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Dwa pająki się spotkały, puzzle sobie ukladaly
jeden mówi do drugiego, pospisz się kolego.

Polish poem

I am a spider. I kill flies. I hide, like every clever spider, in plain sight. Fully dressed, I look like any ordinary human being; you won’t notice the tattoos. I’ve put myself – a red-back spider – on one shoulder, and all the swatted flies on the other side.

Do yourself a favour: if I talk to you, and you’re starting to think I’m nice, run. Or I will bring you to heights you’ve yet to see, only to tear you apart a little while later.

A month after poisoning the couple in Bosnia, I hadn’t found a place to settle down just yet. I was still living in hotels – at this time a rather nice one in Sczcecin – when I was invited to the pool by a man. Knowing me, I’m sure you are wondering what the relevance is, here. But it is relevant, trust me; I’ve never been this honest. Once we were in the pool, I realised I was not alone: on his shoulder there was a tattoo of a rather large spider climbing up towards his neck. It wasn’t a red-back, but it looked fierce enough. Even though there were no flies on the other, I was sure I had met a partner in crime. The only difference being, that he was just getting started.

He was nice, we had a similar character, only confirming my suspicion. And then he took the initiative. There were twins sitting by the pool. Dark-blonde, wavey hair, fit, trained bodies, flat stomachs, small and firm breasts covered by cute bikinis. Their smiles were to die for, their voices soft and timid and their emerald eyes shone. At first glance, the only difference between them were their belly buttons: one had a pink button pierced into it, the other a blue one.

The other spider turned out to be an even smoother talker than myself. Before the afternoon was old, the four of us were in their room, naked. They had the suite, and the livingroom was turned into an orgy palace. While I’m not really bisexually inclined, sharing twins with another spider, was a unique experience. Kissing one girl whie fingering another, having my dick sucked by the other, while licking the one’s pussy; having one pussy planted on my face, while the other’s wet pussy rode my penis and feeling the other spider’s cock moving deep inside her anus, knowing the sisters were kissing, led to a new version of ecstasy.

The first time I blew my load into one twin, the sexual tension in the room was so high, I did not even need a turn around time. We just kept going, until the girls orgasmed simultaneously on our dicks, and I came a second time into the other sister. I didn’t pay attention the the other spider’s jizz-count, but by nightfall he seemed as satisfied as a man can be.

We spent the night in their suite; each girl in their own room, accompanied by a spider. In the room I stayed, I managed to make the girl come three more times – once by hand, once by penis and, after a shower, one more time orally. The latter two also resulted in an orgasm on my side. And then we slept.

The next morning, my half of the twins and myself awoke first. In our underwear we moved into the suite’s kitchen. And there she started bugging me about the flies on my arm. Of course, I didn’t want to answer, but she wouldn’t let it go. And that annoyed me, so I took a kitchen knife and thrust it into the wooden paneling of the kitchen – straight through her abdomen. I muffled her screams with my hand and told her she would be the next fly on my arm. Then I twisted the knife. My hand was growing slippery with blood, and a pool was slowly forming at her feet. I kept the knife in place, so she stayed upright against the wall.

That’s when I noticed the other spider staring at me – apparently in shock. He mouthed the words ‘what the fuck’ over and over. I told him to hurry up and get on with it, partner. “This is what we spiders do to flies!” I said. To my sincere disappointment he then replied: “I’m nothing like you.” And then I heard a girl scream.

I knew I had to act quickly. I needed some time to get away, before this hit the news. I pulled the knife out of the wall. The warm corpse slumped with a sigh to the floor. I threw the knife across the kitchen and was lucky to hit the other twin in the lower abdomen – sharp end first. The shock silenced her for a few seconds, which was almost enough time for me to grab another knife, move behind the still stunned, lame, fake, other spider, pull his head back and slam the knife into his brain. He went down quietly, but the other twin started running, screaming. Thankfully I was faster, I tackled her and when going down, she hit her head on the edge of a cabinet. She went limp, but to ensure she would never talk again, I planted the knife in her heart.

Obviously I am the only real spider. Dangerous even to the look-a-like wannabes. I cleaned myself up, put on clothes, and took their phones. I turned them off and threw them in the Oder. Only then did I get a new tattoo – two flies this time, with interlocking legs. It turned out really nice. Now, I look down at them, uncovered by my T-shirt, shivering in the spring night in which I feel forced to entrust my story to this page, it appears as if their wings flutter. I remember watching the hotel on TVP3 the next day, realising I’d have to be more careful next time. I’d proven I’m dangerous, but for the first time I wondered if I’d gone too far. One thing I still recommend, though, is, when I talk to you: run. For I am still the only real spider.



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Ne pravi pauk mrežu za jednu muhu.

Bosnian Proverb

I am a spider. I am a dangerous spider, even though my power is now weakening. Sitting here, perched high above the land I know so well. My mind’s eye replaces the view I see before me, with images from the winter I was at my most dangerous. It was the time I had eight flies and a mosquito on one arm, and the single solitary red-back spider tattooed on my other. I had just feasted in Italy and was hiding out in Šuica… When I get the chance, I hunt. I did back then, perhaps I will again soon. Don’t give me that chance. Run when we meet.

In Blidinje nature park I met her. She arrived in a Porsche 356 – I will never know why she drove that there, other than just because she could. Lush lips, voluptuous bosom, beautiful bubble butt and dark blonde hair made her worth noticing even more than the car. Her eyes, though, dull with boredom, were glued to her phone. So I struck up a conversation.

We started talking about the snowy nature park, the Instagram pictures she was taking of it, the history of the land and the potential future. She was, however, so beautiful and well groomed, that I had to compliment her on it. She replied cryptically: ‘Show me a beautiful woman, and I show you a man who’s tired of fucking her.’ I’d seen the movie, and suspected instantly that it was her money, not his, that ran the family. Her reply did turn the conversation to sex.

