Thursday, July 30, 2009

My Grandmother, a brief history of.

Here is a list of reasons why I think my mother's mother is mildly deranged:



- She dressed up as Santa Claus and hailed down my school bus when we were going on an excursion. She was waving a big sign that said "Ho Ho Ho Luke and friends!". She then got on the bus and gave everybody lollies. I was fifteen years old and embarrassed enough to stab her face.



- She used to send "sexy" laminated photos to me. In the photos, my grandma was in an array of suggestive poses wearing lingerie and corsets. They were for my wallet. Now I'm a gay.



- She lives in an Indian commune and wears a Turban.



- She stripped down to a G-string and bra at the local bowling club and ran around the green. A friend of my brothers was there and called him while it was happening. She mentioned something about "The horror" and "The horror".



- She gave me a "sex talk" a couple of years ago. Words can't even begin to describe.



- She has a one piece swimsuit made out of Alligator skin with large holes cut in the back and in the front (no doubt to reveal her "lovely lady lumps").



- She got married. In a coconut bra.



- When I was little she took me to Cabramatta for a "culture" day.



fin.



Wednesday, July 29, 2009

Quibbles with Grandmother.

Since an early age I have been writing all sorts of short stories for my Grandmother. Recently I was telling her about an art project I was working on with a good friend of mine where I had to write a short story and my friend would be making it into a small illustrated book. One of the resulting stories was "The Human Filing Cabinet".



As much as I tried to gently warn her about the "adult nature" of said story, my Grandmother insisted that I send it to her.



Terrified that she may draw "inspiration" from it, I did my best to dodge the subject when we were speaking on the phone. It didn't work. She nagged and nagged me for weeks on end so I snapped and thought:



"Fuck it. I'll send it. Yeah, I'll send it good. That will show her. That's the last time she pressures me for a god damn story".



Here is her reply:



Dear Luke,
Thanks for the story, very interesting & sad poor Elisa! did she die or is there a sequel? do you research your material or just make it up? because a lot you have written in the story does happen, I have had a lot to do with elderly people.
Send me some more of your stories Luke.
Was nice to catch up with you & have a chat.
Take care.
Love you
Grandma x x xo o o




What do you mean Grandma? What sorts of things have you done with elderly people? WHY DO YOU WANT A SEQUEL YOU SICKO?



The woman really is something else.

The Human Filing Cabinet

It was a suffocating Friday morning. Elisa Grant had kicked the doona off the bed and was having a vivid dream. The light cotton sheet that covered her was drenched and underneath she was masturbating wildly. Mouth slightly open, she craned her neck back as far as it could go and just as she reached what she thought may be her final ragged breaths, she released a fitful orgasm. After a long, slow exhalation, she made her way to the kitchen for a glass of water.



Elisa wasn’t quite sure what had gotten into her this past week. Every morning had been the same. She would have the most salacious and erotic dreams, like nothing like she had ever experienced, and would wake only moments before reaching a shuddering climax.



By powers of deduction, she was pretty sure that she had been "coming”, and considering she was approaching her eighty-ninth birthday this month, she wasn’t entirely sure how to react.The first time it happened was a week and a half ago and it left poor Elisa utterly astounded. She had awoken in a state of panic, madly clutching at thin air, speaking in tongues and dampening her undergarments to the point of saturation. She spent the rest of the morning dumbly staring into space before deciding that she did not care for the experience one bit.



The second morning was much the same - a siren-like wail, spasmodic contractions and incessant babbling like a woman possessed. Again, she was flummoxed. Utterly, utterly flummoxed. At lunchtime - whilst eating a cheese sandwich - she made a brief mental note to go and see that nice Dr Barton down on Park street at her earliest convenience. Instead, she chose to stay indoors and went to bed that night anxiously waiting for the morning to arrive...



She may have been in an opulent apartment in Rio De Janeiro or Paris this time. She lay on top of an exquisite looking dining table wearing a long, black evening gown with high heels and a silver necklace. In the room with her were three or four young men, all wearing finely cut suits and smoking cigars. They circled the table like Lions. With her head resting in her hand, she locked eyes with the first of the dark strangers and he silently moved towards her…



Elisa woke with a start - wet and a mess.



With each successive night, the dreams had become more detailed and her climaxes had become more pleasurable and intense. She often found herself in moments of reverie thinking about the fine gentlemen who had come and gone from her life. She inadvertently found herself taking a new interest in her own body, too. She cut up some of her old clothes and sewed herself some lingerie not unlike what she had seen in the movies. All that frilly corsetry and those silk taffetas made her swoon. She would glide around the lounge room, occasionally pausing to make some coy gesture into the body length mirror she had moved from the closet. She experimented with her breasts and nipples, pinching and teasing herself. She used a small hand held mirror to visually explore her vagina and anus for the first time too. How uncouth, she thought with a small rush.



She wondered what exactly had triggered this sexual landslide. She partly blamed it on the murderous heatwave the city was suffering through - but the rest she wasn’t so sure. She had certainly never put her hands into the “haberdashery department” before and the only other person who had been anywhere near there was... Franco.



Franco was Elisa’s dearly departed husband of almost half a century. He had been consorting with things eternal for over twenty years now and he now seemed like a distant memory to Elisa. Franco was polite, quiet and he never made a fuss which closely resembled his manner in the bedroom. Like clockwork, they copulated on the first Tuesday of every month. Franco would always turn out the lights, he was always in the missionary position and they would make love nowhere but on top of the bed. During, he would never give less than twenty-five small thrusts and certainly no more than fifty, and afterwards he would give Elisa a small kiss on the cheek before rolling over and going to sleep. She loved him very much. Not long after he died, Elisa had run out of the small amount of money her and Franco had saved together and was forced to move into a housing commission tower in the south of the city, which is where she still lived today.



The newspapers had described the building as a "human filing cabinet". Monolithic and impossibly bleak, it stood in the worst part of the worst suburb in the city. Elisa was trapped on the twenty third floor with not even a balcony to offer respite. Last month she sat through the sounds of a man in the apartment above beating his wife for ten whole minutes before help arrived. The woman later died in the ambulance on the way to hospital. A few weeks earlier she heard the gunshots of a double murder somewhere down on the fifteenth, and late last year someone had tried to smash their way through her door. Elisa frantically called the Police and they found her an hour later hiding under the bed. These were some of the more significant incidents, but the truth was that these sorts of things were happening every day. The hallways were littered with graffiti, needles and broken glass. The stairwells reeked of urine, and last time she was in the elevator, the floor was covered in vomit and the buttons were smeared in human faeces. Understandably, Elisa only left her room if it was absolutely necessary. Her groceries were delivered to her door every Thursday, her nurse came for a routine check up on the first Tuesday of every month, and apart from that she was completely alone.



It had been another long day and Elisa was getting ready for bed. Completely naked, she stood in front of the bedroom window and used the reflection to remove her lipstick. Beyond the reflection stood a magnificent view of the city skyline. It was a sultry summer night outside and the buildings sparkled in the distance. She peeled back the covers of the immaculately made bed and climbed inside. Her left foot rubbed obsessively against the other until the beating of her heart matched the rhythm of the ticking clock, and she slowly fell to sleep.

Look! Its Sir Pantsalot! And he's pants-ing alot!

After a lengthy and not uninteresting hiatus, I am returning to my blog to once again plunder the depths of my mind as I embark on some "travels".

Will I eat schnizel? Will there be sexing? Could you possibly be any less intrigued? Please join me as I wander aimlessly. I am very nice.