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Monthly Archives: June 2014

The following part of this blog entry is pure fiction and no relation to existing people or events is implied.

Skeleton key: Black Blood part 2
by drs. Efthimia Dilpizoglou
(c) 2014 all rights reserved

Read Skeleton key: Hidden place part 1 here.

Walking into the S&M pornographer’s office the blogger trips over a bunch of thick cables laid randomly across the floor and falls. She tears her stockings and a small stream of blood starts running down her leg from a wound on her knee. She ignores the pain and the blood and has a look around.

The blogger stands before a huge iron dining table covered front to back with stuff. VCRs, audio cds, floppies from the dawn of home computing, all sorts of paper. Rolls of toilet paper, kitchen rolls, cosmetic tissues, decorative paper napkins, some used, most still in their wrapper. “Must be OCD.”, guesses the blogger. She continues to dig through the pile of junk on the table looking for clues.

She pulls out a translated draft of a book with the title “Black Blood” on the first page. “Black blood, black blood, where have I seen this before?”. The blogger thinks hard but can’t remember. Glancing through the draft, the blogger notices that the page numbers are missing on every page. “Damn, you must be one helluva sadist to want to torture your readers by not numbering the pages. What a great way to get them to read your book over and over again!”, she thinks. The blogger flips the book open at a random pagenumberless page and starts reading at the top.

To be printed in issue # 81…

Four years had passed since the fatal accident of Adam’s wife. He was working overtime more and more to avoid coming home. At home there was only Eve. A woman from the barren empty lands of the North who was fussing over him all day and night. Adam was sitting in the living room watching one of those stupid adventure series featuring Dolph Lundgren on the SATURN tv channel before the evening news. Eve was getting ready to leave the house. She came down the stairs and asked Adam whether he thought she was pretty. “Oh my Gawd, they look so alike.”, he thought to himself.

The blogger yawns. “Boring characters in boring settings living boring everyday lives doing boring everyday things like watching TV, working overtime and worrying about being pretty. Bland urban faces in even blander urban spaces. How on earth does he sell these books?”. She keeps on reading, more out of a baseline curiosity rather than sincere interest on her part.

She was wearing a small black top. Her toned tummy bearing a pierced navel drove him crazy. To hell with that 100 euro fee paid every month to the Gym-plastics Studios. Her tits were bigger and firmer than those of his wife. Eve noticed the bouncing throb in his pants and made a meaningful grin needing no further response. On her way out the door she allowed him a peek at her voluptuous ass so he could see that she was wearing a g-string.

“That is so dated,” protests the blogger, “girls no longer wear low cut jeans showing off their whale-tails. Pr0n is always so embarrassingly dated. Can anyone watch grainy black & white pornography from the 1930s without the dawning realizion that ‘eeew, yuck, I am watching my grandparents getting fucked when they were younger’?! Kids born a decade ago will feel the same way reading this within a decade. ‘Oh, that was back in the day when mom was still a young woman and was bearing her whale-tail of a g-string sticking out of the top of her ass crack in order to get caught by the whalers.’.’That’s right kiddo, that’s how you were born, because momma flapped her whale-tail showing off her ass crack and her g-string earning herself a load. It was all the rage amongst girls back then.’.”. The blogger LOLs and continues reading, out of sheer but barely admitted perversity now.

He rubbed his dick which had gone as hard as the baton he was carrying at work every day. He was a cop!

“How can anyone get off fantasizing about the sex-lives of cops?!”, wonders the blogger in disgust. The blogger had had some run ins with the police in the past, and reading about cops was extremely triggering for her. Reading about the sex lives of pigs even more so. “What could be more off-putting than a fucking cop? People in Greece are more likely to get off fantasizing about killing cops than imagining a bunch of fucking pigs. It’s American cultural imperialism. Americans insist cops are hot. I once knew this American sicko in Burbank who couldn’t get off unless she was RPGing she was the District Attorney getting kidnapped in a dark parking lot like the one in the movie Highlander by a huge blond Nazi with tatoos all over his arms cartwheeling across the lot, and then violently raped in the Nazi’s basement. She was a filthy rich Burbank suburbanite and had the money spare to hire herself a transnational crew of 7 mansluts to reenact this RPG scenario. Her sex-life was as elaborate as any film-set. Even the professional S&M pornographer could’ve picked up tips and cues from that piece of crazy work. She could only climax the moment an Italian manslut acting as her copper husband drove bullet through the brain of the Nazi thrusting away ontop of her, whereupon she’d throw the Nazi’s lifeless body off of herself and proceed to suck off her pig husband on the spot to celebrate hubbie the pig killing the Nazi rapist. Unbelievably depraved I tell you. This is why I hate all pornography. Because I would rather not know how totally messed up people’s minds are. Her streamed videos of the RPG action sold like hot cakes on her porn website to likeminded perverts all over the world, because who doesn’t want to see the American Public Prosecutor getting raped by a huge Nazi only to end up sucking off the big Italian dick of the police in gratitude? People in Greece would certainly appreciate the perverse irony of the metaphor. And there you were thinking the S&M pornographer was the worst one yet. Oh, I have seen far far worse than him.”. The blogger keeps reading. Why? Only to see what will happen next, of course.