I wasn’t particularly shy, but I was intimidated by her beauty. I stayed on generic terms – she always comes first, it’s not your duty to come, it’s your partner’s duty to induce an orgasm upon you. She quickly became more specific. She said she divorced her husband five months ago, and hadn’t had sex for seven. No man had dared to approach her for real, given her beauty and stature. She didn’t elaborate on how she’d reached her social standing, and I didn’t ask. She did tell me about a husband who had treated her as nothing better than a warm sex doll; he’d not made her come. Ever. And the way I talked about sex, turned her on; big time.

Her Porsche, which she told me she’d bought in Italy and had nicknamed Pausini (she never told me why she’d done that), was too small for the kind of sex I intended to have, but I did make her come through manual labour. She didn’t even take her clothes off. We kissed, her luscious lips and perfect teeth with – surprise – pierced tongue made kissing amazing. My hand moved down into her panties and I massaged the moisture out of her, till she arched her back and moaned in pleasure; pleasure she’d only induced upon herself, since she’d met her husband. She then thanked me by unbuttoning my fly. She parted her succulent lips and folded them around my shaft. The button in her tongue gently moved up and down, and drove me to an ecstatic level I’d not experienced before – especially not through oral sex.

After she swallowed my 10cc, I buttoned up and she drove me to her estate – she apparently was satisfied enough, for I didn’t see her use her phone again. There we spent the week fornicating. One morning, as I was making her breakfast, a man walked in and I found out she’d lied to me. The man, who thought I was the new chef, asked me for a specific breakfast with sweet black Americano and went up to her bedroom. I’d just met her husband; the divorce was a lie. And while I now had a good reason to swat this fly, it presented me with quite a dilemma.

Walk away? Never! I am a fucking spider. And I’m good at fucking, too! I am dangerous; I kill. But then, she’d lied to me to get laid; I ‘d never been this irked before. This fly had to die. Today. But what to do about her mate? He had done me little harm, but if I killed her, he surely would hunt me down.

And then it hit me. She liked her cappuccino sweet. He’d just ordered coffee with three spoons of sugar. So, instead of sugar, I laced their drinks with anti-freeze. Given the season, I knew there was a bottle in the garage. Just in case it wasn’t enough, I brought the bottle and a funnel with me upstairs. I had no poisoning experience. How much anti-freeze knocks a body out? How long would it take for the right amount of anti-freeze to crystallise and cut through the kidneys? I had no idea.

They loved the coffee, drank three more cups, and then moved to lemonade. I remained their chef for the rest of the day, feeding them over a litre of anti-freeze in all. It was evening when the stomach pains started. It was the moment to cut all communication with the outside world. And to find a tattoo artist. I decided to pretend this double murder was only the elimination of the one fly; I had the artist put a nice colourful chrysomya megacephala on my arm.

As you see, I am a spider, and if need be, I don’t weave my web for just one fly. I adapt and that was what I considered most dangerous about me. If I talk to you, run. Even if you are plural. I can take on any fly. Any fly, said the spider.



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Ragno porta guadagno.

Italian proverb

I am a spider. A very dangerous one at that. If you don’t run, I kill, and then I run. And usually, after I run, I lay low for a while; I digest, so to speak. By the time we meet, though, assume I’m hungry.

The intermissions have usually been a time of reflection too. Don’t get me wrong, it was never a time of remorse. Regret is something I refuse to feel – I do what seems a good idea at the time. Reflect I do – how can I get out cleaner the next time? And one thing I figured out was, that I needed more money. For you needn’t fear a spider that brings money, right?

So I buried my spider and flies under a white collar and went into crime. There are two ways to get rich: organise gambling or go into banking. Either way, you need to be morally corrupt to make some real dough. As a spider, a moral conscience was not part of my baggage. What followed was the hatching of a plan, I put my savings together and executed it in the land of the free. I kept to myself, ignored all flies I encountered and was successful. Within five years I was offered three million dollars for one company.

An associate of mine, mr. Andretta, had told me a lot of nice things about his father’s home country, so with my pockets full of cash I returned to the continent I was born in. On the plane over the ocean, I was tempted to go back home, but time taught me I wasn’t ready for that yet. This spider brought his money to Italy, first.

Having had half a decade of work and no play, I’d been a dull boy; but I was done working and ready for a new fly. I was famished. It wasn’t a week later, that I bedded a beautiful yet not brand new Italian woman.

She’d obviously been around, and knew what she expected from her man. She was quick and to the point in telling me where and how to touch her; and what not to do. The first time I felt a little like a puppet on strings, but I quickly realised that this was her thing. She came so loud I was worried about the neighbours, a quarter mile away. Her orgasm came from deep within and the trembling continued for quite some time.

Once her first orgasm had abated, she started working my body. She deep-throated me thoroughly; I got so hard it hurt. Then she rode me showing impressive strength and stamina. It had been so long for me that I came like a pig; I worried I’d filled her up like a balloon!

Once we were done, panting, smiling and enjoying the intensity of the last orgasm, I reached down to take off the condom, put a knot in it and… I realised I’d forgotten to put one on. Making money had made me lose my edge. I’d really enjoyed the sex, and was looking forward to more of this, in a way. But a worry entered the back of my head.

When she confirmed she wasn’t on any contraceptive either, knowing the amount of jizz I’d left in her, I knew it was most likely I’d have to swat this fly soon.

When her hormone balance changed, the next week, and she started throwing up, I took my chance. While she was praying through the shitty telephone, I pushed her head into the bowl and flushed. She had strong legs and tried to use them, but I managed to stay out of reach. I slammed the seat down to the back of her neck so hard it cracked. I flushed again, and then she went still, but I still saw her pulse going in her neck. So I kept pushing down, and flushed as often as I could, for about ten minutes. That’s when I was sure her pulse had stopped.

The second time you carry a cold corpse through the woods, is less memorable than the first. All I remember now, is that, at the time, I thought of the first time, and realised there were few similarities. The only similarity I could think of, was that the next morning, I got myself a fly tattoo.

