Dr. Jekyll and a Naked Timmy

“Where am I?” I stammered after waking up in an unfamiliar room. Mind you, I immediately regretted using the most cliché of phrases used by people waking up from comas, near-death-experiences, drunken stupors, etc. I slapped myself in the face for being so predictable, the one thing I never hoped I’d be.
The room was a cube with huge mirrors that covered the entire surface of the walls, floor and ceiling. The effect was quite dazzling, just me facing an eternity of copies of me in all directions.
I stood up to inspect my body to check for any visible signs of a struggle, a fight, or anything else that could give me a clue as to why I ended up here. Did I mention I was naked? Oh no, I didn’t. Well, knowing me, you probably had figured that out already. “There goes naked Timmy with his tackle out again!” had become such a commonly used expression that some Chinese businessman was getting rich just by selling T-shirts with the text printed on. Good for him, I say. I don’t mind not receiving any of the royalties.
Whether my tumescence was due to this infinity of identical twins or just the result of waking up before the dramatic, unfinished conclusion of a wet dream, is still a mystery to scholars around the globe. Come to think of it, perhaps dramatic isn’t the most ideal word to describe the conclusion of a wet dream, although I guess it would depend on the perversions projected on my eyelids.

I scanned the room, ignoring my other selves, to look for a door. There was no door. I guessed it would take away the perfection of the mirrored cube. I assumed there to be a sliding door mechanism or a platform.

Everywhere I looked, I saw hundreds of me stare back, equally puzzled (and yes, still aroused, though with much less conviction). We were all in this together. From all the time I spent in various cells (the womb, locked toilets, prison, a coma, etc.), I knew there was never any point in crying out for help. Whoever locks you up, does that with the intention of not responding, as an ultimate mind game. So I didn’t give them the pleasure to ask for help.

I would solve this my own way.

I put myself in the middle of the room. Staring straight ahead, looking at myself at the other side, and other selves all around us, I prepared myself. I inhaled, closed my eyes, held my breath and started running the five or six steps towards the wall.

A bang. Some blood was now covering part of the mirrored wall. I could discern a small crack beginning to form. I grinned, retraced my steps and charged again, head first.

A louder bang, more blood, and a slightly bigger crack in the mirror. Head-butting, is there any situation where it doesn’t come in handy?

After the fifth bang, I fell down, and could just see red in front of my eyes. I started to taste the familiar taste of blood as well. I smiled as I prepared for another charge. Blood poured down my head, and onto the floor and on the shards of cracked mirror that were beginning to pile up around the site of impact. The shards penetrated my feet, creating more blood loss, but also increasing the flow of adrenaline to allow me to continue.

The blows became harder and harder, as if I was doing this in a trance. Sure, my thinking had become less coherent, consumed as I was by my objective to destroy at least this one mirrored wall.

I prepared for a final big charge. Bits of glass now penetrated almost every square inch on my body, though for pain I had no time.

‘t Is but a scratch!” I smiled.

I inhaled, spat out a drop of blood. All my other selves looked at me with the same determination, all covered in blood, but stronger than ever. I interpreted this as if they were cheering me on, believing in me, knowing all too well that I was their leader that could take them on the path to salvation (I admit delirium may have set in at this point).

I charged, followed by this crowd of eternal followers.

Head first, I crashed into the wall, causing the entire wall on the attack side to fall down. I was losing consciousness, but I could feel the wall collapsing on me. The last glimpse I saw, was of my supporters disappearing from one side.

I had set them free! Even if I hadn’t saved myself, I saved them!

A curtain of blood was drawn and I lost consciousness.


I wake up in my own bed, panting.
I mumble to myself, “This must have been the most bizarre wet dream I ever had!” and I reach for my box of Cleenex.


Clothing naked Holly

Meet Holly, the girl I adopted in Vegas last year. Well, I adopted her image and have been using it as a bookmark ever since. Why did I do that? Look at her, poor girl! So hungry she barely has any clothes, and as is clear from the dramatic photograph, Holly’s so hungry she’s now forced to eat what little clothes she has left.



