I woke up with a hard on. Oh. It was Wednesday - sex day. Bing Bong Boo Ching Chong Choo The hour is 9 Let's take another sickie. I'll be dead at the end of the week, so my work record hardly matters now. I got my hard on out of bed and took it downstairs. On the phone: Secretary: Database Management Systems Pty Ltd. Jeffrey Knight: Jeffrey Knight, the Knight's Knight, Knight of the Night here. S: Good Morning Mr Knight. How can I help you? J K: Tell the boss I'll be working from home today. I'll be in tomorrow. S: Fine. J K: Bye S: Bye OK, that frees up my day a little. Let's take care of this hard on. I go to my Porn Room and have a wank. That done, it's breakfast time. I heat myself up a little feast, eat it, then take a shit. The morning essentials over, I can now sit in my room and philosophise. Philosophy - now there's a nice word. Originally from the Greek - philo "to love" and sophos 'wisdom". Philosophy - the love of wisdom. The Greeks had it, and so do we. Just got to read the right books. And the philosopher's stone. A substance to transmute lead to gold - the leaden steps of old age to the golden sprite of youth. But its not a substance, it's a mental state. Think - and it shall be. Sex. I need another wank. Excuse me. Bing Bong Boo Ching Chong Choo The hour is 10 Ah, that feels better. I'm oversexed - I don't deny it - but I think I've found a way of controlling it. Indulge all my sexual urges on one day - on Wednesdays. Today is sex day. A day of unabashed adultery and uninhibited urges - a day worthy of a great Marqui. Sex. Sex sex. Sex sex sex. SEX! Today is sex day, both with myself and others, though mainly the former, both for convenience and cost. But its questionable whether masturbation can be described as sex - it's fake sex, practice sex, as well as being safe sex. Sex. Sex sex. Sex sex sex. SEX! If you repeat it enough times, the word starts to lose meaning and significance, though this happens to all words. Its called desensitisation. The psychologists explain the effect as a consequence of internal looping. A thing only has meaning when referenced to at least one other thing. Anything alone, solus, in a vacuum has no meaning. Meaning is a referential system. But let's have that one again Sam. Sex. Sex sex. Sex sex sex. SEX! And that's my theory and practice here. If I desensitize myself to sex, it will no longer distract me. Not that I'm religious about it - sex isn't evil or sinful - it's a natural act that's extremely pleasurable - but being an exceptionally haemoglobin-blooded male, I find its urgings a little intrusive at times. That's why I'm trying to control it. Sex. Sex sex. Sex sex sex. SEX! SEX! SEX! S E X! Does the word still have any meaning for you? It does for me - today's sex day. I think I'll have another wank. Excuse me. (Jeffrey Knight leaves. The sound of pages turning furiously, and the sound of squishy membranes. Ohh! Ahh! Ahh! Jeffrey Knight returns, a little flustered, and breathing heavily). Ahh. Bianca was nice today, and so too was Devon. She's a lubricious piece of meat that one. Geez I'm horny today. I better arrange a meeting for tonight. My hand won't be company enough today. I get out my little black book (every Bachelor's best friend) and have a flip through. Here we go, this one's the one for me. Downstairs, dialing, dialing ... Call Girl #5: Hello? Jeffrey Knight: Hi. It's Jeffrey Knight here. #5: Oh, hi there Mr Knight. How are you? J K: As good as dead. Are you free tonight? #5: Free for you. J K: You're a sweetie, but I'll pay nonetheless. 8 at my place? #5: 8's a date. See you then. J K: Bye #5: Bye. That fixes things. #5's a hot piece. But then again, so are most call girls. Call girls are top of the range when it comes to money-for-sex. Independent, young, intelligent - they choose the profession, and they choose to stay in it. The money's outrageous, and the work's safe and simple. Let me tell you about the life of call girls. The majority are from middle class families. The rich don't need it, and the poor become common prostitutes. Call girls are discreet; though their clients even more so. Their clients are the illustrious, the wealthy, and the respectable. The illustrious, the wealthy, and the respectable, horny penises of society. These are the top ranking businessmen, the politicians, and the clergy. The men who can't afford to get caught, let alone have the whiff of a sniff of a scandal following them. When they get horny, and their wives don't suffice, they call a call girl. The call girl. How to become one? Usually the friend of a friend of a friend - want to make some easy money? - is how they're hooked. If you've got the looks and brains, this friend-friend sells you a short client list - "Call up at a discreet time, and say