For I am a spider, and I kill flies. Not every day, not even every year. But I am a cold blooded killer, and while I commit this to paper in the chill of a spring evening, you should consider yourself lucky that we haven’t met. Yet.



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A aranha vive do que tece.

Boca fechada não entra mosca.

Brasilian proverbs.

I am a spider, and I kill flies. Or mosquitoes. I usually don’t need to cast a web to be dangerous. It is true though, that a spider lives on what it weaves. When we meet, it is already too late for you. I strike, you die. It’s that simple. The spider tattooed on one shoulder will always be alone. You will join the swarm of flies on my other arm; yes, the swarm is becoming too large for just my shoulder.

I used an emergency exit out of Australia. I had my fill of Asia, so I thought I’d try my luck in South America. And let me tell you: flies live all over the planet. I did visit a few countries in South America. It turns out, I find the women there very attractive – in general. Maybe it’s the variation and the mixes that exist there, due to wave after wave of migration – either by choice or by force. It has led to a multitude of skin tones and body shapes. I started to understand that for me, the beauty of a women is in her shape and smoothness of skin, not in the colour. Had I encountered a mistique South American woman with bright blue skin, I would’ve fancied her.

I have to admit that a large percentage of the women I had a thing for; a lot of potential flies I met, all with one drawback: “I have a boyfriend.” And though I tend to kill flies, it’s my way of setting me free. I’m not in the business of liberating another man. I know the correct answer to “I have a boyfriend” is “I’m not jealous”, but I won’t lie: I don’t share. If I keep my mouth shut, flies won’t get in.

Not until I got to a little rundown port city on the Xingu did I see a girl in a beauty contest who proclaimed to be single. She wore nothing but a zebra coloured bikini with a pink cloth across her breasts and oily reflecting sunglasses. Her chestnut skin smooth as silk. She was two sizes too big for a miss universe contest, but semi-anorexic wasn’t my favourite anyway.

I put her out of my mind at first, for looking like that, being on stage, stating you’re single, is well more effective than a nude picture on Ashley Madison if you are looking for attention. A few hours later, though, things changed.

I saw her. Fully dressed in skin tight jeans and a green blouse, she was being harassed by two men. While two dogs fight over a bitch, the spider swoops in and runs off with her. I hugged her and whispered in her ear: ‘pretend I’m your boyfriend, I’ll get you out of here, and you’ll never have to see me again.” The result was quite unexpected.

She swallowed the hook, lifeline and sinker. I took her out of there, while she said that she’d lied about being single to get votes. And while I remained chivalrous, she fell for me. That same night I opened my mouth to let a fly cum in; her juices flowed as she came before she even touched me. And as I gently penetrated her soft and tender body, she moaned in pleasure, moving to my rhythm. We reached orgasm simultaneously, not ten minutes later.

Brasil was a pleasant place to be, and this beautiful woman, looking and behaving not a day over 25 but actually being 31, fucked me like a nymphomaniac who’d not had any in a year.

Twenty-seven times we had sex in the first nine days we were together. Fourteen in the first three. It was pleasant, and mutually satisfying until, not a month into our affair, she became controlling and mistrusting. I’d got me one of those brand new smart phones everyone was on about; ‘finally’, she claimed.

However, the moment I connected this device to the new social order of Facebook, MySpace and Skype she wanted to check everything I did. As if I had time, stamina and libido to flirt with anyone else.

This bugged me. So for her thirty-second birthday I treated her to a private boat trip – just the two of us – over the Xingu. Out of sight and downstream of town, I stabbed her, and before the blood dripped down to the boat, I threw her overboard. I’d heard stories of the aggressive black piranha’s in this river, but hadn’t anticipated the speed of their apearance. Only ten seconds did she scream and splash. After that, all I could see was a red soupy bit of river.

Careful not to drive the boat through the blood, I turned her and went back to town. I was disappointed that the only way out was a bus to Santarém. I couldn’t leave the country that day; I couldn’t even get far away. Nor the next day, as I took the time to have a fly tattooed on my arm.

As you see, flies are everywhere, and I have the habit of killing them. For I am a spider. Fear me. Run, when you still have the chance.



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Itsy Bitsy Spider climbed up the water spout.
Down came the rain, and washed the spider out.

Origin unknown

I am a spider. I am a dangerous one at that. While a real red-back isn’t much bigger than a large mole, the one tattooed on my shoulder is large enough to kill you. And I will. As you are a fly.

After years of travelling, I finally made it to the country the red-back is native to. While in Bangkok nature’s beauty is mostly seen by the busstop, Down Under – before it burnt – the beauty is in its sheer size – and outside the cities. And yes, in the outback there were plenty of flies, but few of the ones I like to catch.

A budget carrier, brand new in the day, took me to Perth, where I found myself a second hand car and drove north. It is said that you either love or hate the Australian landscape; I loved it. The enormous distances where nothing changed; the environment where every inch screamed ‘life is harsh here’, yet the traces of life everywhere, brought me faith in a resilient planet. I slept in the car, showered at roadhouses, drank and ate whereever possible, and drove slowly and short distances on a daily basis. I experienced a friendliness that comes with a deep rooted knowledge that if we don’t help eachother, this land is going to kill us.

It made me more friendly too. I helped out at a farm for a few weeks in exchange for nothing but a bed and food. And I didn’t even act on the advances by the tween daughter of the family. Not even after she insisted she wasn’t scared of my tattoo.

No, I decided to travel on. Only a few weeks later – during which I visited Broome, Darwin, and did a bit of off-road travelling – at the campsite of Tennant Creek did I meet my fly.

I first saw her when she stepped out of her campervan. She was slightly overweight, had blonde hair with blue highlights, wore a cute smile between chubby cheeks and carried herself with the pride and dignity adored by Mika only a few years later. This girl surely could have been his inspiration! Her colourful outfit betrayed a recent journey to India, but it suited her. Human imagination makes everything we can’t see clearly perfect.