Adam opened the door to her room. He could barely make her out in the dark. He stepped away from the door to make way for the light in the hall to shine in. He stood still staring at her naked tits. Without a second though he unbuttoned his pants and pulled out his huge erection. He began jacking off over her right there. Drool was running down his chin. He stretched out his arm and grabbed one of her tits. With one hand he was rubbing her breast and with the other he was playing with his dick 3 inches from her face. His excitement took control over him. Unable to hold back much longer he came over her cheeks and breasts.

“This book is sooo awful!” exclaims the blogger and throws the draft across the room. “Just like his film-scripts, the book is plotless! No one is doing anything! They are just looking at eachother being sex-bombs and jacking off! Such garbage! A cop named Adam is jacking off over the face and tits of his servant named Eve thinking of his dead wife Lilith? They might as well be sitting at a καφετέρια having a φραπέ and oogling one another while playing with themselves. At least that would’ve been a somewhat more interesting scene because of the outdoor setting…”. The blogger pulls the emergency lever handle on her bullet-train of thought, which grinds to an instant halt. Her thoughts almost get derailed as a result. She can hear the emergency windows break inside her head, life intent on survival pouring out in panicked droves. No one will be joining this band-wagon. “Um, wait a minute,”, thinks the blogger as she collects her thoughts, “was I so bored by that book that I ended up imagining an outdoor sex scene at a καφετέρια? WAS I SO BORED I ENDED UP IMAGINING PR0N?!”. That’s how dangerous this book really is. Everything in the book, the characters, the setting, the sex, everything is designed to be so bland and boring that it causes even the most reluctant reader to dream up their own pr0n instead. “What a truly depraved mind… he wrote a book so boring his readers end up filling in the gaps and finishing the book for him!”, says the blogger. As she collects the pages of the draft from the floor where she tossed them, she recalls, “No page-numbers! How will I get these pages back in the right order?”

…to be continued…


Quoted segments were excerpted from the 2011 book Μαυρο Αιμα (“Black Blood”) by Alexander Voulgaris, translated from Greek to English by myself. The Greek original can be read here.



Here is another review of my short stories, in which my writing is compared to that of Isabella Santacroce. Haven’t read a single letter of hers so I can’t tell how accurate the comparison is.

ωραίο στόρυ και ωραίες φώτος! δεν έχω ξαναδιαβάσει τέτοιο στυλ γραψίματός σου ever before! what a nice surprise! μου θύμισες μια Ιταλίδα συγγραφέα που χα πορωθεί παλιά, very Isabella Santacroce writing:

I looked her up on Google Images and I can assure you people, I may sound like her in writing but I look absolutely nothing like her.


drs. Efthimia Dilpizoglou


The following part of this blog entry is pure fiction. The pictures are meant to illustrate a fictional story. No relation to existing people or events is implied.


Project Καλημερα, καθε μερα

by drs. Efthimia Dilpizoglou

(c) 2014 all rights reserved

All pictures by drs. Efthimia Dilpizoglou


Project Καλημερα

Project Καλημερα

The blogger pays a visit to settle an old bill… never settle with love, lawsuits, law enforcement, lies or letters what you can settle with an axe…


