Anilingus: The Suspension of Civilisation


Sex is overrated. By this, I mean to say that the climax of sexual desire – the ‘in-out’ – to adopt Clockwork Orange vernacular – is overrated, and too much importance is ascribed to it.

Much better is foreplay; an (in)discipline of infinite variety. Like a game of chess, no two sessions of foreplay are exactly alike. They vary wildly. It can sometimes be boring, sure, perhaps a little routine. But it can also be heavenly; a banquet for the senses without limit. Via foreplay one can devour a person, not merely use them for pleasure. One can explore everything there is to know about that person. And to this end we can use not only our bodies, but our words and minds, our creativity. Foreplay is to sex what Jazz is to music. It is free-flowing and ecstatic, primitively complex.

And of the kinds of foreplay, the most exquisite activity is surely that which technical types refer to anilingus; the pleasuring of the anus with the mouth. (Colloquially this is known as ‘ass-eating’, and, to be honest, I prefer this more literal term.)

The beauty of ass-eating derives from its perfect degradation of the giving partner. There is no way of dressing up anilingus as something dignified. It isn’t. It is shamelessness and surrender perfected. And that is why I am so utterly, proudly addicted to it.

When I lick my partner’s anus, I am caressing with my tongue the tube down which her excrement and flatulence travels. Without such gruesome aspects in mind, the activity is far less enlivening.

For a person to eat an ass is to surrender utterly to the animal part of his or her being. It is to strip away the veneer of civilisation completely and expose the chimp-like reality that is only ever half-obscured beneath the suits and ties, the sky-scrapers and the banks, the democracies and all other cants with which modernity powders its face in the morning.

Anilingus rolls us back down the evolutionary hill. It is the sport of kings and queens. And no life may be called complete without a taste of its mysteries.


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“Understanding Your Negro” (Master and Mistress magazine, October Edition, 2017. Confederate States of America.)


New and Old Methods On Show at Tuckman Plantation, Silvercoat

In light of the growing consensus among Negrologists that Negroes are capable of greater emotional understanding than previously thought, many planters across the confederacy are actively attempting to establish a deeper, more humane relationship with their slaves.

Caroline, 23, from New Orleans, is one such planter. Her mulatto Percy, 44, was raised by her mother Catherine until her death in 2015. Now, being part of the newest generation of drivers, Caroline feels inclined to seek out new depths in the buck she has inherited, experimenting with new philosophies and techniques quite alien to her mother’s era.

“He’s tremendously warm at heart,” she told us from her back garden at the luscious Tuckman Plantation, just outside Silvercoat. Percy, who boasts a beautiful coat of golden skin, is seated smiling broadly at her side. “I would feel quite lost without him.”

Percy is clothed in a chequered shirt and dark-blue dungarees. His fluffy black hair is almost hidden under a small straw hat.

“He looks very happy,” I say pointing to him.

“Oh, he is,” Caroline grins pleasantly, stroking him on the shoulder. “He’s most content. I try to make things as pleasant as possible for him. The happier they are the harder they work. That was one of my momma’s philosophies. I don’t see any reason to go against that one.”

“Are you happy,” I ask Percy.

His smile grows still broader.

“Yes, ma’am. I surely am. Miss’us Caroline is very kind to me. She is kind to all of us.”

Thirty two Negroes, of various purities, are put to work at Tuckman. From where we sit I can see more than twenty busily at work in the fruit fields. It is a hot day. Many of them work with their torsos unclothed, their black skin shining beautifully under the harsh Louisiana sun. It is a classic Southern scene; in equal parts timeless and modern.

Percy works mainly in the flower garden behind the main house, tending to the rich assortment of sunflowers, opium poppies and red and purple roses which are planted there, divided neatly into rows.

I ask him if he loves his mistress. He wastes no time in responding.

“Yes, I do,” he nods, exposing his shining teeth. “She is like a momma to me. I do miss Miss’us Catherine. But I know that Miss’us Caroline is following her ways. That’s good enough for me.”

“What new techniques have you tried with Percy?” I ask her.

