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Violence is the Answer by Mr If 

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Elsewhere on this site you'll find Mr If's first collection,
Entertainment. 


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© Mr If 2011

Published by Philistine Press




Contains adult content.  You have been warned. 








Contents

 

Introduction

 

What we are

Conquests

The Army Wives

Call me a cunt

She pays my train fare

Violence is the answer

Nettles

Brotherly lust

Skeleton

Up Marilynís arse

Cracked black pepper

Benefits

Sometimes

Pretending to be Americans

I have nothing to say

88 Minutes with Al Pacino

The Queenís a bitch

People just donít want to hear this

Consequences

Hatred

A warning voice that comes in the night and repeats, repeats in my ear

Is it wrong?

Fantasy

The first time

 

 

 

Introduction

 

When I wrote my first collection, Entertainment, I didnít feel the need to change the names of the people I was writing about.  I have no intention of revealing my real name, so thereís no reason why any of my friends will discover that Iíve betrayed them.  To be honest, I quite like the idea of getting caught Ė of my friends reading Entertainment and reeling back in horror and the secrets Iíve disclosed.   But, as I say, itís highly unlikely my friends will inadvertently stumble across the Philistine Press website, and even if they do, the poems in Entertainment are just poems, and could have been written by anyone. 

 

In this, my second collection of mashed-up prose and verse, Iíve made the decision to change names in order to protect the identity of the two friends to whom this collection is dedicated. 

 

The first friend I will call Marilyn.  We are lovers, and I am learning to love her. 

 

The second friend is usually known by his surname, which Iím going to pretend is Nettles.  He is Marilynís husband, and an old friend of mine from school.  As I write these words, Nettles is serving for the British armed forces in Afghanistan, and needs to come home before he gets killed for no reason.

 

 

Mr If, 2011. 

 

 

 

To Marilyn and Nettles. 

 

 

 

What we are

 

Nettles is away fighting in Afghanistan.

I am in England having sex with his wife.

In our own tried and tested ways,

The pair of us are proving

That we are men.

 

 

 

Conquests

 

Iraq is not a conquest.

The ĎStan is not a conquest.

Marilyn is not a conquest either.

Please donít let her be that.

Whatever my feelings,

She is more than a notch on a bedpost.

She will never be comparable to some military victory,

Not least of all because our affair, if you want to call it that,

Has been a failure. 

 

Iraq is a failure.

The ĎStan is a failure. 

I donít want Marilyn to be a failure too.

Please let her be more than that. 

I promise you, Nettles, I am trying to make it more than that,

In each of our misjudged meetings,

I am trying to make this mean something. 

 

Are you doing the same out there,

Wherever it is you are?

Do you dwell on your reasons for being there

As much as I do? 

 

I donít like what the army are doing in Iraq.

I donít like what the army are doing in Afghanistan.

But somehow I canít bring myself to hate it. 

Hatred is a bad thing. 

 

I like Marilyn.  Really I do.

I like the way she dances to her own private groove when sheís pleased about something.

I like the way she reads trashy magazines and watches crap on the TV,

Indulging in her guilty pleasures like a connoisseur.

I like the way her crows feet compliment her face,

I like her bleached blond hair with the black roots. 

I like the perfection of the wonky smile. 

But somehow I canít bring myself to love her.

And believe me, Iíve tried. 

 

 

 

The Army Wives

 

She lives nowhere near a military town.

Still the Army Wives emerge from the woodwork

With their kids and their cups of tea

On unexpected afternoons.

 

They are all lovely girls.

They care about each other, and about Marilyn.

They care about their husbands, and Our Boys.

They make me think about the expression ďsalt of the earthĒ.    

 

Itís comforting to have them around.   It makes me feel nostalgic for some imagined past when everyone participated in their community.  I remember sitting in a cafe in London once listening to people talking, thinking that in a strange way this place was better off in the Blitz.  I wondered if thatís what we needed to bring people together, and make people care about each other.  Will another conflict, yet more death and destruction, somehow restore peopleís faith? 

