i am sitting on the piss-soaked bench that overlooks the drab draffish dragonfly-infested car park of the disused north korean dowel pin factory, i am writing a letter to wee andy: "Dear unforgiving inhospitable frigid but ultimately lovable Andy, how are you? lucid or out of your head on slavonic sedatives? i am the former, oh if only you could see me, all this lucidity that i'm radiating, you'd beg for a blowjob, and i'd give you one, an exquisite one, cos i never suck cocks half-heartedly, even the crooked smelly ones that belong to nefarious glaswegian hairdressers, even those i suck super-ferociously, even the hostile circumcised ones that belong to dour conceited jewish playwrights, even those i suck super-zealously, even the limp crippled ones that belong to retarded flemish cooks, even those i suck super-ardently, even the arrogant tanned ones that belong to malicious canadian heroin pushers, even those i suck super-vehemently etc etc, you probably want to know what happened to me last night: last night i was very determined to finally read the last chapter of my oxford bible, 'the revelation', written by saint john the divine, i was sitting on a mound of dead batteries, the kind you put in your portable stereo if you go to the beach or if you have a fear of wires, anyway, the revelation was quite misogynous, you know how crass and sexist jesus gets when he's out of his head on power and lambs, i threw that slanderous book on the ground ,i jumped off the mound and walked out of the car park,' hey, you forgot your bible!' someone shouted at my cross but proud back, i turned around and studied the features of my future rapist, they were harsh minging flemish features, the flemish perv came closer, 'i don't need that bloody hippy twat to tell me that i'm a wicked harlot and that my number is six and that i deserve to be wolfed down by a saber-toothed beast with 56 red eyes and 33 hateful cocks and 4827 vindictive claws, i have johns to tell me that, and they pay me and make me pancakes afterwards, jesus doesn't' i bellowed, the flemish perv dropped the bible and patted my left shoulder, 'i'll call you a wicked harlot, shove a frozen squirrel up your arse and make you pancakes afterwards, honey' he said, 'ok' i said, we walked to his car, his car was a dusty black mercedes, i spat on the hood and wiped away some of the dust, he pushed me into the car, he drove very fast, like he was dying to rape me, his place was a bleak untidy botfly-infested flat above a derelict russian beauty salon, there was a picture of morrissey stuck to his fridge, the flemish perv poured me a glass of white german wine, i downed the glass and crushed it, i clenched my left fist, i could feel them 2458 glass splinters digging into my skin and burrowing their way to my liver, the perv squeezed my left fist, the pain was excruciating, i let go of the glass, he washed my hand and picked out all the splinters with tweezers and a hot needle, he ripped off my clothes and fucked me up the arse, he called me a wicked harlot, he also called me candy, and when i sucked his cock super-dutifully he called me god god god sweet jesus good god!, i put my clothes back on, tore morrissey off his fridge and left his flat, i walked to your street, maybe i even pressed my face against your window and watched you watching macgyver on a polish channel, i didn't know that you suffered from insomnia, we should suffer together one night, maybe tonight? love, Delphine xx", a minging russian hobo sits himself next to me, he snatches the letter away from me and reads it, it's hard to tell what he thinks of it, he's neither frowning nor twitching, neither snorting nor chuckling, neither yawning nor sneezing, "what do you think of it?" i ask him, "i feel sorry for andy" the hobo snarls and tears up the letter, he offers me a french cigarette, i accept it, i light it with my lighter that's adorned with startled brightly specked south-american frogs, i get off the bench and start combing the sinister coastal streets for someone with a bible and some dough.
my john is wearing a yoda mask, every week the stingy bastard wears the same bloody mask, it's all torn and faded, his face got attacked by a bunch of rabid boars when he was six, it was the peanut butter that attracted them, he forgot to wash his face after his shamelessly copious breakfast, he was on his way to school when twelve boars pounced upon him and feasted on his small spoiled peanut butter-specked face, he was in a dreary flemish hospital for ten years, no nightnurse fondled him so he wrote poems instead of being arsefucked, thousands of self-pitying poems that don't rhyme, i've read them all, i know him better than i know myself, he's only eighteen, his body is frail and scarred, he lives in a drab damp council house and gets pity money from his uncle who's never fondled him, he squanders his money on whores and north french crime novels, he's got two irish setters but they don't rub themselves against him, on his walls are violent oil paintings of rough peasants who are gleefully gutting pigs and pheasants, and sinister etchings of chubby middle-aged women who are gloomily drowning babies and kittens in tubs and lochs, and dutch tiles that are adorned with solitary fishermen and solitary streetsweepers and solitary deers, and a huge brown cloth that's embroidered with five asian ogres who are ripping apart emaciated russian orphan boys, on his mantelpiece are three tinsel eiffel towers, four tiny crystal swans, a fibre baby jesus and his fibre foster father, a stuffed ermine, a buddha-shaped paperweight, and 13 plastic blackberries, "pour wax on my balls and suck my nipples like a newborn mountain goat" he belches, i ignore him and go into his glum messy kitchen, "don't do the dishes" he roars, i ignore him and start scrubbing the dried-up gravy off his plates, it's my way of staying in touch with the normal world, and i love the hot water on my hands, and i love the mound of immaculate plates, and i love the sound of plates hitting the floor, they sound less shrill than glasses, "you wicked tart!" he bellows and yanks my arm, he drags me up the steep dusty stairs, and pushes me into his bedroom, he lies himself on the curry-stained eiderdown, i unzip his pants and pull down his black drawers, jerking off yoda is very unnerving, after all yoda was my first surrogate father, "can i take off your mask?", "NO", i turn my back on him and frantically jerk him off, he cums all over his thighs, i tug at the mask, he punches me in the nose, i get off the bed and sit myself on a chair by the window, "i'm scared, yoda", "what are you scared of, honey?", "i can't tell, it's too pathetic", "fine, don't tell me then", "but i need to get it off my young enticing chest, yoda", "shut up", "that's not what the real yoda would say", the nasty john drags me off the chair, he rips off my clothes and enters me, i clutch the mask and try not to sigh, he shrieks, cums and crumples, i push him off me and get dressed, the irish setters enter the bedroom, i pat their warm leech-infested flanks and caress their velvety collars, "last night i dreamt that nick cave shot himself on my doorstep" i say to break the harsh silence, he doesn't say anything back, "i broke his heart, that's why he killed himself, what a vain dream, i know", the irish setters leave the bedroom, i straddle my john, there's blood trickling down his throat, i tear off the mask, his prosthetic nose is bleeding, underneath all the scars are ugly bitter features, i dab his nose with my pink handkerchief that's embellished with voracious gulls, "i hate you" i screech to wake him up, i squeeze his balls and shove two fingers up his arse, i get off him and go back to the living room, i sit myself on a loud turkish rug and cry my heart out, the irish setters back away repelled, i'm crying cos i like it here and cos this is both natural and devastating, this hooking, oh snap out of it, miserable wench, no one cares, i don't care, i go into the kitchen and do a few more dishes.
