Pounding music. She’s dancing, always packing, a grunge-goth Mistress of tuneless nihilism. Torn fishnets, punk attitude, air punches. Shrieking the lyrics: fuck government, fuck Jesus, fuck fake. She sneers, knows I’m that preppy princess from happy-snap...
Demanding. Insistent. She’s flipping the bird at my earlier text: Give me an hour. Pop-up drinks with the directors to celebrate last night’s Businesswoman of the Year win. Whatever. Her text is adamant, not a centimetre of wiggle room: I meant right NOW,...
It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. It was hosting my first Christmas Eve television spectacular; it was my rellies’ Christmas Day shit show. It was Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, gold standard families, oi, oi, oi; it was a public debasement of...
Liminal, subliminal; all a bit silly. Witches forget britches… and knickers! Pastor Papa ranted against pagan paraphernalia. But Faith’s dreamy Halloween was all cutie-pie saucy, not witchy-bitchy. She snuck outdoors, rocking that ‘ungodly’ Luna Lovegood...
She’d dumped him; seriously, pneumatic blonds from fucking accounts count. Glammed up, Sarah needed a man-free cocktail. The leather dyke was empathetic, flirtatious… packing. Back in Sarah’s apartment, the BBC strappy took her, animalistic relentless fuc...
Finally, my dad nodded to the undertaker who started the conveyor. “Annie?” he had asked. I just couldn't, wouldn't, shouldn't. Bloody typical, Sarah would’ve thought. “Brian?” Sarah’s father, again cervical cancer’s bitch, had also shaken his head; a sto...
Most nights one of us regulars would unceremoniously tell a tatt-free stranger to fuck off. Wouldn’t matter that she appeared to comply with the, Women only; No Replicants, rule on the bar’s front door. But, on a slow retro-punk Saturday, no one summoned...
Sydney’s free settlers had limits, a regular blind eye was turned to the biblical invocation: Judge not, that ye be not judged. So, when it came to the likes of Brigid O’Sullivan, polite society couldn’t help itself: all freed convicts were skilamalink, b...
Lieutenant-General Sir Richard George would never become accustomed to mornings in this god-forsaken colony. The squawking cockatoos’ addiction to slumber sundering meant he started every day on the wrong foot. Yawning, he slipped from their four-poster b...
I want you. A video followed that text. Juices oozed onto the Lamborghini’s leather seat, as Marissa’s finger slid from her sticky cunt. She sensually sucked that digit between slut-red lips. “As a no-fault divorce state, his alleged infidelity won’t enti...
Miriam Cohen was gobsmacked: mother had arranged a valentine's date for her. Not with a random young man, of course; rather, mama confided, in hushed tones, that David’s mother had confided, in hushed tones, “Doctor potential.” He was intuitive, recognisi...
That bitch had infuriated Lilith: eating the fucking fruit was bad enough, but feeding it to the only man on Earth was beyond the pale. Fucking wherever and wherever was diverting. Now, she couldn't get shit! Lilith, furiously pumping fingers into her sop...
“Fuck Christmas. I wanna shag sluts.” Santa's reindeer detoured to the North Pole pharmacy. Two bodacious babes prominent on the naughty list were, unsurprisingly, underdressed. Santa's schlong stretched one strumpet’s sopping snatch. Santa-seed spurted;...
“That large organic zucchini, please.” Her eyes rolled as I paid the greengrocer, “It’s courgette, Miss!” Later on, I twisted the vegetable deep, stretching her cunt’s slick velvet walls. “What’s this called, little putain?” “Fuckkkkkkkkk … Um, courgette,...
The whirring fan was a triumph of optimism over effectiveness, not a skerrick of breeze cut through the treacly mugginess shrouding my skin. That humidity, redolent of molasses, mango, and frangipani, continually asked: Always the outsider in this fugging...
