The starlet of his wet dreams

Starlet of his wet dreams


I hit play and watched myself in the recording. But what I saw isn’t what I remembered.

Realizing that you’re the starlet of someone’s wet dreams is always a pleasant, yet somewhat bothersome discovery. You are the subject of one’s desire, manifested in the motion pictures which project from their subconscious in the cinema of their mind.

Yet with great fame comes great stress. It is because of your celebrity status that you must work harder to uphold the reputation you have built within five minutes of strolling across the aisles with your big hips…before the train crashes.

So embedded into one’s memory, they don’t even realize their mind is possessed.

I am always astounded by my versatility. In one intense character study drama…I am beneath his hands in submission, writhing and begging for him to keep his weight on me, and never stop loving me as each thrust leaves battle scars on my thighs. In the next fetish flick, I am squeezing his testicles with my sharp, red talons, as I spit on his face and laugh at his pathetic cries for mercy.

In yet another scandalous love story, I am screaming another man’s name in the peak of orgasm – because who doesn’t like a good cuckold every now and again…

Sometimes, I am the other woman. The Taboo. The guilty pleasure.

Each film, regardless of the perils a journey may bring,  has a happy ending.

Chapter One – What dreams may come

“Who is your muse?”

The therapist asks, as she scribbles penises of all shapes and sizes onto the lines of her notebook, each one perfectly symmetrical and fitting neatly between the lines.

He answers, “The starlet of my wet dreams.”

In his mind, she will win the award for best actress – the trophy of his heart. In the after party to celebrate her victory, she will also be treated to custom champagne, infused with his blood.

“Her gentle petitions for my undivided attention light a fire in my loins, I can scarcely remember to breathe as the blood courses violently through my veins,” he continues. This time, with his elbows pressed against his widespread knees, as he rolls up the sleeves of his shirt to reveal the bulging veins in his tanned forearms.

“I want nothing more than her lips around my cock. I want to smell the perfume of her luscious mane, as her curls spread and tumble over my stomach like branches of ivy. I want to see her dewy brown eyes gazing up into mine, like the earth gazes up at the sky after it has unleashed a downpour of rain in April.”

The therapist looks up from her notepad, her knickers suddenly feel very warm and sticky between her thighs. She begins to wonder what his tongue would feel like, buried in the folds of her rose petals.

“I want her to take me in every way her body can accept visitors – the front door, the back, and all the windows in between. I promise I will be gentle though, because she is my most favorite starlet in the firmament.”

The therapist interjects, “No.”

She commands him with her stilettoes, gliding up from groin, to navel, to nose. She tears each button out of place as she encounters them.  She unties her unruly locks, as they tumble and dance around her heaving bosom.

“It seems like you need to relinquish some control.”

“I am going to sit on your face, and you are going to breathe in every bit of my essence until you can breathe no more. For I own the very breath that fills your lungs.”

Next thing he knows, she’s got his wrists tied above his head. His nipples are bruised with clamps each time he so much as utters a single question to his mistress. His buttocks and thighs sting with lashes of whips and paddles, and his arse hole is raw and quivering with the aftershock of the electric drill which has just penetrated him.

And yet, his erection still stands – bare and stained with the residue of his last premature ejaculation, for which he is now atoning by way of submission to an array of creative and torturous punishments.

“You have been a very dirty boy.”

Chapter two – That’s not me

 He continues watching the recording.

“The star of the show looks a lot like me, but he is not me.”

This is what the man thinks, upon watching a self-discovery video documenting the progress of his treatment, shown to him during his 13th session of therapy.

In the video, he is being aggressively pegged by his Mistress. He is coming, ocean loads spraying everywhere as he begs her to continue violating him.

 “Make a slut out of me, starlet of my wet dreams.”

“You are doing so well,” the therapist croons, her red nails dancing on the back of his neck, making each little hair stand at attention. She encircles his throat, piercing the flesh…

He knows he shouldn’t grovel for the abuse which both emasculates and reduces him to nothing more than a doormat, and yet he cannot help but escape to the dirty secrets that so excite and inflame him.

“That’s not me. But what’s the harm in coming over a fantasy?”

Chapter three – Heaven is no place for us

“I wonder what death feels like?”

He thinks out loud, his head on his therapist’s lap. She is stroking his hair with her talons; he begins to suck his thumb.

“Various schools of thought accept the theory that the human orgasm is a psychological holiday from the conscious mind. Perhaps the departure of one’s soul to the abyss of death could be experienced as a holiday from the age, weariness, and confines of the human body.”

He smiles at the thought, “Oh my Goddess Supreme. May I continue to worship you in heaven when I die. I don’t ever want to leave you.”

She laughs, and pinches his nipple, twisting the flesh with her fingernails…

“Heaven is no place for us.”



We often think of paranoia in the context of irrational projections of our own personal conflicts, due to perceived (although perhaps sometimes real) judgment imposed by those who surround us.

But what happens when it is ourselves we do not trust?