you're a friend of mine. Would you like to meet sometime? If it's a go, you give me half of the first three tricks. I help you, and you help me.' No intermediaries, no pimps, no madams, no coppers, no risks. Just pure pay. Easy, safe, and big money. But this money gets spent. Clients pay top dollar, and expect a top product. Money goes into chic clothing, beauty salons, and expensive makeup. A nice apartment/house isn't cheap either. But the call girl isn't just a fuck. She's a cultured, elegant woman. Sometimes clients want a quasi-escort girl, and they don't want to spend the evening with a dull-block. Up to date with the news, and well read, is an expectation. So by this description, you can see that the 20C call girl is a modern reincarnation of a 15C practice - the courtesan of Venice. The call girl is highly desirable and highly desired. If you can afford it - enjoy it! But right now, I need another wank. (More squishy membrane noises, more moans and groans; Jeffrey Knight returns). Ah! that was a good one. Good on you April, Tiffany, and Stacy! That was great! Bing Bong Boo Ching Chong Choo The hour is 11. Have I shown you my Porn Room? No? Follow me then. It's the room next door (though no girl there, none live anyway), next to mine and next to the other. The bathroom is separate, and completes the four-fold second-storey family. Welcome! to the room of single sex. The door is like the other three, white, with a shiny silver knob. Knob that you stupid prick! Sorry, sorry, get a hold of yourself Jeffrey. Yes, the door has a shiny silver knob, plated wood, very unusual. The door opens in, and woough! your eyes would boggle. There are pictures of naked women everywhere! On the walls, on the ceiling, lining the single table that sits in the centre of the room. Posters, centrefolds, little cutouts that I've found cute, erotica pulled from the past. There is nakedness and seaminess everywhere. On the floor, lying against the walls, are piles and piles of porn, ordered alphabetically and stacked chronologically. Here is a sample of the stuff that I've collected: Busen, Busen Extra, Barely Legal, Barely Illegal, Black and White Climax Club, Color Climax Gent, Girls do Girls, Girls do Guys, Guys do Girls High Society, Hustler Leg Show, Low Society Mayfair Nugget Over 40's, Over 50's, Over 60's, Octogenerian Penthouse, Playboy, Pirate It would be a porn store by any other name. The stacks of euromags, normal and large format, little fiction fillers, astounds even me at times. It's a large collection. So get in, have a rummage, look around. Just make sure you put things back in the right order. I'm a stickler for sequence. Lots of magazines, no videos though. Too expensive, and too much hassle. Give me the pictures, and I'll supply the 24 frames per second! A box of tissues sits on top of the table, a small bin underneath. It's about half full with soggy deposits. It gets emptied about once a month. The windows are heavily curtained, and the light adjustable to a low dim. It's a private world of self-satisfaction. Enough, let's have lunch! I skipped downstairs. I prepared a large feast. Yesterday's plunders were unplundered, then replundered. Ever had a reheated Doner Kebab? Not very nice, but food nonetheless. Some chico rolls, and some cooked sushi too. That's nice. And fat fat fat, some K K, KFC. Yum. Yum Tum. Oh man. I'm full. A feast for breakfast, and a feast not long after. But sex makes you hungry. In the physical act, the Elvis Pelvis thrusting, the motion potion energies are consumed. Seed is expensive. Indian gurus will tell you it takes 100 drops of blood to make 1 drop of semen. Chinese Taoists believe that semen is the very life force of man, and to spill it, is to spill life itself. And so I've eaten to restore life. I waddle my way back upstairs and have another wank. Bing Bong Boo Ching Chong Choo The hour is 12 I'm absolutely exhausted. The day 3 hours old, I collapse into bed, and into sleep. It's a troubled sleep. I dream; of women and wine, and all things fine; of the lamp of the sun, and the lamp of the moon. I dream of death and his midnight words - "7 more days and 7 more nights, of course he's dead, he's dead, he's dead, measure of spiritual development, under 4 inches, you're just inadequate..." The face of a smiling girl, her head smashed in, a car wreck ... Placing 21st in my first half marathon. 