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I AM A SPECTRE(AND OTHER OBSERVATIONS)

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If you’re a good enough writer like I am, any sentence can kickstart a novel. Elucidate a single image and set you off on a theme. There was a gallows out on the hillside.There was a lonely gallows out on the hillside.There was some wood blocks out on the hillside.I was on the train and it was boring.I was on the train and it was raining and it struck me how pretty the rain was.The wind through the trees and then the dead trees.The birds in their flocks and the smell of the leaves. Once off the train I pass women on the platform, so glittered and sequined that I flinch and miss the rest of their descriptions. There is a man waiting with his boxed toy helicopter and boxed toy tank. I am thinking marvellous things about myself until I catch a glimpse of my red shirt poking out under my jumper, and am horrified, and it is this event and no other mishap that capitulates my day into a kind of funeral pyre that I imagine launching myself upon. Make me inert and scatter my ash distractedly. Fortunately, when I get home and pour the gin & tonic and sit down with the wife, Tracy, we have the Royal Wed-ding to look forward to on television.

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When Tracy and I first dated I lacked confidence because she was that pretty. It was alright though. I poured droplets of my semen into the risotto I made for her. She was wearing black shear tights and I imagined the little fuckers in there, in her bloodstream, hunting for her warmest spots and ending up near her thighs, predicting I would be down there soon to see them for a little reunion. She licked her lips and said, jeez Bruce, these mushrooms are really good. I knew it would be a long night and I hadn’t even lit the candles yet.

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Last night I pounded Tracy while watching myself pound her while fantasising about Christian Bale as Patrick Bateman, all while her eyes rolled spasmodically. It was too much love for her to bear and I didn’t even get myself three quarters of the way in.

I momentarily craved the sweetness of youth, but that was the gin.

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I hop on the train after a knight of sheer generosity and liberalism and I feel good, great even, in knowing the only thing that gets me off competently is my own quaking fist.

My wife is very pretty but she is not a spectre and that is some-thing one just has to deal with. Two spectres in one sex act is an unsafe bed-frame.

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I know Tracy’s in our California King right now frigging herself with one hand and sandpaper-ing her thighs with the other. Coarse grain. She knows I am rugged. And when I get home I will not be polite to her fannypack.

But first I must fuck Ruby. She has a clit as red and round as her name suggests and she screams like a horse and it appears that her talents are truly spectral.

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Last night, in Ruby’s bedchamber, tongues intertwined. She plunged into my throat. She pounced me like a tigress and attempted to consume me. But as flattering as that was (yeah, you want me, I get it), I had to step in.

I said, calm it Ruby, calm it, good Ruby. Okay – who’s in charge here? Who’s carrying the cock? Fucking check this sausage out. I penetrate you, that’s how it works alright?

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And I told her that I was no faggot and that if she was confused about our power dynamics then she should change my name in her phone to The Eternal Penetrator, and that might set her straight.

But that night I learnt that most spectral women are also feminists and well, fuck that, so I flew home in my jet holding a bunch of flowers and gave Trudy the royal rooting.

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Tracy wrote me a poem this evening and left it on the dresser:

I know you seem to think you’re insatiable,But I’m gonna slather you in oats and maple,And when I get you on the floor,You’re gonna come for me like a dinosaur.

I said that they were nice couplets and that I would thank her for it presently.And lo, there appeared a parting in her legs, and her white skirt began to billow and, as Moses did to Sinai once upon a mountain, I knelt beneath her and opened her slit like a passionfruit. She trembled for me and became a penguin.

I laughed a great laugh and laid myself down on the floor. She rode me like a helicopter and I wondered to myself whether it was ignoble of me to be using her in this way, her flailing about rudderless, me solid and unmoved and unshakeable.

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And then I remembered that it is a sin to apologise for one’s God-given talents, and if it happened to be so that her cunt tasted like

tropical juice then who was I to not taste her thoroughly and

equally if it happened to be that she was on top of me and it was

not satisfying it was not my fault.

And presently I flipped her over and wrestled her down and

grunted into her eardrum and she began squealing like a banshee

and I when I came it spilled out of her insides and its colour was

golden and she breathed my God, my God into my hear and I sensed

that in the context she was not using the phrase flippantly and

so I gave her an affectionate slap across the face and dismounted

her. I stood above her.

However good her poetry is, the woman is speechless after that

kind of ejaculation. Fluids speak louder than words.

Words by Justin WolfersDrawings by Cameron Whalan

Copyright 2011

Contact: jbwolfers@gmail.com or cameronwhalanhotmail.com