Did you know that John Lennon would have turned 69 today, had he been allowed to live?
I am still digging out things from the archives. This one is from last year. It is one of those stories, or scribblings, that start somewhere and decides for itself where it ends up.
All stories are about me but all of them are also purely fictional, remember that while you read this.
Oliver Clarke was the most despicable person I could imagine. He wasn't grossly fat but he was, indeed, a very big person. He was at least twice my size. He had puffy cheeks and he was always flustered and red and sweaty.
He could, I suppose, have looked alright, perhaps even be good looking, had he not been so overweight. He had brownish hair, like a tuft of some moss on his head and his grey eyes were small and sunken in his face.
His clothes seemed always to have been bought in an earlier era when Oliver was of a more normal size. His stinking body seemed to struggle to get out of those ill-fitting shirts and trousers in the un-matching colours he always seemed to choose.
If Oliver had been a nice person he may have evoked some sympathy or at least pity but he was not only an unhealthy lump of flesh rolling through the corridors of my school, he was also an arrogant bastard.
We all laughed at him but he was unaware of it. He talked with gusto about his whereabouts and what he expected to achieve in life and seemed completely ignorant that most people considered him a 'loser'.
He had no sense of how unattractive he was to the girls and this impression was considerably sharpened by his view of the opposite sex, which he generously shared with the rest of the world. Although he seemed to think all females to be of a lower order of life he had no hesitation to tell them what he wanted to do to them. The only redeeming quality in him was that we all were convinced that he would never get the chance to use anyone in the way he imagined.
Still it was this lowlife, this pathetic excuse for a human being that entered my thoughts every time I put my hand down my knickers to take away some of the itching anxiety that seemed to traverse my body in my youthful loneliness.
Ever since Oliver had once looked me over, pushed his tongue out and suggested he would come home to me and show me what I really wanted with him, the image of him had popped into my mind whenever the desire hit me.
He was a curse. For a while I was almost physically sick whenever I felt the least tingling in me. Whatever or whoever evoked those feelings didn't matter, as soon as I closed my eyes and let my inner eye concentrate on the bliss and joy of those sensations, Oliver was there with his ugly snout, breathing heavily and looking smug.
I was quite depressed at first, feeling bereaved of my fantasies, my inner cinema. Oliver had taken it over and seemed to control the menu. At least he had a firm grip on the more seedy and arousing offerings.
I managed to learn how to block him out, temporarily, and concentrate on the physical sensations. This was a relief but it was not satisfactory. I needed my inner cinema, I wanted it.
I had a very vivid imagination and the strangest things could get my mind moving in directions that not only filled my head with colourful pictures but also made my heart throb in my chest and blood to rush to different parts of my body.
A history lesson about the Romans would paint some fascinating pictures in my mind, including me dressed in some thin flimsy toga like outfit and some hunky men indulging ourselves in some orgy or the like.
The horror was that Oliver suddenly was there, reclining on some divan, fat and sweaty, surrounded by a harem of girls, dressed in flimsy dresses if anything, providing him with grapes and wine and their bodies.
He would be the Emperor or similar and he would chuckle and leer at the entertainment, some exotic women, dressed in jewellery only, dancing before him. And the worst thing of it all, I often found that I was not one of the noble women at the court but instead one of the scantily clad dancers or even a naked slave who stood behind Emperor Oliver waiting on him.
I would be eager to return to reality when my mind was full of Oliver and his despicable frame. The most shocking discovery was that I often found that I was terribly aroused by my fantasies.
I was quite deflated when I had to admit to myself that my fantasies, the ones where Oliver, the monster, appeared, were really turning me on. I tried my utmost to subdue all images of him. I tried to block him out, tried to concentrate on film stars or my favourite singers, just to keep Oliver out. I even let some of the boys from school be there, just to make sure he wasn't.
My fantasies became grey and boring and predictable and I longed for the free flow of my living, tumbling and unruly imagination to return. I wanted the colours and the beauty and the unhindered desire of my imagination to fill my mind again.
As I realised I couldn't keep my imagination hidden away, I decided I had to let it back in. I had become anxious and unhappy and my friends had noticed and found me less interesting to be with. I just had to open my mind to my own delightful world of fantasies.
And Oliver was there again. There was no way for me to follow an arousing thought, a delightful thrill in my mind without Oliver turning up. When I was dancing the dance of the seven veils for a dark eyed sheik of the desert, revealing more and more of my aching body for him, I suddenly found that Oliver was there in the tent, urging me on, telling me that I wanted to strip for him, that I wanted to please him.