 

I was sitting with Marilyn and the Army Wives out in the garden, watching the stationary leaves and petals.  Marilyn told them how much she missed Nettles.  The others chimed in with similar sentiments. 

 

 I said, ďThey should come home then.  They should come home before they get killed and before anyone else gets killed.Ē

 

ďThatís such a selfish attitude,Ē one of them said.

 

ďNo it isnít,Ē I said.  ďIím saying because I care about other people.Ē

 

She spouted the usual paradox about being against the war but supporting the troops.

 

I said, ďThat makes no sense.  If youíre against the war, you have to be against the troops, by definition.  These people are there by choice.  Theyíre not just following orders, or ďdoing their jobĒ.   If they want a job, they can quit, and go and sell stereos in Currys.  Iíd respect that.Ē 

 

She called me selfish again.

 

ďItís true,Ē I said.  ďIím the most selfish person youíll ever meet.  I can only say what I think and feel.  Perhaps I only say that Iím against the war and against the troops because I miss my friend, and I donít want him to die.Ē

 

ďHeís not going to die,Ē said Marilyn, holding my hand.  ďNothingís going to happen to our Nettles.Ē 

 

The Army Wives didnít really know me.  They certainly didnít know that I was sleeping with Marilyn.  But that day, without meaning to, I somehow gained their respect.

 

Iím sure there will be plenty of opportunities in the future for me to destroy it again.

 

 

 

Call me a cunt

 

Call me a cunt,

But instead of wasting our breath

Debating whether the war was legal or illegal

Or somewhere in between,

Why donít we just make all wars illegal and have done with it?

That would solve a few fucking problems. 

 

 

 

She pays my train fare

 

Nettles, I have a confession to make,

In addition to the confession that Iím sleeping with your wife. 

As you know, I live in a different part of the country,

So when I stay over at your house, I have to get the train.

I donít have a job, so Marilyn pays my train fare. 

She pays my train fare with the money you make from being in the army.

I know she works part time in that primary school,

But whatís yours is hers, and all that.

 

I donít feel guilty about sleeping with Marilyn,

Because sleeping with me is a choice sheís made.

I feel like Iím doing you a favour.

If anyoneís going to fuck your wife, it should be me. 

Iím preventing her from sleeping with some moron

Whoís just going to use her for her body.

 

But what mortifies me is that she pays my train fare.

Iím like some crooked MP claiming on expenses.

Thereís no real justification. 

And if you survive this conflict that youíve chosen to involve yourself in,

I promise that in time Iíll pay you back. 

Although, like my relationship with Marilyn,

Iím afraid it might have to be in irregular instalments.

 

 

 

Violence is the answer

 

Violence is the answer.

Violence can get you anything you want.

Violence can buy you love.

Violence can buy you money.

 

I feel it in my fingers,

I feel it in my toes,

Violence is all around me,

And so the feeling grows.

 

All you need is violence.

Violence, violence, violence.

 

A new commandment I give unto you,

That you are violent to one another,

As I have been violent to you.

 

You are my violence,

My only violence,

You make me violent

When skies are grey.

 

If youíre violent and you know it clap your hands.

 

I violence you,

You violence me,

We violence everyone,

Forever.

 

 

 

Nettles

 

They called you by your surname in school,

Because itís kind of funny

Itís ironic that unlike the unwanted plant that is your namesake,

You have no sting,

Or at least you didnít when you were a boy.

 

Now they call you by your surname at work. 

All part of being a squaddie. 

I expect they all laugh about your slightly odd moniker,

But it couldíve been worse.  You couldíve been called Fuckwit.

Sergeant Fuckwit, theyíd call you

(Or whatever your rank is.  Iíve never bothered to find out.

It doesnít really interest me.)   

 

Of course youíre not really called Nettles.

This is a name Iíve invented to protect your identity

From the twenty-seven or so people whoíll read this shit book. 

