic furnishings and, at last, a sign that the twenty-first century hasn’t been completely ignored, a laptop with a thin layer of dust on top resting on an armchair that dominates the right corner of the room, big enough to sit five.

“How’d you take your coffee?”

“Black is fine, maybe a bit of sugar…”

She piles in a large teaspoon and brings over a big steaming mug, retrieving the joint in the process, standing before him smoking, looking sexier than anything Jack had seen outside of a porn movie or maybe some obscure European underground movie in years, no fuck that, decades. Climbing to his feet he moves straight for her, pulling her in tight as soon as he is near enough to grasp one of those tight beautiful arms. She pulls long and hard on the joint and then places it between his lips, telling him to breath in, inhale the grass, smoke it up good as if he hasn’t been smoking weed on an almost daily basis for the last thirty years, hell more decades than her kid who’d just rolled the joint had been alive.

Taking the joint out of her hand he smokes it again before passing it back, pulling her back to the bed. She smokes another long hard toke and then simply collapses onto the bed, pushing Jack over with her and after one last took she begins kissing him again. This time they take it easy, this time they build up to the frenzy and any sign of orgasm is still hours away from that first kiss. They kiss, they fondle, they play and then finally they fuck and it is the most beautiful, greatest fuck of Jack’s long life and as they lay together afterwards they begin to talk.

“So do you even remember my name?” is her third question. The first two ask if he can roll another joint whilst she makes them more coffee, this time offering an Irish option which includes a mean shot of Paddy’s, the roughest of rough Irish whiskey. His answers come easily and truthfully, yes, yes and no, he has no idea.

“But I really would love to know, hell I want to know it all…”

“Well, let’s start with the basics…” and suddenly she is telling him about her childhood in a northern Scottish town, her doomed marriage, her four kids, of which Pat is the only one still living at home, and how she works at being an artist. Nora’s life sounds like a struggle like so many others in this town that everyone has moved to at some point in the last ten years but it sounds like a proud struggle, a dream almost. She has everything she needs, maybe a holiday once in a while but then how would she work if she wasn’t right here in this house where her studio is, and ultimately she is doing something she loves and, just about, making a living out of it. Jack’s nimble fingers roll a joint for the pair of them to share and as she brings over two Irished-up mugs of coffee she asks about him.

“Well I grew up in south-east London, born in 71, thought I’d never leave but…” Jack begins, telling her of his horrible upbringing, the torture he’d experienced at school, his decision to drop out of the mainstream into the underground punk scene around 91 and how he hadn’t really held a proper job until he’d reached nearly thirty.

“It feels like you’re the first real person I’ve met down here, you just seem completely real and happy with who you are… You seem to not give a fuck what anyone else thinks…”

“Well generally I don’t…” she responds.

The talk continues and last for hours until they realise it is again dark outside and they have spent the entire day deep inside their own little cocoon, getting high and falling deeper than either of them ever expected when they’d met the night before. That night that would now stick out for months, hell let’s throw caution to the wind, years even decades to come, a night when life for both changed beyond recognition. Eventually conversation drifted around to more mundane topics as, seemingly at the exact same moment, both realised they hadn’t eaten anything all day, and in Jack’s case not since lunchtime the day before. Needing something easy it was decided pizza and wine would do the trick, two-for-six quid wine and a share of a massive one from the local supermarket. That would mean the party would have to break up, even if only temporarily, but the stoned-out munchies simply intensified their need for sustenance and, after locating some clothes, they go out hunting for provisions, looking for those things which mean they won’t have to leave their cocoon for some time after this experience.

Arriving back at the house they move into the kitchen and unload their shopping with Nora reaching for a corkscrew to get in on that cheap gut-rot wine as Jack contemplates opening a vast pack of crisps or whether to look at the potential fire hazard that is the cooker. He decides on the former and scoffs down a few large handfuls before setting them out on the table as Nora takes the pizza, examines the instructions on the back before moving over to the cooker, and gets on the case. All the time the pizza is in the oven she is perched on a chair nearby rolling joint after joint after joint whilst occasionally taking a hit of the wine whilst Jack merely sits opposite gazing at her drinking his, he is completely enchanted.

With the pizza dispatched to the grateful stomachs they move back upstairs to their large psychedelic love-nest and another protracted assault on their senses. They smoke, they drink, they kiss, they fondle and then, nothing… Jack’s mind is a blank canvas as the night progresses he has no idea of where he is or what he’s doing. Something has gone incredibly wrong somewhere down the line and he can’t quite work it out, two nights running with the same woman and on both occasions he can’t recall a large chunk of their night together.

Waking the next morning, again naked and again confused as to what happened to him the night before, his head is a pounding wreck of regret, confusion and despair. He can’t possibly stay with this divine creature, this Nora, if he can’t remember some of the most important times they’ve shared but what is causing this loss? It’s not like he’s a beginner at this kind of thing, he’d been drinking and drugging his way through life now for thirty years and not since the truly mad days of discovery in his early twenties had something like this happened.

He contented himself with the idea of fucking her, that would help him think of other things, help get his mind out of state of confusion that was currently infecting him with a fear, a fear of the unknown. Leaning in he kisses her on her shoulder, as if to get her attention, and then, as she rolls over, he began to suckle on her spectacular breasts like an innocent child.

“Mmmm,” she murmurs as her hand grabs Jack’s raggedy hair and pulled him in tight. Moments later they are fucking and Jack’s delight is complete as he forgets all about last nights’ lost hours. Why should he care, here he is having sex with one of the most beautiful women he’s ever seen and so what if she likes a bit of a drink and a bit of a smoke he loves both of those things as well. She is almost his perfect woman and only time will tell how far this love can fly through the air like a bottle battling gravity.