Friday, July 15, 2016


IT’S nice when you try to remember something and you draw a complete blank…There’s only white noise in your


**  mmmmmm   oh, yeah!   Can be quite disturbing if you

worry about such things. People forget, as they approach death, they lose everything

all your proud cars; all your muscles:  you shrink and so does your dick.


So how to make peace with this?

That’s a good question…

Well, believe it or not – being in jail helps. If you don’t

want to stoop so low – try a strict Trappist monastery. Then you might want to

find the nearest county slammer & check yourself in.

          (If you don’t know how to get admitted, I have several suggestions…

that sure worked for me, and fast, too.)


Yeah, pride is the problem, and we all got

lots of it. It’s all gotta go, disintegrate before the

angels take you and you begin to feel at peace.


Meanwhile, here we are in this weirdly miraculous world.

Q:What to do?

A: Anything you want.

Yep, and that’s good advice until it isn’t.

There is no such thing as eternal damnation.

(Hey, this article was supposed to be funny!)


THE GREEK GODS  hated hubris.  And you can bet

The Trickster hates arrogance, too. He’ll have

a lot of fun with you. But it’s his kind of fun,

not your kind of fun.

       So how do we lose the pride.  Oh, there are many ways – none of them pleasant.I can list some of the ways for you – HOW TO LOSE YOUR PRIDE:


Get whipped in a fight in public


Watch your wife get royally humped by a well-endowed

lover, when you are impotent and you’ve lost house privileges… ie:    You’re  in the back yard…


Getting beaten badly at high-stakes poker on prime time TV & you lose your house.


Being butt-fucked at noon on National T.V.


Being told by your wife that you must wear a chastity belt

when she’s out on a date…. and you  imagine what she’s doing….

And you have to clean the kitchen, too!


Being fired from your job for incompetence or drunkenness…

And every morning your dress up and pretend to go to work….


Being ordered by the Court to undergo a series of depo-prevera

shots… and your nurse wife administers the needle into your bare ass

every Saturday, while all the other nurses watch and snigger.


You’re a rich man. You start to lose possessions. Ist a house…. then your Porsche,

then your airplane (your stomach filled up with blood) you’re banned from

flying, your license is revoked.

You drive your brand new gleaming Cadillac right thru a stop sign

into the side of a city bus…. your driver’s licence is revoked.

You sell your other 2 houses to juice up the bank account, but

7 folks on the bus have ‘back pains”.

So now all you have left is your inboard-outboard boat.

And you drive that into a shoal of rocks, too.  You do not want to

discuss it.  You damn well won’t allow anyone to broach the subject.


“Had I known the Gospel Of Thomas,” a Buddhist monk once told author Elaine Pagels, “I wouldn’t have had to become a Buddhist.” Presumably he was at least half joking, but the fact that he could say the words suggests the degree to which the subject of Beyond Belief veers away from what would become the Christian tradition. Pagels’ 1979 book The Gnostic Gospels was one of the first works of popular scholarship to cover the early Christian writings rejected as the religion began to establish institutions and traditions, many of which would have been lost to history were it not for their chance 1945 discovery at the site of the Egyptian Nag Hammadi Library. It’s no wonder that Pagels’ monk would find an affinity with the gospel attributed to Thomas, which deals, at least in part, with the concept of earthly illusion; her book might have done well to explore such connections at greater length. Instead, the slim volume takes a hodgepodge approach to its subject, freely leaping from Thomas, which Pagels never fully explains, to other early Christian writings in an attempt to portray an alternate version of Christianity that never quite comes into focus. Pagels gives the impression of an expert who knows so much about her subject that too much of it gets crushed in the attempt to put it all in layman’s terms. At her clearest, however, Pagels makes her subject fascinating, particularly in chapters suggesting the possibility that Thomas lost out in the spiritual horse race between its followers and those of the Gospel Of John–a theory that explains both John‘s portrayal of a doubting Thomas and the reason Christianity began to explore the paradox of a human divinity, instead of attempting to parse cryptic sayings like “But if you will not know yourselves, you dwell in poverty, and it is you who are that poverty.” History could have taken a different turn, and the speculation Paencourages by simply raising that possibility frequently compensates for her book’s shortcomings.