Project Καλημερα, καθε μερα

Project Καλημερα, καθε μερα

“Καλήμερα μαλάκα. Θυμάσαι πως με γάμησες από πίσω στημένη πάνω από την πολυθρόνα του Ιάσονα στο σαλόνι του όταν έλειπε και ήρθα να σε επισκεφτώ;”, she says and lifts her axe high in the air… after the bill is settled she continues, talking to herself now. “Σου έλεγα πως κανένας δεν με γάμησε από πίσω όπως με γαμούσες εσύ. Είχες ξυρίσει τον πούτσο σου και ένιωθα τις τρίχες σου να με τσιμπάνε ενώ με γαμούσες. I was wearing the ‘alleged’ black shirt you had sent me, the one you would no longer wear because of one ‘alleged’ tiny little white glue drop of a cum stain on the sleeve. Πριν το γαμήσι έβαλες τα χέρια σου κάτω από την μπλούζα σου που την φορούσα για να μου χουφτώσεις τα βυζιά. Σε τι στο διάολο χρησιμεύει το άχρηστο μυαλό σου όταν δεν θυμάσαι πια σημαντικές λεπτομέρειες σαν αυτές; Εσύ δεν μου έγραψες, ‘I remember everything’; Κάθε μέρα λαχταρούσα να περάσω να σου πω μια καλημέρα όπως σου αξιζει.Καλήμερα λοιπόν, καθίκι. Καλήμερα.”. She sees herself reflected in the pool of blood spreading out before her. Staring at her reflection in the pool she realizes it’s το Γρύλισμα staring up at her. She freezes. Το Γρύλισμα knows about Project Καλημερα. The Armenian neighbour has already called 911, staring anxiously at the carnage from his living room window, phone in hand, pacing about. In a fit of anger the blogger throws her axe through the neighbour’s window, smashing the glass and almost hitting his dog, shouting “Choratsats ookhti poots peraned kaknem!”. The Armenian neighbour drops his phone and ducks. The blogger jumps into the pool of blood and disappears.

As she’s sliding down the blood stream, following το Γρύλισμα on their way to safety, she asks, “How did you do with that bloodsucker Αλβάνι χαϊβάνι; Εκείνο το Αλβάνι πολύ με περιτριγύριζε.”.

“Oh, I hardly had to do her,” says το Γρύλισμα, running its tongue along the wall of the bloodvessel to lap up the cholesterol as it slides along, “I whistled, she turned around, and upon seeing her own shadow she died on the spot. Bloodsuckers like her generally die upon seeing their own shadow. Kills them instantly.”.

The blogger closes her eyes and lets out a sigh of relief. “Της άξιζε ένα καλό καλήμέρα. Καλήμέρα εφιάλτη. Καλήμέρα τρομοκράτη. Καλήμέρα κάθε μέρα.”.

“This cholesterol is pornographically delicious”, says το Γρύλισμα, smacking its fat lips. “People would stop watching their cholesterol. They should watch more S&M pornography”.

“They should watch their backs.”, thinks the blogger to herself. “Every morning could be a good morning.”.




Κάθε μέρα ονειρεύομαι να παίρνω το τσεκούρι μου και να βγαίνω στο δρόμο.

Να σας χτυπάω δυνατά. Και να σας διαλύω.

Να εξαφανίζω επιτέλους τους εφιάλτες μου. Τους τρομοκράτες μου.


Various song lyrics and Facebook entries by The Boy.


το Γρύλισμα appears courtesy of ΜΟΥΣΙΚΟ ΚΙΝΗΜΑ: (ΜΑΥΡΕΣ) ΤΡΙΧΕΣ.


The following part of this blog entry is pure fiction and no relation to existing people or events is implied.

Skeleton key: Hidden place part 1
by drs. Efthimia Dilpizoglou
(c) 2014 all rights reserved

The blogger stands outside the giant hermetically sealed castledoor of your HideYourFaceBook ChildFuckerBook account. The door reaches all the way up to the sky and beyond, the blogger looks tiny standing there before the door looking up at the lock. “Coward.”, she mutters. She pulls out her skeleton key, tries it for a bit on the lock, throws it away. She walks around to the other side of the door, and it’s the exact same door that was on the other side. “Just like in the Neverending Story… Can’t you have one original thought of your own once in a blue moon?”.

Tο Γρύλισμα approaches the blogger in the form of a three-headed cerberus, looking even more awful and disturbing in its ancient Greek form than it does in its contemporary form. “I’m hungry. You. You always got food.”, it demands from the blogger, grinning to show its sharp teeth. The blogger grins back. Her crooked teeth are even more awful than το Γρύλισμα’s, causing it to back off. “He left us both outside because he is conceiving right now and cannot be disturbed.”, explains το Γρύλισμα. “All I gotta do is wait for him to open the door and he will let me back inside. He cannot do without me. You on the other hand,”, 3 pairs of eyes stare the blogger up and down bemused, “you are going to have to suck up to him really hard for him to ever let you in.”