I took a shine to her, and she did to me when I asked her to join me for dinner at a local NoMSG Asian restaurant. Fortunately for her they served a decent chicken tikka masala; fortunately for me they also had a very acceptable tom yum kung. We ate, we drank and we talked. We talked about our journies and what they had taught us. We hit it off well, for some of the lessons learnt were recognisable, and it had been quite a while for either of us since we’d been with anyone. So when the restaurant cloesed, we found ourselves kissing in her campervan where, only a little while later, she went itsy bitsy spider, slid down my semen spout.

I once heard that you’re not old until it takes all night to do what you used to do all night. Well, we weren’t old. And we proved that again and again for the next couple of months, travelling the outback together. Every blip on the map, and often even between blips, we found a reason to stop – she in the van, me in my car – and do what mammals do on discovery channel. Yes, also out in the open on the sand, on a picknick matt, on our clothes or just standing up.

We didn’t get far quickly that way, because the relentless lovemaking and subsequent lack of sleep. We’d wake up around noon, induced an orgasm on eachother, and then drive for a few hours till we agread that drowsy drivers do indeed die; and then we’d find a spot to, well, you get the picture…

Eventually we’d travelled the Nullarbor highway in both directions, and were parked close to the edge of the cliffs on the Great Ocean Road. The best view was through the windshield looking out at the ocean, so we sat in the front seats, naked, sattisfied like the kiwi with his sheep, enjoying the view and the knowlede that there was nothing but water between us and Antarctica. That’s where she told me she wanted to take me home and meet her parents.

I am a spider. By nature I am a solitary creature. But I’m not impervious to cultural importance; I knew what it meant that she wanted me to meet her parents. If you’ve created images in your head of the story so far, you know my way out. We finished the night with another round of raunchy sex. I then waited for her to fall asleep; took the handbrakes of and put the gears in neutral. Then, at about 2:15 a.m., I pushed the campervan over the edge, about fifty metres down where it crashed to smithereens. I glimpsed over the edge and caught sight of her head being unnaturally far away from other parts of her body, got in my car and drove off.

Sydney welcomed me late the next day. I slept well, and another day later I found a tattoo artist to add a fly to my shoulder, which was starting to fill up by now. The next day, I got on a plane. Out.

I am a spider. I can be patent, but by nature I kill flies. And even though at times I may seem nice, when you start to think that I am: run. Unless you have the desire to be remembered through a tattoo.



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Thai proverb

I am a spider. Beware: I am a dangerous spider. Beware, for real, though, I don’t just kill flies. The red-back on my shoulder has enough poison to hurt a human too. So when I strike up a conversation: kill it; run, hide. Don’ t let me find you again. The flies on my other shoulder are testimony to the ones who failed to run.

No, apparently I don’t just kill flies. I kill mosquitoes too. While I am always a little disappointed to see a fly go, I’m quite pleased with myself that I managed to kill a mosquito. Man, they are a pest; a mosquito is more dangerous than a tiger. Trust me; this one was a handful.

I’d been single for a few years, travelling and working South East Asia, before finding a spot in Chiang Rai to settle down – for a while. I’d been to Chiang Rai in the beginning of my South East Asian stint, as I came down on a bus from China. I didn’t dare going any further north, but the mountain air pleased me.

In the years that had passed, ADSL had become a thing, but hadn’t made it to Chiang Rai just yet. The sewers were still being built there. In that time, I took up a job teaching English in a weekend school.

And that’s where I met her. She was in one of my classes. She was a metre fifty tall, had dyed her hair brown, with blond highlights. At age 27, only a year younger than myself at the time, she still wore what I’d come to know as a university uniform: black shoes, tight black skirt and a spotless white buttoned up shirt bursting around her fake breasts. I knew they were fake from the moment I met her, as no human is built that disproportionately.

Her reason for learning English was simple, and she was honest about it: “I am a prostitute, and I want to be able to talk to my targets.” She told me that in English littered with Thai words and a piss-poor pronunciation. “An(d) I alway saleep wit(h) teachah”.

Despite my history, her profession kind of put me off. But she was more persistent than my resistance, so a few weeks into the course we spent an hour in a hotel that charged rooms by the hour. She showed me she was good at her job: she had no interest in enjoying herself, but was very eager to finish me off. Once we were naked and I’d confirmed tactilitly that her breasts were fake, she pushed me on my back. She sucked till I got hard, put on a condom and some lubricant, put me in her hairless pussy and rode me till I almost came. Then she pulled away the condom and deepthroated me dry; swallowing it all.

And that was it. She got up, said “See you neck(t) lesson, teachah”, and left. No relationship. No issues, no bugging. I was stunned. I’d never got away this clean. Or so I thought. But I soon started to hear the incessant buzzing.

The next week she did it again. This time, once I was inside of her, I took charge and went at it doggy-style. I pumped, she moaned. I pushed, she screamed. I thrusted, she bit the pillow – not from pleasure, she told me after I’d filled the jimmy-hat, but to help her endure it. I’d forgotten lubricant.

This went on for a month, after which she phoned me to tell me she would tell my boss what we’d been doing if I wouldn’t pay for her lessons. So I did the sensible thing to avoid being blackmailed, and confessed to my boss myself. To my surprise, my boss wasn’t the least bit upset! He started laughing and told me the first time she enrolled, she wasn’t a woman yet.

Well, damn. I phoned him back and said I’d pay for class as long as our weekly sessions continued. He agreed, and the next time we met, I was prepared. After I let him suck me hard – for that was our routine – I pretended to want doggy style – and asked for anal. He agreed; the fool. For I had lubricant and a sharpened stick which I stuck fast and hard up his arse, till the tip hit something hard; a bone somewhere. His colarbone, perhaps? I really wouldn’t know – I am not a doctor. But it most certainly first went through something vital as his body went limp and soundless in less than a minute. The efficiency of this method surprised me; there was almost no blood, little mess.

I left the hotel which I’d paid in cash, got on a bus to Chiang Mai, and got – between the flies – a mosquito tattoo.