 

Youíre not a fuckwit either. 

Thatís what makes this whole thing

So tragic. 

 

 

 

Brotherly lust

 

The first time I met the Army Wives, Iíd been sleeping over.   Iíd slept in late, and wandered down the stairs in my t-shirt and boxers to find a huddle of women around the breakfast table.  A proper motherís meeting.  Itís lucky I didnít have my cock out.  

 

All eyes turned to Marilyn, mine included. 

 

ďThis is my brother,Ē she said, quickly. 

 

Straight away they all chorused, ďYes, I can see the family resemblance,Ē which really freaked me out. 

 

 

 

Skeleton

 

There must be something deeply wrong with her,

This beautiful woman with a twenty-four carat heart,

Who understands everything in the world,

Who teaches me things about myself,

Who can only teach me good. 

There must be some skeletons in her closet somewhere.

 

Thatís what I thought, until I realised.

I caught sight of my bony body in the mirror

While I was on top of her,  

With her legs wrapped around me

Crossing her feet over my tiny arse,

Running her pink painted nails over the hairs on my back.

 

Itís me, I realised. 

Sitting in Marilynís empty closet,

Wishing I wasnít alone. 

 

 

 

Up Marilynís Arse

 

I found myself

I found myself

Up Marilynís arse

Up Marilynís arse

 

I found Marilyn there too.

I saw everything she was.

I saw everything I was.

I saw everything we could be together.

 

There was no going back from this point on,

Not after Iíd been where no man had been before. 

She told me just before we did it,

That Nettles had never fucked her up the arse.

I wasnít sure if it was meant to make me feel special. 

I wanted to tell her that I loved her,

But considering the circumstances,

It didnít feel entirely appropriate.

 

I found myself

I found myself

Up Marilynís arse

Up Marilynís arse

 

I realised she would never be mine,

That I was just looking after her while Nettles was away.

I was her friend and her protector,

But mainly I was her entertainment. 

 

Up Marilynís arse,

I didnít want to touch another woman or man again.

I would never have another experience like this again,

So I should enjoy it while it lasts,

Be grateful for this pointless, meaningless conflict

Thatís brought us together.

 

Up Marilynís arse

I was torn between my love for this woman,

My love for her husband

And my love for the world,

But caught up in the moment as I was,

I decided not to worry about it,

I should just enjoy myself,

We should just enjoy our time together,

While it lasts. 

 

 

 

Cracked black pepper

 

Cracked black pepper

Cracked black pepper  

She eats so much her pussy tastes of cracked black pepper.

 

She eats it on salads.

She eats it on cheese on toast.

She eats it on sandwiches.

She eats it on spag boll.

(You get the idea.)

 

Cracked black pepper

Cracked black pepper  

She eats so much her pussy tastes of cracked black pepper.

 

Not just any old black pepper.

This is cracked black pepper,

The finest, most upmarket black pepper money can buy.

And itís not because sheís pretentious

Or that sheís desperately trying to be middle class.

She is a wonderful woman

Without an ounce of fakery anywhere on her person.

 

And when I lick her, 

When I suck up her juices,

When I ďdrink from her fountainĒ (if I may be so fucking vulgar),

She tastes good

Because I like cracked black pepper too.

 

And I am not degrading her by writing about this,

Or by referring to her vagina as her pussy,

And although she doesnít know that Iíve written these words,

If she ever finds out, I hope she will appreciate the sentiment. 

 

 

 

Benefits

 

She always hurries me into the house before the neighbours see.  

When we sit in the garden, itís always out the back,

Away from prying eyes. 

She tells me off when I speak too loudly,

Or if I stand near the window while Iím half dressed.

 

I enjoy those moments when she forgets about people listening,

And screams my name out with all the breath in her gasping lungs.    

 

I donít know why she worries about the neighbours anyway.

They barely say hello on the rare occasions our paths happen to cross.

They probably donít even know our names. 

