Daddy said… (3)



“You know, the problem with the world is, there are too many the foreigners. They’re all taking our jobs, and on top of that, they’re too lazy to work!”

So I went out and had a look.

I stepped outside my door, and to my great surprise, I found foreigners absolutely all over the place. The fact that I don’t live in the country I was born in, may or may not have contributed to the fact that most of the people I found were alien to me; about 4 to 5 foot tall, with black hair and squinty eyes.

None of them had my job though, and they were all quite busy – if it was work they were doing, I couldn’t tell. There were obviously more foreigners here than in my own country; in the hour or so I walked around my house, I saw only one other like myself…

Then I zoomed out, and found places where people of different colour lived together, yet neither was considered a foreigner. And there too, most people appeared busier than bees. Especially those paid very little for their efforts worked really hard. It seemed to me that the more money they had, the less they did! And also, apparently, the darker the skin, the more often they got shot. If that were my family, I would riot too…

So was my daddy right?

I don’t think so. You can’t blame the pig for walking forward when you pull its tail! You can’t blame Garfield for liking lasagne! Everyone is a foreigner somewhere, and you can’t blame the foreigners for being too lazy to work. The only thing that made Garfield move, was a guilt trip about a dog he secretly loved. The only thing that’ll make us move, is something we all love. It comes in many colours and shapes, sizes and actions. And it truly is the only thing man will do anything for! They’d do it with each other, they’d even do it with a spider; they’d even do it if it killed them.

It’s interesting to see that it is a dog-in-a-manger kind of jealousy taking hold of my daddy. This happens when someone whom he considers an outsider is trying to get a fair share for himself, instead of baking in a cardboard box somewhere on a footbridge in Thailand, or getting suffocated somewhere in Minneapolis. It’s interesting to see that even though my daddy pays more tax in a month, than the average Thai makes in a year, he’s so scared of some Thais sharing his wealth. It seems it’s not the foreigners that need fixing, it’s my daddy.

While they say it’s hard to teach an old dog new tricks, it is easier than that to get those people who hate people to be more loving. Everyone who’s open minded enough to see we’re all foreigners somewhere, should love a foreigner. Nicely, tenderly. Gently. Or not so tenderly, if you’re both into that, but most certainly out in the open, show you’re together. Spread the love, and the action. Show the world how enjoyable a foreigner you can be! And before you know it, this confuses the narrow minded the world over into oblivion.

And on top of that, it’s very pleasant indeed! Also for the onlookers.

Adapted from a previous post on My.Opera, when they still had a blogging service. I’m rerunning the Daddy Said series here; when I feel like, I’ll write a new episode. This one I wrote in 2009, with some added details to fit 2020. Disclaimer: the casual racism is on (literary) purpose, and does not reflect my true beliefs about humans the world over.

Daddy said… (2)


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“You know what the problem is, the first step to getting sick, is thinking you are. And people are soo feeble minded! If we all were as stubborn as a mule, covid-19 wouldn’t stand a chance!”

So I went out and had a look.

I travelled far and wide, and opened my eyes especially in places with many sick people; there happen to be quite a few of those at the moment! I went to Bumrungrad hospital, for example. I couldn’t make up my mind though, if the people there were stubborn or not. Rich, they were, but stubborn?

So I visited the Home for the Dying in Calcutta, and was struck by the stubbornness there. Both personnel and patients were stubborn; one refused to quit caring, the other refused to die. The latter were sick though, but many clung to life as if it were their only hope.

Lastly I visited Washington D.C., where I found out a very stubborn man lived in a rather large white building. He was so stubborn, he wanted to inject himself with disinfectant. I don’t know if he did, in the end – but I didn’t notice him getting sick.

So was my daddy right?

Obviously not. You can’t blame the mad cow for going bonkers! You can’t blame a street dog for picking up fleas and fungus! It is not the state of mind that causes the diseases, it’s a discovery done by the Russians back in 1892: a tiny thing called a virus.