“Name Imust nbort reveak”
“This is the sort of sentence you”ll write
after taking it.”
“I found a drug that not only makes you
inarticulate in the morning; it makes you
stutter unattractively all through the afternoon.”
“It affects your motor functions;
(you won’t be able to ride your bicycle, anywhere
but in your own driveway).”
“It wipes your memory right out!
I mean completely!”
(It just took me three minutes trying to spell
the word, “please” – and that’s a word I use a lot!
Now I’m having trouble with the word, “minute.”
“Oh, yes, it’s also taken me over ten
minutes to type this Notice… So it annihilates your
typing skills as well.”
“Though, to be fair, I’m typing in the dark,
using only the light from the computer screen, and
my eyesight seems a  little blurry.There are no light bulbs
in this apartment., and there haven’t been any light bulbs
in this apartment for a considerable time.”
“There was a list here somewhere.”
“I can’t tell you the name of the drug
unless we’re alone together in an empty
parking lot.”
EDITOR’S NOTE: To get to the bottom of the story
your Roving Reporter felt he had to take an extreme
multiple of the recommended adult dose.
We’re at the restaurant.
I’m meeting with the mother of  my  daughter.
She sits down across from me at the table. In no
time at all she starts saying ugly things:
“I’ve had a rough week!” I say.
“You look terrible!” she says, “You’ve aged
twenty years in two weeks!”
My jaw is pounding. I’d had a bunch
of teeth pulled an hour ago. I’d just finished
the Drug Report  about 4:00 A.M.. My fever’s
worse. And I smell some kind of odour
in the place.
“You look like you’re going to die!”
she says.
“That’s about how I feel,” I say.
Things are moving in the wall behind her head.
I try not to notice.
I say to her, “Look, I don’t want to hear anything
negative right now, especially about myself. I’m telling
you I’ve had a rough week, I mean really rough!”
“I just had six teeth pulled and then the Doc said:
‘Come back next week and we’ll do the other side!'”
“Day to day I’m running a high fever. I’m
sweating and my face is red. And it’s not pretty,
I’m dripping from  places that aren’t supposed
to drip!”
I look into her eyes. She looks good,
healthy, fine, OK… But these days you can
never tell.
She says, “You look 80, at least!”
“80? I say, “I feel older than 80!
I can’t even ride my bicycle.I was weaving all over the
road. I just clipped a post. A lot of cars were honking.
And I’d hardly left my yard!”
I hand her the money.
She says, “Well… I gotta go.”
I  reach out to shake her hand.
She backs away and says, “I can’t
shake that! God knows what I’m gonna catch!”
I watch her walk out the door. Then I
get up, stumble over to the exit sign. I push hard
to get outside.
I walk my bicycle this time
all the way across town.
Respectfully submitted, R.R.


  This painting –   It is  my idea of how the Spirit moves.
 Abby, your grandfather didn’t actually know about
 Godepli Teppe… but as he lay dying ( and I was there with him every step of the way…until the angels took him and I saw his expression change from anguish to joy)
His bags were packed in the cupboard of his hospital room – he had booked passage on a ship for a trip around the Black Sea. I loved him very much, and I love you the same way.
A painting I did at 3:00 A.M. in the throes of_____

I just watched a MOVIE called:
“WE ARE YOUR FRIENDS” with Zac Efron.
The movie was about assembling a real track as a D.J. 
learning his trade.
The process is almost identical to the process  –
the assemblage of a poem.
    All the best to you,   from  W.G. Milne
Walker Ballantine's photo.
Walker Ballantine's photo.

Sunday, July 10, 2016


          But what if I’m not?

           I’m the asshole from a good family, making an exorbitant wage, who threw it all away to paddle off into the deep bush…
          Why?  Because I had seen certain signs
in the heart of the wilderness.

            And when I told a few people about these overwhelming signs… did anybody tell me to carry on, to keep doing what I had been doing?  Only a very few people had the nerve to talk to me at all. One or two of my close friends
whispered to me that I should carry on.
            I had a 1000 acre dairy farm once. And I worked and worked at it. And I was studying Law at the university at the same time. In early
January, the floor of the barn froze That wasn’t such a big problem.
            But in February, when he had to start
baling the barn with milk pails… and the freezing cold water had risen up to the ankles of 180 Holstein dairy cows, and the cows would no longer “let their milk down”… we had major problems
           The old man had told me to buy a farm.
He wanted a vast area of land on which to grow potatoes. We had talked many nights, laughing about a whole lot of things –  but I do not think I ever heard the words, “Potatoes Farm”.
      Nope never heard such a thing at all.
 So I bought this rather large dairy farm… large for Northern Ontario is what I’m saying.

