indulge

[kulla]

As he sat again on the green seats of the coach station, he finally recognised the disturbing smell, as if this was the answer to the question that had suddenly sprung in his mind at the very same time: “what station is this?” The air of the alien city was filled with lingering spare time and the unfinished thoughts of a story which must have been generated by the same surroundings. The new found favourite word was ringing in his head in the rhythm of prodigy’s song “breathe”, only instead of “exhale, exhale, exhale”, keith was singing “indulge, indulge, indulge”. What better way could there be to kill time but to indulge in madness? What a brilliant idea! He could, as he so thoughtfully put in words he didn’t even realise he had spoken out loud, build the greatest collection of lunatics there ever was. All the elements were there, all he needed to do was to indulge in madness, as dangerous as that might be. He was even planning to have a wank on it as soon as he got back to London. What a revelation!
Dear god! What a mental case!
But to indulge in madness meant that he had to develop a taste for it. A taste he had philosophised about, but not enjoyed, because of the consequences that enjoying it might bring. Oh what the ****! Let’s indulge! He’d have to do even without the help of a Cuban cigar.
Sitting in front of him, not even ten yards away, a girl on her twenty’s with a very loud hair died in blue and pierced face, was smoking a cigarette. Getting up from the seat, he took out his embassy number 1 and put it in his mouth. “whatever happens I shall not turn my back on indulging” he thought.
“would you happen to have a lighter?” were his words. Without replying she produced one from the enormous pocket of her coat. He lit the cigarette, gave back the lighter, and instead of thanking her, he said “would you like to indulge in some sex?”
“what!”? was her surprised reply, not really sure she had heard correctly.
“now listen” commanded he. There was no way back now and the only way to walk that path was to make her believe that he knew what he was doing. Indulge, indulge, indulge, the rhythm kept on beating and that was good. People have a way of not accepting other peoples’ indulgence. Is it jealousy? Anyhow, she would either give him a slap or a punch in the worst scenario, in which case he would have to indulge in his lonely madness, or she would give in to her indulgence too. That was for the better, because he’d kill three birds with a stone: killing time, the first bird, through sex in a dirty toilet, the second bird, and taking another piece for his collection of lunatics, for if she indulged, she’d have to be totally fucked in the nut. So how do you avoid jealousy? He could think of two ways, an ideal one, and an earthly one. The ideal one was, of course, love. There is no jealousy between two people who genuinely love each-other, but there was no way he could make here believe that he was completely and blindly in love with her, only by the way that she gave him the lighter. That kind of madness is very dangerous, so **** that. The earthly one was relatively easier. Corruption, if seen as compromise, could actually work even in the western world. He didn’t know yet what he had to sell, let alone what she wanted. He thought it would help, if he stayed faithful to indulgence in madness, so sitting down on the seat beside her he continued in a narrative tone the first thing that came to his mind. “napoleon almost killed himself once on account of a woman with blue hair. It was only by a mysterious roll of events that he managed to fail. Not a lot is known about this woman, because that would diminish the greatness of napoleon and history in itself has to be built on great people, even if this means that you have to change facts or hide them altogether. Now, they say that this woman had the most beautiful tits that france had ever flourished. So much so, that some even dare to speculate that, those tits were the drive of napoleon power and determination. After finally becoming self-conscious of what he’d done though, napoleon killed the blue haired woman. He was after all the greatest since Alexander the Great and no woman, no matter how beautiful she was, could ever come between him and his place in history.
“So coming back to what I was saying, it was this story generated by your hair that came to my mind when I asked if you’d want to indulge in some sex. Men are nothing but napoleon wannabes and failing that, makes us don quixotes. Have you heard of him?”.
But just as he was expecting the wing of the windmill between his eyes, an electronic melody came out of her purse. As she answered the phone, he whispered the cliché line, aimed more at the situation than any of them two; saved by the bell. Unable to hide his nervousness, he made to get up from the seat. She was holding the phone on the ear that was closer to him and with the free hand she grabbed him by the sleeve. Slowly sinking her nails in the leather, she stopped him from getting up. Again he couldn’t help speaking out loud: “there is definitely going to be indulging in sodomy for the next two hours”. She smiled, but what about? His conclusion, or something said on the other side of the phone in a language that seemed to be German?
He could allow himself to enjoy the pleasure of madness; he wasn’t sober yet and the memories of the weekend that was officially finished were still making sense in his state of being.



The previous weekend
(to be continued)

[qyfyri]

restlessly jealous....