For I am a spider, and I do not just kill flies. But kill I do, and pray you stay out of my clutches.



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Chinese proverb

I am a spider. I kill flies. Something about my feromones makes them swarm to me. But remember: I’m a dangerous solitary creature. No matter how much you think you’ve got me eating out of the palm of your hand, I will always walk alone.

And in China, my fly wasn’t even attractive. Which is strange, really. Since the single-child policy, more boys stay alive than girls. These kids have become adults, and the women don’t need to try hard to get a man; there’s a surpuls of the latter. And still I came across quite a few really cute girls. But the girl I hooked up with, wasn’t .

Her English was good though. I could really communicate with her, and despite the cultural difference, our connection was the beginning of a relationship of another nature than just physical desire. She had standard straight black hair. A face that looked like she was born into a wall – forehead, cheekbones and the tip of her nose were all equally protruded; her face was as flat as the rest. Her nipples were larger than her breasts (especially after certain stimulation). She had no arse to speak of, and two fairly short legs.

And yes, after a week of good conversation we went back to her place and we saw eachother naked. I realised quickly that it was good that I had shaved, otherwise my pubes may very well have twined with her bush like velcro. But as we connected on a different level, or so I thought, I penetrated her anyway and was pleasantly surprised by the amount of moisture. She moaned and did the right things to orgasm just before I did.

The evenings with tea continued, and so did the weekly sex encounters. It wasn’t long before I realised she was dirt poor, so I started paying for her. Rent, a new phone, electricity bills, and often even for food. On the occasions that I brought her a warm meal, she’d reward me with sex in a different orrifice than her vagina. A blowjob, usually, for which she swallowed my cum, but didn’t get close to deepthroat. Anal happened twice, but as it clearly hurt her, I never asked for that again. I thought she was innocent.

But as it turns out, flies don’t circle uncracked eggs. Nearly sex months into our relationship, I accidentally saw her giving money to a Chinese man, my age. He wasn’t her father, surely. Not her brother; we were in China! I had to know more, but I decided not to confront her yet. I took a few days leave from the job I’d taken, gave her some extra money. Why? “No reason, honey, do something nice with it.” And I followed her. This time she took the money to a different man, also not her father’s age. This was getting weird. So I confronted her in my way.

After the next time I gave her money, I bumped into her, to catch her red handed. She had no explanation but tears. So I asked the man, who replied at length in Cantonese – I didn’t catch a word of it.

With pain in my heart, I realised I’d been played. I was her atm – and all the rest was her job. So I decided to call it quits, and show her what a hungry spider does.

I was pissed. Not just at myself for falling for this trick. But also at her for selling me bull shit. So I made her suffer. I bought a nail gun, and stuck her to the table. I superglued and ducktaped her mouth shut before I put more nails in her body, one every minute, until she stopped moving. Then I left the mess for someone else to find. Hopefully the men who no longer got any money from her. If it were them, it would buy me time to flee the country.

I managed. And not until I got to Luang Prabang did I get myself another fly tattoo. And for now, I was done with flies. It would take a few years for me to be available again; and I’ll leave you in suspense to find out if that was a fly…

I’d now really become a spider. No emotional attachment ever again. Solitary life is best. I’d show the world how long I could do without feeding. But when I get hungry: brace yourself. I’m now without remorse. I’m dangerous. Run when you spot my tattoos.



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ஈக்கள் ஒரு புதிய தொட்டியில் திரண்டு வருவதில்லை.

Tamil proverb

I am a spider, and I am dangerous. Yet, for some reason, flies appear in my life. Usually I only have to make a minor effort squashing them.

Once I even had a fly come to at me, and at first I let her go. I had just come off a twenty hour flight – well, with a six hour lay-over in some Arabian desert where even the flies hide in tents. The only thing I wanted was a bed. But first I had to eat and shower. I had flown a long way towards the equator and was once again in a very warm and humid nation. Being in the middle of the ocean didn’t help of course.

Fresh off the cool plane, ten minutes outside made me hot and sweaty in an unappreciative way. Believe me, in the right circumstances, being hot and sweaty is a state I’d aim for instead of avoid. By the time I landed in Colombo I was old and experienced enough to say that I enjoyed getting hot, sweaty and naked with someone.

But not just yet. The waitress in the hotel-restaurant I’d picked, tried to get my attention straight away. She was cute. Chestnut skin, long black hair reaching all the way down her perfectly arched back to where her buttocks were hiding under her white wide but slightly too short skirt. She served me bending over the table, allowing me a good look onto her small and firm breasts – not kept in place by a bra. At the time I had no idea how culturally inappropriate this was; at the time I was even too tired to act upon the hint. I appreciated the view of her dark nipples rubbing her hotel-supplied T-shirt, sure. But I first went to bed.

The next morning she was wearing a plain, bright blue dress. It closed tightly around her neck, fit neatly across her shoulders and female curves to leave no room for doubt about her beauty. From her hips down, the dress widened to fall loosely around her bare legs, carried by simple black pumps. The simplicity of her attire made her more attractive; I remember thinking that with a dress like this, she needn’t take anything off to straddle naked me.

Together with my breakfast, she slipped me a note, saying that she would have time to show me the sights between 11:00 and 17:00. While I was aware that only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the mid-day sun, in this part of the world, I replied simply with ‘please’.

It was 11:05 when she knocked on my room door, took my hand and was so forward to kiss me. I knew then that I was no longer a new pot. A fly came swarming on its own!

So the first sight I saw was her naked body, which felt as good as it was beautiful. She then showed me all corners of the bed, and between wet and juicy orgasms we even landed on the hart tiled floor. As far as my experience went, it was an oddly boring session, as there were no hands or mouths involved in pre-coital stimulation. She still quivered like a feather in a spring breeze at least three times while she reached for the stars.