“It’s quite simple really,” she replies, pouring lemonade for us both. (Percy is now contentedly supping from a glass of milk.) ”I try to treat them as I would a human child. Dr Beronstock (Note: a much admired Negrologist from Louisiana State University) suggests that Negroes have the emotional reactions and preferences of a seven year old human. I have a daughter named Lindsey. She’s at university now. But I can still remember how she was at that age. I try to speak and behave in the same way I did then with Percy.”

Beronstock’s novel technique is called “emotional-loading”. It works on the logic that Negroes can be better pacified by loving treatment than by harsh tutelage and raw discipline.

“And what about when he rebels?”

Caroline’s smile disintegrates.

“There are times,” she admits after a pause. “But we have soft techniques for those occasions. He’s had to skip a few meals this past week. He loves his food, so that usually does the trick.”

Before we leave we are shown inside the luxurious Tuckman mansion (completed just after the Confederate victory in 1868), where we are introduced to two more Negroes, one of whom, with her glowing blonde hair, pale skin and dazzling blue eyes, is very difficult to distinguish from a white woman.

“This is Victoria,” Caroline says, pointing to her. “She is an octoroon doe. She works in the kitchens.”

The most dilute Negro working at Tuckman is a doe named Meredith, who, after testing, was found to be just over 2% Negro in ancestry (the remainder being a mix of Scottish, Danish and Norwegian stock). I ask Caroline if there is any trouble with the white-looking Negroes at Tuckman, referencing specifically the recent quintroon uprising in Atlanta.

“No,” she answers quickly, “I have always been very clear about the line of acceptable behaviour. We have a whipping post out the back. I know some people think it’s cruel in this day and age, but it works even only as a deterrent, especially for these, who might try to runaway and blend in with white folk.”

It seems that even as new methods are trialled at Tuckman, the old ways remain ever ready to hand.


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Jane is a Patriot


Jane Morris was a deeply patriotic and committed citizen of the United States. A CIA analyst and interrogator by the tender age of 22, she had risen rapidly through the ranks on the energies and passion of her uncomplicated nationalism. She said the pledge of allegiance when no-one was around to hear it – in front of the mirror every morning and before retiring to sleep every night. A huge, faded American flag was pinned above the headboard of her bed. So intense was this patriotism that Morris’s heart never really had the space to incorporate affection for any individual human being. She rarely had boyfriends or personal associates, preferring to invest all of her hormonal and intellectual drives into her national service. It was only after she was forced to retire early (at the age of 27) because of a psychiatric complaint that Morris began to consider the idea of fellowship with another person. And the first person to accept her advances was Derek Peterson, an 18 year old army cadet.

The first few meetings between the two were ordinary enough. But such was Morris’s insistence on discussing politics (particularly threats to America’s national security) that Peterson eventually advised that they no longer see each other.

Morris didn’t take this well. This much was obvious to Peterson the moment he came around in Morris’s bedroom, his mouth gagged, his limbs strapped tightly to a long gurney, and with long streams of angrily delivered spittle and phlegm running down his cheeks.

“You wouldn’t last a minute in combat,” Morris seethed, looking down at him. She was now dressed in full military uniform. “You’re fucking useless. No use to the national organism.”

Peterson writhed in vain beneath the straps, all of them expertly applied to nullify his every means of rebellion.

Morris pushed her olive green trousers down to her knees, exposing her thick and pale American thighs.

“I swear allegiance to the flag of the United States of America,” she declared, pulling her underpants down to her calves and taking a seat on Peterson’s terrified face, her cold and white buttocks pressing the full weight of her body onto his head, cutting off his airways.

“And to the republic for which it stands…”

Peterson jerked and wrestled with everything he had, desperate for another breath of oxygen. He could see nothing but blackness. He could move only his shoulders.”

“One nation under God,” she continued, pulling up under the gurney to keep her victim tightly fastened beneath her.

“…indivisible, with liberty…” she paused as the squirming began to lessen, “…and justice…” The squirming stopped altogether. “…for all.”

“God bless the United States,” Morris added, standing up. And then, with her trousers still at half-mast, she saluted the flag above her bed.


