Jack Blundell

Storyteller from Scotland

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Monster II

I have never kissed the feet of any man but I have spent seven and twenty years unable to stand lying on a pavement reaching for the feet of any woman who strides past so I can show my devotion only to be dismissed without even a taste of the odium that moistens the lips that regard me as a vagrant, a creep, a freak, drugged and beat from her hot hungry heat. One day I hope to pick myself up and offer womankind the same disregard she has offered me but that thought makes me feel instantly guilty as I try to surmise hours of lust-locked eyes into an opium-fixed clarity. I always fail because loneliness is epiphenomenal in a mind that blows back any concept of reality after it’s inhaled; like how sex is like smoking a cigarette where short puffs can excite and caress but deep drags alleviate the stress and release a thickening haar that masks a regret that formed due to lack of an avuncular presence which was gradually replaced by that now singular face which is revealed to be the perverse tragic mask that would much rather tease than molest relentlessly until I’m forced again to confess and apologise for the monster that I am.