I had purchased these properties because:

            My father, with his bags packed, had left Canada and had set out on another voyage of exploration. This time he was convinced there was much to be learned in the area around the
the huge cavern in the earth known as the Black Sea.
            I wanted to say, “Father, you’re too sick and too old to head off on an enterprise like this… Your doctor said you have 60 days to live.”

What are you thinking?


That is what he said. This is what he always was thinking.
         O.K. There is no way you can make an argument with words like this. How can you say you do or don’t agree? There’s no adequate
counter-argument to be made against
declarations of faith and hope.

           So then I went off into the bush again and started building. There are many people
who make disparaging remarks against the
Indians in this land. Many folks thought I was mad. Yet when I had some project which required heading off into God’s Country for several months. No one except my native brothers would have any notion about coming with me, with or without wages.

         Let me say, in these somewhat lengthy trips into the Great Beyond, not all of us came back. And for those of you who are chuckling at me now. Those allies who perished… none of them died because I shot them. I say this just to set things straight.

         Now my dad never discovered Gobekli Tepe. But he had a sense.  He has a sense that it was there.

          I didn’t tell anyone the voices and visions I had seen north of here…over vast calm lakes,
way past the lights of the stars and moon…
words spoken by no one since Genesis. I managed not to speak a word.
          Not a word, after the first trip anyway…

Wednesday, June 29, 2016

The Beatles – Don’t Let Me Down

One of my favourite songs of the Beatles. John’s voice & intensity makes it.


Wednesday, July 9, 2014


I was scanning the history of the early Christians
this morning and these words jumped out
in front of me:
I am the first and the last.
I am the honoured one and the scorned one.
I am the whore and the holy one.
I am the wife and the virgin.
I am the mother and the daughter…
I am the barren one
    and many are her sons.
                                      (The Thunder, Perfect Mind)
       Apart from the fact that these words emanate
from a female fount of the godhead, a female
God, these words are strange because
many of these statements are stating paradox,
contradictions… and a truth, a being deeper
than these contradictions.
       Now I am a mystic, not so much a scholar.
The scholarly details do not matter to me
so much – it is the being beneath the words,
the mind arising out of a consciousness
deeper than the mere awareness of
        This being that transcends individuals,
that is more omnipresent than the subjects
of the contradictions in this poem –
this “being” that is beneath and beyond –
this is what a mystic focuses on…
the deeper meaning. This mind within and
without all things: this knowing the inner
and the outer, the holy and the abomination,
the beauty and ugliness emanating from the
same coin.

       This is what the mystic quest is all
about – and, to be honest – the mystic quest
and the Grail quest I see as being
one and the same thing. Except the
mystic quest does not need to have
any  Christian trappings.
       But the mystic must confront
the sacred, nevertheless: and the mystic
must confront the profane.

        Sometimes, and this can be confusing,
 the sacred and the profane are both
embodied in the same vessel.
        The holy poem mentioned above
I am the solace of my labour pains.
I am the bride and the bridegroom,
and it is my husband who begot me.
I am the mother of my father
    and the sister of my husband,
     and he is my offspring.
 I am the slave of him who prepared me.
I am the ruler of my offspring.
But he is the one who begot me before the time
     on a birthday.
And he is my offspring in due time
     and my power is from him.
I am the staff of his power in his youth,
     and he is the rod of my old age.
      And whatever he wills happens to me.
I am the silence that is incomprehensible…
I am the utterance of my name.
         The poem is a lot longer than this.
I meant to print out only a few verses,
but the beauty and the flow and the magic of it
caught me.
“I am shameless; I am ashamed.”

“Do not be arrogant to me when I am cast out upon
        the earth,
  You will find me in those who are to come.
 “Do not look upon me on the dung-heap
        nor go and leave me cast out,
        and you will find me in the kingdoms.”
         These last few lines remind me very
much of the words of Christ:
“Whoever is cruel and arrogant to the least of these
  poor,  and cast out persons…”
        DOES IT TO ME.
         Once we realize that the godhead can be
found in every and all aspects of life, and
in all places however foul and lowly,
the person there is also the great king…
well… perhaps we will not be so cruel to others
 once we realize we are being cruel to God.

         I got swept away by the poetry of the words…
It is in the very contradictions of this poem
that the mystic truth resides.
         Don’t bother trying to approach a mystic
truth with your intellectual mind, you’ll
have no luck at all. No, your mind must
penetrate through the contradictions…
in order to find the core, the source
of the fountain.