i am sitting on a mound of empty milk bottles in the bleak sinister radioactive asbestic starfish-infested car park of the disused brazilian submachine gun factory, i am fantasizing about being an illiterate rentboy, a minging russian hobo enters the car park, he's coming towards me," don't step on them starfish! they may seem harmless, they may even seem dead, but they'll grab your ankles with their webbed tentacles and stab you with their venomous quills if you disturb them! and their venom will paralyze your eyelids for four days, and your genitals for five days, and your bladder for six days, and your spine for a week! it's the asbestos that's made them so irritable and vindictive! they used to be so patient and forgiving, you could trample their kids and lovers and they wouldn't hold it against you, they'd just shrug, comb the car park for new lovers and leisurely copulate like nothing had happened, those were the days my homeless friend", the hobo awkwardly wheezily climbs the mound and sits himself next to me, "is that a flask of spanish rum in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?", "it's a flask of greek geneva and i'm not pleased to see you, i see you everyday, and everyday you talk too much", "i can be silent, when the moment requires silence, not many moments require silence, silence is overrated, it takes guts to be talkative in a world that's designed for mute hobos and secretive johns", the minging russian hobo rolls his eyes, "body language is overrated too", "shut up", "it's a start", the hobo takes a swig from his flask, and winces, he takes another swig, doesn't wince, takes another swig, offers me the flask, i take a modest swig and give him back his flask," so how are the coastal streets treating you these days?" i ask the hobo, "the streets are cool, the peoples are nasty", "do they try to set you on fire?", "no", "do they try to strangulate you?", "no", "do they give you poisoned muffins?", "no", "do they pelt you with mud-caked flemish potatoes?", "sometimes", "that's awful", we fall silent, it starts to pour, the hobo jumps off the mound and runs out of the car park, it pours for two minutes and 13 seconds, i jump off the mound and walk to wee andy's house, i'm standing on wee andy's doorstep: knock knock knock knock on worm-infested wood, "i'm coming, i'm coming" the impatient twat mutters, he opens the door, "is that a dustpan in your apron or are you just happy to see me?", "i'm not even wearing an apron" the dull cunt mumbles, i enter the house and go into the kitchen, i pour myself a pint of liverpudlian tequila, i down it, wee andy resumes kneading dough, "bread?", "what?", "are you making bread?", "aye", "are you gonna put arsenic in it and give it to a minging russian hobo?", "no", "to a dour german hobo?", "no", "to an emaciated illiterate rentboy?", "i'm not gonna put arsenic in it and i'm gonna eat it myself", "ten years from now you'll regret having wasted your youth in a musty flemish kitchen", "ten years from now you'll regret having wasted your youth between the thighs of kinky middle-aged flemish fishmongers", "i regret it already", we fall silent, i pour myself another pint of liverpudlian tequila and down it, i leave wee andy's place and run to my dodgy neighbour's house, i'm standing in front of his cracked ominous door, i ring the bell that plays three racist flemish folk songs, my dodgy neighbour opens the door, "is that a crossbow in your pocket or..", my neighbour yanks my right arm and drags me up the stairs, and up more stairs, he pushes me into his small murky bedroom, rips off my clothes, gets down on his knees, licks my minge, "nice" i squeal and cum profusely, he pushes me down onto the bed and shoves a mongolian longbow up my arse, "not so nice" i whimper and try to push him off me, he pulls the longbow out of my arse, takes off his clothes and angrily wheezily enters me, he cums inside me, he gets off me and puts his clothes back on, he leaves the bedroom and goes into the bathroom, i get dressed and run down the stairs, and down more stairs, and out of the house, i'm running back to wee andy's place, the bread should be ready by now.
Delphine says, "my full name's Delphine Lecompte, i'm 23 (born 22nd january, 1981), i was born in east london but moved to belgium a few years ago, oh and i thank my french name to my father (who hailed from lille), both my parents are dead; i used to stack milk bottles for a living, but now i'm back in the hooking game."