chaosnoir

Janus Smile

2006-10-30T05:27:00.000-08:00

This may be more Halloweenie, I don't know. I treated it as a fun, but macabre (with subtle, controversial undercurrents), story. A quick scare.

Janus smile is accompanied by another image from Francesco D'Isa. His digital art presents the female form, and all the feminine mysteries, in a daring manner.

Janus Smile

She’d worn the headscarf ever since she could remember, specifically since her head began to ache, and her upset mother decided to obscure the possible cause. The voices then followed, usually at the dead of night. It was a sweet child-like voice, not unlike hers, that danced against her ear. She thought it a dream, until she started conversing with it.
Shielded from ordinary schools, her parents took turns home schooling her. She topped her matriculation examinations, thanks to her friend. During the light of day, her friend slept. Her parents assumed that it was another aberration, with the exception of it being non-existent in any of the illustrious medical journals. For many years, she listened to the voice; she amassed so many stories, that she easily identified with Scheherazade, all thanks to the voice. When it came time to satisfy everyday errands, her mother inspected her to ensure she wore her headscarf properly.
“You can’t risk it,” she said.
Therefore, she’d turn for her mother to peer under the folds to make sure the safety pins held it in place.
Her 21st birthday came, and went. Her secluded life, filled with volumes of books ranging from classics to the most recent woman’s magazine, revolved around being a homebody. She’d sigh, and the voice caught her out. It wasn’t terrible to not have hair, it told her. But she’d like it, that was all she knew only for the voice to fade away into the darkness, giving her the silent treatment as it were.
Friends?
The voice was her only friend, and the only male she’d come to know. At night, just after her coming of age, it asked her about her secret thoughts. She shifted to her side and told it to go to sleep.
“You’re avoiding the question.”
“Shh, they’ll hear you.”
There, within the dark confines of her room, she confessed that she often thought about knowing other men, and on the odd occasion, she entertained fantasies of her with other women. The voice needed to listen to her thoughts, asked her to detail each vista. She confessed that she’d seen a woman at the news stand, on the way to the grocer. The woman wore a red cotton dress that curved around the hip and thigh; the shape enticed her, prompting further thoughts on the texture beneath the dress, and further along, bending over to pick up a heavy box, was a courier who looked to be around her age. Oh, she liked his look, and could only imagine…
“Did you want to undress her or have her undress?”
“Both…the man and woman…”
“I can feel something…” a soft moan plunged through the pillow. She ran her hand over her belly, and down toward her springy, yet damp, thatch of pubic hair. She then heard the voice pant, and turned over onto her stomach, to enable it to breathe.
“You are such a naughty girl,” it said, urging her to satisfy her urges to the best of her ability, “If you aren’t sure, I’ll try to help you.”
She rubbed her sex, and listened to the deepening voice in the darkness.
“Slide your finger between those wet lips…Not those lips…”
The light tingle at the base of her spine raced upward.
“This feels nice…”
She squeezed her thighs together, locking her finger in place. The electric crackle within her encouraged her to reach inside herself. Her excitement grew, until she established a smooth, wet momentum. The hoarse voice told her how good it felt, how nice it was to fuck her. She shuddered shortly after.
“I’d like to do that again,” she whispered.
“Oh we will…”

Life ran smoothly. Her parents, relieved to see their daughter travel through life without complaint became worried after the steady rise of discontent that followed many world events. Her father told her to be careful, that the headscarf brought more worry but she didn’t care. That afternoon, as her mother waited outside, she caught sight of the face behind the voice inside a fitting room. Instantly smitten, she stepped outside with an added spring in her step.
That night they played, and she reanimated its amber eyes while her fingers strummed her sex. And its mouth? If only she could sample its rosy, full lips.

She decided to sneak out of the house. It had been a long time, three years, since she’d taken a walk in the nearby park. Her parents kept her indoors at the onset of the passing four Septembers, and each basic errand transformed into a supervised excursion. Her parents accompanied her almost everywhere, and sometimes she’d have to ignore other voices, from real people, who’d point her out and call her names.

“I wish I could take it off,” she told her mother, only for her mother to gape in shock.
“You can’t do that. Not here.”
“How bad could it be?”
Her mother rolled her eyes.