Unfortunately, time travel is impossible, so killing those damn Russians who discovered the virus is impossible. So what can we do, to get the whole world healthy? The answer is simple enough: we should all become good at break-dancing, and instead of steadily walk down the street, dance! Dance! DANCE! A virus after all, is just a thing, like any other. Bound by laws of physics and such. So instead of trying to kill it – killing a fly is hard enough (unless you’re a spider), a virus is much smaller – we should aim to avoid it by making many sudden movements. A virus will be heading for us, and because of our sudden movement, it will not be able to reach its goal. Frustrated, the virus will search for a new target, and if that new target turns out unreachable, the virus might just as well give up already. If not at that point, it surely will soon!

It will take some time before we drive all viruses crazy with frustration, especially a virus as stubborn as the covid-19 virus. Avoiding it is hard, as it’s too small to be seen, so it’s hard to gauge its trajectory. But with enough break dancing practice world wide, I’m sure we can beat each and every virus within a year. I herewith call on anyone, no longer to walk down the road, but to dance, Dance, DANCE!

Previously posted on My.Opera, with slight tweaks to fit 2020. I’m rerunning the Daddy Said series here; when I feel like, I’ll write a new episode. This one I wrote in 2009.

Daddy said… (1)


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You know what the problem is? There are too many people. That’s why we have all those wars.

So I went out and had a look.

I stepped outside myself, and heaved myself over the earth. And what I saw was a bowl, if one can compare the outside of a ball with a bowl, rapidly filling up with people. Even as remote as Hua Hin (Thailand), Ophemert (The Netherlands) or Point Roberts (Washington State, USA), more and more people are appearing. And each person needs space. The less he gets, the harder he fights for it, such are the laws of nature.

All over the world, I saw bloody contests for the control of space, and interestingly enough, the denser the population, the bloodier the fight. Take Australia for example. Not a soul for miles around. Not a drop of blood spilt – well, other than your odd lost kangaroo.

Take Africa’s horn as another example. Not a mile without a soul, and hundreds of people killed each week. Examples such as these abound, and it is a pity, really, that we feel the need to kill each other over space.

So was my daddy right?

Despite appearances, I don’t think so. You can’t blame the porridge for filling the bowl! You can’t blame tigers for being territorial! The only thing to blame is the size of the bowl. It’s not the number of people that is the cause of the problem, it’s the lack of space!

Have a quick look at Gliese 581c, the earth-like planet. There they won’t run out of space as soon as we do. It’s roughly five times the size of our humble earth.

When trying to create a peaceful world, we could of course all travel to Gliese 581c. This is somewhat impractical though as the trip will take us at least 20 years and 6 months. And it would make one hell of a commute if you work in New York City!

No, perhaps the most feasible solution to give each human more space, and thus end all wars, is right here on earth.

This feat is not as hard as you may think. Everyone can help in his own backyard, with only a few cheap tools from your nearest DIY store. You need a 50 foot metal pipe, about 4 inches in diameter would do, I assume. You also need a bicycle pump, and something strong to close the top of the pipe. If you ask me, one or two extra sturdy condoms would do just fine. Ram the pipe into the ground, stick the hose of the bicycle pump in, and pull the condoms over the top. Then start pumping. And keep pumping. And keep pumping. And keep on pumping, until the earth swells up like a balloon, giving each of us more space – and thus peace on earth.

And if that wouldn’t work, while trying we won’t have time to kill each other anyway. So keep trying!

Previously posted on My.Opera, when they still had a blogging service. I’m rerunning the Daddy Said series here; when I feel like, I’ll write a new episode. This one I wrote in 2009.




Tussen twee ijzeren tangen,
tussen zon en maan.
Mijn schaapjes zijn te klein om alleen te gaan.

Tussen hamer en aambeeld,
tussen twee boekensteunen.
Durf ik op niets en niemand meer te steunen

Omgeven door idioten,
sprekend giftig als slangen,
gedreven door malloten,
zonder kans dat het heelt.

Maar dat kán zo niet langer!
Dus ik breek deze keten,
die mijzelf heeft gevangen.
En ‘k vergeet mijn geweten.

#Fourteen – epilogue


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Kung magkakaisa lahat ng sapot ng gagamba tiyak leon ay mapapatumba.