          If you are trying to catch the fish
in the stream, don’t use a bowl.

“Why, you who hate me, do you love me
        and hate those who love me?”
          You can feel the pain in these words,
coming from a woman’s heart.

(C)1980-2016 by William G. Milne



   BIOGRAPHY FOR AUTHOR’S PAGE  for amazon kindle
William G. Milne – Walker Ballantine on Facebook…. J.J. Williejohn on Twitter….the writer of Roving Reporter Rants
on Blogger He’s written 13 books and so far he’s published  four.
“I was born in  born in Northern Ontario and travelled to the north coast of Jamaica at the age of 6.My father was diagnosed with MS, was told he had a year to live, and that, ‘Maybe a warm climate will help.'”
           I lived eight years in Jamaica. I did the schoolwork that was set out for me between 7:00A.M. and 8:00A.M. in the morniong. I spent my days by the sea mostly – exploring sea pools, walking on reefs and deserted beaches.
          When I first arrived in Jamaica, there were very few
Hotels on the island. One of them was the Tower Isle,
east of Ocho Rios.
He says, “I met my first Rastaman when I was six. I was walking along the deserted beach just before dawn… My dog followed along, chasing sand crabs. Three turkey vultures hopped along behind me on the beach. They weren’t tame, I just fed them a lot.
When Clinton heard me coming, he jumped up and stared  into the dark.  He said, ” Out of nowhere comes this little blonde kid with a dog and three John Crows hopping behind. I didn’t know what I was seeing.”
        “Soon as he saw me, he calls out: ‘Rastaferai! Jah! Protect us!’  Later the two became friends, but
not at first.”I thought he was demon!” Clinton says and laughs.
           “A blonde white child come out of the darkness, man! with three John Crow!”
             Clinton was smoking a spliff. Smoking herb, the
holy plant, sacrament of the Rastaman. Early each morning he smoked the sweet herb before paddling his dugout canoe out across the tides.
              “When I was older I’d have the mushroom or the
marijuana tea.”
               In  Jamaica God still exists. You can feel Jah’s
spirit in the air. Also there are tales of duppies and the
rolling calf and spirits. “A demon child appearing out of the darkness… It could happen. man!”
          Perhaps Clinton was more prone to dreams
and visions than usual because of the sweet herb.
“Dreams can teach reality.”
“Miss Gwen, Gwendolyn Dickens raised me
when my parents were gone travelling. She taught
me such things as, ‘A man’s strength is in his hair.”
And, “A prophet never put a comb through his hair,
          “These are truths I believe still. People ask
about the demons and angels and gods who appear
in my books. This is the world I grew up in. This is the
world I choose to live in still, a world where anything
is possible.”
         ” Calypso bands and dancers would come down the road. I remember one bongo drummer who was so
playful with his drum. He seemed to know something my
parents did not, so I wanted to be a musician.”
            “Jamaica, then private school, then the lakes
and bush of the Canadian north, these are my background.”
 I was raised near Saint Ann’s Bay, not three miles from where Bob Marley was growing up and learning his skills.
In Canada I completed grade 13 at Upper Canada College. Then I did four year degree in English Language and
Literature at Victoria College, University of Toronto. 
               “I was lucky enough to study with Northrop Frye for four years and with Father Belyea at St Michael’s College. These two men were major influences in my life.”
                “I was a folk singer at first. Then I started playing electric guitar at the Zanzibar Tavern , a strip house on Yonge Street, Toronto. This was one of my life’s ambitions – to play guitar in that atmosphere.
” That’s where I learned how to play the blues.
Playing with Bobby Dean, Clayton Alexander Johnston,
and Doug Johnston at the Zanzibar. I lived upstairs
above the striptease palace.”
                 I started a band called “Johnny Rock and the Angels”  both before and after getting a Law Degree at Queens University.
        “Slave Wages” was my first book of poetry, published by Temple’s Gate Books. I sold  over 1000 copies of that book from the stage. But now it’s out of print. I plan to re-publish
that book of narrative poems as part of a larger collection, which I won’t name until its copyright is protected.
          I was Roving Reporter for a newspaper called , “The Talk of the Town” in North Bay and Ottawa. I published over 60 short stories with that papers.
          The “Roving Reporter” was a character in these stories, and artist, Ernie Taylor, did caricatures of me as this
Roving Reporter  character.
          “I portrayed the Roving Reporter character as
being a heavy drinker when he was  out on assignment,
getting to the bottom of some story.”
           The newspaper received a lot of protesting letters:  “This isn’t funny! This man should be institutionalized!”
            ” Some people didn’t understand that I exaggerate for
comic effect! I’m not a reporter. I’m a storyteller and
humourist. Apparently I’ve got a strange sense of humour,
because I  people were offended from time to time.”
             ” I  preferred not to water down the
content of my narrative.”
              So if you’re reading William Milne, W.G. Milne or my pen name, Walker Ballantine, remember I’m not trying to  offend you, and hoping that you enjoy yourself and find some
cause for laughter.
              I have three books now published at Kindle store. 
               ‘SANTA’S URBAN SURVIVAL GUIDE” is a humourous look at arrest, incarceration and how to
get released. “Santa” became my nickname, during
my  stays in jail, because I’m big with long white
hair and a beard.”
              A friend, who should know,was
reading this over my shoulder. She says, “No, no,
it’s not so much your looks. It’s because you have a
generous spirit and a kind heart – that’s why we
call you Santa.”
              I like to believe her.
FETISH.  This content of this book is extreme, but it’s
also extremely funny. Some of the stories from the
FEMALE ORGASM CLINIC are contained within.
There are  actual cases of  orgasm repression
 in women who were cured.
             The women in these cases are real.
And some of the cures are real.
FOUND ANEW. This book relates some of the content of
the gospels discovered at Nag Hammadi, 1945. Even the
“source” gospel from which the Biblical gospels
derived. The discovery of these gospels 2000 years
after the death of the saviour, and the consciousness
that shall arise from digesting them, this is how
Christ returns a second time.
            I’m preparing more books to add to these ones.
“Tales of The Roving Reporter,” will be one such book.
I won’t mention the names of the other books until
I have some copyright protection for them.                                                               
   The Article Below is on   FETISH!  