She turned into the narrow street, on her way to the newsstand. The latest issue of Glamour hit the shelves, and she wanted to read up on the hair styles she’d never flaunt.
“We need to hurry,” the voice whispered. She walked halfway, and turned to see a ragged burly man walk a short distance behind her. His muddy cold eyes scanned her body, and stopped at her scarf.
“Hey bitch…Yeah you!”
Panic lodged in her throat.
“You tea towel wearing bitch…I'll show you...”
He ran up to her, and she stumbled forward, tripping over the gutter.
His hands gripped her arms and pulled her upward.
“I heard that you girls stay virgins until you marry. Is that true?”
He sprayed her with warm drops of spittle as he spoke, and backed her up against the concrete wall. Her eyes fluttered, she looked from side to side.
“No one’s gonna hear you…”
She found herself facing the wall, and wailed as he shoved his hand between her legs.
“You’re going to love this, bitch…”
His fingers gripped the headscarf, and gave it a couple of tugs. A sharp pain at the nape of her neck, shot up toward her scalp.
“Ouuuch…”
“Your pussy will be glad to see me,” he laughed, and yanked the scarf off, “W-Wha…”
Her head tilted backward, and her body followed. She tried to shake herself away, but her shoulders shuddered as her head swiveled from side to side. The rigor near exhausted her, and her nostrils absorbed his sweat. This was followed by something else, a moist metallic odor that followed an audible, wet bite. His clear screams, became flooded, almost muffled to a soft wet gurgle.
“That’ll teach you…” the voice said, “Are you all right?”
“I’m…” she turned round, and saw the man on the pavement, clutching the lower half of his mangled face.
“What did you do?”
“Remedied his uncouth mouth…”
A trail of blood, from the man’s mouth, led to a crimson fleshy mass.
“He won’t be speaking anytime soon.”
She retrieved her scarf, and fixed it in place. The man’s terrified eyes gazed upward as she turned.
“A Ahhh oouuu?” he gurgled.
She bent forward to inspect his wounds and his teary eyes widened as her gold crucifix dangled over his crimson face, glinting in the afternoon light.
“Teaches you to judge a book by its cover asshole,” she bid him farewell with a swift kick in the groin.

END

*Janus - Roman God, depicted with two faces.

Arbeit Macht Frei

2006-10-29T01:03:00.000-07:00

This is a fictional story, however some of the ingredients are factual, and the historical elements are based on facts that stem from many accounts of those who survived a type of hell that many can never imagine, let alone fathom. The real horrors are those that are embedded within the histories, and from these histories people fashion ghouls, vampires, and other creatures to symbolize oppression, terror and death. ‘Arbeit Macht Frei’ isn’t a traditional Halloween story filled with quaint imaginary monsters, but more so the human kind and it’s not a pure sex story. It’s a long story, so after a certain point there’ll be a link that will continue the story in the To be Continued blog I’ve created for lengthier stories.

Alternatively, there's the Sex & Music version that has the accmpanying song.

The image accompanying this story is by Francesco D'Isa.

Arbeit Macht Frei

The old woman sat in the chair facing the corner of the room. According to her daughter, the woman didn’t want to face the window, nor did she fancy sunlight.
“She doesn’t speak much,” the woman said, before exiting. Sarah looked outside the window, followed the woman crossing the road. A uniformed driver stepped out of a navy Bentley to open the door for his passenger. “Nice if you’ve got it,” Sarah muttered, and exited the room.
Mrs Schueller’s daughter looked to be in her forties, yet retained a vitality about her that could have been surgically enhanced. The nursing home grapevine ran into overdrive each time she visited her poorly mother.
“You’d think, with all the money she has, she’d buy her something decent to wear.”
She only bought her essentials like nightgowns, toiletries, slippers and the occasional dress; the old woman barely showed interest in food, let alone frocks. Each day someone fed, bathed and changed her soiled incontinence pad. She was toileted at two hourly intervals, and this often produced nothing. They were all accustomed to entering the room, usually at the end of their shifts, to the fetid odor of shit.
The other nurses preferred to keep well away from the old woman, and Sarah found it peculiar that they’d wear rubber gloves as they changed her from her day frock to her nightgown. She couldn’t understand it.
“Just in case. You never know when they’ll wet themselves. She’s over eighty, you know.”
The curiosity lingered, particularly one afternoon when two staff rang in sick. The front ward became Sarah’s domain that afternoon.
“She’s on your list of afternoon showers,” Mavis, the Sister-in-Charge reminded Sarah of her duties as she rinsed a few bedpans in the sluice room. Relieved to swap the fragrant notes of urine, for steam, she stripped off her heavy rubber gloves and made a pit stop at a bathroom to retrieve a shower chair. She enlisted Toby, her male counterpart, to help her transfer the old woman into the chair.
“Gloves?”
“Oh come on,” she sighed.
“It’s the rule.”
She pulled on a air of surgical gloves, and heaved along with Toby.
“She doesn’t look that heavy.”
“She doesn’t carry her weight. Makes it heavier.”
She reversed out of the room. Mrs Schueller gazed at the receding wall, and Toby waved.
“Have fun.”

Just as she was about to wheel the woman into the shower, another staff member interrupted.
“Oh, you can’t use soap. She’ll see it and go bananas. Here…”
The woman handed Sarah her a plastic bottle with a pump nozzle. Sarah gently pulled Mrs Schueller forward, in a half embrace, and unbuttoned the gown from the back. The woman’s scrawny body startled her. Devoid of any surplus fat, each jutting bone stubbornly stared at Sarah. The old woman’s deflated breasts, breasts that may have one day enticed many males, hung down toward her navel like empty heshen sacks. Sarah couldn’t avoid the fear that whispered through these moments. Age, like Clotho, claimed everyone in its path by snipping the string of youth. The woman eyed a speck on the floor, a soap sud or a crack in the tiling, Sarah couldn’t tell. As she ran the water and rinsed the woman’s body, her eyes settled on, what appeared to be an ink smudge on the inside of Mrs Schueller’s wrist. Her first instinct was to rub the area of skin with her soaped up flannel but on further inspection…
120 899

The number, tattooed into the paper thin flesh, gained new life as Sarah’s gloved hand raised Mrs Schueller’s wrist. “I bet you’ve got plenty stories to tell…” she said, and briefly reflected on the possibilities. This hastened the shower. Sarah felt empty, yet curious to find out more.
After returning the woman to her easy chair, to face the wall as instructed, she made her way to the nurses station.
“I’m quite busy.” The RN frowned at her mentioning of the number, and made her point. It was time to distribute evening meds. She pulled out her stainless steel trolley, and quietly wheeled the cold stainless steel trolley down the carpeted hallway.