Filipino proverb (Tagalog)

I am a spider. Did you miss me? Did you hope I’d bleed out, up there on the bridge? Well, it turns out that I’m a survivor. As long as I know how to f… No, no, no… No music references at this point. I’ve got plenty of songs to sing.

The punctures the tigress made, dried up by sunrise. I climbed down sagaciously – careful not to tear open my wounds, yet attentive to the passers by, so nobody saw me – and disappeared into a nearby bed and breakfast. In the months that followed, while I nurtured myself back to strength, I found out that if spiders work together, they can actually catch a lion, or a tigress. It took just about 100 days for another, far less dangerous spider to come along and attract her attention. For 211 days I hid out before I felt safe. And then I came out of the bed and breakfast. I went to the same tattoo artist for the third time, and had him use the scars on my chest as the base for butterflies; the one that got away. And nobody winked at me, this visit.

But when it comes to relationships, past results are an indication of the future. While she hasn’t found her match, I am back to my old and dangerous game of finding flies. With the fresh butterflies on my chest, I got on a plane to a warm island with great hotels and even better beaches.

And there, one fine day, while playing pool in a place with loud music and loose women, a girl claiming not to be a prostitute fell for my bright blue eyes.

She was tiny. She was a metre sixty at the most, had one eye slightly away from straight and sported two short pigtails framing her small and cute face. The hairstyle made her look really young. Her head was only slightly larger than my two fists putt together. She wore skin tight jeans around her legs that had a circumference similar to my upper arm – and I’m not particularly big. Her sleeveless top showed a flat stomach and belly button, tiny breasts and arms that were even thinner. I guessed she weighed less than forty kilos.

Yet, just before I made a winning shot, she pushed her breasts into the shoulder with my spider tattoo, a move that forced her to move her pelvic bone onto my hip, and whispered in my ear that she loved the weight of a man on top of her. I went hard in an instant and missed my shot.

I didn’t care. I’d proven to be the better pool player anyway. I looked at her and we locked lips. I was not the first person she kissed. She presented a rare dexterity – not too slow, not too wild, just perfect fooling around with our tongues. This first ten second French kiss made me imagine what it would be like to be on the receiving end of her blowjob.

Not an hour later did that imagination come true. She’d come back with me to my hotel and dropped her backpack as I dropped my pants. In priapic adoration, her lips closed a soft warm ring around my shaft and her tongue swirled my head. Despite not having a piercing, feeling my dick slowly disappear ever deeper down her throat was a physical sensation I’d missed for the better part of a year. I grew so hard I was sure I’d be able to lift her off the floor without using my hands.

But my woman always comes first. So I pushed her head till her nose touched my gut and held it there till she started pushing back. That’s when I pulled back, laid her on the bed and started stimulating her with my mouth. I started with her bosom, sucking her nipples till they were larger than her breasts. Then I moved down to her almost hairless pussy – which showed no sign of shaving. This should have worried me, but I was so into pleasing this tiny doll that I didn’t realise till later.

As she got close to orgasm, she wrapped her legs around me, grabbed the pillow and screamed, pushing my head harder onto her clitoris, leaving me little choice but to move my tongue as deep inside of her as it would go. She tasted really well, even deep inside. She didn’t need to tell me; now I know what’s her flavour!

As the climax dissipated and she relaxed, my dick was still hard. I gently climbed on top of her, and slowly penetrated her warm and wet cavity. Her eyes widened as I quickly realised she was actually really tight. This pussy had not been penetrated often, if at all. She just laid there, moaning in the right way, but leaving all the movement to me. She was so small, she disappeared under me but for her spindly limbs. To the ceiling I must have looked like a large spider – four arms, four legs and one body. How apt.

In a pussy this tight, I didn’t last long. I moved gently in and out, her eyes rolled away as her small hands clenched and relaxed in ecstasy. At the same time, I couldn’t hold it any longer and came deep inside of her.

The next morning was a Monday morning. She opened her backpack and took out the sexiest school uniform I had ever seen – even sexier than #Three had worn: a tiny maroon skirt held up by straps over her shoulders which were covered by a spotless white blouse that showed her belly button. And then it hit me: school uniform! I asked her. She was only four years past the Philippine age of consent – but with my European upbringing, that was still two years too young. For a really short while she regretted not telling me sooner; now she regrets nothing any longer. The sea has swallowed her body.