Yeah, the sex was alright. Seeing the sights around town was less than alright. Not because of the sights. They were exotic enough. And I soon figured out I caught one of the prettier flies in the city. And she knew it; and she demanded maintenance. And, on top of that, she started telling total strangers we were engaged, even though I still had trouble pronouncing her name. I got sick of it, so I pushed her in front of a speeding bus.

There was a sickening thud as her head exploded on the windshield, and with the smell of burning rubber from screaming tyres around me, I got in a cab in the opposite direction. I asked to be taken to a tattoo shop. I’m sure by now, you know why.

For I am a spider, and I kill flies. Some last less than a day, some a little longer, and I’m not even always on the hunt. But if you find me talking to you: run. If you don’t, sooner or later you’ll be a fly tattooed on my shoulder – the shoulder away from my red-back spider.



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Anlayana sivri sinek saz anlamayana davul zurna az.

Turkisch proverb

I am a spider. I have killed quite a few flies without casting a web. You see, I’m dangerously aggressive, I usually don’t need any intricate representations to get what I want. Therefore: when I talk to you, run, and you may live.

There was this one time, I found myself in Ankara. And yes, after my African stint, I did explore this country quite extensively. I’ve seen Doğubeyazıt, I’d seen İzmir, but nowhere did I encounter the kind of girls I saw in Ankara, and one in particular.

The first time I saw her, she was in a school uniform. White blouse, chequered skirt a few inches above the knee, black leather boots an inch below the knees, raven black wavy hair halfway down her back, bright red lips and runny mascara.

I asked her what was wrong, and she told me her boyfriend had left her after a couple of wild nights. To be sure – the school uniform worried me – I had to ask her age. I was an adult by then, and didn’t want to end up a paedophile in a Turkish dungeon. Eighteen – she was still in school because she had paid more attention to boys than to grades. So I thought I was going to be the rebound boy once again. Her appearance had most certainly given that desire.

We talked for a long time, and even though I tried to buzz like a fly – and she got my message about emotional connection and the need for understanding, I may as well have been screaming my desire through a clarion. She didn’t bite.

She said I was a wise man for my age, kissed me on the cheek and went into her home. I was already going in after her, when she shut the door in my face. I knew then I had to cast a web to catch this fly.

I did. I sweet-talked, presented and flattered her for two days before I first touched her naked body. No, she wasn’t naked; for some reason she insisted on wearing socks.

It didn’t matter. I was only the second man to be with her, so I first kissed her passionately, while I hugged and caressed her ever so gently. I let my hands go through her perfectly groomed shiny hair, I explored her back and gained the first delighted moan when I held her firm buttocks in my hands, my little finger slowly moving towards what matters.

That was the moment I unlocked my tongue from hers and started to move my mouth down her front. I kissed her breasts, nibbled on her nipples until they appeared hard as nails but remained warm and pleasurable to the touch. As I moved my mouth further down, she laid herself on the bed and my hands continued to stimulate her breasts. She was in the right place by then – it wasn’t long till her entire body tensed, and she dug her nails in my back, enjoying her first real orgasm; the first one, she told me, that she hadn’t brought upon herself.

As she drew blood from my back, though, I was done. I knew I’d fucked up, because now there was dna-evidence under her nails. This realisation instantly made my dick go limp.

As she laid there, post-climactic, I quickly gathered my wits. There now was only one way out. This was her home; her parents weren’t there. So I picked up her boot from the floor. The four inch heel had to do. With as much force as I could, I slammed the heel in her eye till it wouldn’t go any furhter. The pain surprised her. She screamed but then I took the heel oud, and tried the other eye. With both eyes gone, and most certainly a puncture in her brain, she quickly stopped moving. Blood was everywhere, and my skin was still under her nails. I then ransacked the place and found some flammable liquid. I doused her body in it, soaked her fingers in it, lit a match and dropped it. This would have to be enough.

As I left the building out the back, I herd someone get in through the front. I had to leave; not just the house, or this city, but also the country. I headed to the bus station, and was lucky enough to find a bus headed for Jerevan only an hour later. It was there that I got my next fly tattoo. I realised I’d have to be more careful, next time.

So there you have it; I am a spider, and I am dangerous. I’m learning quickly how to be more efficient – which means I’ll try to avoid casting a web because it quickly becomes a mess when I do.



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Nzi hufuata asali

Swahili proverb

I am a spider, and you are not. You are a fly. I am a solitary creature. If you see me, stay in the crowd. If I talk to you, run, or before you know it, you’re part of the swarm on my shoulder.

Let me tell you about flies.

Having read about the first fly I swatted, you probably understand that not long after I found myself on a plane – off to Africa. The plane had a clear goal, but I didn’t have a particular destination in mind. I had to leave, but didn’t care where to. Next to me, in seat 79E in a KLM-747 (I was on the aisle), was a sweet looking African girl bawling her eyes out.

I offered her a napkin and a conversation. Not because I suddenly cared about someone else, but the sobbing sounds bugged me. Strangling her would have solved that problem too, but getting away with murder on an intercontinental flight – well, I wasn’t experienced enough for that yet. As it turns out, she’d been in my country for two months to meet the on line love of her life. He happened to be married and his wife was into threesomes. She first tried to go along with it, tried to become his favourite, and ended up with the short end of the bargain – sobs on a plane. Next to me.

I gave her a shoulder to cry on. I showed her I understood her pain. By the time we hit the ground of her home country, she fell into my arms like an insatiable love doll.

She showed me the local more or less famous churches, she showed me some colonial buildings, she showed me some ancient and modern tourist traps, but mostly she showed me beds like a fly drawn to honey. Nothing helps you forget an old love like a new fling, so she flung herself at me with a ferocity that surprised me. However, cracks in this horny picture started showing when I started feeling like her pet. She once even said that she believed the only thing necessary to keep a man tied to a woman, was a regular milking; like a cow.