During a quick break, with the other two nurses, she opened her mouth and delivered her question. Their eyes widened.
“You have to wear gloves. That’s the rule. Didn’t you know?”
It was a first for her. She was of the understanding of gloves being used at obvious sites of contamination. This primarily involved contact with urine, saliva, blood or faeces, but while changing someone’s dry clothes?
“It’s not like they’re diseased. They’re old.”
They eyed her warily, and diverted the conversation toward an upcoming concert.
All in all, Sarah’s first day went well, and many days followed. The supposedly sick staff members returned, and the days rolled ahead. She returned to her assigned male ward where each man, riddled with Korsakoff’s, Alzheimers and Parkinsons, brought new meaning into life education. What is a man, but the sum of all his achievements before each cell reaches its use by date? She’d return home each night, and cozy up with Adrian, her boyfriend of three years.

Adrian absorbed her daily detail, and laughed at the cringe worthy moments.

“It’s a job, not your life.”
“But it’s scary to think that we’ll one day be like that.”
“I’d rather you put me out of my misery first,” he jovially replied, and winked as he unzipped his jeans.
“You’re really terrible… But I like it,” she smiled.
They slept, after entangling their limbs. Her gargantuan efforts reaped rewards, and their lovemaking reached another milestone. She knelt on the floor as he sat on the edge of their bed, and opened her mouth in wait. It’s something she always wanted to do; she opened wide, and lowered her boundaries. He sucked on his breath the minute she told him she needed him to fuck her mouth. Other times she’d mind the occasional gag reflex, this time she rode the discomfort. It oddly imbued life into the moment. She took his cock, and closes her eyes as his shaft fully occupied her mouth. He moaned, and plunged deep inside her slippery warmth.

Yes.. Fuck.. Oh shit….

Adrian’s mouth fell open as the first spasm partially claimed him, and his eyes lit up as he watched her swallow the product of her skill and his arousal. They took a break, she lazily smoked a cigarette, before her encore. She rode him, absorbed his cock into her from above, and ground her flesh against his, until her clitoris screamed.

It’s the spring in the step following the vital fuck that blurs other mundane elements. Sarah’s vitality was fuelled by her inner knowledge; her breasts, after her morning shower, felt heavier yet became acutely responsive to Adrian’s caresses over the passing weeks. She didn’t need a test to know of her pregnancy; her mouth couldn’t tolerate her acrid morning coffee, and her cigarette habit ground to a halt. She was running late, barely made the train, but put it all down to the fun elements of the daily grind. Life, as she saw it, was far too short and her observation of aged souls proved it.

She passed the sleek Bentley after she crossed the rode and made her way into the grounds. Curiosity fired up her thoughts, and she quickly made her way to the front room.

“Ray’s sick, you’ll have to work his section.” She didn’t mind, and even thanked Mavis in passing. It offered a days respite from the wandering hands and, ‘nursie, I’ve got a surprise for you,’ moments just before they exposed their ancient penises hoping she’d be shocked.

She silently entered the room to see the woman brushing her mother’s hair.
“Don’t mind me,” she said. Her right hand gripped a hairbrush, and the other peculiar thing she noticed was that of the woman wearing a pair of fine black leather gloves.
“It’s quite hot,” she couldn’t help but nod toward the gloves. Her curiosity got the better of her.
“I have dermatitis…” she turned to face the same wall that her mother faced, but stopped to look at Sarah, “That’s my father.” Sarah peered at the photograph. The man’s face appeared partially blurred. She put it down to the age of the picture. He stood, wearing a uniform she couldn’t identify. Tall, well developed, and proud, he looked to be in his mid-twenties.
“Lovely picture,” Sarah said, and thought to ask about the lacking wedding pictures. Mrs Schueller never appeared in any of the few silver framed family photographs.
Sarah then eyed her watch, and realized the time and need to check on the woman in a discreet manner. Her hand gripped the armrest, and the woman abruptly turned.
“You mustn’t!”
“I-I’m sorry?”
“She doesn’t like people touching her. Haven’t they told you?” The woman reared back and glared at her.
“No, they haven’t,” she replied, hoping Mrs Schueller was dry.
“She just doesn’t like it,” her eyes returned to the silent old woman, whose eyes remained fixed straight ahead. What did she see each day?
“Okay.”
“You haven’t touched her have you? Then again they’d tell me…”
“No, I haven’t.”
“I’ll be fine from her on out. I’ll ring the buzzer if I need anything. Thank you,” she nodded, and continued brushing the woman’s silver hair.