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Sarah Huckabee Sanders is the Most Desirable Woman in the Universe


The Trump administration currently managing the United States of America is generally agreed to be a bad thing for the USA and the world more broadly. I don’t want to go with or against this consensus (if it is one) here. This posts intends only to deal with one particular actor in the regime, not the regime itself. I hope that the reader can therefore agree or disagree with me according to sentiments separate from their pre-existing view of the current American government.

The thesis I want to advance is that Sarah Huckabee Sanders – who is, at the time of writing at least, the press secretary to Donald Trump – is a woman of quite dazzling beauty; and more than this, that she may in fact be the most desirable woman in the universe.

At the time of writing, my position is not broadly shared.

If you access a video of Miss Sanders on YouTube and take time to browse the comments beneath, it quickly becomes apparent that the press secretary’s beauty is not of the simple or crowd-pleasing kind. It is a complex beauty, whose very existence is appreciable only to those who understand already what beauty truly, objectively is.

The kind of beauty people perceive depends I believe as much on that person’s intelligence as on any other aspect of their perspective. More intelligent people perceive ‘truer’ forms of beauty than unintelligent people, just as they perceive art with better taste and accuracy. Beauty is thus not entirely subjective any more than art is.

An ignorant person might honestly find a photograph of a cheeseburger to be aesthetically superior to a Miro painting. He is not lying about what he prefers, and it may be true for him in that sense, but we can confidently remark that his opinion stems from a lack of something on his part. Blind to a certain kind of higher beauty, he settles necessarily for something easier to appreciate. A cheeseburger is appealing because he likes cheeseburgers and understands the value of food. Understanding the value of Miro, on the other hand, is beyond him.

The simplest kinds of human beauty, like the simplest kinds of aesthetic design, appeal more to less intelligent people than to intelligent ones. Unintelligent people are drawn to what is superficially appealing. Intelligent people are attracted to what is rare and distinct and genuinely valuable.

Ms Sanders’ beauty is of the rare and complicated kind. It is multifaceted and often transient, being dependent somewhat on her mood and chosen expression. When Ms Sanders’ face is blank, for example, she seems rather plain and unremarkable. But when she smiles, when she is happy, her face lights up in a thousand places, and she becomes divine.

There is also the factor of Ms Sanders’ voice to consider. Her accent – citric, drawling and unmistakably Southern, is perfectly charming in its music. She is a woman of the mountains, of the hills and ravines. Her voice, with all its weathered carvings and indentations, is pure Americana, the result of centuries of tumult and thunderous history.

Ms Sanders’ body is masculine and dominating. She is not a waif of a thing as seems – quite inexplicably – to remain the fashion of our time. She is a Waterhouse Goddess, with broad shoulders and a neck fit for a thoughtful head. The fact that this intimidates the simple and the ignorant only renders her still more desirable.

Sarah Huckabee Sanders is a goddess.


You can support my writing by buying my novel:    – or by sharing my work on social media. Gracias

The Day of the Discount: An Alt-Right Love Story


One morning in the middle of summer, a group of four twentysomething students – Charles, Peter, Thomas and David – were sitting around a table in Costa Coffee in Earl’s Court, West-Central London, talking about Islam. In particular, they were engaged in discussing something the group had long referred to as the ‘Day of the Discount’ – a hypothetical future day when, with Western patience with Islam having finally snapped, attractive girls of Muslim descent desperate to avoid deportation to the misogynistic third world would become available to white men at far beneath their ‘peace-time value’.

“I’m personally very keen on Mishal Husain,” Charles mused, referring to a crisp-tongued newsreader employed by the BBC. “She would almost certainly want to stay, as well. Far too sophisticated to settle for a burka.”

Peter agreed. “Yes,” he nodded, “beautiful skin. She almost makes brownness a virtue. And that voice! My word! Puts many English girls to shame. Thomas?”

Thomas paused to think before answering. “Mishal is nice,” he concurred, “but I wouldn’t go out of my way. There are so many like her who aren’t famous. And we should also be realistic. She’ll have a sponsor from the get-go.”

The word ‘sponsor’ in this group’s parlance was used to denote a white (Christian) man willing to marry a Muslim-origin woman and ensure her continued status as a Western citizen. In their minds, all aspirational Muslim women would seek a white ‘sponsor’ when the full-heat of the white-nationalist renaissance broke out; someone, that is, to argue on their behalf, confirming to the crowds and authorities that they are exceptions to be trusted and let off.

