Thursday, January 31, 2008

Being Sabine...

One of the great things about being evil, is that you get to posess people. Anyone you like. Whenever.

I know it's a commonly placed misconception that only demons and the devil can do these things, but that's not the case at all. God made it abundantly clear that you are either good, or you are evil. You can't be both. There are no increments of evil. Satan is no eviler than I am, he just saw a ripping good opportunity before the rest of us and went for it. So now you know, if you piss me off, I can totallly posess you, and make you do inumerable embarrassing things in public, the memories of which will horrify and torment you til the day you die in shame and isolation. If you don't piss me off, maybe we can go bowling or something. Who knows? That's another great thing about being evil- you can do what you want, whenever you want to.

Being evil rocks.

I still remember my first possession quite clearly. It was a bit like an acid trip actually, in that I was looking at the same reality, just through different eyes. Of course, it had to be a woman. A really fine woman. And yes, the first thing I did as her was masturbate. This turned out to be quite odd for two reasons. One, I possessed her the moment I saw her on the tram, and it felt less evil and more just plain weird to furiously finger my newly acquired mons venus with all of those university students watching, and a couple of others offering their assistance. I should have saved that experience for when I was at home, alone, in retrospect.

The second reason it was weird is because pretty much as soon as she got herself going, so to speak, all she could think about was how much she really needed some cock. The irony wasn't lost on me, in that I had plenty of cock, only it was still firmly connected to my other body. I certainly didn't like the thought of anyone elses cock, but as much as it would have been relatively easy to mount my real body on the opposite seat, and fuck myself as it were, that would amount to rape, and I wasn't going there.

I may be evil, but I'm nice about it.

Come to think of it, it was also a bit odd to climax, and not have anythiong come shooting out of me, aside from the obligatory "Ooh's!" and "Ahh's!". It was nothing short of gross to catch her saying "Daddy" too. This host clearly wasn't a stranger to the ways of evil herself. It felt nothing short of alien, to walk past myself, as she got off the tram as well.

Once she got home, she checked her wallet, and saw with satisfaction that her name was Sabine Dyer, and she was a columnist for Vogue. Not bad at all. She jumped on the internet and downloaded a reasonably awesome picture of me, and submitted it to her editor, along with a piece on how I am the future of fashion in this country. Then she had a relaxing bath, and watched her boobs poking out from below the bubbles. The kinds of things women generally take for granted.

So what was different? Well, walking for one. The way Sabines legs rolled off her hips was amazing. She felt a lot taller than I am, even though she's not. I did keep freaking out and wondering where all my tattoos had gone though.

And she was very gentle. Just touching things felt new. Drinking a glass of water was almost sexual. The way she would gently grasp the glass, her skin soft and responsive, and raise it to her lips. She would slide the rim of the glass over her bottom lip, until it rested on the tip of her tongue. And the water would slide over her tongue, and into her throat in little sips, her perfect lips pouting as she swallowed. Contrast this to the way I drink- I generally just aim the glass toward the general area of my face and throw the liquid at it. It works most of the time, even if it does feel a little like drowning.

Being Sabine was like a holiday in zero gravity.

I could feel sensations again that as a guy, I had long stopped feeling. After a couple of days I also felt the beginnings of one particular sensation I had no desire to get to know. That's when I left.

I wrote her a note, and left it on her fridge door. It said "Sabine- the reason you have a hazy memory of the last few days is because you possessed by pure evil. The bad news is- you have gained 2 kilograms. The good news is- you have stopped smoking! Don't forget to bring the washing in later...looks like rain".

It was quite educational to see how men stuttered, fell over, and crashed their cars as she passed. Also, how women were super-nice until her back was turned. I loved having a flat stomach, and naturally straight hair. Crying for no reason wasn't much fun. I felt bad for making her eat too much.

Speaking of which, when I left Sabine, and rejoined my body, I found I had been locked up at the psych ward. Apparently leaving your body on a number 57 tram with an expired ticket, covered in 2 days worth of excrement, and with an erection, is frowned upon by society. Had it been a St Kilda tram, no one would have noticed, but like I said before, it was all pretty spur of the moment.

I eventually explained that someone had slipped something into my drink, and that I was very sorry for all the fuss, and they let me go.

I caught a tram home in my freshly laundered clothing, and halfway up the tram, was Sabine.

She was smiling, and looking out the window. What was she looking at? Well I really couldn't tell you. Because the blind was closed.

Keep an eye out for me in Vogue.


This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Friday, January 11, 2008

Digging you up again.

I remember the way you used to smile.
It would start cautiously, like a thought, and a moment after, it would break like a wave, and wash over everyone.
Your eyes would flash, your teeth equally white.
Everyone wanted you but you.
And I'm so sorry you died.

I remember the way you used to laugh.
It would crack open like a pop can, filling the air with mirth and infecting all in attendance in the same way a virus does, only much faster moving, and a great deal more welcome.
Like if Gucci did virii- designer malaise.
But you didn't laugh when you wore your last tie.
And I'm so sorry you died.

I remember, most of all, your warmth.
Your easy company, your gentle peace. The way you could transmit contentedness like a radio wave, so all the people in your vicinity could tune in and roll on your emotional selection.
You were a beacon of calm in an otherwise tempestuous sea.
And I'm so sorry you died.

I remember you all again tonight, from straight out of the blue.
I was doing laundry when it occurred to me, that smile, that laugh, that warmth.
And I felt so guilty, for not thinking of you all more often.
I was occupying myself with life...with the thing you all lack, and can never have again.

I don't know where any of you are buried, I doubt I'll ever stand at your graves.
So this choking, rising lump inside stays with me like take out. I can have it at home.

A convenient kind of desperate loss, a no-fuss kind of mourning.

And the worst part is, I think that if you were all alive, we'd probably have drifted long apart by now...we wouldn't talk, or stay in touch. And so, just as in the past, I wouldn't know your respective grief.

Leaving you open once again, to die at your own hands.

I am so very sorry, that you died.


This is knifey, from 'the internet'.