Her evening drew to a close. They’d completed all the rounds, and then the RN entered the locker rooms.
“Who’s in for a night shift? Mary called in. Her son’s sick.”
“I’ve an appointment in the morning, sorry.” The RN then looked at her.
“I…” she didn’t really want to. Her thoughts returned to the intimate evening she planned but she also thought of penalty rates and how she’d be able to fork out for a few things to further liven up the sex.
“I know it’s short notice. Agency staff take God knows how long to get here…”
“All right.”

The night shift meant her and another RN. They’d both supposedly share the work. This meant that she’d be doing the work on her own, at half measures while the RN sat and caught up on her purl one and twos, throughout the infomercials and all their new age gurus, fitness instructors and the odd celebrity raving on about some new anti-acne produce that ‘saved them after years of suffering.’ It all began smoothly enough. She sat in the day room with Therese. They exchanged few words, and sat in front of the television. Sarah killed time by leafing through magazines offering three day diets, the latest celebrity rehab moment and the latest fashion fad.
“I’ll go and have a look in, then I’ll make a coffee. I’ll be in the kitchen in case you need me.” Therese nodded, yawned, and rested her legs on a footstool as Anthony Robbins ran onto the television screen. She couldn’t blame Therese if she feel asleep, each repetitive broadcast was enough to take anyone off to dreamland.

After checking the wards at the rear, she moved up along the hallway. She hoped the residents in the front would be equally dry, but didn’t hold out much. The residents in the other wards were ambulant, semi independent and still retained their bladder and bowel functions. There were only two rooms at the front of the home. She entered the first to her right. All the woman slept, and her hand crept under the sheet. Shit. All three drawer sheets needed to be changed. She quietly got on with the job, lowering one bedrail at a time, gently rolling each sleeping body to remove the wet sheet and replace it with a dry one. The nightlight guided her way, but even so, its eerie yellow-brown glow imparted a gloomy ambience. She then turned, looked behind her. Stupid to feel alone when there were others within the same room. Not like someone will attack you, she thought, and continued. The last woman, half awake on the turn, mumbled and drifted back to the place she preferred to be. Dreams offered an alternate route where one could randomly recapture one’s youth, dreams and desires. She finished, dumped the soiled sheets into the hooked canvas laundry bag, and exited.

“Shit,” she mumbled. She tossed away her gloves with the sheets. Both were inverted, and she looked on her trolley for the box. Nothing. Only three more beds remained, and she was sure she could chance it. It was only urine, she thought. She’d changed how many diapers while babysitting for friends, besides she only had to carefully roll away the wet sheet. If she was confronted with shit, she could race back to the sluice room for gloves. No huge deal. Another dark room awaited her. She rolled the trolley toward its centre and searched the darkness for the first bed, to switch on the light.
Her eyes made out two blanketed lumps, but the third was missing from its bed. She blinked a few times. Darkness tended to exaggerate shapes. It was as her eyes adjusted that another sound perked up her ears. She cocked her head to the side. Was someone dragging their feet? She turned, saw nothing.

“Fraulein…” the croaky whisper, far away yet so close, chilled and awed her. It could only come from one person, Sarah thought.
It was as she backed away from the trolley, quietly and calmly, that she saw the bare foot.
“What are you doing there?” she carefully sidestepped the body, and turned on the overhead light.
Mrs Schueller’s eyes widened, and her faced jerked upright to reveal a pair of glimmering brown eyes.
She couldn’t understand, and couldn’t comprehend the woman’s about turn. Each word smoothly slipped through her pale lips. Aside from registering Fraulein, each word following was uttered in a language she’d never come across.
The old woman raised her right arm and patted her chest. Her sleeveless cotton ’three sizes too big’ nightgown slipped over her bony right shoulder.
“Rom… Rom…Nicht!” she shook her head.
“Are you all right Mrs Schueller?”
“Nicht!”
You’re not Mrs Schueller?
Sarah couldn’t find the words to ask the question.
Her hands gripped her plaits, and her lips hung open until her breath squeaked through her lungs. Was she screaming?
“Okay. I’ll get you up.”
The old woman nodded, smiled and leaned forward. She bent her knees, surprised at the abrupt animation. It was something Oliver Sacks would be interested in, she thought as her arms reached under the old woman’s armpits. She stopped to steady herself. Her head briefly swam. She put it down to her sudden shift. Her hands finally held her firmly, and she pushed up at the knee only to feel her arms lighten with the new load. She looked at the floor, noticed the old woman’s feet bearing her own weight.
“But you’re not supposed to…”
Mrs Schueller’s dewy eyes smiled before reaching into her.
“I…” a searing pulse embraced her head. She looked at the woman, and felt far removed from the room. Her eyes searched the woman’s face.
“Sie und ich…” the woman’s lips froze into a grin. The words fluttered into Sarah’s mind, looping into her own thoughts. “Sie und ich…”
Her hands. They were glued to the old woman, yet she couldn’t feel them.
Therese?
The thought formed within her mind. She called out but her vocal chords didn’t register each electrical impulse.
Her eyes closed, and she drifted along an unfamiliar current.