Don’t get me wrong. The sex was amazing. She had a cute face, with a lovely smile. Eyes so dark they were pools to swim in. She kept her hair short, as she hated tending to long frizzy hair. She had fairly large breasts, and – as far as I was experienced – rather wide hips, but that didn’t hamper any orgasms. Not hers, nor mine, and she was into anal. She was my first, doing that with; and boy was that tight! Mind you, this was only the second girl I’d ever been with. It was overwhelming. I was almost starting to think that going at it for hours on end at least six times a week was normal.

No, it wasn’t always hours on end. There were quickies too. I remember a library toilet visit blowjob. I remember her silently orgasming on a sleeper train. I even remember her going commando in a cab, sitting on my lap; you can imagine what happened next.

And then she dropped the L-word; and I knew it was time to swat this fly. It wasn’t easy. I needed to get out clean, and too many people and places had seen us together. So I took her somewhere new. We drove to the north-west for a couple of hours, where I knew there were some interesting nature walks. She always said she’d wanted to go, so I took her there. This area had some steep cliffs, and a plateau on the edge. We walked along the plateau, to the rim. Once alone, close to the edge, she went down and started to unbutton my fly – I guess she thought her cow needed milking. But I am no cow, I am a spider. So instead of letting her blow me dry, I put my knee up, which made her lose her balance.

I don’t even remember her scream. Or the look of surprise on her face. I never saw her body hit the rocks below. I turned around, buttoned up my fly and walked down the path we’d come, free as a raging bull. It wasn’t long before I found a tattoo artist to add a fly to my shoulder way from the spider, and further to the north-west, I caught a plane north; no, not back to my home country, but I had to get out quickly, so I took the first flight out of there.

As you know, I’m a spider. I’m a solitary creature. And the flies on my shoulder are a reminder of the ones I swatted. There’s a whole bunch of them now. Fear me. You may be next.



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“Zeg wat heb je mooie ogen”
Zei de spin tegen de vlieg.
“Ik heb nog nooit een vrouw bedrogen
Denk ook nu niet dat ik lieg.”

Johnny & Jones

I am a spider. My real name starts with the same letter as the shoulder I have this red-back tattoo on. I am a solitary creature and I am dangerous. If you’re a girl, and I talk to you: run.

Why? Because I don’t care. I’m real good at pretending that I do, though.

‘Say, what pretty eyes you have, said the spider to the fly; I’ve never cheated on a woman; I’m quite confident, I’m not lying now.’ There’s some truth in that. At least there was when I said the cheating bit to the first women I ever dated.

We were young and reckless. Screw the world, fuck responsibility. She was fourteen, I was a few years older, yet greener than her.

It started in the spring; the time of year when hormones start racing. She was pretty and came on to me. I, the solitary creature I already was, had no idea what to do, but reciprocated by instinct.

It wasn’t long before we kissed. We started spending time together and even though her mind had a few short circuits, I told myself I was enjoying the attention. She would come over announced and unannounced. She would drop off little love notes in my mailbox (this was the time before the internet; I’m an old man now). She even bought me chocolate, once. Little did I know that that was a hint; I should’ve bought her chocolates. I told you, I was green as grass at the time.

But things didn’t go wrong there. I did take her out, and paid for a movie, a concert, I even pretended to be sophisticated and took her to the theatre. Ballet, it was; she enjoyed it. I got lucky – it was amazing. At least, that’s what I thought for the full three minutes. She had by then turned fifteen and turned out not to be a virgin, so she was less impressed. But she was willing to teach me.

That was strange for me. While some boys get ideas from porn (pornhub wasn’t around at the time, but you get the idea), and others figure it out as they go along (or don’t), and some learn from talking to peers or older partners, I was told how to please a woman by a fifteen year old girl. She taught me how to use my fingers, how to use my tongue, and even practised with me till I lasted long enough for her to orgasm while I was in her – only then, she said, was it my turn to cum.

Don’t call the police on me just yet. I’m not a paedophile; I wasn’t an adult at the time, and fifteen year olds usually don’t appeal to me. No, I told you, I am a spider. At present, I kill flies, not children.

So there I was, having brought her to the summit a few times, thinking I knew what ever woman wants in bed. And I wanted my life back. I’d seen everything of her shell and there was little more to her than the pretty shell. I tried to break up with her.

She didn’t take it well. I’d taken her to a quiet place in the back of a wood just outside the place I lived. I told her I was done… and then she pulled out a knife, and tried to stab me. I asked her who knew she was here with me. “Nobody,” she said honestly. So I grabbed her hand, took the knife and slit her throat.

I told you I was inexperienced at the time. Her blood was all over me, and she gurgled for what seemed like an eternity before the blood stopped flowing.

In this wood there is a tiny knoll. You can still see it today, if you know where to look. It’s in the wood, but away from the paths. Most people who get in this wood, don’t notice it at all. I knew of its existence, as I’d grown up in this area, and had ventured off the beaten tracks more than a few times. In the north side of this knoll I dug a hole. It took some time as I hadn’t planned for this, believe me! Had I planned, I would’ve taken a spade with me.

Once the hole was big and deep, I put her and my bloody clothes in, and closed it up. It was a strange and liberating experience, carrying a cold corpse through the woods for the first time. It’s almost like losing your virginity; you’ll never forget it.

By the time I was done, it was dark. I sneaked home, showered, burnt the rest of my clothes, and went to bed. The next morning, I got my second tattoo. It’s a tattoo of a fly; it ’s on the shoulder the spider will never reach, because I’ll never touch her again.

So now you know: when you meet me, and see the red-back on one shoulder and a whole lot of flies on the other: run. The flies I caught, didn’t.


Wat moet ik?
Wat moet ik nu?
Wat mag ik dan?
Wat wil ik toch?
Wie ben ik wel?

Hoe kan ik zo mezelf zijn?
         Ik voel muziek.
         Ik zie geborgenheid.
         Ik hoor geen repliek.
Hoe doe ik mezelf geen pijn?

Waarom is het zo moeilijk mezelf te zijn?
         Ik proef geen dilettantisme.
         Ik zie slechts verlegenheid.
         Ik ruik naar individualisme.
Waarom is het zo’n zwaar leven met mijn pijn?