Of course, if you’re 18, you’re almost certain
to have a definite bent already.
             The association of a physical object with
arousal is extremely common. It might be a glove,
a high-heel shoe, a crop, a cane, a paddle, a belt…
or maybe even a rubber pillow you used to hump
 on the floor when you were  young.
              Whatever it is, I don’t want to
influence your choice of fetish.  To be honest,
you don’t choose your fetish, your fetish
chooses you. 
I use the ‘closet’ image when I discuss
S&M. Gay people use the image, too. They
talk of coming out of the closet. Sadomasochists,
are different – masochists would prefer to stay
‘in the closet’, because it’s shameful.
Sadomasochists prefer to increase the shame,
because feeling ashamed of yourself for doing
this dirty little act – it’s arousing in itself…
but mostly because you know you’re going
to get punished for the “sick,disgusting, perverted
dirty little nasty” acts.   These words are
arousing to the masochist. Humiliation
fuels his/her  passion.
         For example to be told his penis
is too small, worthless, useless and
infantile, this really gets the male sub hot!
Even if he’s well-endowed, he’ll
probably adore small penis humiliation (SPH).
This directly ties in to the Cuckoldry
Fetish, which is really booming these days.
But this is a subject for another day.
       Don’t read this if you’re emotional or feeling
sensitive today.
          For a while recently I was avoiding
writing about major FETISH  issues… Then I
thought, hell,I’ve already written deeply
penetrating articles about fetish….
         This blog is partly about
fetish, sexual repression…orgasm repression
and ways to overcome such a problem.
(see the Female Orgasm Clinic, which
is a blog I also write, on Tumblr).
         In the Female Orgasm CIinic
site I tell stories about real cases of
real women with deep, long-lasting
orgasm repression issues. One or two
of these women didn’t even know what
an orgasm was…had never experienced 
release in their entire lives!
          They didn’t know what they
were missing. They just knew
something was very wrong.
          In almost all cases we find a cure.
But extreme  measures sometimes must be
          When I speak of extreme measures
I’m talking about giving the woman a good
caning, just to warm things up.
         Then I find a sizable vibrator helps, with radio controlled various speeds. It’s often a good idea to leave
the vibrator inside the woman for up to an hour and
leave her alone to think about things, anticipate
what may be coming next.
        Of course she is naked and strapped down
to a table on her stomach, her hips
appropriately raised.
       Meanwhile you can change speeds on
the vibrator from a remote location.
        It’s important to use the kind of
vibrator that plugs into the wall. We are
not amateurs here, but experienced
professionals working at a difficult
          My assistant, who is a licensed
psychologist will observe her from behind
a one-way glass, laying a bit of a whipping
across the patient’s buttocks, every ten
minutes or so. The female patient, naturally,
is lying face down on a padded table.
          It’s important to use a light touch,
and then throw a few vicious lashes on.
           The reason the patient is left
alone for various lengths of time,
this way she can anticipate what is coming
next with trepidation  and intensifying
            The idea is to break all resistance
down. At the same time we are breaking
down all parental prohibitions, limitations
and restrictions – the parental and religious
script that plays like a negative tape loop
in her head.This is what’s making her sick.
           By the time I am finished with her,
she won’t be listening to those voices
anymore.She will stop fighting the pleasure
that is overwhelming her and start enjoying herself.         
      She is restrained with straps
and she will need to be when I begin
electrical therapy. The first shock
 comes as quite a surprise and that’s
the intent.Patients have been know to buck
right off the table, when the first jolt hits
           And there are other
surprises in store  for her,
as well. Surprise is an
important part of the therapy.
The psyche must be shaken loose
from its usual moorings.
           Rarely, but in difficult
cases, I have had resort
to power tools.
          The whippings will
continue all through the night.
Not hard canings. Just hard
enough to keep the gal’s mind
on other things, so she won’t
notice when new therapies
are about to be applied.
         The use of many kinds
of distraction is a useful tool
in our arsenal.
          Remember, don’t try
these methods at home. Each
case is very different and my
assistants are extremely experienced
in each of the therapies.
            For example, no one goes
near the electrodes until they’ve
worked at the clinic for three
           Horrible things can happen
with an inexperienced worker.
For example,  you  can’t douse the
patient’s body with water
 if the electrodes are still
attached to her sensitive parts.
          Considerable attention to detail
is necessary.