There are benefits to living in a society where no one gives a fuck about anyone else.

 

 

 

Sometimes

 

I donít like the word ďsometimesĒ.

It makes me anxious and unhappy. 

It reminds me that the moments we share together

Are temporary and transient.

 

 I want to feel your skin pressed against mine

Every moment of every hour

For the rest of our hours and the rest of our moments.  

 

I want us to disappear together harmoniously into the ether

And forget about everything that has ever happened. 

 

 

 

Pretending to be Americans

 

There are kids in the street

Pretending to be Americans.

There are people on the TV

Pretending to be Americans.

There are people in America

Pretending to be Americans. 

My friend Nettles is in Western Asia

Pretending to be American.

 

It would be easy to say weíre all victims of the Dream,

That every single person in the world stands united

In their love and in their hatred of one nation,

But America doesnít really exist.

The war isnít really taking place at all.

Itís a game weíre all playing.

 

No one wins or loses. 

Eventually weíll all turn into Americans,

And if that finally unites us all,

If we can stop all the fighting and say,

ďWeíre all Americans now.  Weíre all on the same side,Ē

That would be fine with me,

If only that could happen

In real life.   

 

 

 

I have nothing to say

 

I turned up at the train station as usual on a Friday afternoon, and called Marilyn from the phone box.  She didnít answer the first couple of times.  When she did answer, she told me not to say anything.  Donít say anything at all, she said.  Iím sorry youíve come all this way for nothing.  I just canít do this anymore.  She said goodbye and hung up the phone.  I sat by the phone box for an hour. 

 

Iím usually quite good at disguising my emotions but I mustíve looked like I needed cheering up because a man came and sat down next to me.  People never sit next to me.  I didnít think anyone sat next to anyone anymore. 

 

I understand he was only trying to be nice.  He was a nice man. 

 

He tried talking to me about the football, but I had to admit that I didnít know anything about football, or any other sport. 

 

So he started talking about cars, and I nodded along for a while, but again I had to be honest and admit his words meant nothing to me.  I donít know anything about cars. 

 

So he started telling me jokes.  Nothing offensive Ė he was a nice man, after all.  They were just silly puns.  I tried to laugh along, but I couldnít help thinking about Marilyn and her sexy crows feet and her bleached blonde hair with the roots showing through and her mysterious crooked smile, and I couldnít help telling him that I hate fucking jokes.  All jokes of any kind.  Stop fucking telling them to me.  I like it when humorous things happen naturally in life.  Stop trying to force it.  Itís a zero-tolerance policy.  I told him that all comedians should be fucking shot.   

 

It wasnít his fault.  He was a nice man, and I was a horrible man with nothing to say.

 

Then Marilyn arrived in the car.  Her makeup had run, and sheíd smudged it away.  She opened the passenger door and I got in.  I kissed her gently on the cheek, and as we left the car park I didnít say anything. 

 

 

 

88 Minutes with Al Pacino

 

Marilyn has a DVD account.  She likes watching DVDs and I like watching them with her, even when the DVDs she watches are total rubbish. 

 

One time we nearly watched three DVDs in a row.

 

The first one was called Up in the Air.  It was about a guy who gets paid to fire people.  He flies all over America collecting air miles, making lots of money from firing people and generally being a smug rich bastard.  Then he meets this woman Ė donít tell me you can see where this is going already.  Shut up and listen.  He meets this woman who makes him realise that his smug rich lifestyle isnít all itís cracked up to be when he takes her to visit his family in small-town America, which to the audience ought to be the ideal, the real way to live your life, not some fantasy lifestyle, smugly drinking scotch, firing people for a living and collecting air miles.  This would all be very nice, very Hollywood, very American, if it werenít for the fact that the central character was played the multimillionaire, George Clooney. 

