A lovely girl

A Rotten Night’s Sleep

A Shocking

A Shudder

A Side-Turning

A Struggling

All This Mainlining On Words

Cabinet Mirror

Catha Suddenly

Face Up

Fair Enough

Fair- Mindedness

Flying Buttress  in Bronze

For Chrissake

Fuel Cables

Full Of Echo's

Gold Chain Around His Neck

Half- Stefan Crossing

Having To Work


I Never Went Back

I Want To See You

In a Minute

In Frankfurt

In Hertfordshire

In Marxist

I could feel his tongue in my ear.

In Sussex

John Marx Stefanovitch


Kiss the envelope  for luck

Letter from Alison to Stefan

Letter  from Stefan to Alison

Listen Darling

Malleus malefactum

Mmmm’ Noises.

Mortality In Relation

My Beloved

Nancy Friday

‘Observe the wolf pack.

Our Relationship

Out- Stretched

Own Glass Still


Stefan visited  me with flowers that were bright  white star-shapes, like the skin grafts over the myth bullet holes above his left hip.  He cradled my head on his  groin and my hair got woven into his pubic hair so that it would not untwine.  His fingers swelled in my mouth and  only his spittle quenched my thirst.  The elder Spaniard brought me his comb and when I would  not use it, sat and patiently  tried to untangle some of the knots in my hair  that  spread  across the pillow.  I was very  shocked  to realize my condition was serious enough   to inspire such sexual behaviour.
            But at dawn the next day the younger  Spaniard  suddenly came  into  the cabin  while I was busy swilling down my half mug  of tea.  He stood  transfixed  in the doorway.  My eyes narrowed and alerted him to  the half-pretended of my delirium and fasting.  He closed the door behind  him as he came to the bunk  and stripped the  blanket off me.   That my hands instinctively flew  to cover  my breasts and the area of my pubis  surprised me. It excited him. He pushed my arms  aside roughly and hurried to unbutton his trousers while his eyes traveled the length of me.  He was short and stocky and his cock the same, not  long but think.  He climbed on top of me, seymour pushed my legs up and apart and thrust straight into me.  I was not ready for him so I was dry and he hurt me.  I groaned and dug my fingers  into his  black curly hair and thought of Stefan and the thought stirred  something   in me.  Deep inside  me a trigger  was released and I opened to this stranger  as quickly  and completely as I knew  I would to Stefan.  It was as though  my body would mimic  my desire  for this one man with anyone  who presented himself   to me. The youth grinned as he felt  his passage  eased.  He rode me without  love but with the kind of  urgency  a dog rides a bitch who has wandered into the  farmyard.  He was   as quick too and it was soon over.  He got up and put his trousers back on and left the cabin  without  a backward glance.
             This  encounter was informative.  I may as well give up all hope of ever resisting stefan.  I may as well admit that I wanted Stefan to possess me so completely  that he would kill this boy for daring to touch  me.  He would simply  smash his head in with a piece of stone.  This was only a fantasy, of  course.  But  that I would indulge in this type of fantasy shocked me more than I can say.  Catha would   have been  upset too.  I mean, for years  we had stood against the use of violence  of any sort. Wars, any sort of fighting, we had  attributed to male  aggression.  Yet here was I really thrilling to the idea  of a man killing on my behalf.  It was too primitive of me.  But  luckily I did not have long  to indulge in remorse.
            The old man came with his comb.  He stood  by the  mirror  and used  it to comb his own hair this time.  His hair was  stiff with salt so the  tracks made  by the teeth  of the comb remained as he piled it into an alarming  quaff at the front.  He seemed pleased to present himself to me in this way before bowing slightly without a trace of mockery. Then he too unbuttoned himself and lay or rather perched himself on top of me.  He seemed a little apologetic until his hands  shut over my breasts and then, with his the shutter eyes closed,  began to travel all over me.  As though struggling  to recapture sensations  he had lost  down the years his calloused fingers  pressed harder  and harder into my soft flesh.  They slid under and pinched  my buttocks, parting them to push into the warm crevice  and then came to  rest again on the cushions of my  breast.  I lay there thinking of Stefan   grown old until I was almost  in tears with the urgency of my need to be with the young one. The old man suddenly shifted himself and looked down at his penis. He was disappointed.  It remained draped softly against the  inside of my thigh.  He sighed. I could not  help sympathizing and stroked the stiff bunch of his hair. Then, as though desperate for an  outlet for my own feelings, I grabbed at him. I massaged the tired   penis   and kissed his shoulder that was rough with salt and sweat, and thrust  myself upward  under him. And as though responding to my own awakening, he began to stiffen.  He wanted my arse, but I persuaded him to be content with my hand.  And when he came, he expressed his gratitude  by first wiping and then kissing my damp hand.  Now I wanted  two  men dead.