           My assistant is adept is very adept
at caning, and she enjoys it, which is important.

        There is libido repression in men, also.
         Of course, men can cum easily.
But there are shallow orgasms and deep
ones, and there is a huge difference
between the two types of orgasm in men.
A shallow orgasm is not satisfying.
         When a man is having a deep orgasm,
he’s not going to be quiet about it. He’ll
howl, shout, bleat… and make other
sounds you normally only hear
in a farmyard.
         Also, if he starts to pant
heavily…you know he’s having a good
time. Men ought to be caned, too,
to take them down to that deeper
level of arousal.
       But that’s not my job. I’ll
leave that to you ladies among us!
      All the weird and wonderful   secret perverted
acts sniffing  nylons and panties and shoes,
beating off with a girdle wrapped around
your head… and a bra tied around your balls…
 and then the busty Scandinavian maid catches you, puts
you over her nylon knee…and whips
your little bum with a bamboo
          This is the maid who always
stood by and smiled and snickered when mother
spanked you bareassed with a wooden spoon…
And when mommy goes away, she got the job
of spanking you herself.
          No one is likely to forget such
events in their childhood, for the rest of
their days… in fact, these events will
turn into an overpowering fetish in later
years. And without the spark of this
fetish, the man will not be able to achieve
          Not without grovelling on the floor
and crawling across the rug, his ass in the
air, to suck the toes of his mistress.
          This man might be a high-powered
minister in the legislature, but still
he will need to perform this humiliating act
          You see what I mean? All kinds of
obsessions might rise up with no warning
later in life… Who knew that sniffing your mothers
shoes would turn into a full-bore foot fetish?
A passion for feet that every once in a while grabs you
and forces you to dive under dinner tables
and lick the instep of some unsuspecting
paying customer…
       Now all the above fetishes do not apply
to me – just most of them.
       I have been surprised by “a warm rush of blood
to the balls” (my father’s definition of love)
 when I see a  woman’s well tuned
ankle in a well-made boot, especially if she’s
bobbing the high heeled shoe in a teasing, nodding
motion – rather as fisherman does when he has a
lure in the water…
        The bright fisherman’s hook  fascinates the beady-eyed
bottom-feeding fish;the high-heeled taunting woman’s
shoe  fascinates the more wide-eyed human male
who also wants to be a bottom feeder.
         All right…  I like kneeling between a good pair
of nylon legs…and I like dominant woman.
 I also like extremely submissive women who kneel
before me begging to be punished…
      I had a chance to spank a considerable number of
women’s bottoms when working briefly as the partner
of a highly skilled dominatrix…I wasn’t getting
paid. I did it because I liked it. The dominatrix
needed a male to play the part of a stern professor,
policeman, Nazi, daddy…or I could just be what I am –
a true sadist.
        The  fact is I enjoy seeing a woman’s
buttocks clench and squirm while I whip
a cane across her bum cheeks…and when I whip
her ass harder…. I truly love to see her butt
squirm faster – as she tries to avoid the
harder quicker strikes.
        And I like to be spanked and caned myself
 So you see, I know about fetishes – a variety
of them.  I also have compulsions I don’t want to admit to
at the moment.
               One thing I want to say is I am certain
that the study of fetishes – this study is at the
very core of the human psyche: it’s at the
hub/centre/matrix   of compulsion and motivation.
            If the conditions of one’s fetish are not fulfilled,
the psyche turns against itself.And there will be
rebellion in the city of your mind.
           Deep impulses  repressed become rage; and rage
is the ultimate perversion of the mind. Rage turned