As independent as we like to think we are, collective normality – or what we believe to be such – is the only reassurance when our own bodies revolt against us, leaving us to suffer from new and excruciating experiences.

I remember the first time I white-spelled from a spliff. We sent smoke signals from sugarcane fields, but upon finding no sweet nectar, embarked on a quest for munchies to satisfy our voracious appetites.

As my eyes hovered over a wide range of vibrant and sparkling packets of crisps, suddenly the world around me went white….and then black.

I was alone.

I was afraid.

“I’m fucking blind!” – I wanted to scream. Instead, the words trickled out of me in a quivering whimper, repeatedly, like those who chant for mercy upon undergoing a violent exorcism.

Fortunately for me, I was in good company. My head fell onto his shoulder, and as he stroked my hair to the rhythm of my sobs and splutters, he said these words:

“Don’t worry, this happens to me all the time.”


I was not alone.

I was not afraid.

The shared experience reassured me. I was not an alien. I belonged.

It is this same reassurance which has enabled me to make peace with other significant, yet at the time of first encounter highly unsettling, novel sensations within my body, mind, and heart. All of which had initially provoked me to believe I was isolated in my experiences.

There was my first UTI, where I was convinced I had broken one of the most precious entrances to my being through wreckless promiscuity. My first serious bout of depression, where escape from life was contemplated on the daily. The first time I was ever struck down by someone who claimed to love me, which nurtured the weed of self-loathing and guilt over simply existing.

And yes, as independent as I am, and as much as I love my own company, nobody wants to be alone when they feel pain. Misery truly loves company.

And when we are alone in our suffering, isolation becomes deafening. Panic grips us, and we feel ourselves falling into a dark abyss with no hope of recovery.

Cold water surrounds us and our pupils begin to freeze over, as our arms swish about in desperate attempts to plunge through the surface. But just when we think we’ll survive, the tides keep rising…lifting oxygen beyond reach just a little bit more…

We want to scream. Instead, water fills our lungs. We drown. Alone.

We are doomed to exist in a body that does not respond to the commands of our own minds. We fear what we are capable of, and how we may alienate or damage ourselves as a result of our own foolish actions.

It’s the fear of accidentally leaving the oven on, and burning the house down when you’re alone at home.

It’s the crippling anxiety that sends uncontrollable shivers down your cold and naked body after a shower in winter.

It’s the compulsiveness to check your handbag at least 100 times to make sure to have your boarding pass and passport before embarking on a new adventure that both excites and terrifies you.

Hello self-doubt, what an unpleasant surprise. I was expecting you at 3:00am before my next job interview. Oh wait, I don’t want the fucking job…so why would I care anyway?

Although solitary animals (myself included) live alone to avoid egotistical competition against other members of their own species, exceptions must occasionally be made. Even if only to reaffirm that we are capable of expressing ourselves by way of the vocal tract.

Through laughing at the absurdity of British politics today, or crying after a series of excruciating boardroom meetings. Through screaming in ecstasy at the peak of climax with an ex-lover who’s been back for a quick fix to indulge waves of lustful nostalgia, because arriving together in orgasm were the only moments where you both ever truly felt in sync throughout your entire relationship.

Keep me warm.

Keep me safe.

Touch me.

Don’t touch me.

But whatever you do, even if we sit together in silence, let us occasionally share experiences.

But ultimately, let us converse with darkness. Let us explore ourselves, our insecurities and our vulnerabilities. Let us understand ourselves, so that we may understand why we distrust ourselves.

Let us make peace with our paranoia.

Sex Stories

I have so many sex stories.

I have fucked a mechanical bull once,

No really, he was a Taurus,

An algorithm,

Operating on the data

Of far too many porn films.


I’ve had hate sex,

Those sessions are always fun.

A perfect storm of strangling, choking,

Biting, clawing at lightening bolts,

Of revenge,


In ecstasy.


I have made a man whimper,

The star was born…

Announcing his arrival

In 3, 2, 1 format…

Exploding all over the stage

In clumsy abandon.


There was passion in Porto.

I’m sorry Paris,

Maybe someday,

I will set your streets ablaze

Allow roots to grow in my heart.

But the volcano erupted,


In Porto.


Oh how we fucked

Dancing, intertwining

Watching our bodies burn,

From our reflection in the mirror,

Kissing every inch of my flesh,

Worshipping me.


I am writing a book. I cannot promise it will be completed in a year, or even a lifetime. That being said, I am baked, and I am shooting to profit from the universe of my infinite imagination.

Not to mention, I think society could benefit from these tales of vulnerability and desire. I have learned so much from my encounters, and being in the presence of naked women and men. The human nature is as evil as it is ridiculous, and one can act wisely with resilience to withstand the consequences of their own honesty, both with themselves and those around them. Others foolishly bulldoze their way to the destruction of the planet, and all living beings.

I am so fortunate. So very, very blessed to have acquired this insight into the psychological makeup of humans in their most raw and honest form.

To be continued, maybe…