As I am a spider, and as I am alive, you should beware. Are you into a man who will make you come with a spectacular intensity, I am coming for you. Even if your country has no proverbs about spiders or flies. All I need is space for one more tattoo. And there’s plenty of space left for you. I’m on my way. Will you wait for me?

I am here, I am everywhere

Fiddler’s Green



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I want you bad

The Offspring

I still am a spider, though I don’t feel so dangerous right now. I scaled the north-east pillar of the highway bridge built next to the train bridge described by Nijhoff in 1934. I’m hiding here, sharing my story with you, before, if worst comes to worst, I bleed out. Once I thought the flies on my shoulder would be a memory of the flies I killed; a memory that would last forever. But it turns out, tattoos go when the wearer passes. Not straight away, but they will turn to unrecognisable dust. And the flies I swatted deserve more than that. So I decided, a little while ago, to write these confessions. Just in case my wounds can’t be healed.

While waiting for the artist to get ready to ink my German fly into my arm, she left the shop. She’d just had an awesome, rather large, tattoo placed on one of the most painful places to get a tattoo, yet she left the shop with a smile Mona Lisa would envy. She was perhaps a bit short, but beneath her clothes, she appeared to have beautiful breasts, firm legs, nice ankles and a fiery light in her eyes. And that smile… She caught my gaze and winked at me when she left.

I instantly lost my senses – but knew what I had to do, now. I managed to nick her phone number from the appointments computer screen. I sent her a message, admitting what I’d done, and telling her why: I wanted to get to know her. “Your smile created a connection between us.”

Korean untranslatable word

Something happened to me, there and then. I realised I was starting to spin the largest web I’d ever spun. This web was meant to catch her, sure, but not to trick her. From the get go I was honest – I told her everything, except for the details I’ve committed to these pages.

And she seemed to reciprocate. Our affection developed on line, and I’m pretty sure that it was mutual. She quite literally blew my mind several times. Once this relationship shifted off line, it didn’t take long before we kissed. I didn’t feel quite like myself. I felt like our minds expanded together into the universe, imploding with a huge white flash. I loved it; this didn’t scare me away, although perhaps it should have.

To those who’ve grown attached to my pornographic details in the previous episodes, I have to apologise; I truly do not recall the physical side of sex with this woman. The only recollection I have is the mind blowing metaphysical exercise of being with her (surely enhanced by the physical contact). This New Sensation made me feel alive in a way I’d not experienced before, but it also took me away from reality in a way no drugs could. I showed my true self to her, and I thought she did the same.

But all she did was show me a strictly controlled mirror image of herself from deep behind her walls. Walls she kept up, and was able to keep up in a way no fly had ever managed. I realised too late that she was no fly; such a rarity in my world, I hadn’t been able to anticipate.

When she first touched me, her paws had been soft and gentle. Once she knew she had really touched my cold, dark and solitary heart, her paws quickly turned into menacing claws. They easily punctured my spider protection because she is no fly: she is a tigress. Like any large cat, she didn’t really mean to, I’m sure. I am not her prey. And now she and I share the same life missing out

In pain, I withdrew and ran – bleeding from the punctures her claws had made. I ran and knew I had to hide. If she catches me again, that’ll be the end of my life as a spider; I’ll be attached to her claws for good. If she doesn’t, I may bleed out right here.

The sun has gone down ages ago. I’m wearing jeans and a singlet. My tattoos showing in the cold moonlight. The lights around me betray a world that continues living – blissfully unaware of the spider over looking the river – looking upstream towards his birthplace.

Will I ever see that place again? If she finds me here, I may, but not as a spider, but as a tigress’. If someone else finds me, they may take me to the hospital; which I will survive, but I’ll live with her scars in my chest till the end of my days. Or I may just sit here and bleed out – never to be heard from again. Only the future will tell…

Now I’m not one to talk, ‘cause I know I have my faults,
But even I know you can’t evolve by building up your walls.

