Thursday 9 August 2012

The welts on my chest were still raw. It'll take a few days to understand my three hours with Madame X. But I knew that each lash hastened the withdrawal of all my projections and so I had a feeling of renewal, of sentience. Later that day, as I drove to the castle to see Rubens, I opened the window and could smell the rain in the air.

It pains me to sit down so, by necessity, this will be short. But I was in a receptive mood as I entered the State Apartments. The self portrait shows Rubens on a horse, his black felt hat tipped at an angle, looking out with his usual curiosity, his energy checked only by the grace of a certain reserve. Yet this self portrait shows him in motion. He is on business, perhaps a diplomatic mission. But is he running from himself, too? Above his head an angelic nymph is catching up with him, ready to crown him with laurels. He looks startled enough to know he must keep riding, must keep on track with the world, it's business, he must keep on playing the part. So what was my master telling me? All this, as Rilke would say, is mission. People walking by with rucsacks, coloured shorts, cotton.  Carefully, I put my hand inside my shirt, running a finger over each welt.

Wednesday 8 August 2012

My liaison with Helen has lasted four years. Our longevitiy is based on the understanding, one I had very early on, that it would only work between us if she had all the power. This is her prerogative because, in short, we don't get on very well. As a gentlemen, I owe her the power if we are to continue sexual relations. So she will finish with me, have other affairs, then start with me again. While she can occasionally split off her sexual and emotional life, my ability to do so is much greater, if not infinite. As she will always hurt more than me, so I owe her. If that means being summoned to Legoland, fine.

She was on a bench, near The Land of the Vikings. I was happy to see her gazing at people as they passed. Obviously there were no weighty issues going on, I was forgiven. Every adult in the whole place looked stunned with boredom. Helen, in fact, seemed to be the only person with any curiosity. It made her, wearing a denim skirt and white shirt, very attractive. If only we didn't have to speak.

Shall we have ice cream?

She pulled a face. Tea?

We headed for a kiosk. Why do people come here?

So they don't have to talk to each other, she said, smiling. For a moment, we were as close as we ever could be. To keep her in this calm, reflective mood it was best to ask direct, but tangenital questions.

Where are the kids?

She shrugged. You know, I thought I had accepted not having children of my own years ago. But it took me a lot longer, perhaps until recently.

I nodded, appreciating her honesty, but aware of looking as though I had always known this, which I had. She pointed to a patch of grass, near to a wooded area.  As we sat down with our teas, I was lost for tangenital questions so I responded like a therapist.

What does that acceptance feel like?

She looked sideways at me, as if surprising herself. Like a wide open field, she said.  For a moment, we saw the wide open field together. I had always expected my liasons with Helen to survive her other affairs. But for the first time I sensed this wide open field may not include me. If that was the case, I'd accept it. I want her to be happy with someone who loves her. Perhaps I had conveyed my thoughts because, turning to face her, I saw her pupils were dilated. She was aroused. Pressing her skirt over her knees, she stood up. I followed her into the wooded area. There was a large tree on a downward slope. With an ease that was practical rather than seductive, she undid my belt and leant against the tree. I lifted her skirt and put two fingers deep inside her. She squeezed hard. I put another finger inside. We held the position, and breathed evenly, not to orgasm, but as if trying to press our bodies into a memory.

Returning to the grass, we finished our tea. There was a text from Helen's stepdaughter. Where are the doughnuts!!! Making a decision not be sarcastic about her, Helen turned to me, as if confiding.

How's Thom?

Oh, he's  a complete nut case, I said, generously, as if my clever son were much harder work than her thick stepdaughter. And with that, perhaps closer than we'd ever been, I let her go back to them. It's possible that Helen and I will never liaise again, but perhaps I have helped her know her situation and, maybe, that is enough. On the way out, I decided to buy an ice cream.

Tuesday 7 August 2012

I had been feeling flabby. Waking at dawn to the sound of seagull. Even they were more articulate. Through the skylight, even these mongrel birds knew the quick of themselves, they defined the air they flew in. Next to them, I was a lazy slob. How can anyone compare with a bird? To them, we are slugs. It's no wonder they have nothing to do with us. And so it was, prey to the whims of myself, others, and the birds in the sky, it was clear I needed a break. I decided to go to the State Apartments at Windsor Castle to see my master.

I still felt a strong urge for male company but George wasn't cutting the mustard. And K. was out of town. He was in the Netherlands buying books. But at least he was telling me the same lies he was telling his wife. But the need for male company was so strong that, finally, only a woman could answer it. I put a call to Axel to ask if he remembered a Madame X, from an unforgettable party off the coast of Kos. Well, my old friend remembered her and she was now living and working in Henley. Geographically, this was working out very well. And the masculine comes in many forms. Even better, on sunday Helen rang. She was taking the day off on tuesday to see her stepdaughter and step grandaughter at Legoland.  A relationship that was always strained, a theme park was the obvious place for them to avoid history. Without mentioning the nature of the coincidence, I said that I was in the same area that day and so we agreed to meet for a toffee apple.

Monday, my Master. It occured to me that by choosing to meet Madame X and my Master in such proximity I was, perhaps, in need of some parenting. So I began to work out the sites, and the events, that I would ask Madame X to visit upon my body. I was also mindful that I was developing a cough, and would factor it in. S & M is the most beneficial act that anyone can do to another. It promotes physical and emotional wellbeing through a psychology of the body and, as such, complements all work on the soul. I have had many conversations with administrators arguing the benefits of having S & M on the NHS. I was always considered a perverse Englishman, not to say insane but, with the continued advance of western capitalism, it will happen eventually. It'll also open a whole new career option for women. They could be trained up in Axel's Academy of Erotic Arts. Mmm, but I would insist on the importance of the psychology component of the course. Anyone can learn technique, but what is that without intention? Anyway, until then, it will cost us all a small fortune. In fact, I could have brought Thom his first car with the money it cost for three hours with Madame X but, no matter.