“What is M.I.A?” David asked.” You know, the rapper girl? She’s quite pretty, I think.”

“Sri Lankan,” Thomas answered. “Hindu. No-go. I’m sure Hindu areas of Sri Lanka are tolerable enough, even if the standard of living might feel like a steep drop at first. It’s best to concentrate on Pakistani and Arab girls.”

“And Iranians,” Charles added. “They’re especially keen to avoid being grouped in with other Muslims. Most Persians tend to view themselves as exotic whites. In fact, they’re pretty much available for discounting now, even without a NatSoc government. Dating a white man for them is a way of confirming their difference. All they ask is that you agree that they are different. If you say something like, ‘I’ve always viewed you guys as whites,’ and then follow it up with some mean remark about Arabs, they’ll strip for you on the spot.”

At this point in the conversation, a lone woman walked into the store, attracting the attention of all four men. She was tall, golden-skinned and appeared no more than 20 years of age. Her black hair was long and sparkled like asphalt under the lights.

“What is she?” Thomas whispered lustily.

The girl approached the counter and ordered a lemon iced tea. Her accent was crisply native and middle class, spiced with a slight London twang.

“Could be mixed-race,” David suggested quietly.

“Nah,” Thomas returned, shaking his head. “Two dark. Mixed girls are very pale in my experience. And her hair is too straight.”

“The hair means nothing these days,” David argued. “They have products to straighten it. They use olive oil and stuff.”

“Still, I’m guessing Arab or Afghan.”

Having been served the girl took her tea over to a window table a few yards from where the boys were sitting. She seemed to be alone, a fact which greatly excited them.

The boys began to discuss who among them should be given the right to make the first approach. Charles argued it should be him, since he had only recently suffered the misfortune of losing his job at a local supermarket. Reluctantly, the others conceded that this case was unlikely to bettered by anything they could think of at short notice, and so Charles was duly given the go ahead.

“Wish me the grace of Kek,” he said, straightening his shirt.

“May he be with you,” the others droned in concert. “Always.”

And so Charles set off for where the girl was seated, his three companions watching his every move with fascinated anticipation.

“Hey,” he said casually, when he reached her table. The girl, who was reading a dense paperback at that moment, looked up at him, confused.

“Hello,” she stuttered.

“Can I?” Charles asked, gesturing to the seat opposite her.

“Can I ask why?”

“I know it’s odd, but you look like someone worth talking to. I’m a nice guy. Honest.”

“How do you know I’m a nice girl?” she smirked.

“Oh I can tell you are. And even if I’m wrong, you’re so beautiful that it won’t count as a waste of time anyway.”

The girl smiled, surrendering to his flattery. Her shining white teeth contrasted beautifully with the brown skin of her face.

“Go ahead.”

“You look quite exotic,” Charles remarked, settling into his seat.

“I do?”

“Yeah. Are you Spanish or Italian or…?”

“I’m actually English,” the girl declared warmly, as if having anticipated the question. “I was born in Bristol.”

“And your parents?”

“Hampstead and New Malden.”

Charles grinned. “And their parents?”


“Lebanon, wow. Which side of the civil war were they on?”

This question, being clangingly out of tune with the tone of the conversation up until that point, did not go down well.

“What kind of question is that?” the girl frowned. “Why do you ask?”

“She seems upset about something,” Thomas observed from the boys’ table. “He’s fucked up.”

“I wasn’t trying to offend you,” Charles pleaded. “I just wondered. Your grandparents came over I’m guessing because of the political upheaval there.  If I’m wrong, I’m sorry.”

“They’re Greek Orthodox. I still don’t know why that’s interesting to you. But there you go.”

Charles struggled to hide his disappointment. “Right.”

“And it was before the civil war,” the girl continued. “Luckily my grandparents left just in time. Many of their friends didn’t.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Charles said, his features still sunk in obvious dejection

“Are you alt-right?” the girl asked.


“You know what I mean. Are you a video-gamer racist? Do you spend your days working out to Rammstein and wanking over interracial pornography?”