21st over 21km ... And then Death, with the smile of Mcbeth, cold dark death ... Crossing a bay by the water, getting trapped by the tide, scared, scared ... Glory of graduation, a perfect record, proud, proud ... Car wreck, dark night, head smashed in, no, no ... I woke in a sweat. Bing Bong Boo Ching Chong Choo The hour is 2 The hour is 2, what a wasted day. Let's do something useful, let's take these books back, back to my old uni library, back to my alma mater. Alma mater, alma mater Mater, mater, mater, mater Alma mater, alma mater Hater, hater, hater, hater Come sing a song with me With me, with me, with me I'm going back to school Hey ho, hey ho, hey ho Breaking into spontaneous song, I empty my backpack of every content, then repack assiduously. Books here, notes here, muesli bars there, pen there. Pen dare. Stab! stab! stab! All packed, all dressed, the day is ready to begin. Let's go! I step out the door, locking it behind me, and down the road, down to the bus-stop-start. The same as before, you know, the one with the sign, but there's no-one here, being so late, but everything'll be right, my hardy good mate. Same bus-stop-start, but different bus. This one goes to the uni, my old uni, though not exclusively. A uni bus, though not only a uni bus. A uni-multi bus. I don't have long to wait, with the streets so clear, and the tickets so dear, and I'm soon on board and on my way. What a great day! The sun's out, his supernal shine as bright as any bright summer's day. No wind, no chill; no cloud, no shroud; it was a beautiful day. O what a beautiful day, hey O what a beautiful day, say When the sun is out And the flowers do sprout I just want to say, hey O what a beautiful day! Imagine the music, and the choreographed steps, all on a moving bus, and you have a scene worthy of 7 Days: The Film. O it was a happy day, a happy day to be out. I was happy to be alive and dead in 4 days. The bus rolled, the bus tolled. Rolled on the bitchumen, told me nothing but in a mad german scent. The bus stopped, the bus popped. Stopped a few times for the lights or the mites; popped, popped, popped, with the pistons firing. In a short time we were there - University Avenue. A few late starters unbundled out, and I too stepped onto the hallowed campus grounds. Thank God for hallowed campus grounds! Ah university! Seat of so many of the future's hopes, the western world's primary advantage - brain workers. The capital of the 21st Century. But here we are, the centrepiece of the campus, oif any campus, the university library. It was only after I had finished by degree that I came to appreciate the importance of this one building. Destroy all the rest, but you'll be able to reconstruct the whole from this one, this accumulated treasury of centuries. Here we are! The crux, the fulcrum. Situated in the centre; betweeb north and south, east and west, this is the place where all paths come. This undecadent Rome, this secular Church, this boggle-box of books is a wonderful place. All Hail! and salute the noble façade. Its grey lichen walls present a paternal face to the faces that come. The simple base is simple concrete; higher up, on higher levels, we have a patterned prease, giant squares; some with the middle punched out, some linking resolutely to the next, some gently rounded; but all formidable. Here the architects have shown some flair; their higher thoughts saved for higher men. All Hail! I entered; the sliding doors unsliding for my presence, I said a quick prayer to my GP. It was still a bustle; uni students on the hustle. I found a quiet spot up in religion; the BJ-BX's if you're in Congress, or the 200's if you're in Dewey. It was quiet here; modern man and ancient religion are not closely allied. I got to work; this should take a couple of hours. Scanning over the outlines again, I grasped a mental picture of the entire project. It was a fairly standard design. My boss and team leader had done most of the specs; these just needed a little expanding. Founded on COBOL and DB2, rather than a more snazzy C and Oracle combination, I didn't disapprove. Lot's of large corporations still use the former design; it's proven software. C and Oracle justify the extra cost in only a few special cases. So I made a few notes here and there, a few remarks, and Bing Bong Boo Ching Chong Choo The hour is 4. I leave the library, and walk to the back of the uni. Here's a map of things: The back of the uni is green and grassy - it's a place to lunch and ball. There's sporting facilities, eating areas, and pleasantness all round. The front of the uni handles the logistics - public transport, car parks, uni admin, etc. Security guards breed here. The east block is science, the west art; the BSc student greets the morning sun, his BA brother dwells in sinking light. Worlds apart. The library, holding central position, is not quite as large as indicated (in fact, considerably smaller) but in my mind's eye it has the importance it deserves. This, in short, is my uni. Back of the uni, late afternoon, the day had quietened, yet still a few frisbee-ers around. I found a deserted hillock which was still lit by a