When I was taken to some fancy restaurant by a tall dark and handsome man in his black tie and shining eyes, Oliver suddenly sat himself down at the table and told my date how I wanted to take my clothes off and wanted to please them.
Worst of all was that he was right. That was exactly what I had been thinking, what I had hoped for. He seemed to be the voice of my desires, dressing in words what I played out in my fantasies.
I was defeated. I couldn't keep him out. I had to let him be there. I acknowledge my defeat and surrendered to him. I was determined to enjoy my fantasies despite the despicable Oliver. Let him watch when I was undressed by my dark handsome lover, or when the barbarian king threw my on his bed to have me.
I had lost but I had won. I was again allowed into my fantasy world and the delights I found there. My friends saw the difference and life was easier again. I could talk of my excitement about this or that film and I could giggle with my friends and blush as we imagined what it would be like to have that particular famous star kissing you senseless.
What I didn't tell them when I shared my own images of such things was that Oliver was always there, watching in the wings, commenting and telling me what a naughty person I was.
I was getting used to having him there as a voice of some darker side of me, but it got worse. Oliver started to take up more space. He more often insisted on the centre stage himself. He pushed the handsome lovers out of the picture and demanded my full attention for himself.
Oliver always wanted something raunchy and dirty. He never said anything nice to me. He sat in the middle of my fantasy, fatter and sweatier than in real life and always demanded that I should dance for him, strip for him or wait on him, while he mocked me and insulted me.
The worst horror of them all was that I was the willing victim of his demands. I did strip for him. I stood there in front of him and slipped my clothes off for him and nothing could be more arousing than to unbutton my shirt and open it, revealing my bosom for him, while he was licking his sweaty lips, leering at me.
All the while there was the real Oliver, the living breathing Oliver who was less of the monster in reality than he was in my imagination. Sometimes he looked at me and I wondered if he knew he was a permanent guest at my inner cinema. Most of the time I made my best to avoid him.
He didn't just become bigger and uglier in my imagination, he also came closer. He had always been a watcher, the one sitting as a wobbling mountain of flesh, staring at my body, demanding that I should undress for him. He had watched but had never touched me.
It all happened in steps. When he had had me strip he started to demand that I should touch myself. This seemed to be a natural progression, given the fact that the real me did some touching in the real world while the fantasy me performed some exotic and alluring dance for him, stripping the veils off, one by one.
The horror, the horror, the inevitable happened. In one very intense fantasy, a particular favourite of mine, I was a slave, performing a dance for my captors who happened to be some barbarian warriors. It was all set in some enormous tent, lit by fires and torches, the warriors sitting on their loot of fabulous rugs and silken cushions, surrounded by the gold and jewellery they had stolen, drinking their ales and wines from goblets made from the skulls of their enemies, waited upon by the semi clad beauties of the newly sacked city, the living loot from their plunder.
I was, or had been, a princess of that city. Now I was loot. I was still dressed in my silken but revealing dress and still adorned with my jewellery but these men were brutes, they heeded not my birth nor my status. No, I was forced to perform for my survival.
And perform I did. I danced before them like I had never danced before, carried away by my fear and my desire, forgetting how cruel these men were. I danced and let my hate and horror be swept away by my lust and arousal, as I moved my body to the chaotic tune they played.
My clothes fell from my body and I trembled with excitement as I felt the silken robes caress my skin as I took them off, one by one.
Oliver was the chieftain of these barbarians and he was perched on the greatest pile of loot in the centre of the tent and it was before him I danced, before his desiring eyes I revealed my body.
At last the dance was done and I stood sweating and trembling before him, naked, dressed only in my jewellery, panting and overcome by my passion.
At this moment my hand was deep down my knickers working its wonders. But there was just one little piece to add to the jigsaw, to make the picture complete, to finish off what the image had started.
I was called forward and was stood close to the chieftain, the monstrous mountain of flesh that was the fantasy image of Oliver Clarke.
Then he touched me. He put his sweaty hand down between my legs and snaked his fat fingers into me. And in that moment I reached what I had desired in the real world.
From that moment, Oliver insisted on touching me. If there had been any kind of hesitation on his behalf he soon overcame it. He was as ingenious and repulsive in his way of touching as he had been with his words. There was nothing sweet with him. He didn't caress, he didn't embrace or stroke. No, the disgusting Oliver pinched my nipples, or pushed his sweaty fingers into my sex, or even into other body cavities. Nothing was alien to him.
His treatment of my body was repulsive, degrading and cruel, but ever so arousing. Soon, it was not enough to dance and strip to this person, I had to be touched by him. He demanded ever more of me and it became increasingly humiliating to let him do it.
I was scared of the real Oliver. I think he saw the fear in my eyes but he couldn't possibly know what it was about.