Charles’ shock at her frankness was matched only by his terror at her prescience. He stared at her, open-mouthed, lost for words.

“Do you regard certain anime characters as your girlfriends?” she continued, smiling. “What’s your opinion on Amy Schumer? Do vaginas secretly disgust you?”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with you,” Charles replied, finding his voice before his orientation, “but this is crazy to me. I was just trying to be nice.”

“No you weren’t,” she pushed back. “You thought I was an easy fuck. A Westernised haji girl desperate to integrate before the anti-Islam storm erupts.”

Charles was once again speechless. He could think of no coherent way of denying her accusations.

The girl switched her tone. “I’m sorry,” she said, feigning regret. “I’m out of order, aren’t I? Shall we start again? My name is Laila. What’s yours?”


“This is where you tell me how beautiful my name is.”

“You have a beautiful name, Laila.”

“Thank you, Charles. I agree. Charles is OK; a bit generic. But it does for you, I suppose. What do you do for a living? I’m a student, reading history.”

“I’m not doing anything at the moment,” Charles confessed. All emotion and charm had faded from his demeanour.

“Unemployed,” Laila nodded, smiling. “I did wonder. Need to keep some time free for all that gaming. Don’t be embarrassed, Charles. Subcultures are very now. You might be poor, but then again, we who have a stake in society don’t have our own anthropomorphic frog. So who’s really winning?”

Charles laughed. He actually laughed. He laughed sincerely, despite himself, despite everything. He laughed.

“I have no idea what’s happening,” Thomas remarked, squinting at the two from the boys’ table. The others were similarly perplexed, similarly curious.

For the next twenty minutes or so, Charles and Laila talked cheerfully about everything under the sun. His original stratagem rendered useless, Charles went into areas of his mind and emotional complex that had cobwebs lining the walls, dust on the floors. Nothing in this neglected space was meta. Nothing was irony. The situation, the first for years in his life, was too pleasant, too deep, to important to treat with memes.

When Laila had finished her iced tea she announced that she had to get back to campus to work on a presentation on Nazi Germany. Charles’s eyes lit up upon hearing this.

“I know lots about that,” he said. “I can help you. Can we meet up again?”

“Sure,” she smiled, reaching into the pocket of her black denim jacket and producing a folded receipt. “Write down your email for me.”

He did so. She took it. He returned to the table where his friends sat, ravenously awaiting the details of what had transpired.

He was reluctant to tell them.

“It was good,” he explained vaguely.

“What was she?” David asked.

“She’s not a what,” Charles replied, and then upped and left the shop.

The first date Charles had with Laila was a meal at his apartment.

When she entered the living room, she was taken aback at once by the posters covering the walls. They depicted a clashing variety of Japanese animations, fantasy art and militaristic portraits and film stills. One especially large framed photograph which caught her attention was a still from the movie 300 in which Gerard Butler’s Leonidas stood ready to slice his long sword through the waist of an approaching Persian.

“You guys really like that film, don’t you?” she remarked. “I suppose because it depicts a pre-feminist age. We must be quite a nuisance.”

“You’re a feminist?” Charles asked, eyebrows raised.

Laila grinned. “Only in the sense that I don’t regard myself as pussy. I’m pretty radical. No bother, though, I’m sure we can find some things to agree on. I’m not a fan of hip-hop misogyny in particular. You can find a point of contact with that opinion, right?”

“I’m not racist, you know, Laila. I don’t even identify as being part of any alt-right, or whatever the media wants to call common sense these days. I just don’t my culture being reduced to an Afro-Islamic hellhole, for your sake as much as my own. Women don’t fare well in the third world. In many countries , they’re just a pair of eye-holes in black fabric. I think you’re worth more than that.”

Laila nodded thoughtfully, “And you’re the Leonidas standing ready to slice my oppressors in half, eh? She pointed to a bench-press in the corner of the room, directly beneath the 300 print. “I see you’re already getting pumped for the final confrontation.”

“Well, we can’t go on like this, can we? ISIS are barbarians. You don’t need to be a bigot to recognise that fact. Men do still have a use. We’re designed by nature to protect our women, just like lions protect lionesses. It’s human arrogance to think we’re above natural laws.”

