Male Version Of Electra

I’ve been ruminating upon my history regarding substances lying up late at night. It started with watching my mum drink a bottle of Babycham. I’ve just done a little buzzword research about the product and discovered a few interesting facts, mainly because it used to be branded with a blue ribbon. Targeted Individual, Holy Spirit, etc. (this is what the ribbon signifies to me). Next came my mum drinking vodka on her armchair. She’d do herself up and then sit there like a bimbo showing her talents off slurping vodka with nowhere to go or no one to share it with. Sad in a way, but I thought she emanated a powerful sexual magnetism. She was a good-looking woman in her heyday. This may sound strange, but there is a bona fide medical condition that exists if you have eyes for your own mother, it’s named Oedipus complex.

Far more interesting, to me, is the Electra complex, whereby a girl will have the hots for her father. I am searching for a girl like this to interview. These complexes might be more prevalent than one might think. I’ve never heard any stats about them. Incest is a taboo subject and strictly off the school syllabus. We don’t even talk about that down the pub with our mates.

Just as a matter of fact, I did actually hear about a father figure who raped his own daughter to serve the Devil better in return of special powers. He said that he wanted to make all his mates ‘jealous’ with his evildoing. So he opted for the worst thing he could think of aside from asking them all round for an orgy…

How lucky would she be, if she was Electra? Although rape and consensual are two different puddings.

I could do with finding an Electra bird myself, as I am now an overweight father figure with an unhealthy interest in the Anima Sola. Trustworthy, approachable…but I don’t drive and I’ve hardly any money. It would help if they were non-white, so the father figure bit was more believable. To be honest, I only ever encountered a handful of non-white girls in three decades of pornography, so what chance have I got in real life, when etching out a living in a predominantly white area? A negro savage honeypie strutted by me earlier, her skin the colour of fountain pen ink, one glance at each other and we both momentarily acknowledged the black experience, how we have faired under the thumb of the white man (or the white witch, as we call him, due to his technology). In the industry, black-on-black action is quite a rarity. I should be so lucky to get my hands on some material.

I did do one time. It was called Smokin’ The Big Fellaz. Took me months to put it down. 😉

There have been several moments in my life, usually in inner city regions, when I have made eye contact with young black girls and felt a rumbling shiver of recognition surge throughout my glands. I’ve only ever dated two honeypies. One was in a car park with a twenty pound note handed over to settle the bargain for bodily fluid exchange behind a bottle bin, if you know what I happen to be on about. Second was much more romantic, as I walked her around the cultural quarter as we window-shopped together. The only regret is that I didn’t lean in for the kiss at the end of our hourly stroll.

I honestly believe that kisses are more intimate than penetrative sex. Beaten only by boy-on-boy haircuts and beard trims.

I’m hesitant to write about my mum online https://piebald77.blogspot.com/2024/05/mum-on-fire.html

because we have a strange relationship. It’s deemed fair that you can judge a man’s attitude towards the opposite sex by his relationship with his mother. Every time I detect a blue moon I drop by and see her. And almost every time I leave feeling disappointed that I tried to patch things up. Sometimes she’ll make me some lamb chops and sometimes she’ll say she’s busy and has no time to even chat at the door. I am due to go and see her though, if I am able to man up about it. If anything happened to her I’d consider our affairs unresolved. It would be also grand to see the kids.

My Oedipus complex has totally cleared up. Don’t worry if you have it, because as your parents age and get ugly it will disperse. It’s perfectly natural and nothing to be ashamed about. Or is it? What do I know? I’m just chatting bubbles to try and make you feel better.

The oldest dolly bird I ever fancied was 66 years. She was in terrific shape and had a deep tan which hid the main imperfections. I draw the line there, although this standardization was made when I was only a young lad. As an older man, I’m trying to stay out of it all. I’ll never forget a company called Barely Legal. They made films with proper young-looking chicks on them, all aged only 18 years. I can imagine them to be extremely popular. With me, I always wanted regular Mrs. Jones from next door, natural and voluptuous, 40 something, mature.

With plastic surgery/cosmetic enhancement who knows what attractions are possible? I must admit that I do like the altered appearance of a woman who has had a lot of work done under the knife. I crave odd dimensions and offbeat lines. Not quite bizarre, because to me bizarre is scary, but bordering on bizarre, maybe. One thing for sure, this lonely road of porn will take you there, into the bugged out bizarre and further onwards. I can’t believe where it took me. From sitting there one innocent evening thinking that my mum looks quite adorable drinking Babycham, to middle-aged eventualities which I am sorry to say have been quite satanic.