Welke weg leidt naar mezelf?
         Ik hoor de liefde niet.
         Ik zie geen genegenheid.
         Ik spreek het verlangen niet.
Welke weg ga ik nu zelf?

Waar kan ik heen en mezelf zijn?
         Ik ruik de excursie.
         Ik zie de vrijheid.
         Ik proef de distantie.
Waar kan ik heen zonder mijn pijn?

Wanneer mag ik vrijelijk mezelf zijn?
         Ik hoor de toekomst.
         Ik zie de tegenwoordigheid.
         Ik voel mijn afkomst.
Wanneer kan ik leven met deze pijn?

Wat moet ik?
Wat moet ik nu?
Wat moet ik straks?
Wat mag ik later?
Ik wil bergen geborgenheid;
en haar.

Anti-social media

A couple of months ago, I left Facebook. I grew tired of its pointlessness. Its impersonal sharing of personal moments, bored me to tears. Its perception of being in touch while actually being far away, and alone, didn’t do the trick for me. I do not have the desire to share my life with the world; I do not desire the fake impression of being popular because I get lots of likes on my semi-funny posts, or cute cat-videos. That filled the bucket for me, but the drop that made it overflow, was when it became known that through Facebook, at least one shady company had elections for sale. Cambridge Analytica was the scapegoat, but I do not believe that they are the only ones who did what they did. In this day and age there are very, very few things only one person, only one company, can do. Especially shady stuff. I don’t know who the others are. Their only way to stay profitable, is to remain secret.

As news comes out that Facebook has been hacked a couple of times, and millions upon millions of people’s details are up for grabs, I’m glad I left when I did. I wonder though, as Facebook never deletes anything, was my data a victim too? And, though Facebook has promised to get in contact with the people who were targeted, will they if my data is now out there? Probably not…

I did stay on Twitter, though. For fun – to have something to do while waiting for a train. I did have occasionally interesting discussions with people whom I disagreed with – and still disagree with, but their way of arguing with me has led me to respect them. They seem to stand in life the way I do: I have certain ideas about where I think the world should be headed, and I have certain ideas on how the world could get there… But I am very well aware that my ideas aren’t perfect; and I’m very well aware that I don’t know everything. Especially not how the future will turn out – even if we follow my ideas to the letter. And on that basis, it’s fun and interesting to discuss pretty much everything – provided the counterpart holds the same position about flawed ideas. That’s something we can talk about; arguments with people who don’t claim to know everything, and remain respectful, sharpen your views. And, as I said, makes the encounter one that leads to mutual respect – even though you continue to disagree.

I admit, I’ve also lost my cool a few times. Ones I stated that I thought Donald Trump wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, and got immediate verbal abuse thrown at me – so I threw some back, and then people complained that I was unwilling to talk. Another time someone stated that almost all of the bad things in the world were caused by white men, so we should have a racial bias against white men. Me, being a white man, pretended to think this was about me, in response to which someone asked ‘why do you apply this tweet to yourself’? And in an attempt to be racially incorrect, in order to show the other person a mirror, I used the N-word (in combination with a typical Dutch discussion about Black Pete, Saint Nick’s slave assistant over here, that people of colour apply to themselves too; a little side-note follows at the bottom). I probably shouldn’t have – the mirror effect didn’t arrive on the other end, that’s for sure. I don’t believe that becoming racially biased against white men is going to rid the world of racism. But perhaps I’m an idiot. For this misstep I was, quite forcefully told off – and rightfully so.

But that’s about it. The vast majority of my experiences on Twitter were summed up pretty good but James Patrick (@J_amesp), who said: “The screaming into the void, while being constantly proven right and simultaneously ignored, is just pointless.”. I’m of course not so sure about the ‘constantly being proven right’ bit, see above. But what I said was largely ignored. Occasionally one or two people responded. But in a digiverse of several million ‘souls’, that’s not much. And even the ones with a massive reach, rarely reach a million responses.

So here is why I’m leaving Twitter too – my last anti-social media account alive (except WhatsApp). It’s utter pointless to go on-line and scream at the top of your fingertips that the world is going to shit if people continue to be so biased against everyone with different views. This anti-social media is spurring on the polarization we’re seeing in society for it’s so easy to block out opposing views, to block out views you don’t like; and it’s so easy to find a few people who like what you say (even though it’s bullshit), which makes you feel strong and emboldened to continue shouting whatever non sense pops in your mind… Social Media is not the place to openly discuss new ideas (I strongly oppose the view of Dutch politician Thierry Baudet in this), for reasons stated above: you never have to respond to people who disagree with you. And as long as you’re not forced to counter critique on your views, it’s not an open discussion. It’s just screaming into the void hoping people will follow you. And that, my dear readers, is not just a waste of time, it’s a way for this world to go to shit.

There are only two people I’ve encountered on Twitter that I regret not talking to anymore. Just two. I highly enjoyed our discussions, even though with one of them we barely moved an inch closer together. But I highly respect the both of them – even though I’ve never met either, and perhaps I never will, as we live on opposite ends of the world. Given the chance, I would jump at it.

As for the rest of you, I’m giving you the ultimate block. I am leaving Twitter – it should be obvious to you why. I’m going to live among real people again.

P.S. I’m not re-reading this, forgive the typos.

P.P.S. As for the Saint Nick and Black Pete’s issue in The Netherlands, it’s basically this: when racism against black people was still completely normal (the 19th century), the Dutch invented a ‘tradition’ where Saint Nick and his black slave assistant would come to the country to bring presents to the kids. Pretty much like Santa, but on December 5th, and with black clown-looking suckers instead of elves. Anno 2018 this kind of racism is no longer normal and people of colour have a problem with Pete being black. They want him to be different colours. They present it as if that would solve racism in the country, and they seem to recognise themselves in the slave position of Black Pete. As my kids don’t care what colour Black Pete is, neither do I. For the rest I refrain from commenting on the topic.