There was then a pause. They stared at each other, both minds erotically charged, both hostile, both submissive, both craving to convert their differences into a tangle of angry flesh.

Laila removed her blouse, revealing small, cupcake bosoms held together by a black-lace brassiere. She then slid her skirt and pants down her coffee-brown legs and kicked them off with her shoes.

“Come on then, Leonidas,” she smiled. “Save this princess from the mud-blood hordes.”

And so they fucked, there and then, on the floor, on the sofa, standing up against the wall. And when they had finished, Laila promptly got dressed and said goodbye.

“Where are you going?” Charles called after her desperately as she walked to the door. “You can stay the night. You can stay as long as you want.”

But she said nothing. She just left. Charles watched the closing door like a dog watching his master head out for work. Everything that had filled him with happiness just moments earlier was gone, dissolved like water vapour.

The next time Charles met up with his friends was in the same coffee shop where he had first met Laila. Inevitably, their questions this day were all about her.

“So, is she your girlfriend or what?” Peter asked eagerly.

“I thought she might be.”

“But she isn’t?” Thomas suggested.

“No,” Charles returned. “We fucked at my house, but she hasn’t answered my emails since then. I didn’t get her number.”

“Probably just a tease,” said David. “Women don’t have the same values, dude. They act like we’re the ones who play around with emotions, but they’re the fucking masters of it. Just one reason I don’t let love enter my mind. It’s pussy voodoo, dude. It’s a spell.”

The conversation soon switched to other things; anime, cuck-porn, and, of course, the Day of the Discount, with the focus this time being placed on mixed race women like Meghan Markle and Troian Bellisario.

“They only date white, in my experience,” David maintained. “They’re raised white and they hate the idea of having to surrender to the American one drop stuff. A white man makes them feel they’ve been accepted by the good side. I going to aim for a quadroon.”

But Charles took no part in any of these discussions. He remained silent, his eyes lowered to the wood of the table. Every word his friends uttered bounced off his ears like trainers off plastic.

An hour or so later, when the group stood up to leave, Charles approached the server behind the counter to ask if she knew anything about Laila, if she was a regular there, where she lived, etc…

“She came in this morning,” the server said, to his delight.

“And where does she live?” he asked excitedly.

“How I could know that?” the served shrugged. “Is your name Charles?”

“Yes,” he frowned, “Why?”

“She gave me something for you. Wait here.”

The woman strolled off into the kitchen. When she emerged a minute or two later, she presented Charles with a folded piece of paper.

“I couldn’t help having a peek, ” she said. “Makes no sense to me.”

Charles unfolded the paper and looked at what was on it: a coloured cartoon of Pepe the Frog with tears running down his cheeks.


You can support my writing by buying my novel:  – or you can scare your friends by sharing my work on social media. Gracias

The Quiet Girl


Emilia Jessop was known as a quiet and rather strange girl by her classmates on the Class of 2014 media studies course at Colorado State University. During lectures, she always sat by herself at the front of the auditorium. Few students felt comfortable sitting next to her, some out of respect for her obvious preference for solitude, others because her blankness and aloofness made them uneasy. Michael Parker was the first person to make a serious effort to talk to her. Although at first, prickly and unyielding, Emilia in time founds elements of compatibility between her personality and his, and she eventually invited Michael back to her dorm room one Saturday evening to ‘watch a video’.

Emilia was an attractive girl; a quite typical emo/goth type, with dyed hair and a lip-ring. (So common was this look around this time that it better implied, if anything, a conformist streak than any kind of rebellion). Jessop’s skin was shockingly pale, almost seeming as if she wore a thickly applied coating of chalk. Her eyes were brown. She was tall, with a spiky, bony frame.

The first thing that struck Michael upon entering Emilia’s dorm was the state of the place. It was extremely untidy, even by the warped standards of a student dwelling. It smelled putrid. There were papers and food packaging carpeted over the floor.

“Sorry about the smell,” Emilia said flatly, closing the door behind them. “If you don’t like it, you’re free to leave.”

“It’s fine,” Michael said.

“Good. I’ll get the movies ready. We’ll watch them on my laptop.”