I’ve crossed first lesbian kiss (which was on Brookside by the way), first interracial money shot, ten guys one girl, sex scene in a boxing ring…pardon me, but I can’t think and I’m too embarrassed to list all the types of material out there which I have navigated my way through, but you can only just too well imagine how the rest of this list may pan out if I had the gall to continue it.

It ended leeking into snuff movies, by accident, but I couldn’t be sure what I was watching, I just feared their unwholesome content.

One male actor I was convinced was inserting drawing pins into the girl secretly, for my own personal gratification. I never saw nothing but I thunk it.

Another actor I believed ‘said’ he was into skinning the girl when he was finished.

They didn’t half make me paranoid. I was repulsed but couldn’t stop watching. If I’m absolutely really sincerely honest with myself, I’d even allow the hypothetical accusation that some of this scheming illegal naughtiness was in the business of turning me ‘more on’. But I wouldn’t admit to that in a court of law.

How could these films be so tainted with wickedness? Wasn’t it supposed to be a bit of harmless slap n tickle?

“You’ve being watching dildoes and horses all night!” the general public would holler at me the next day. Seriously. Some of the close ups reminded me of plastic dildoes. One penis had the face from a Pringles tube on it. The veins in another spelled troubling letters, like E FOR Evil. It was even underlined with a vein. The girls would barter me into making a decision about which was my favourite vein in the bloke’s big penis. Occasionally they’d slap a dock-off stallion’s telescopic knob in shot for me there, and ask me to describe it. They liked it when I described their cellulite as well. On ketamine, I could smell the stables, with some kind of strange brain link I can’t understand. Everything about everything to do with it, from faces and letters on real or whatnot appendages, to creamy female faces grinning back with lipstick, sent me all up in a whoosh of giddy feel-good hormones.

But deep underneath I suspected the girls were getting murdered after the scene. And worse, I was getting framed for their endings.

Fortunately I’m now out of the ‘industry’.

Although I do think about beautiful erotic actresses every single day.

Treadmill or Horseback

Several years ago deep in a psychosis I believed that my mum was a secret agent Belgium operative who had fostered me from childhood in order to wreak havoc upon my innocent life. She used to wear this thong, right, and I thought that she’d stolen it from the Princess of Belgium. I thought it was a holy religious artefact, like the spear that pierced Jesus, or Buddha’s tooth, or Muhammad’s beard. That was the reason I kept looking at it whenever she had it on, because the bygone relic contained some kind of inherent divine and sacred power. I was only a kid at the time, I’d never seen one before; in adulthood my theories about my mum’s G-string reached outlandish proportions.

It started with a hallucination. I was a young naked boy hanging on a wooden frame on the wall. It was obviously some kind of torture device. My mum was this indescribable demoness who looked nothing like my real mum. Her features were torn and ragged, like they’d been carved into her. She was taking turns between performing fellatio on me and stabbing me softly in the heart with a knife. Apparently she had done this all throughout my childhood (which now would explain how tender my heart sometimes feels). Remember, Myocardial Infarction = Bum Ticker. Your own mum, sucking you off and stabbing you in tandem, I know, how sick can you get?

This was a particularly ailing patch of the old psychosis. I mean, incest? It’s taboo. But with sado elements, on a child? I could hardly imagine anything worse. It was some kind of international ritual because I wasn’t of natural birth, I’d been born supernaturally in a cupboard or something. So the world had decided to play a game to punish me. I’d been placed with the new Princess of Belgium because she was the most powerful sex object in the world.

I wasn’t faring well while enduring this hallucination. That was until Bennie showed up, one of my protective spirits. She arrived out of nowhere and started walking an imaginary treadmill towards the hallucination. Her body language on the treadmill was slightly comical, inspiring, and determined. She looked like a warrior striding into battle. I was so pleased that someone out there didn’t agree with this and was prepared to do something about it. Go get her Bennie! I screamed in my head. And she did. She battered her.

But here’s the $64,000 question, bearing in mind that Bennie used to be a show jumper: Would I rather see Bennie on the treadmill or on horseback? She was so helpful on that treadmill, the way she marched up it to face my fear and my foe, a true combatant trooper scared of nothing, a raw battling conscript assigned to take on my enemy, the Mother Goose of all childhood power, Belgium Princess, with revered, hallowed underwear. Or would I prefer to see her on top of an untamed animal, jumping over ditches behind flashing lights? It’s such a tough question. She would look magnificent in action on horseback, Bennie would, of that much I am certain. Just give me a moment to decide…