dying light. It was autumn; chill was not far off, it would be twilight in an hour, and dark at 6. I lay down and had a stretch. I felt peaceful. My arms extended, and so too my legs. Like a star. I eyeballed the sun. Hello! Hello! Its moments like this to live for. True peace and contentment. A tiny slice of Nirvana's cake. Ahh. I took it in. Bing Bong Boo Ching Chong Choo The hour is 5. Time to go, there's a bus real soon. Cold has come, so I moved busily from the back of the uni to the front, from the green to the grey. Oggh! It was chilly. At the bus stop there were plenty of people, just itching to leave, but I was in no hurry. Live in the moment my friend! The bus came, we all piled on, I sat up the back and observed my fellow friends. First years are easy to pick; apart from their ever-young faces, there is a gentle optimism about them, though slightly touched by insecurity of place. On board, they read or study, look raptly out, or fall dead asleep. But whatever it is, tis done with intent. Second years who haven't found a ride or a car, look lacklustre. Fenced by routine, though not yet mastered, they might talk talk laxly, or listen loudly. Third years and beyond are numb to things. They are blasé because they've seen it all before; the foreigner who wants to change a fifty-dollar note, the breakdown in peakhour traffic, the pornographic smooching lovers, the invading hordes of schoolkids, the exploded water bottles, the foul-mouthed drivers. These veterans of public transport are totally indifferent; they just get on the bus, close their eyes, and wait for it to end. One, two, three, there you go. I was in the third class, so I just waited for it to end. Back home, I had another wank (keeping count?) before I took my backpack off. God! I'm insatiable! I took my backpack off, and went to play piano. I started with a few old pieces, to warm up the fingers. You know, the Bach, the Mozart, and the Beethoven. Pounded out some f's, and caressed a few p's, it was all very dynamic. Then I felt a little romantic, so I tried a few pieces of Chopin and Schumann. It went well. Bing Bong Boo Ching Chong Choo The hour is 6. Dinner time! Racing downstairs, I got to the microwave first. Actually the fridge first, the microwave second, I got bronze. I decided not to gorge myself too much; tonight's activity would be quite strenuous. I nuked one dish, and waited for a second. ... smashed-in face ... smiling girl ... car accident ... No! No! Go away! The second in meltdown, the third was seeded. ... dark night ... cold night ... in the midway of our life ... Aghh! Aghh! Testing done, collect insurance later. I waited before, and I waited again, the three dishes plus a drink into the living room where I had a one-man table setup. The table satup and I satdown. Hooray! The tele ticked on, and I anewsed myself (God! the wordplay's gettng atrocious now, but how many subtle ones have you missed?) with Brian Henderson. He's a very anewsing man. You're bound to be after reading it for half a century. So I ate and I newsed. It was over without a trace. Still plenty of time to my 8 o'clock date, time enough for some serious study. I plodded upstairs and plomped down at my desk. There were a ton of textbooks underneath. I pulled a few out. Physics and Chemistry. I took these two plus maths in high school. Maths was necessarily developed alongside computing and electronics at uni, but this PC stagnated until only a few years ago. With some freed up time, I got hold of the text book lists for all science courses (including maths, physics, chemistry, biology, geology, medicine, statistics, etc etc) and ordered in a truckload of books. There they are. I looked over a few favourites. University Physics, 9th edition, by Young and Freedman. Although I've moved beyond this first year text, I still come back to revise sections. A real telephone-book-sized classic. Organic Chemistry, 3rd edition, by Mcmurry. What a gorgeous text! wonderful layout, and vital diagrams, this will take you through your undergrad studies, and still be a handy reference after. Life, 4th edition, by Sanger and Smith. I have no formal biology, and informally, am still very weak. This colorful, vibrant text helps me along. Quantum Physics, by David Bohm. Although almost a half-century old, this classic can hold its own as a teaching text. By one of the masters in the game. Fairly strong mathematical background expected. These books, and others, will take you into worlds of undreamt ideas; the real, physical world will seem so much blander afterwards. I read, and mused a bit, then checked the clock. Almost time, almost eight, but not quite. I'll tell you a bit more about my call girl, #5. I've known her about 12 months, and see her once every 2. She's a