Sum 41



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Spinnerin am Morgen
bringt Kummer und Sorgen.
Spinnerin am Abend
bringt Glück und Gaben.

German poem

I am a spider. I am a dangerous spider. Three murders in five minutes, two flies added to the tattoos on my arm on the same day. As I told you in the first episode, on the shoulder abbreviated with the same letter as my real initial, a large red-back spider tattoo climbs up towards my neck.

You read these confessions on a screen. I first wrote them by hand. Had you seen the original, you would notice my handwriting going wobbly; you would find droplets of blood on the paper. I am sitting high up, out of sight, on a pillar of a suspension bridge close to my birthplace. I feel less dangerous now than I did when I bought a second hand Benz in the outskirts of Szczecin, now only three months ago. I hope my strength doesn’t fade as fast as the light in the April evening; you deserve to know what brought me here.

The Benz I bought, brought me to the Uckersee where I found a hotel with a restaurant on the premises. I indulged in a nice beer. A TV was on and the news channel reported on a gruesome triple murder in Szczecin. The police were investigating, but for some reason I had escaped their radar. That was when I was offered another drink by a woman quite a bit older than myself. She was still attractive and very well groomed. She had more wrinkles than the girls I usually bedded, but her body was in perfect balance, and all natural – except for her jet-black hair, which was obviously dyed. She reminded me of an aged version of the fictional girl I had fallen for in my teenage years – Thura was her name, from a post-apocalypse Dutch novel.

By the time we made it to her room, I found out she was actually a lot older. Menopause was past tense for her. But she was quite content: “it’s a lot cheaper not having to buy tampons.”

We kissed, we got naked, and I noticed her body showing signs of having lived. Her pubic hair was as well groomed as her face. Her breasts were not as full as they – probably – used to be, but stimulating them resulted in the expected response. Then I remembered something I’d heard of.

“What about dryness?” I asked. “Not if he is orally agile”, she replied and I went down on her. Not a minute in, did she turn it into 69. And she knew how to suck. To this day I am surprised that I did not walk away from that with a hickey on my dickhead.

She sucked me dry, I licked her wet. Her orgasm was loud and came from deep within – induced not only by my mouth; my tongue was aided by four fingers. After our mutual orgasms, we enjoyed some pillow-talk, until her tickling fingers got me hard again. And then we did all the positions in the book, except anal. She wasn’t into that, but I didn’t mind. I rode her, she rode me, I took her from behind, she did a reverse cowgirl, but I didn’t enjoy that as much as I thought I would.

Before the second cumming, she’d told me she’d come thrice. And then I blasted my load deep inside of her. She laid next to me, and we shared some more pillow-talk. This evening, this spinster brought me some pleasure; if little good fortune.

By morning, reality caught up with me, and this spinster turned into a sour partner. She picked up her phone, scrolled through her Instagram account. When she showed me the screen, I knew I had fucked up. I was looking at myself, back in Bosnia. And it was the last picture her friend had posted.

I got up from the bed, went into the bathroom to take a leak, and I silently underwent the questions she fired at me. I pulled the hair dryer from the wall and went back into the bedroom. That is when she asked me if I was the perp from the news from Szczecin.

As I pulled the electric wire tight around her neck, I told her the truth. I told her that she would be turned into a fly tattoo on my arm. Because I am a spider, and I kill flies. Especially the ones that are a nuisance; those buzzing around my head with annoying questions.

I left the hotel the same night and drove eight hundred miles in my barrel of steel, with two stops for fuel and a pitiful meal, straight to the tattoo artist who’d eternalised #One on my shoulder. He recognised the tattoo, but didn’t think much of the others. And right there in that tattoo shop, I met my last adventure: the one that drove me to write these confessions, high up, hiding, out of sight, trembling due to the cold and due to my wounds. But that is the last episode of my story; you will get to read it soon…

Despite my current weakness, know that I am a dangerous spider. And as you are not her, fear me. When we meet: run. There is a lot of space left on my body for fly tattoos.



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Dwa pająki się spotkali, puzzle sobie ukladali
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… All this 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.