inward, of course, becomes depression.
           How much better it would be to  just
have your ass whipped by a strong woman in leather…
 and get wildly aroused…over a considerable period of
time… and be ordered to blow your load
on her knee, her shoe, or in your own shoes!
         No one is hurt…your passion
is spent… and your homicidal urges recede.
            It’s fun, too! But it’s also a serious
matter. Ignoring your own fetish will ruin your sex drive.
If you never do the disgusting, perverted, dirty things
 you need to do. If you don’t share such shameful
things with your wife  or partner
your sex life will disappear.
          It takes courage to share what you’re most
ashamed of with the person who owns half your
earthly goods. She might walk out.
          But believe me, if she doesn’t let
you do all the dirty shameful things
you want to do to her…chances  are she’s
doing the same dirty deeds with someone else.
           You’ve got to break it to her or him slowly.
I find it’s  easiest to break the news to your
spouse, when you’re having sex, fondling
her perhaps.
             There are some items you don’t
want to surprise your partner with, though.
 I talked one husband into confessing to his wife
his deepest need. He wanted to have sex
with her, while he was wearing a  rubber pig’s
mask and making grunting noises.
          It took her a little while to get used
to that.
          After a month passed she confided
to me that they’d had a lot more sex than
usual that month, which was great. But she found
it a bit disgusting.
         I talked to the husband and told
him the problem. I asked him whether
a clown’s mask would work as well. He
decided it would.
         So he started having sex with
his wife as he was wearing a full  clown’s
mask, red rubber ball nose and all.
 The nose made a little honking
sound if she squeezed it, which she
did more and more as time passed.
After a while she started squeezing
the nose each time she wanted
him to thrust into her.
        I’m told she kept increasing
the speed of the honks, until
he was thrusting as quick as he
could. This was a sadistic measure
of control which she quite enjoyed.
          Some weeks later I asked her
if the sex was still just as good as it was
with the pig’s mask on.
          She  informed me  that, yes,
the sex is still just as good.
” But I’ll never take him as seriously again
for the rest of my life!”

          Maybe that’s a good thing.
(C)2016 by W.W. Milñe


I used to know a bushman

Near a bar up north,

It seemed he could hardly

Speak English.


I used to take him booze and food

Twice a month,

He had an aware, conscious

Relaxed limber way.


He was missing a tooth or two

And he didn’t smell good

Always in the same coveralls

Before and after chopping wood.


I didn’t let his lack of hygene worry me,

There are some things more important

Than cleanliness;


He could hardly speak a  sentence

His grammar was bad

I thought he’d  live in the bush

For eternity.


But with a twinkle in his eye

And a laughing way

 He seemed to read what I was thinking

With each expression in my face.


He laughed, not at me but with me,

So much he couldn’t say

To inform me.


I got a job down south,

Didn’t see him for years,

I was teaching at the university.

I heard laughter next door

In the philosophy class

This man was teaching right next to me.


He wore a three piece suit,

With well cut hair;

He was speaking most articulately.


The same bushman I knew

From the woods east of here

It seemed an impossibility:


How he got here from there,

Cleaned up his affairs,

It certainly seemed a mystery.




Now I live in the bush,

It’s where I want to be,

Only wash my clothes when it rains;


Old clothes and an axe and unkempt hair

I grunt and howl and seem to hardly speak,

Only the rare word

Is civilized in me.


And I laugh like I know all the world!



(C) 2016 by W.G. Milne

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