[katana]

"une rehat isha kete weekend. deri sa mbaroi"

[kulla]

There were five of us, each indulging in the pint of lager in front of him. The conversation had come to the turn where whoever was indulging in it was taking the piss out of those who should have been sitting in that table but couldn’t make it, or god knows, didn’t want to make it.
“Here’s to him, but he told me the story differently”, said Jonathan raising his pint as if; he made known that he had something to say by using the most primitive way of asking permission, just like kindergarten kids raising a fake cup of coffee. It was his birthday we were gathered to celebrate that weekend. “And what was that story he was talking about? About the poster of a missing prostitute, him, his brother and his mate had all gone with. I mean, he is Albanian; he probably is a pimp. He’s killed her and the one on the coach station, too.”
“Easy now tiger” said Ed “the trophy rapist” Dempsey, whose new nick name fitted perfectly well his facial features with those of the serial rapist, published in every newspaper in the country and shown in all TV channels. “Is it a jealousy conflict you are indulging yourself in there, Jonathan? Or just sour that he didn’t come along? How long have you two biblically known each other? And why don’t you make your love public? Tell me again, it’s such a romantic story. Skin one up”. The boy who had taken the “sex, drugs and Rock & Roll” out of its very beginnings and placed it in his own present had spoken his last sentence at me.
“Yeah, that’s it Dempsey. I miss his bloody hairy chest”, replied Jonathan to whom always went the credit for picking up a joke. “The Napoleon story is bloody hilarious though, don’t you think Tom”?
“Are you talking about me again”? I had completely lost the conversation. I was still very thirsty, though. “It’s not my round, I swear”.
“Cut the bloody Charlie, will you, and I’ll go and get the liquid”. Said “the trophy rapist” in a less than decent voice. “I need to indulge, or I’ll go bloody blind”.
As he got up to go to the bar dragging Dean by the neck of the jacket, a blonde babe who had been eyeing me for quite some time now, approached our table. She must have been an acquaintance of Jonathan, for she went up to him and wished him happy birthday. If he introduced her and she managed to remember my name after half an hour “there would definitely be some indulging in sodomy” later on, spoke the voice of the Albanian in my head. She was fucking gorgeous. Dressed for the occasion, her smooth white skin shone between the red dress through an opening that went down to her arse and another one that showed all of her left leg. But not only wasn’t Jonathan going to introduce her, they were actually bloody flirting to the point where she had her fucking hand down his trousers and he was producing as if by bloody magic a little plastic bag of sugar from behind her fucking ear. After they indulged in a kiss they started walking towards the disabled toilets where we all knew what was going to happen. He was going to “cock her up”. Lucky bastard.
The drill was this. You first corrupt the woman with some good quality Charlie. Than you take her to the toilet and you feed her the Charlie. All the time you have to be careful not to give her too much, for if you do, she won’t need you anymore. Then you dip your fingers in the sugar and start finger fucking her. She will melt down like butter on toast. Some people dip their cock and Jonathan is one of them, hence the expression “cock her up”. “Ok, ok, Brick Top, I got it. Now can we please move on! Before ze Germans arrive”.
I got up from the table to catch up with Dempsey and Dean. They were just about to get in a fight with a ginger giant with an Irish accent. Dempsey was Irish, too. There could be no problems. So let’s indulge. I grabbed a bottle from the bar and…
That’s all I can remember.

[Angel_4_U]

You know what Kulla cut the story short man and writte whats the reall meaning of the story ok.

[kulla]

It must have been three months since I last saw him and the first thing I realised as he was approaching me with a bag of frankfurters in his hands, was that he had changed his walk, or rather I’d forgotten all about that monkey walk. The only misplaced things were the frankfurters. They should have been bloody bananas. To think of it in Darwinian terms; he was a monkey sitting alone on the top branch of the evolutionary tree, for it was the only branch that grew frankfurters. And as if he had read my mind, he said in a tone that suggested that this conversation had been interrupted only 5 minutes ago: “Tom! Is there a bloody written law, which tells us that fruits have to be specifically grown in a tree? It is my most recent opinion, that frankfurters should be considered as fruits. Would you like to indulge in one”?
“No, thanks” I said, considering that we were in the middle of the street. “How the hell have you been, you little Albanian monkey”?
“You know, Tom? Sometimes I think you don’t even know my name. And we’ve known each other for three months now, even if we’ve only met once. But, alas, your indulgence in bar fights precedes your legend, and to quote the Father of Reason “the cause justifies the means” or what the ****, something along those lines, you need no further explaining on your part.”
“You blush like a girl, Albanian”. I said in a fake English-Albanian accent.
“I know, I know.” Said he and taking my arm, pulling me in the direction he was going, he added, “Talking of which, I am going to meet a lady friend of mine later on tonight. As you see, I smell of frankfurters and look like a fucking Albanian who just come out of a fucking lorry and is being shown on BBC1 for all the British imperialists to be seen, so I’m first going to take a bath. Would you like to indulge”?
“In a bath? With you? Don’t get upset if I refuse your kind offer.”
“No! What I meant was, that my lady friend will be coming with another lady friend of hers. I wouldn’t ask you, believe you me, but I’m feeling rather altruistic tonight and we do have quite a lot to catch up about, don’t we. I have seen whom she hangs out with, so I wouldn’t be surprised if your date was another Claudia Schiffer. So, cancel all your plans from seven onwards and be by eight in convent garden. I shall be waiting. We’ll have a pint and off to our manly duties. What do you think?”
“I don’t know, Albanian. You’re not taking the piss, are you? I have no plans, but if my date is less then what you’ve sold her out to be, I swear, I’ll walk”.
“So eight it is” he said already walking away with his head half turned, waving aimlessly in the air a bitten frankfurter. As I said in the first chapter: Dear god! What a mental case!