Story Continues Here

Male on Sunday - 13

2006-10-28T21:53:00.000-07:00

“A true novelist cannot but live the reality of his own times, and in doing so become aware of his responsibilities. He thus attempts to help his fellow men to face up to and solve the pressing problems of his day to greatest possible extent. In as far as a contemporary work of literature reflects the times in which we live, it is necessarily one of the most subtle and effective forms of action. Or rather it itself can become the seed of action. Provided that a novelist is aware of his mission, he tries to push reality to adopt the form he judges to be most fitting for man. In other more balanced, self-confident times, beauty could suffice to fulfill the author's ideal. The writer of today, if he is truly alive, is someone who suffers and worries at the sight of reality. He is led to co-operate with all the still surviving powers of light to advance man's burdensome destiny a little. The modern writer, if he is true to his mission, is a fighter.” - Nikos Kazantzakis

Where literature is concerned, regardless of the medium, there are three types of authors (for me). There are those who end up in the bargain bin, those who don’t pay attention to language or structure (thereby ruining a reader’s rhythm by paying it no respect) and those whose works will never sit in a bargain bin. Nikos Kazantzakis falls into the latter. He’s in my literary toplist, and I think that few authors examine the human existential issues in the manner that he did. A lot of works out there today, due the marketing of such works (as well as authors), are transient. Many of today’s popular authors rarely discuss the struggles they often write about, and those who do manage to a book deal hardly dare to reveal the struggles along the way - doesn’t make for good press, and many care more about their image.

“Life is different here, to live here you have to struggle, because there are three and a half million people here struggling for their living. I visited a few people I had introductions for, and tried to find a job so as not to be a burden on father any more. But so far I have not succeeded in doing anything, though they did make me promises. In any case I have enough money to live on for all of October and November. In the meantime I'll go to university and when I learn the language fluently I won't have anything to fear.” Nikos Kazantzakis (from a letter to his parents, discussing his life in Paris shortly after his arrival)

Born in Crete in 1883, during a time of uprisings to break Ottoman rule within the island, he came from an average household and wasn’t born with a silver spoon in his mouth. His early life is filled with stopovers. In 1898 he was sent to school on the island of Naxos to escape the rebellions on the island of Crete, and it was here that he began his education at a school run by French monks, which inspired his love of the French language.

In 1902 he finished his secondary education in Irakleion, and then moved to Athens to study law. Writing came to Kazantzakis easily. Before he commenced his law degree he published an essay, and his first novel “Serpent and Lily” (1907). A year later his play, “Day is Breaking” won a drama prize in Athens, became a production and the first controversy for Kazantzakis before moving ahead to postgraduate study while working as a journalist (and being inducted as a Freemason). No stranger to controversy, he lived in Athens (1910) with the woman that was to be his first wife, Galatea Alexiou, while earning a living as a translator. At this point, Kazantzakis was fluent in Greek, French, German, English and Classical Greek. In 1919 Greek Prime Minister Eleftherios Venizelos appointed him as the Director General of Social Welfare; Kazantzakis was responsible for the repatriation of more than a hundred thousand Pontian Greek refugees from the Caucasus region. It was while overseeing this, that Kazantzakis drew inspiration for his novel Christ Recrucified. This period heralded Kazantzakis own odyssey, and much like Odysseus, it saw him traveling around the world.

He gave literature characters who weren’t far removed from everyday life; each facing their own existential struggles while observing the larger machine of the world at work and this can also relate to the authors own spiritual and existential struggles that latched onto him early on in life. The world probably knows him best through his work Zorba the Greek, which has also become a film classic starring Anthony Quinn as Alexi Zorbas, an old Greek who teaches a younger foreigner how to live life, and take it as it unfolds or not to sweat the small stuff.

Regardless of Kazantzakis’ own struggles, he constructed a body of work that almost earned him a Nobel Prize in literature only to lose by one vote. Albert Camus, the winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature (1957) is quoted as saying that Kazantzakis deserved it more. This can be true, because no other work portraying Jesus Christ dared explore the existential aspect of Christ’s life. Decades after the publication of this book, after Martin Scorcese’s decision to adapt the novel to film, many religious groups picketed cinemas around the world protesting over the film that depicted Christ as a man. 1988 was an interesting year for the onset of Christian protest (and had the protesters actually read the author's introduction to the novel, they'd see his deep admiration for Christ, but it's all about shoot first, ask questions later). Thus Kazantzakis’s stories have a timeless quality, in that they can still evoke social debate. As a result of The Last Temptation, Kazantzakis was excommunicated from the Eastern Orthodox Church (due to the ‘heretical’ content of the book), and there were other behind the scenes events that may swayed the Nobel vote. More importantly, Kazantzakis’ reaction to the churches (Eastern Orthodox Church and Catholic Church) condemning this novel was to send a telegram to the Vatican to say the following, quoting Tertullian:

“Ad tuum, Domine, tribunal appello” - I lodge my appeal at your tribunal, Lord.