“There is nothing to suck up to. Toten Hosen.” remarks the blogger, wisely and well-informed. “The point is not for me to get inside, the point is to get him to come outside.”

“Do you really think he is just gonna come out and play?” asks το Γρύλισμα incredulously. “Come out and play, come out and play.”, echo the other two ugly heads in unison.

“If I can get him to lock himself inside because of my blogging, I can get him to come out.” says the blogger confidently.

“Who taught you these clever tricks, anyway?”

“I once read it in the .sig of a hacker: ‘You can take down your opponent by studying the methods he uses to fight you.’.”

“And what method is being used here, miss smartass?”

The blogger stares up at the door. “Silence is merely resistance through other means.”, is her cryptic answer.

And then she waits. And waits and waits. To keep herself busy while waiting she weaves together short stories, nightmarish, incomprehensible and chaotic, the way she likes it, not caring whether anyone else does.

The door opens, κάποιου η πόρτα θα ‘ναι ανοιχτή. The blogger turns her back at it, she’s too busy making up stories to care. Just as το Γρύλισμα approaches to enter, she reaches out with her gauntlet, grabs it and snaps its neck with her crooked teeth. She can see the bone protruding from the broken neck, but she doesn’t have much time. Using an old knife the blogger quickly skins το Γρύλισμα and dresses herself up with its fur. She herself is now the multi-headed cerberus hellhound, and thus she sneaks inside undisturbed.

“Never turn yourself into a dog, shapeshifter. Dogs are such stupid animals. A three-headed dog only makes you thrice as stupid.”. The blogger hates dogs, but she is a good actress and plays the part well, because she has a mission to fulfill and will go down on all fours to get the job done if she has to. One woman, one blog, one mission.

“Hey there bitch!”, she hears the professional S&M pornographer barking at her in the distance, “Let’s go outside for a walk. Bitch, come here! HERE BITCH!”

“Bitch…”. The blogger bites all three of her tongues. It’s that term that is the most triggering for her, the term for which there is no equivalent for men. “That’s the type of language you use behind closed doors, eh? You locked me out so you could talk like this and run your filthy mouth all day where I can’t see you. You’ll be so sorry the moment we step outside.”, she vows.

The blogger notices something dripping from above and looks up. Hanging from the ceiling, which is nearly invisible in the far distance, are countless of human forms. Is it a Japanese Butoh performance she walked into? No, it’s the gutted corpses of naked pre-pubescent girls hung out to dry in the upper currents. Imagine, “Περιμένω να δω σε κάποιο νεαρό κορίτσι το πρόσωπο της φίλης μου που κρεμάστηκε στα 17 της”. Imagine that, times innumerable, everywhere you look, again and again. The blogger remembers the words well: “αν δεν το ταϊζω γυμνά κορίτσια τρεις φορές τη μέρα θα με ρίξει σε κατατονία”. She might end up catatonic herself if she keeps looking up at all the dead girls. Κοίτα ψηλά μοιραίε αντίκρισε την όψη της ιστορίας, all of us girls have been dead for so long. The blogger, still reeling, has a quick look around the room. The yellow wallpaper is covered with a nauseating hand drawn pattern of stars&stripes and cycles of greed. There is a huge poster of 22-year-old Elliot Rodger with the words “INCEL HERO” underneath. The blogger catches herself before she can gasp for air.

She runs away and seeks refuge in another room. There she finds a half naked woman drawing sperm-like figures in pink and white onto the yellow wallpaper. The woman has clearly been there for a while, she has managed to cover a good portion of the wall she is working on but she still has a long way to go to cover the remaining wall and the rest of the room. The woman has bags under her eyes, a stoned look that is more fatigue than intoxication and dyed black hair. She only wears a tight shirt with the letters “VF” on the back.

“VF, does that stand for VERY FUCKED?”, asks the blogger staring at the woman’s back trying not to look down at her bare naked ass. “Or rather VAIN&FRIVOLOUS? VETERAN FASTFOOD? VEGAN FASCISM?”.

“It stands for ViFi, that’s my name.”, answers the woman quietly.

“What kind of a fucking name is that?”, scoffs the blogger. “Fifi, that’s a name you give to a dog.”