The two of them sat down on Emilia’s queen-size bed. Emilia slid her middle finger around the touchpad of her computer, clicking sporadically, straining her eyes at the screen.

“Not sure which one to start with…” she mumbled, apparently to herself.

“Are we not watching one movie?” Michael asked.

“No,” Emilia replied emotionlessly, maintaining her focus on the computer, “not just one. Here we go.”

She shuffled round to face him and positioned the laptop so they both could see the screen. A video began to play. It depicted a man lying in a pool of blood on a pavement, apparently having been shot in the chest.

“Wow,” Michael smiled. “What’s it called?”

“It doesn’t have a name,” Emilia answered. “I can give you the name of the site I downloaded it from.”

“Sure. But it has a name? The movie, I mean. Right?”

“It’s not a movie.”

In the video, a suited figure was now crouched by the body of the bloodied man, who was moaning with disorientation. After angrily shouting something in Russian, the crouching man then shot the other in the head, sending a gushing stream of new fluid on the pool of old blood around his body. A replay button popped up over the final image. The video was finished.

Emilia leaned forward and started scrolling for another video.

“It’s weird. I’m nearly in the mood just because of that clip. I love it. We can do it to a longer one.”

“Do what?”

“Fuck. Duh.”

“What was that video, Emilia?”

“Not really sure of the background. Something to do with the mafia. Only the blood matters. The blood and the noises they make. It’s what I’m into. We’re going to fuck with a longer one playing. I’ll make sure to put the volume up.”

“That was a real execution?” Michael asked, frowning, “That kind of shit turns you on?”

Emilia looked round. Her eyes were glowing and red. She spoke with a completely different voice. “And it doesn’t turn you on?”

Michael’s body was paralysed.


You can support my writing by buying my novel:  – or you can scare your friends by sharing my work on social media. Gracias

Five Shades Better: The Greatest Works of (Serious) Erotic Cinema


In the age of 50 Shades of Grey, the genuine, long-term aficionado of erotic literature/cinema naturally feels conflicted. He/she is happy that interest in his/her preferred genre of art is being revived, but also mournful that the works generating this renaissance are of such lamentable quality.

To play my own part in steadying this unbalanced gift of fortune, I will list here my choices for the best five works of serious erotic cinema; works which, unlike 50 Shades, look set to stand the tests of scrutiny and time.


5. Ma Mere


Incest, being a perennial and universal taboo, is an inevitably rich vein for an eroticist to tap. Ma Mere, a loose adaptation of a short story by the great French novelist-critic Georges Bataille, is clear evidence of the power the topic still has to unsettle and shock.


4. The Piano Teacher

The Piano Teacher poster

Adapted from Elfriede Jelinek’s novel, one of the greatest and deepest literary treatments of sadomasochism in recent memory, The Piano Teacher, like Ma Mere, stars Isabelle Huppert, whose versatility is seemingly endless, and whose curious beauty provides this otherwise sombre exploration of female sexual repression with a hard erotic kick.


3. The Story of O


Pauline Reage’s (Anne Desclos’s) classic 1954 novel is too rich in imaginative detail to capture perfectly on screen. But this adaptation invests enough effort to be worthy of a place on this list. I simply love the book too much to fail to admire any tribute to it.


2. Love


Gaspar Noe is without a doubt my favourite contemporary director. His films, from I Stand Alone to this stunningly shot celebration of the visual beauty of sexual intercourse have repeatedly broken new ground in European cinema. In a world-culture dripping with the most vulgar and thoughtless forms of pornography, forms which cheapen and demean the magic of sex, Love is a both timely and effective counterblast.


1. Bitter Moon


Roman Polanski’s personal troubles aside, this terribly underrated 1992 masterpiece is simply awesome in its erotic power. I can still vividly recall seeing it for the first time as a teenager on (UK) Channel 4’s late-night ‘taboo’ season. The breakfast scene will always remain deeply imprinted on my memory. I truly believe it prodded awake a hitherto undisturbed perversion in my soul.

In conclusion, despite the giggling ignorance of many mainstream critics, erotic cinema is a serious and multi-faceted art-form. The films listed here are excellent examples of its potential.


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