Unlike many of today’s supposedly literary ‘wunderkind’ who can earn five figure sums before their novels are printed (who hardly scratch the surface of the human struggle), Nikos found it difficult to make a living out of writing due to the fact that there wasn’t a market for Greek writers and because he wrote in demotic Greek, his works gained a controversial quality. This inability to earn a living from writing, or the struggle within, led him to write a lot more by way of translating other works, working as a journalist and even writing travel literature based countries he traveled to ( Japan, China, Italy, Egypt, England), which also fed into the quality of his literature so his novels, even though translated to English, don’t lose much in the translation.

When Kazantzakis died in 1957, aged 74 his body was transferred to Athens, the Greek Orthodox Church refused to permit it to lie in state, the body was transferred to Irakleion, Crete where people were able to pay their last respects to the man who chose "Δεν ελπίζω τίποτε. Δεν φοβούμαι τίποτε. Είμαι λεύτερος" ( I hope for nothing. I fear nothing. I am free), for his epitaph.

As you can see, it takes a lot of space to explore Nikos Kazantzakis and I’m not anywhere near half done or a quarter done, but I'll leave it here because this isn't an academic essay, it's an informal personal exploration as to how this person's work, and personal stance, has influenced me over nearly two decades.

Thru the Mirror on the Bed - HNT

2006-10-25T09:10:00.000-07:00

This is a bit 'controversial' for me, but it all began with the idea of taking a picture through the mirror on my bedhead (but not this revealing). Anyway, there I was contorting myself this way and that while kneeling, bending, you name it and then my cat decided to leap onto the bed to 'scratch/play' (I'll just call it 'HNT Yoga' for those of us who are solo photographers). It's bloody hard when you're holding a camera in one hand trying to avoid flash reflection, and then I'd only catch close ups of my bedhead, close ups of some blurry bit of butt (or hip? I don't know, it was 12 x), and then I had the low batt thing flashing, and I thought....

"Fuck it."

So I clicked, and this is what is.

(It may not be Halloweenie, but to me it is. I find it quite scary for various reasons I won't go into.)

Smiling & Sex

2006-10-23T11:39:00.000-07:00

I've often thought about the relation between body language and the frequency of sex between couples. A lot of emphasis is placed on verbal communication, right up to the point of there being positive encouragement to leave love notes and things for one's partner to find, but the skeptic in me, after digging around, doubts the efficacy of verbal communication. Could body language, along with our facial gestures, be the glue that maintains a healthy sex life within relationships?

There's an element of truth within the lyric, 'When you're smiling, the whole world smiles with you.' In infancy our parents teach us the basics. We learn to smile, and then as we grow we'll associate it with positive things such as affection, humor, laughter, love and, to a certain extent, empathy. From the very first flirtatious steps of a relationship, smiling holds the key to the ignition thus determining whether or not that car will ignite but the person actually holds the key, and opts to turn the key into the ignition or defer. Take the average workday as an example. Picture a scene that unfolds each day, for a month or maybe a year, where you walk into your workplace and people hardly smile or they grunt their Good Morning. Their eyes are lackluster, they go through the motions. This may occur daily, or more than half the week. Would you be enthused, or would you want to jump ship and seek a prettier harbor? Humans are capable of 5000 facial expressions using 44 muscles.

Over the years I've just about read it all where relationships are concerned. The entire gamut of relationship guides always places a high emphasis on talking, and I find it perplexing because there's not usually a lot of talking where the very act of physical intimacy is concerned. The only type of sex that features a high level of yakking is phone sex, but the main issue within relationships concerns the three dimensional kind, which is why I've never wholly bought into the, 'Talk to him about it.' I haven't believed in the Rules either. That tome ought to take a leaf out of Anthony Robbins' success and be titled, 'Unleash the Carol Brady Within.'

I've never known any one in my life who has fully solved their sexual issues purely by talking about them, at length. Where sex and relationships are concerned, it can veer more toward the Elvis 'A little less conversation, a little more action,' approach and the best place to start, is working on the smile.
It's easy to get caught up in routine. Most couples do. There can be a mortgage, work, and when babies arrive, there are more fun and games (diapers, late nights, reflux, and so much more). Before you know it, you're moving with a routine that harks back to prehistoric survival, or being on autopilot.

You wake, rush out of bed (because the baby cries, or you need to hunt or gather) and prepare for the day ahead. Women put on their 21st Century war paint, and prepare before leaving, as do men, and in the rush of getting it all done, they can forget to smile at each other. Males knot their ties, and grab their notebooks and briefcases, and before you can say 'Yo', they're reversing out of the driveway or halfway down the block. Sometimes it can be more unsettling, particularly when people have time to smile but they've adapted to not smiling. People generally sleep with people they like, who offer a degree of comfort