But talk is cheap. He probably thought the same thing about me. And after telling me that the lady friends we were going to meet were actually prostitutes, to which I refused, he managed to make me see it his way. We were going to spend no less than half an hour with them and as soon as we were out, the real weekend would begin. There was nothing wrong with that. It would only make our hunger louder, almost to the point of starvation. What means of judgement did we have to be sure about who is who?
What the ****, I had done it before. I had taken my brother there. What I didn’t know at the time was that, my brother had taken him there, or even that he knew my brother at all. This was the real story, not what Jonathan interpreted. Yes, Jonathan was right about her poster in the underground, but that didn’t matter. People go missing every day, what does it matter if we’ve fucked them or they fucked us, if they were prostitutes or our mothers, homeless or Victoria Beckham, and not to forget, men or women. Not even a question mark needed on that.
Jealousy about indulgence is different from other kinds of jealousy. My youngest brother is 16 and my father still indulges in tickling him to the point that I end up tickling the ugly fucker myself. Indulgence is loud. It is only through the loudness of the person indulging that we develop this jealousy in it, which is no more than considering the feller that’s drinking in the neighbouring table a knob. He was shouting with a funny smile at two girls by the bar. Just don’t mention America.
It was the same old building and looking at the names on the list by the door brought back all the crazy thoughts. As he was ringing at number 13, he proposed again. “Would you like to indulge in my collection of lunatics”? Since the question was out of the blue, he resolved in trying to justify his cause. “Every one has a bloody collection. It has been the fashion since the rise of civilisations. Some people collect bloody post stamps but I’m not interested, thank you. I shall collect people, not ordinary ones, but the finest. I shall collect lunatics. All you have to do is indulge in my collection, and I promise, I will buy the next edition of the oxford dictionary for you. Hopefully it will come out by Christmas, or some when near your birthday. Deal”? He said as the same girl I had spent half an hour some months ago opened the inside door with a smile. He wore a brilliant cockney accent when he addressed her.
“Darling, do you care to satisfy Jonathan’s indulgence. He hasn’t stopped talking about you, since I told him. I believe you like virgins. Well he is the finest of them all, no shame about it, Jonathan, is there”?
“Don’t be silly you little Albanian monkey” she said as she grabbed me by the arm, “Tom is no virgin” she added, but the Albanian was already behind the closed door of a room, indulging in giggles with another lady friend. “So Tom”, she pinched my arse, “would you like to indulge in some Charlie? I’m going bloody blind”.

[qyfyri]

I have this pestering feeling that I should neither comment nor let myself be seduced by such perturbing nuisances, the likes that the ever evasive Dodua puts forth. But I convince myself that I am here to indulge, regardless of the fact that it is not my own steaming pile of shit that I am indulging in. I have collected your adventures as if they were mine, though you protrude through yours as one would randomly go through the movements at a desk in some murky multinational that talks of structure and action items. I stare at the fray foundations of your venomous conclusions and quiver in despair, finding myself being jealous of your relentless search for an object to search for. My search is not by any means over, but when I sleep I tend to stick to my underwear if I think of what might be, coming every time my prospects become vaguer. You on the other hand, you lurch in the middle, content with the ambiguity of what could be, never regretting what could have been. And although you will read this and smirk, looking for a good bashing in between my lines, it is my honesty that evades you, not the critique from a fellow premature ejaculator of decisive sperm.

I am not afloat, nor have I ever been. But your insistence on roaming my conscious and never taking a simple stroll through it, makes the likes of you an extinct species. Therefore all I ask of you my delayed brother, is simple….live a little longer, so that I can savor the last drops of your fleeting fancy, and maybe you will perish into your own, and I will flourish into some other dimension.

Always loving your shit
Qyfo

[Karamel Eyez]

WHO WROTE THESE ?? THEYRE VERY NICE PIECES :o)

[^AngeL^]

angel_4_u he gets these pieces from dhe street and writtes them in forum