My inner life had become a maelstrom of degradation and horror and I had begun to wonder what depraved creature I was. I felt guilty for letting myself be touched like I was and for enjoying it.
The Oliver inside my mind soon picked up on that and accused me of all sorts of dirty thinking. He demanded that I should be punished. At first I defended myself but he had all the power and he was accuser, judge, jury and lawyer in one, so I was always found guilty and deserving of the most gruesome punishments.
At first he was satisfied with having some of his barbarian tribesmen or henchmen come and tie me to some pole and then whip me. Sometimes he wielded the whip himself, enjoying it immensely.
But soon, that was not enough. Nothing less than some public display of my humiliation would do. He then had me dragged through the streets to some public place of punishment, where I had my robes ripped from my body, to be tied to a pole and whipped mercilessly, while Oliver looked on and licked his lips.
There was nothing more arousing than the sense of the tongues of the whip licking my body and the passionate cries of agony as lash after lash made my frame tremble.
Afterwards, when I hung limp in my bonds, my body whipped into submission, there was always some extra humiliation for me in store. Sometimes a company of guards were allowed to enjoy me or I was put in some cage, high above the street, for all to stare at, naked and punished.
But Oliver also had a softer side to him. He could be an ordinary, although unpleasant and disgusting man, who lived in an ordinary flat. I was his ward, or servant, who had to wait on him.
I was caned or whipped for the slightest error and was kept firmly in line. And he would slap my face and call me names if I didn't react quickly enough. He was a true pig.
In the evening he liked to sit and watch tv and when he was bored he would have me strip naked and lie beside him in the sofa and he would eat his crisps and down his beers while his hands wandered all over my body. His fingers would alternate between the crisp bowl and my sex and I was not allowed to protest or say anything.
He would pinch my nipples hard when there was nothing on the telly to keep him occupied, just for the sheer joy of seeing me in pain. Sometimes he would have me lie before him so he could rest his dirty feet on my belly.
Worst of all was when he was excited. Then I would have to crawl to him and do lip service to his sweaty little friend. It would be the ugliest and most wrinkly little member ever imagined but I would still have to kiss it and take it in my mouth. And when I did, it would grow and grow to enormous proportions and it would tear my jaws open and make me cringe and cry with pain.
Still I would long for him to take his, then, gigantic member and put it into me and do what is supposed to be done there.
I was ashamed then, in the real world. I would be amazed and ashamed and disgusted and horrified. I would sit back and wonder why I wanted so much to be degraded.
Then one day, something happened. Something wonderful happened. It began as something almost insignificant but it grew and grew to encompass my whole being and it would not just fill my mind, it would liberate me.
It was very simple. One day when Oliver, the real Oliver passed me in the corridor I saw that he didn't look like the Oliver in my fantasies.
It seemed obvious and very trivial at first. I was aware that they weren't the same but seeing the difference, although I couldn't put my finger on it, started a train of thoughts that became the path to my freedom.
Seeing that difference made me know that they weren't the same, the real and the inner Oliver. My thoughts had known it before but now I saw it. That little piece of knowledge opened my mind. I knew that the inner Oliver wasn't the real one.
When this thought had been allowed to grow I realised that the inner Oliver wasn't really anyone else but me. He was mine. I owned him, he was a part of me. The real Oliver had just been an inspiration.
I could now look at the inner Oliver and scrutinise him and try to figure out who or rather what he was. I listened to his words and I saw that he was something good.
The ugliness I had seen was only my fear, the disgusting form he had taken was really how I believed I had to look upon him. I began to see that he was really quite handsome.
My Oliver, the inner Oliver, was nothing less than my own desire, my own pleasure of being me, my living sexuality, the one that had been forbidden for me, denied me, the one I had to pay with guilt for embracing. I had longed for him and let him take over but I had dressed him up as a monster and I had let this monster punish me for letting him in.
For the first time in my life I saw that he was sweet and lovely and full of life and that he was me, that he was my hand down my knickers, the hand I had been ashamed of. Oliver was me, at least my inner Oliver was me.
I danced a little dance on my way from the bus when it dawned upon me. I didn't care that anyone seeing me must have thought me mad. This was too important.
For the first time in my life I was happy being me. I was happy having Oliver in my dreams. I was living, and the shame and guilt seemed like a dark memory.
I longed to get home, to sit down with a cup of tea, and once again enter the tent of the barbarians to perform my dance of the seven veils, to strip naked and dance my desire before the ones who found me desirable.
And I longed to let my hand slip down my knickers and pay a visit to my chamber of secrets. I was quite sure that there would be no trial and no punishment after that.