There's a direct relation between not smiling, and distancing people. An example from a different arena relates to politicians and the importance of a smile or grin. Political candidates use it to their advantage, and it works very well. During the last U.S. federal election, George W Bush cracked jokes, laughed and engaged his audience, whereas his opposition, John Kerry took a serious stance and rarely cracked a jovial smile. Now this may have little to do with winning an election, but the contrasts were obvious. I can’t say that I was too surprised when he won and that may come across as naïve, or ‘basic’ but I’d find myself laughing at his jokes each time a news segment highlighted the electoral campaigns. It may be a political example, but politicians are people too and many are advised by professionals to take advantage of body language to optimize charisma. A smile may be free, but it’s also the most common ice breaker known to humankind and further, it may also play a pivotal role in relation to sexual intimacy, and sexual frequency.

sex and relationships
sexual frequency
body language
behavior

John Q Does Halloween

2006-10-21T11:57:00.000-07:00

It’s a Halloween to whet the appetite at John Q Media for Men, and there’s plenty of room for the gals to visit too. The lead up to Halloween sees plenty of sexy Jack O’lanterns, and features a hot series of sexy, ‘scary’, costumes and it doesn’t stop there.

The regular John Q pages feature stories, such as Ana Nicole Smith’s ghostly sexual encounter, and a list of America’s haunted brothels, John Q’s recap of the best horror movie sex scenes, and sexy costumes to put the sexy ‘fright’ into sex play.

The XXX dimension of John Q Media lists the top five adult films to jerk your Halloweenie to, and there are tips on making your own sex toys or not limiting yourself to making a Jack O’lantern for Halloween. There are erotic horror stories, to add spark to the upcoming holiday, and oh, yeah there’s a feature on the work of adult film director Michael Ninn by moi as well.

John Q Media does Halloween well, in fact very well, and there are also two Halloween themed site buttons for people to show their support for a great site:

John Q Media
Halloween
Adult Halloween
sex
porn
XXX Halloween

Male on Sunday - 12

2006-10-21T05:53:00.000-07:00

"I cut things off because I no longer want to be like a wall, or a rubbish bin where you dump anything you want." - Gerard Depardieu

If Gerard Depardieu was born outside France, his life would have been different. If he entered film in places like Hollywood, he would have been typecast or had a short lifespan as an actor because the realm of Hollywood prefers the aesthetically ‘beautiful’ actor, the type of person that doesn’t cause too much visual friction for the audience. In almost every film from La-La Land, it’s the same thing. It’s not about the person, and Botox does little for facial expression, it’s more about looks or a certain type of neat appearance that evades categorization but is noticeable throughout many major releases.

As the third child of six children, he didn’t expect much. Gerard’s beginning, in Châteauroux were ordinary where poverty is concerned. The Second World War, particularly in Europe was one of the darkest periods of the modern era, but this era also infused every survivor with a sense of adventure. It’s much like the saying, ‘there are worse things,’ and millions of Europeans who lived through the war, and personally endured trials and tribulations had a close example of the worst.

Depardieu didn’t follow the customary rules that actors follow today. He didn’t have some epiphany at a young age and immediately decide, like many of today’s actors, that ‘acting’ was in his blood or whatever else. He left home at 12, and became a nomad, living an adventurous life. Life is an adventure when one leaves home so early in the piece. He worked as a dishwasher, and he also worked on the Riviera as a beach boy, doing things such as putting up umbrellas for people. His adventure through Europe was also funded via stolen cars, and petty crime. During this early age, he also lived with two prostitutes.

Much has been said about his entry into drama, but according to one interview, Gerard relays that he lost a part of his language by the time he came to Paris. On the advice of others he enrolled at the Theatre National Populaire. The rest, they say, is history. Since his 1965 debut, at the age of sixteen, in French short film Le Beatnik et le Minet he’s never been out of work and is classed as one of France’s most accomplished actors with 150 feature films under his belt, some of these films include English language films such as Peter Weir’s Green Card, Ridley Scott’s 1492 - Conquest of Paradise and Randall Wallace’s The Man in the Iron Mask.

There are no limits where acting is concerned. Each emotion, gesture or speech mannerism may look effortless to execute, but the wide variety of characters Depardieu has played emphasizes the skill of the actor’s art. In Green Card he played the bumbling émigré, in Cyrano de Bergerac (for which he received an Oscar nomination) he displays a vulnerability (aside from being naturally endowed with a sizeable nose that’s fitting to the original character from the play) within Bergerac’s flamboyance and masculinity. In the Return of Martin Geurre he plays a humble peasant, who upon returning from a war asserts his identity. He isn’t purely a dramatic actor, he’s also played comedic characters, the sort that aren’t far removed from everyday life. In Tais Toi, starring opposite Jean Reno’s suave criminal character, he plays Quentin the bumbling wannabe criminal that drives Reno’s character to the brink of distraction.

It’s all in the eyes, I think. Gerard’s eyes have seen many things, and his personal life has been tumultuous. In more recent times he’s publicly fallen out with his son Guillaume, and at the same time he’d also maintain a clear work ethic, delivering roles with a skill that’s second to none. Others would have gone into hiatus, or at worse reach a ‘senior’ age and be sidelined, whereas Gerard went from strength to strength as an actor. This is why I’ve always loved French film (and European film in general). France doesn’t view their actors in terms of half lives, or peak periods, and doesn’t sideline actors due to age, appearance or personal crises. There is a distinct line between an actor’s personal life and their work. The two never blend, and an actor’s personal life is separate from their acting ability and/or films.