 

The next DVD starred Al Pacino.  It was called 88 Minutes.  It was about this serial killer who went around murdering these really fit women.  The killer hung the corpses upside-down from the ceiling and slit their throats.  Coincidentally, they were all wearing skirts.    I was so conflicted emotionally, I wasnít sure whether to cry or masturbate.  All I could think was, I really want to fuck that corpse.  Tactfully, I didnít mention any of this to Marilyn. 

 

Al Pacino wasnít the killer.  Al Pacino was the FBI agent-stroke-university-lecturer who was responsible for tracking the killer.  Thatís right.  Al Pacino was an FBI agent, and a university lecturer.  And the suspects were all students in his class.  Coincidentally most of them were really fit women, who Al was secretly fucking on the side.  

 

Al Pacino, the greatest actor of his generation, whoís now had so much plastic surgery, his face doesnít move, thereby removing his ability to act.  Al Pacino, the guy from The Godfather, Scarface and Dog Day Afternoon.  How, you might ask, did a man of his calibre end up participating in this utterly shameless carnival of misogyny?   Your question is answered when the serial killer turns out to be a woman!  So it isnít glorifying violence against women at all! 

 

The film ends happily when the female serial killer is shot in the back of the head by a male FBI agent. 

 

The next DVD was a war film.  I refused to watch it.  ďIím not interested in war,Ē I told her. 

 

ďItís an Oscar winner,Ē she told me. 

 

ďIím still not watching it,Ē I said. ďItís just going to glorify the whole thing.Ē

 

ďIím pretty sure itís an anti-war film,Ē she said. 

 

ďThereís no such thing as an anti-war film.  You only watch films if youíre interested in war.  Surely film makers must know that people who are interested in war are pro-war.Ē 

 

ďIím not pro-war,Ē she said.

 

ďThen why are you married to a solider?Ē

 

ďIím not against the army.Ē

 

ďThat doesnít make any sense.  If youíre anti-war you must be against the army as well.Ē

 

ďWell, Iím not against the army,Ē she said.

 

ďItís like all these people who claim to be against Americaís gun laws, but theyíre happy to sit down and watch Hollywood glorifying them in load-of-bollocks films like 88 Minutes with Al Pacino.Ē

 

ďSo everyone is a hypocrite apart from you?Ē she said.

 

ďYes.  Everyone is a hypocrite apart from me.Ē 

 

The argument wore on for a while, until we kissed, and then went upstairs and fucked.  We were charged with something.  I donít know what it was.  It wasnít anger, it wasnít lust, it was something mysterious that came out of nowhere and wouldnít leave us alone. 

 

 

 

The Queenís a Bitch

 

I tried to add an extra dimension to this collection by writing a poem about the monarchy, but I only got halfway through.  This was partly because the poem rhymed, and I donít enjoy writing poems that rhyme.  I was also rather critical of the tone of the poem, particularly the regular repetition of its title, The Queenís a Bitch. 

 

Here is how the poem started:

 

I donít know why the poorís so poor

Or why the rich are so rich

The Queenís a bitch.

 

I was worried about appearing sexist by using the word ďbitch,Ē but then I couldnít think of another appropriate word.  I also worried that I was passing a moral judgement on a person Iíve never met, but I suppose if youíre going to be fully committed to your opposition to the monarchy, and if you truly believe the system is wrong, you have to embrace your hatred of the reigning monarch just as much as you embrace your love of liberty and peace. 

 

The second stanza went:

 

Some wear diamond-encrusted coats

Others donít have a stitch.

The Queenís a bitch.

 

Then I really lost interest.  What was I trying to say with the poem anyway?  Surely the reader will already be fully aware that there are many unjustifiable inequalities in society, and no doubt they already have an opinion on the Queen.

 

Still, I agonised over this poem, even though saying ďthe Queenís a bitchĒ isnít in any way intelligent or poetic, or shocking in any meaningful way.

 

In any case, the Queen will probably be dead soon, and anyone reading this after thatís happened will think Iím a right wanker. 

