See, in this dream last night, I was walking down the cobbled streets of some European cul-de-sac with my SLR swinging when some old geezer came up to me and said that the Americans had lost the Porn War.

"Who won?"

"The Japanese of course. Don't you know anything?"

"I'm sorry. I was just..."

"Never mind what you were doing! Those damned Americans had it coming. They've become too greedy, too complacent, too unimaginative. Bow chicka bow wow?! Ha! That was donkey years ago. The soul of porn resides in Japan now."

There's this girl I know who reminds me of a super streamlined sports sedan. Very sexy. Lithe, long-limbed, attractive and everything les jeunes filles should be. And so one day, when I was out driving under the big, bright sunny sky, I imagined eating her out in an air-conditioned room. So there you have it, a man's head between some young girl's legs, where one is compelled to speak in tongues. Polysyllabic cunnilingual glossolalia and a warm, generous bowl of fat noodles. I could be her teacher, her father, her brother. Or a beautiful stranger who's seduced her in some café or library. The fun always starts with the role-playing, an AV star has said. The most perfect kind of role-playing leads to a kind of ego death, where nothing matters except the sensations. It all sounds very New Age and fanciful to me of course. What I care about the most is how well the body responds to stimulation. How much cream? And does it flow out like fat, lazy streaks of messy mayonnaise?

    Anyhow, I am driving, and in that air-conditioned room I have become nothing but a eager mouth and tongue. She struggles against the excruciating sensations, but her legs are trapped in stirrups, see. Toes curling, fingers digging into the chair, knuckles bare white. The super streamlined sports sedan is approaching maximum torque. I stop before it touches red. She's a mess, rattling all over. Had she been older, she would have pleaded for me to finish her off, but she's not, so she doesn't. I cup my mouth over hers. Breaking away, I ask her, "Who was I?"

    I park the car and walk towards the patio where she's sitting, looking as if nothing had happened just minutes ago.  

This is the state of the world now. Join the crowd, show off, preen and pose, drink expensive coffee, sojourn to shopping malls on the weekend. Which is why it's such a great comfort to have those little private moments to myself, sitting on the balcony smoking a cigarette while looking at the garbage trucks groan by.

 

Between the cusp where a day ends and the next one begins, the eyes have seen too much, the mind has thought too much, the body wants rest and the weary soul seeks a break from being. Reverberate, twang, sleep, dream.

There was once when I was young --- I can't remember exactly how young, but I think I was still in elementary school then, or perhaps I'd dreamt it all up for all I know --- and this girl who was a few years older than I was showed me her father's porn collection. There were magazines and there were video cassettes.

    Nothing spectacularly sexual happened between us that afternoon while my mother, her mother and a mutual friend played a noisy game of mahjong downstairs. I believe we cuddled, or perhaps she forced herself on me, or me her, the latter possibility being more remote given that up till then, I had only been exposed to fucking and sucking, as opposed to cuddling and smooching.

    I no longer remember what she looked like, this ethereal girl of the afternoon, and like the girl in this fleeting dream I once had during an afternoon nap, whom I kissed with such fervour and longing that upon waking, all that was left of her in my mind was the sensation of that kiss and her lips ---> soft as ice-cream.

    So when that attractive mother brushed past me at the cashier's counter today, I had no means of ascertaining if that twinge of familiarity was real or a mere figment of my imagination.

To get to the bathroom where she was, I had to go through a veritable maze of corridors and sets of doors; turn left, turn right, left again. The sound of a running shower became progressively louder as I approached the end of a corridor. I stood in front of the shut door for a few moments. Then I got down on one knee and squinted into the tiny hole on the door.

    The lines of her body had the perfection of a girlie magazine model. Her hair was tied back, but I couldn't see her face. I was keenly aware of the fact that I was totally capable of breaking down that door and forcing myself on her but I didn't because I didn't want to. I was more interested in spying on her than violating her physically.

    I unrolled a crumpled piece of mirror paper and slipped it under the door, and saw, from an upshot angle, a different perspective of her body. I remembered wondering to myself when they would mass-produce the kind of mirror paper that has recording capabilities as well.

   And so for the rest of the segment, I just knelt there and watched her go through the motions of taking a shower until I woke up and realised that I was late for an appointment.

A strange joy registers in me knowing that at least once a day, in a house somewhere in the city, she would remove her clothes, bra and all, and display those ridiculously large breasts for all the inanimate objects in her bathroom to see. She had a motherly, non-sexual mien that became for me, because of the sheer size of her breasts, perversely erotic and sexual. It gets even better seeing how she doesn't seem to be aware of the effect she has on some men, especially yours truly. (In all due respect, the visual contact was one-way; I was tucked away safely in the patio of Crab Tusks Coffee, eyes busy with the task of fulfilling my visual quota of the day.)

    What I really wanted was a chance to play with those breasts, to touch them and feel the weight of their reality in my hands. I would like to see them in various states of undress (have her pose for me willingly, bending over and re-enacting that primal scene with my bountiful neighbour). Come to think of it, the furthest I'd go would be to wank off till I ejaculate a sick amount of my seed all over her tits. Sex seems such a chore in the face of such exciting possibilities.

She was sweet and perfect, and everything that a man could ever ask for in a lover. She dreamt of monsters every night and neither he nor she could figure out why. The monsters become progressively bigger and scarier. She'd wake up screaming beside him, and told him that she was being chased, and running away, she plummeted into a neat hole on the pavement outlined with chalk. She would weep and he would hold her in his arms. It wasn't long before the bruises came. Blue and black they came till her eyes swelled shut.

    "What's the matter, haven't you seen a monster before? You've pretended for so long I thought you were starting to enjoy it."

    And so the battery continued, and he was the Energizer bunny that kept going and going till she became a limp, lifeless puddle on the living room floor, waiting for the chalk to outline her exit into a world without monsters.