Poor little Holly is in dire need

Of 35 dollars, payable by any steed

To pay for fine garments, for she has none

For her clothes, they had all gone


It’s a sad story, really. But at least she was trying to make a change for herself. 35 dollars was all she needed to turn her life around. I called her and asked if my gift to her would be tax-deductible, but then she replied she didn’t qualify as a charity organization (or at least that is what I thought she meant by saying, and I quote, “Fuck off, you weirdo!”).
I wondered if I should help her out anyway. After all, doesn’t the Bible say that “to clothe the naked” is one of the Seven Corporal Works of Mercy? I figured that, in the unlikely event of there being an afterlife, it’d probably be good to bribe my way into heaven.
So I called back and asked where I would be able to give her my donation. Holly, the sweet simple cowgirl, seemed so pleased with my generosity that she would come by my hotel or motel to come pick it up. Now that’s what I’d call “proactive begging”; if they can deliver pizza to your door in half an hour, why not do the same with the poor and/or homeless?
Twenty minutes later, poor poor Holly arrived to collect my donation. Indeed, her rags were even skimpier than advertised, so I decided to give her a tip. In hindsight, I think what happened next, wasn’t that surprising, although I, always innocent, did not have a clue. Eternally grateful as she was, Holly came closer to me sitting on the bed, and she suddenly started to try and seduce me.
I did feel sorry for her, but I had to push her away. I tried to explain to her that she really didn’t have to that, that I never expected anything from her, but the more I spoke, the more it seemed to confuse her. Of course I couldn’t imagine walking a day in her shoes, so I tried to understand how this sweet girl just felt like she owed me something.
“Y’all did pay for da hour, so I ain’t leavin’ before that! Or else mah pimp gonn’ beat me! Thinkin’ I messed up or summit!” she said. I guess that must have been an expression in her native tongue, where she thanked me for my kindness and offered to have a chat.
She stood up and, in what I can only assume was another one of her people’s traditions, she started taking off what little clothes she had on. I guessed it made sense. I had seen this in an anthropology documentary; it was an ancient cleansing tradition, where the body had to be freed from all old garments so the soul is ready for the new clothing. Fascinated, I started taking notes on this behaviour. She asked me in her broken English, “whaddayadoin’?”, and I replied I was studying her, because I was writing a book about people like her.
She replied, “A book?”
Of course I could have known Holly didn’t know what books were, but I tried to explain to her.
“Yes, a book! Books are like big things full of papers that are filled with words, or sometimes even pictures!”
I could tell I had lost her. She sat her naked self down on the bed, and I asked her if she knew anything about books. She shook her head, clearly embarrassed. I told her not to worry, and that I would find a way to teach her.
“Don’t ya just wanna get laid?”, she uttered.
While I didn’t understand what she said, it seemed to me as if she was asking me to read for her. So I took out a book and started reading to her.
Exactly an hour after she came in, she said her time was up. I think she may have been from one of those cultures where you cannot spend more than one hour in a man’s home, because it would be considered a marriage in her tribe.

Holly put on her clothes and left, off to get herself some clothes that she so desperately needed.

My good deed of the day was done, and I could have a piece of pie and get to bed.

Anyway, ever since that encounter, I have been using Holly as a bookmark in the hopes that she might learn something from the books I read. Now you might say that it is just an image and not her actual physical self, resting between the pages of my books. But I hope you realise that putting her between my book pages was never going to be a practical option (I did consider it briefly, but then I abandoned the idea after a nightmare were Holly would menstruate all over my favourite books). So we hope she might learn something this way.

I’m sure it is working.

The Invention of the Gloryhole


There once was a little black boy,
Whose first name was Jerome.
Lived with his mum, who had no employ
In a shed that they called their home,

‘T was the fifties, when women were lazy,
And could spend all day birthing and baking,
Which we today might find quite crazy,
But then Jerome’s mum had other worries aching.

Jerome, though always nimble and sweet,
Liked putting his winkle into all he did see,
Pies, sofas, melons, and pounds of minced meat,
The whole town did witness his penetrative glee.

“Y’all know it won’t end well!” his mum did say,
Yet Jerome was too busy with all his unzipping,
If only he listened, is what she did pray,
Alas! To no avail, out it came with a whipping!

One faithful day, Jerome thought he struck gold,
A fence with a hole, as wide as his cock,
Which just took him a second to fully unfold,
Boy, was he in for a shock!

His mum saw the geese, thought “It’ll serve him right!”
And Jerome continued, cock through the hole,
Along came the geese, all eager to bite,
She just saw some food and not Jerome’s pole.

Jerome his scream was heard across the land,
He’d never do it again, that much he knew,
Not that the he could, the geese had him de-manned,
He’d learnt his lesson, so he withdrew.

The tale wasn’t over, because all over town,
Closeted gay men were intrigued by this feat,
Replacing the geese, in jizz they could drown,
A thought that to them sounded actually quite neat.

Public toilets all got drilled for holes,
Thanks to Jerome and his adventurous mind,
Jerome was adored by those closeted souls,
The gloryhole invented, for Man to unwind.

The End.