 

 

 

People just donít want to hear this

 

I was walking down the quaint High Street in the inoffensive little town where Nettles and Marilyn live when I was accosted by some wanker from the Help For Heroes charity.  I say ďaccostedĒ but all he was actually doing was standing in a shop doorway rattling a box of coppers.  And I say ďwankerĒ but of course I donít know this man well enough to make any real assumptions about his personality type.  But I was in a bad mood at the time, and frankly as I write this, Iím also in a bad mood, so letís just call him a wanker and let that be the end of the matter.

 

ďHelp For HeroesĒ said the wanker.

 

Iíd like to think Iíd never dream of gratuitously insulting someone but as I say, I was in a bad fucking mood.   So I turned to the wanker and I said, ďSo what the fuck is your definition of a ďheroĒ?  A trained fucking killer?Ē

 

The wanker ignored me.  (But of course he wasnít a wanker.  He wasnít a hero either.  He was just a man.)  Perhaps he didnít possess the intellectual skills to argue against an alternative viewpoint.  Or perhaps the man had mistaken me for a psycho and didnít want to make the situation worse.  Or perhaps he didnít want to argue because, like me, he was a man of peace.

 

ďTell you what,Ē I said.  ďThey should change the name of your charity from Help For Heroes to Fuck ĎEm, Theyíre Not Worth it.Ē  

 

I understand this was a deeply unintelligent thing to say, but itís what I felt, and itís what I still feel.  Iíve just been running through this encounter in my mind trying to rewrite what I might have said to the man if Iíd have been feeling a little more reasonable.  I could have said I wholeheartedly disagree with the concept of supporting the troops in spite of the fact that theyíre out there killing in the name of fucking oil.  I could have said that itís the support of the fucking public thatís keeping these fuckers going.  Theyíre fuckers because theyíre making a moral fucking choice, choosing violence, greed and hatred over peace and fucking love.  Fuck ĎEm is what I really think and what I really feel, because soldiers are just as responsible as the fucking politicians.  Because they arenít innocent.  Because they have blood on their hands regardless of whether or not theyíve taken a life, and regardless of whose life theyíve taken.  Because by the principles on which wars are fought Ė of eyes for eyes and teeth for teeth Ė they deserve to fucking die.  These arenít my principles, you understand.  These are the principles on which wars are fought.  Fucked-up principles, based on hatred, greed and fear. 

 

But I said none of this, and the man didnít say anything either, because he was a man Ė a real man Ė a man of dignity and peace Ė a man Iíd verbally abused for no good reason, which made me the wanker and the sinner. 

 

I didnít say any of this, because people donít want to hear it.  The man didnít want to hear it, just as you, dear reader, donít want to hear it either.  Especially you fucking doublefaced pseudo-liberals going on your trendy marches, blaming the government for everything when we should be blaming ourselves.  We should blame anyone who voted the fuckers in.   We should blame anyone who drives a car or uses public transport or consumes products with plastic packaging.  We should blame the soldiers whoíve agreed to go out there and fight.  We should blame the factory workers who manufacture the weapons.  And heartless as it may seem we should blame the well-meaning people collecting money in the street.   

 

You probably think Iím an amoral cunt for saying such blasphemous fucking things but canít you see Iím saying this because I believe in peace and I believe in love and I just want all these people to stop getting killed? 

 

 

 

Consequences

 

What are we all to do when everyoneís too busy worrying about themselves and their selfish families to even think about building a world in which we can all be happy?  You can work in a factory, producing products that are of no consequence.  Or you could work in an office and shuffle papers around for no good reason.  Or you could join the army and fight in a war thatís of no consequence.  Iíve chosen to do none of these things.  Iíve chosen to write words on bits of paper, words that are of no consequence; no consequence at all.

 

 

 

Hatred

 

 I heard the Army Wives talking about one of their friends who isnít married to some bloke from the army.  They were talking about how she needs a man, and listing the reasons why she doesnít have a man.  Apparently she doesnít dress properly, sheís got a fat arse and sheís too focussed on her career. 