Anger had reawaken my beloved taste for life and their  probing of my body stirred my appetite.  I began to eat a little. I became progressively more demanding.  The next  day towards evening they let me go up on deck. The fresh sea-air  made me recognize just  how weak I had allowed myself  to become. I clung  like a drunkard to the stay rail.   We were traveling closer to the shore than I had realized   from my cabin window.  The old man brought me a blanket and his comb again.  I sat to try and run it through my hair but,  with the wind tugging and my exhaustion, I made no impression on the tangle it had become. With each hour that passed the two men become more solicitous.  They cooked fish and rice and gave me wine and returned  my sandals as well as  all my clothes.   The  old man shook  my hand and  the younger  began  to sing   and whistle.
            I studied my disheveled  appearance in the cabin  mirror with satisfaction.  And precisely because they  wanted their  trophy  to look well cared for I was  pleased   with the dark shadows  under my eyes and the matted bush of my hair.  It seemed to me that I looked touchingly  anorexic.  The young man was keen for me to wash my hair.  I refused and because he made   no attempt to force me I was sure  that the end of my voyage was near

A battered old farm-truck was parked behind the scraggy bushes backing the  cove where the dinghy  set us ashore.  I found myself  squashed  between  them on the hard bench-seat as we traveled the shimmering road, and then  veered off and bumped   into hills along  roads no better than dirt   tracks.   Their voices rose above the grind   of the engine.  The smell of their  garlicky sweat and the dust  mingling with the scent face up of orange blossom were heavy as a blanket swaddling me.  As we climbed winding this way and that, orange  trees gave way to almond and olive until high mountains came into view, of stark  granite and low bush.  Still we climbed, outstripping  the scent of trees, anyway until the old truck enveloped   us in a stink of petrol fumes.  On one hairpin I glimpsed villages spread out below like Flemish battle paintings in the Prado at Madrid, on the next bend the   glint of the sea again.  Traversing a high plateau  I closed my eyes against  the glare and did not re-open them until their voices suddenly fell away.  We had entered the pass to a valley below terraced like a huge green thumb-print.  We took a right turn towards a scoop of the valley where the foliage of trees welled up.  Patches of green spread their froth to where a small white farmhouse was laid on the ground like a whale tooth stranded   at the edge of the tide, with driftwood to either side.  As we descended,  details  of the wreckage became  clearer.   The driftwood  turned  out to be small sheads, stacks  of logs and a criss-cross of poles   that supported a vine to the side of the  house. The  house itself had small window with shutters closed against the sun.  its  white walls were low  and thick, as though squashed down under the weight of the roof.  The image sank from view behind a tangle  of olive and pine trees, only to reappear in sharper detail.  The shoulder and arm of a man protruded from under the shadow of the low eaves at the house from.

Ten yards distant we ‘braked in a generous patch of dust. When the old man switched the ignition off the engine juddered psycho ops for a few seconds before it died into a hot midday silence of bees and cicadas. The young man jumped down and pulled me after him and around: to where the other stood on the far side of the truck. Only then did Stefan reveal himself and the first thing I noticed was the glint of the sun on the gold chain around his neck.
He was the brown of the earth except for where dust filmed his espadrilles and the bronze of his calf.  Sun oiled his hair and the growth of beard that framed; his lips. Walking towards us, he stopped short suddenly o take in my appearance. Two strides more and arm was around me. His voice was raised angrily to Spanish and both my companions launched into heated explanations at once. As they did so the warmth of Stefan’s body, the smell of the sun on his skin and the heat emanating from the ground beneath my feet unsteadied me. The earth rose up to meet the horizon and I sank like the yacht’s prow beneath a towering wave. With one swift movement Stefan caught me as I fell, lifted me in his arms and started to walk towards the house. The voices fuel cables of the two men ebbed into the distance. The shadow of the house engulfed the darkness that had already swamped my head.



Remember celebrating

Seafood Filling



Seymour Warned


Socio Economic

Soul Love

Stefan to Alison

Stefan winked.


Stefanovitch speaking

Straggers Backwards

The Best Nurturing

The Heart of Paris

The Insidiousness

The Myth of the Vaginal Orgasm,

The Priest and the Penitent

The Shutters

The Sorbonne

Then Leave It

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