classy piece of work - a brushed back brunette, good height, about 5'8", and a luscious feminine figure. Full breasts, beautifully shaped, and just begging to be stroked. I find it a particular turn on when she's on her back, and I see them from side on - so superbly curved. As for the face, well, its one of exquisite charm. High cheekbones, like mine, though not bony, these the crowning arches of a proportioned plan. A classical nose, undistinguished, with a pair of loving lips underneath; full, and with that teasing M curve over the top. Her eyes were clear and dark, and bespoke a knowing woman. But enough, it's time! Bing Bong Boo Ching Choo Choo The hour is 8 There was a knock at the door, and the sound of a cab driving off. I raced downstairs, and there she was! My #5! Jeffrey Knight: My sweet! My sweet! Come in! Come in! Call Girl #5: Good evening Mr Knight. How are things? J K: Just look at me! I'm deadly ill. I'll be gone by the end of the week. #5: Always the joker, aren't you Mr Knight. Hey, do that thing with the eyebrows. J K: No, it's embarassing. #5: Please, please. She begged. She pouted. She insisted with the persuasion of beauty. I succumbed. I yielded. I did my eyebrow trick. She burst out laughing, and with such joyful strains, I took her to hand, and to waist, and to chest, and to lips. We screwed. I gave her a right rogering. She replied with a deft tongue and soft hand. She truly was a minor condensation of heaven, a taste of divine joy. I enjoyed her again and again. Bing Bong Boo Ching Chong Choo The hour is 10. All fucked out, she called a cab while I counted out the fee. Seven hundreds and a fifty. Seven hundred and fifty dollars ($750) - call girls are not cheap. But definitely worth the price. I opened up a '57 Don Perion, and poured out a couple of crystal glasses. There was also a punnet of strawberries. I offered both to her. #5: You're supposed to get a girl drunk before, not after, Mr Knight. J K: I know, I know. I never get these things right. #5: Thanks for the strawberries. I love strawberries! And indeed she did. What a seamy temptress she seemed there - half naked, wine in hand, sweet berries on sweet lips. Dark stockings, cunt exposed, those ripe breasts hanging out for the world. Down boy1 Down! J K: Are things going OK with you? #5: Of course! Why shouldn't they be? J K: Oh, no reason. Just that we all carry around our own private pains. Hidden handicaps I call them. They're invisible injuries, so people don't realise when they've been touched. #5: Maybe we need some kind of spiritual X-ray. J K: Hey, there's an idea. Most people don't even realise they have these hurts. They just react ... irrationally, when these spots are touched. #5: And we'll need spiritual doctors too. Can't set your own wrist! #5 was a sweet intuitive girl. I was going to miss her. J K: You better get dressed. Your cab will be here soon. #5: OK, Mr Knight. I cleaned things up, and she cleaned things up, and then there was the honk of a cab. I opened the door a little to let him know that he was heard, then spoke a few parting words. J K: Thanks for tonight. You were great. Here's something a bit extra. #5: You're such a sweet, Mr Knight. Call me soon. We kissed once more and said goodbye. Goodbye #5! The cab pulled off, and I was left alone once more. I collapsed into bed, taking a brief rest, being careful not to fall asleep. Bing Bong Boo Ching Chong Choo The hour is 11. A time to reflect, and a time to reconsider the hours that have passed us by. Surely at the end of each day we must weigh the good and the bad to see which has won out. Have we been dangled by the nose by circumstance, or taken a controlling interest in things? Striven or been driven? Free will has been given - to free us from bondage. So this the philosopher says, the body says rest. I rested, and soon it was - Bing Bong Boo Ching Chong Choo The hour is 12. The splutter and splatter of a weak man's laugh, the glare and stare of a bright beacon of light - Cuh, Cuh, Whoosh! Whoosh! - and unblinded, there was the Smily Face of Death in the middle of my room. The same as last night - a big broad smile on a yellow dial. It was chilling. "Good evening. Jeffrey Knight. I await your question." Tonight, so different to the previous two, I knew what to ask. "Death, did Eva love me?" The image of that wrecked face in that wrecked car was a photo in my mind. "Yes, Jeffrey, she loved you with all her heart, and still does. She sends her love. Goodbye.' O! The joy! The joy! I cried, I wept, Eva loved me! and still does! If only one of us had said something! But that thought will have to wait another day, for Death's induced sleep sent me away, away to another place, a place where the mind is still. I slept, and so ended the third day.