 

I wondered why these women hate other women so much, and I wondered if they appreciated the irony of being women who hate women.   

 

I wondered if I myself appreciated the irony that Iím a man who hates men.  Yes, Iíll admit, I am the ultimate hypocrite Ė the perfect self-loather.   I hate men so much, sometimes I wish I was a lesbian.  I canít hang around with men for too long.  They make me physically sick.  We are the scum of the earth, polluting the atmosphere, fighting wars and sticking our cocks into anything with a fucking hole. 

 

Even as the Army Wives were talking and I was having all these high minded thoughts about irony and equality, another part of my brain was wondering if it would be possible to meet this woman and fuck her (as though that was what she needed). 

 

 

 

A warning voice that comes in the night and repeats, repeats in my ear

 

This woman is no good for you.

She is no good for Nettles.

She has tricked you into loving her,

By being nice to you, and by being a nice person. 

She used the same underhand tactics

When she tricked Nettles into marrying her. 

Itís strange how you trust this woman,

This bitch who has betrayed her husband,

Even though you yourself are part of that betrayal.

You forgive her, and she forgives you. 

Thatís why youíre still here. 

Thatís why you didnít jump ship like you usually do. 

She knows everything about you. 

She knows youíve done this too many times before.

She knows youíre pathetic .

She knows youíre one of lifeís natural losers.

And she forgives you. 

Thatís why youíre caught in her evil trap. 

Sheís tricked you into loving her by loving you,

And by forgiving you for everything youíve ever done wrong. 

 

 

 

Is it wrong?

 

Is it wrong that Iíve had fantasies about fucking Nettles

While heís in his uniform?

Heís behind me, slamming it home, hard,

Firing his gun in the air like an insane cowboy. 

Iím telling him about all the things Iíve done with his wife,

The lies weíve told, the positions weíve assumed,

The rooms in his house weíve occupied,

And itís turning him on. 

Heís slamming me harder until it hurts,

And howling as he shoots bullets at the sun.

I tell him to stop, but he doesnít stop.

He says he will make me pay,

Make me beg for his forgiveness,

And I say yes.

Make me pay.  Make me pay.

I would say Iím sorry,

But I wouldnít have it any other way. 

 

 

 

Fantasy

 

I have a fantasy about fucking Marilyn in the bedroom

When Nettles comes home unexpectedly.

Heís having a few days leave, and wants to surprise her. 

We hear him opening the front door. 

My dick is still inside her as he ascends the stairs. 

He hasnít said anything yet, but we both know itís him.

We recognise his footsteps. 

 

Nettles opens the bedroom door, just in time to miss me. 

Iím in the wardrobe. 

Marilyn is naked in the bed. 

Nettles rips off his clothes and jumps into her arms. 

She acts like sheís pleased to see him.

 

I listen to them fucking

And I wonder if sheís thinking about me. 

Iím listening to her panting, her moaning and her wailing,

And Iím egging her on to accidentally say my name. 

My dick is in my hand, still solid as a rock.

After a while, I realise Iím crouching next to the laundry basket. 

I fish out three pairs of Marilynís knickers, and a couple of bras. 

I put the bras on, one on top of the other. 

I wrap one of them over my face, breathing in that warm scent.

I clutch another pair in my left hand,

While my right hand wanks into the third pair. 

 

Meanwhile, Nettles is growling like a caveman.

I try to time my orgasm to coincide with his. 

 

When itís all over, Marilyn lets out one long, sweet breath and says,

ďWhat a surprise.  What an amazing surprise.Ē 

 

And thatís the point at which I jump out of the wardrobe still dressed in her underwear,

Shouting ďNot as amazing as this one, fuckers!Ē 

 

 

 

The first time

 

I donít know why I decided to call her.  I think it was because I had no way of contacting Nettles.  For a change, I didnít actually want to have sex with my friendís wife.  I just wanted to talk. 