Outside of Europe it’s different, and an actor’s personal life can affect the success of their film. A more recent example would be Russell Crowe, and the limited success of The Cinderella Man in the wake of the fracas at the Mercer Hotel. It will be interesting to see whether or not Mel Gibson’s next film, Apocalypto, fares well. This, I have to confess is why I don’t particularly like mainstream Hollywood film that much and prefer independent films in more recent times. If an actor isn’t good looking enough, or has experienced a few rounds in rehab, the actor is judged severely and their work opportunities can dry up. One only has to look at the likes of Brad Pitt and Robert Downey Jnr to see the different acting ranges, and yet how many times do we see Robert Downey Jnr? He’s one outstanding actor. But open up a magazine and we’ll see Pitt and Angelina; their recent popularity isn’t based on their work or artistry, it’s based on the controversy of their union and ten million paparazzi shots.

Thus, in an actor like Gerard, a viewer sees the actors art, and it’s an art that can be compared to the likes of Pacino, de Niro, Brando, Hanks and of late, Jim Carrey (his role as Count Olaf, and footage of his improvisations provide glimpses to immense talent).

I first saw an article about Gerard Depardieu as a mid teenager. He was described, back then, as one of the sexy actors to watch. Women find him sexy, because he’s gregarious and full of life. Men like him because he’s a man’s man, and doesn’t pull any punches. He’s also considered a gourmand, and has written his own cook book, has also extended his love of fine wine to produce his own wines. Although he announced his retirement from film in October last year, he could also be considered one of the highest paid actors in France and has also received the 'Chevalier du Légion d'Honneur' or Knight of the Legion of Honour.

He is the vulnerable Geurre, lovelorn Cyrano, swashbuckling Musketeer Porthos, happy go lucky émigré Georges, the intrepid Christopher Columbus, and most importantly that vulnerable twelve year old boy who decided to drop out of school to embrace an adventurous life.

Scenes- Update

2006-10-21T02:06:00.000-07:00

This week has seen a couple of more changes in Scenes. First, there’s a groovy new banner that captures the title all so well, and the banner is Suze’s creation. Thank you, Suze. Further along, the week kicked on with two stories (mine’s just a test entry), The White Room by Loki and Commencement by EA. The eroticism within each story is a journey in itself.

EA sums it up rather well, Scenes is a place for erotic literary endeavours and I’m hoping it will serve people first, enabling them to post their own stories, run amok with the erotic and feel free to experiment in a literary/fictional sense. It’s also good to read (and get aroused!) and appreciate the wide array of erotic styles and subject matter, how each storyteller tells a story. People can post anonymously if they like, using a blogger pseudonym, or as themselves, whatever they prefer.

It’s not easy to ascertain who’d be interested to join in order to draw up huge mailing lists, so I’ve left that up to people who come across the page.

If you'd like to join, it's a matter of popping an email in that virtual mailbox.

Sexualité in Print (a little part of it in Scarlet Mag)

2006-10-19T07:55:00.000-07:00

Right this minute, I've got a lot of emotions buzzing in my head but the first things first, way back in April 2005 when I began this page to sift through my own thoughts about sex and relationships, something else happened and that ended up blossoming into other things, like fiction and now, a year and a half after, a small part of this blog is in print in this month's edition of Scarlet Magazine.

Now I don't know what excites me more, but when I saw the cover I was quite thrilled to see Dita Von Teese, and then I was completely awed to see that she is also the guest editor of this month's edition. So excited was I that I almost forgot my own excitment (about my own post within the magazine).

I can't say that the resultant is all due to me, because a lot of it, most in fact, is due to other factors namely people that I hold dear, who have visited this page as well as those who'll silently, but regularly peruse my various shades of sauciness. These factors also reinforce my resolve in regard to submitting my work to various publications, like Scarlet.

A huge thank you to Scarlet Magazine, for publishing a piece from Sexualité, and another huge thank you to Alex and Suzanne, for giving me a view at the pages. I live all the way down here, so it'll be more days until I touch, smell and read the issue. By all means, go and get yourselves (those of you in the UK etc) a copy for the erotica and sexy articles within , as well as the other factor of Dita being Guest Editor of the month. But further along, each month sees sex and eros in the spotlight.

Okay, so now I need a bit of a drink. It's really weird to think that although I've never been to the UK, never touched down at Heathrow, that my entry, and piccie is sitting on a page in a magazine on the other side of the world.

It's surreal!

I'm totally stoked, and if anyone asked me more than twelve months ago whether I planned on taking a sexual detour into the erotic lit arena, I would have been perplexed. It wasn't in the overall plan. Just goes to show.

Life, or 'chaos' in and around, has an odd way of bringing out things.

Buggered HNT

2006-10-18T09:30:00.000-07:00

It's been that kind of a week, the type of week that's a bugger and the great thing about Thursday's is that it's one step, or day, before the weekend.

I thought I'd make up for last weeks' absence by posting two of me flopped out on the bed, thankful to get out of the day shirt.

HNT
Thursday