Chameleon On a Kaleidoscope (The Oxygen Thief Diaries) Read Online Free

was after all a
ready-made wife, highly cultured, French, great in bed, (if not a
little demanding) her mother was an aristocrat and an artist and so
well-connected in France I could already see the dappled summers in
Belle Ille, the publishing deals in Paris and the French-speaking
children showing me the contents of their mouths. But even as I
tried to sell it to myself I couldn’t conjure the required flutter
in my chest. Or if I did it was more like a twitch. Yes, the sex
was the best I’d ever had. No doubt about it. Guiltless soaring
orgasms that felt like time-travel. So what was wrong? Other girls
I’d met were boring in comparison or older or uglier or worse;
American. Was I was in denial? Would I only find out how deeply
embedded I was when I tried to pull out?
    I could think more clearly
when we hadn’t had sex. In the time we’d been together the orgasms
were so intense and so regular they’d had the same effect as
medication. Once every two days after meals; and depending on the
dosage-level I’d see Yvette as gentle, beautiful and kind and
myself as loving, caring and truthful. But now that she was on
sexual strike I couldn’t find this girl or that guy. Maybe lust was
all I’d ever felt for her. There was no point in making us both
miserable just because she wanted to have a child. I knew I’d find
it impossible to love a creature whose first act on entering the
world would be to demolish the one thing I really did have genuine
feelings for. Her ass.
     
    ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
    Open on a classroom full
of boys supervised by a priest. He walks between the desks craning
his head to read the copybooks and pauses to point things out. He stops next to a ginger-haired boy and
slides in beside him. The other boys exchange amused looks. Beneath
the desk in a close-up shot we see the priest’s hand emerge from a
pocket slit in the side of his gown and crab-creep towards the
boy’s crotch. The forefinger and thumb pull at the fly fastener on
the boy’s trousers but it doesn’t budge. He tries
again.
    Nothing. After one more tug we notice the boy’s
zipper is pierced by a safety pin.
    Cut to a close-up of the
boy’s face as he allows himself a barely perceptible smile.
Match-dissolve to the same boy now wearing an outrageous punk
outfit complete with a daisy chain of safety pins from his ear to
cheek. The music returns at full volume; I am an
Anti-Christ. The boy gives the finger to camera. Multi-Pack of
Xtra-Strong Safety Pins from Boyles Chemist.
    ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
     
    Browsing menus of single
willing women was intoxicating at first. Pornographic even.
Beautiful girls with cocked heads and laughing eyes competing for
my attention in a modern day harem. I toiled over half-written
messages and deleted them in disgust only to start anew. Finally
after agonising over every comma, period and apostrophe I’d send
one out like a dove into the night. Annette87 was absolutely
gorgeous but believe it or not it was not her beauty that caught my
attention. She listed Francis Bacon, a contemporary of Shakespeare,
in her last great book I read section and for which superpower
would you most like to possess she’d answered; “I’d like to read
minds.”
    So yes, I wrote her a
poem.
     
    Look ye to these blackened
leaves,
    Deathly froze ‘neath icy
screen,
    Neglected thus by suns and
moons,
    These worried words seek
news of you,
    Thine eyes to them are
planets bright,
    Whose orbit brings the
gift of life,
    Sayest not thou art bereft
of powers sublime,
    Thou canst read words and
therefore minds.
     
    No reply. Maybe she never
received it. Should I send it again? Maybe the internet was down.
In many ways a fleeting glimpse of a beautiful girl in the street
was more merciful. You saw her and she was gone. Here you could
ogle what you couldn’t have for days on end. Meanwhile capitalising
on your disappointment, ads for cars, aftershave and clothes
promised to make you