 

So we talked on the phone.  We got chatting about everything Ė her friends, her job, how sheís coping without Nettles. 

 

Out of the blue, she suggested maybe we should go out for a drink some time.  Not in that way, obviously.   We laughed.

 

The following weekend I took the train up to where she lives, and we went for a drink.  She said sheíd never heard of anyone ordering herbal tea in a pub before. 

 

I told her I donít drink alcohol, and I object to drinking Coca Cola. 

 

She said I sounded very political.  I said Iím not political.  Politics bores me. 

 

Me too, she said. 

 

I watched her drink a bottle and a half of wine and escorted her home.  

 

She could hardly walk straight, so I took her up to the bedroom and helped her out of her clothes.  She kept giggling and asking if I was taking advantage of her. 

 

I said, do you want me to? 

 

She giggled some more, and she didnít object when I climbed out of my clothes and lay down with her in the dark. 

 

I donít know whether to take this as a compliment or not, but by the time we were finished she was stone cold sober. 

 

She made a cup of tea for the two of us and brought it upstairs.  She had her dressing gown on, but it was open so I could still see her body underneath.  I realised for the first time how fucking beautiful she was, and what a lucky bastard her husband was. 

 

We talked for an hour or so.  I decided to be completely honest with her.  I told her Iíve slept with the partners of friends before, not just once, but several times.  Sometimes I sleep with men, but mainly itís women. 

 

Thatís OK, she said. 

 

I said, you mean itís OK me being bisexual, or itís OK me sleeping with other peopleís partners?

 

Both, she said.  Iím glad you told me. 

 

I tried to make some terrible joke about being ďtrisexualĒ because Iíll ďtry anything onceĒ then I realised what a cheesy line it was.  I managed to dig the hole deeper by attempting to clarify that I had no intention of having sex with animals any time soon. 

 

Luckily she found it funny, and thankfully not in a ďthatís really funnyĒ way, but in a ďthat was an awful thing to say but at least he realises itĒ way. 

 

I kissed her. 

 

As the conversation went on, she started revealing some secrets of her own.  Maybe she was still a bit drunk, or maybe the fact that weíd been physically intimate made her feel comfortable opening up. 

 

She told me about some of the problems her and Nettles had had a couple of years ago.  They used to have raging arguments, and he slapped her around a couple of times. 

 

I was fucking furious.  I wanted to leap out of the bed and start ripping up the curtains but that would have been stooping to his level. 

 

Why the fuck are you still with him? I said.  You donít deserve to be treated like that by anyone, least of all your fucking husband. 

 

Apparently Nettles had done all the right things.  He literally got down on his knees and begged for forgiveness.  He quit drinking and went to anger management. 

 

I donít care, I said.  You may have forgiven the fucker, but I canít.  I told her I wanted to hurt him.  I wanted to get back at him somehow for what heíd done to her.

 

Well, you just fucked his wife, she said.  Thereís a start. 

 

I laughed, and she laughed, and I kissed her, and we fucked again.   It was better the second time. 

 

And while we were doing it, I saw our whole future together opening up before me.  I knew that Iíd continue to come here whenever I was allowed.  I knew that the sex would keep getting better.  I knew that Iíd eventually fall arse over tit in love with her. 

 

But I knew it wouldnít last.  I knew that in the end sheíd never leave Nettles. 

 

I knew that Iíd eventually forgive Nettles for what heíd done to her, and Iíd feel vaguely guilty about seeing her. 

 

I knew that the whole time Iíd be helplessly conflicted, not because of any half-hearted feelings of loyalty towards my childhood friend, but because I knew Ė even on that first night Ė that the only way I could ever have a future with Marilyn would be for Nettles to get killed. 

 

And of course I didnít want Nettles to get killed.  That was the last thing any of us wanted.   I want him to come home and be with his wife, and treat her nicely.  Maybe have a couple of kids. 

 

And I can carry on doing what I do: enjoying myself while being unhappy, and ultimately searching for some kind of peace. 




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