First Helen, in Legoland.

Sunday 5 August 2012

Thom wants to take up Judo.  I'll endorse anything physical so this afternoon saw us grappling in the garden, under the watchful eye of our neighbour, Ms. Lavinlaw and, as Thom pointed out, a few out of season Redwings. Though, to be fair, they were in a distant larch tree.

Oak, said Thom.

Eh?

They are in the Oak.


Yup, right enough. There were a few birds in Ms. Lavinlaw's oak. The birds didn't have red wings, not as such, but I was learning to be selective in challenging my son. Nevertheless, I made a mental note to purchase Thorburn's Birds of the British Isles, later that evening, complete in five volumes. So, judo. Having always wrestled with my father I'd retained a few moves so I grabbed Thom's lapels. Hey wait, he said. I want to do the nage waza, he said. And then we'll do the koshi waza. My hands fell to my side. Had he just taught himself Japanese? What, while I was boiling the kettle? And when I do that you can do the sutemi waza, he added. No, he'd just crammed twenty years judo in overnight. I had always taught him that soul was in the detail but I wasn't standing for this nonsense. I grabbed his lapels again and pulled him over my leg, holding him over the ground, not quite throwing him down. Sustained by the tension, he forced himself upright. We relaxed the grip and, for a moment, I imagined picking him up and throwing him over the hedge. Instead, in an instant, Thom jumped up and threw his arms round my neck, clinging to me. Come on count, he said, see how long I can hold on. We hadn't played this game since he was four years old. What would Ms. Lavinlaw be thinking? I'll get my revenge later, I thought. This'll buy me half an hour spying time. Come on count! He did forty eight seconds. He'd beaten his record by three.

Friday 3 August 2012

I was in dire need of male company. I called George and told him I would bring an Indian round. He said that would be just dandy. When I arrived, he was in the kitchen, wearing his Hitler apron and preparing a Mumbai salad. I was reminded of Karen's gadgets on her arms and I wondered at this mania for control. On the other hand, maybe I should have offered George a choice. When I called, offering to bring an Indian round, the word resounded in my mouth as if I were offering to bring a harem to his door and so what could any man say but, that would be just dandy. To have said that, in fact, his preference tonight was for Indonesian, or Chinese,  or even Malaysian, would have been tantamount to deep perversion, possibly one that even our wide experience could never have allowed. But all the same, when I arrived he would be wearing his Hitler apron and making a Mumbai salad just to let me know what a bully I am. My christ, who needs women when you have men like George?

Thursday 2 August 2012

Falling asleep with Walter's fantasies, and my own, all of them oiling the furthest reaches of my cranium, I was bound to wake up sweating, and so I did. Yet, while my mind was a cinemascape of porn this felt less like a dream, more a memory. But I couldn't be sure it was personal. Was I even in the dream? Jung would say I had tapped into an archetype and, certainly, the dream had the heavy, pounding quality that reminded me of dreams whenever I was ill. I rubbed my eyes, it was only 10 pm. I got dressed, went downstairs. I needed to leave the house because if I had tapped into a collective unconscious of porn, then I wanted to drive away, far away. Ideally, I wanted to give my mind away to the first stranger I met, like a free parking ticket. After all, why should I carry the burden? And maybe somebody could make better use of it. I started the car, flicked the headlights, and drove slowly, like a skunk. It was then, lit only by the streetlights on the seafront, that I saw Karen. She was jogging.

She had never been running before, or shown any interest in any sport, so to see her now, running hard in black hot pants felt like a betrayal. I followed her slowly. She had a gadget glowing on her arm. Was that her phone? On her other arm was another, smaller device.  She looked like a hospital patient on the run. What was she monitoring? Calories? Distance? Her distance over time, vis a vis the calories, tabulated to her body mass? What would all this information tell her that I could not? I wanted to run after her, clasp her arms, shake some sense into her. Her body had been many things to me, we carved our histories, our stories onto each other, it had never been a machine. Only my master had painted more beautiful bodies than hers. I was losing her all over again. I drove slowly, at a distance. The streetlight showed the definition of her calf muscles. And yet, I could see the attraction. A hard, anonymous beauty. She turned off on to the promenade and I lost sight of her.

Wednesday 1 August 2012

Alanis...!

Who...?

From the exhibition?

She wants to book a session. I suggested we go for coffee first, get an idea of her needs. It must have sounded an unprofessional proposition but, in fact, it was either coffee on a wobbly, metallic table or my black leather couch with wall to wall of, currently, Japanese erotica. The young have no idea that to do a decent job of work you have to get your hands dirty. So, I was protecting her, no?

I'd rather meet at your office, if that's ok?

Well, that's possible, but it's normal practice for me to have an initial chat, usually in a cafe.

Yet, she agreed. But there was a method to my madness. We had met in a social context, one where flirting is the currency, and we exuded the appropriate hormones until George intervened. If we are to do any therapuetic work we will have to acknowledge my attraction in the very first session. It'd take us a year to work through that revelation, segueing nicely on to three years of father issues. She's pretty, but not for me. I'll have coffee and warn her off. Give her Gareth's number, or Helen's. Nice to have her round the place. Mmm, Helen's number. Gareth has no time for people's dreams. For him, her tunnel would be Freudian, and that would upset everybody.

An early night. I'll take Walter's Secret Life to bed, volume one, god help me.