“It’s a name given out of love.”, insists ViFi. “Οι άνθρωποι δεν αγαπούν τα σκυλάκια τους;”.

The blogger raises all three pairs of her eyebrows at such infantile morosity. “Given how their love puppies generally turn out, I honestly wonder.”. There is no point in arguing with people who are this morose so the blogger walks out of the semen-covered room.

The barking starts again. “Look at me, bitch. LOOK UP AT ME WHEN I AM TALKING TO YOU, BITCH. We’re going outside now.”. The professional S&M pornographer steps outside, the blogger follows him like a dog on a leash. He smells something weird, looks down and notices the skinned decomposing carcass of το Γρύλισμα just outside the door, a cloud of huge Cronenbergian flies buzzing over it. “WTF?!” he shouts. He instinctively turns over to his cerberus for protection, but the blogger has already disappeared inside, throwing the giant door shut behind her.

“Dumbass porno creep. A good hacker always closes the doors behind them.”, she smirks as she discards the cerberus pelt from her back. She was a blogger in a bitch’s fur clothing and it worked. She notices now she is covered all over with the blood of το Γρύλισμα. “How does that nasty thing always manage to get blood on me?”. She sighs and pulls out a paper napkin from her leather bag.

(to be continued)


“The Yellow Wallpaper” by Charlotte Perkins Gilman.

All of us girls have been dead for so long”, excerpts from the novel ‘Pussy King of the Pirates’ by Kathy Acker.

Various song lyrics and Facebook entries by The Boy.

το Γρύλισμα appears courtesy of ΜΟΥΣΙΚΟ ΚΙΝΗΜΑ: (ΜΑΥΡΕΣ) ΤΡΙΧΕΣ.


The following part of this blog entry is pure fiction and bears no relation to existing people or events.

by drs. Efthimia Dilpizoglou
(c) 2014 all rights reserved

The girl talks non-stop. The way το Γρύλισμα does whenever you forget to go to bed early, turning into a pyromaniac who sets your brain on fire with matches like it’s a wet sock soaked in petrol. This girl doesn’t want to be an S&M performer, she wants to be a serious stage actress undergoing an endurance test. Το σώμα της ανταποκρινόταν, αλλά αντλούσε την ικανοποίηση που παίρνεις όταν επιστρέφεις βιβλία στην βιβλιοθήκη. You can tell from the types of questions she is asking, which are bursting out of her like a geiser. Another one of those art school art sluts who isn’t a slut but tries so hard to be one. What a pain in the ass. Not in the nuts because you have none, το Γρύλισμα is the nutcracker from the Balanchine ballet who cracked yours a long time ago, that being one of the reasons you went crackers and stayed that way. You told her you wanted her to act like the girl in your legendary pink movie,  or was that your blue movie? She did her homework and downloaded the torrent you put online for people to download and studied it carefully like a good little stage actress of a theater student. Her performance of the little girl was uncanny, but you never expected this barrage of questions to follow. She wants to talk about things like character development and discussing the relationships between the characters, all these things that give you the willies in absence of a real willie.

“Why is he so extreme about pedophilia? Is it because of a personal inadequacy? Was he just a very horny kid himself, did he want to fuck adults, and was he always very disappointed that adults didn’t want to fuck him? Does he feel sexually invalidated because of that experience, adults turning down his advances? Does he trace his body dysmorphic disorder back to those experiences of being sexually turned down as a child? Is this extreme pedophilia-advocacy his way of saying: “Fuck child-abuse, I sincerely desperately wanted to get fucked at that age and none of you would fuck me, you made me feel ugly and disgusted with myself over how I felt, none of you ever even looked my way, I ended up hating my own body and covering up my body so as not to be seen.”? Does he trace his inferiority complex back to not getting fucked as a child despite wanting to? Does he want to use his movies to validate other children who felt the same way he did growing up, and is this the reason he is willing to risk his career and his own sanity even to make such movies? Did he ever have a frank discussion with her? I wanted your character to kiss mine at the end, but society wouldn’t let me so I didn’t stage the kiss. Would you be angry with me if I did? Would you have let me?”

The questions kept coming and coming and she wasn’t cuming. “Κάτι δεν πάει καλά εδώ.”, you say, trying to hide your exasperation behind a wall of impecable professionalism. She protests. She says she was willing to do scenes without the safeword just for you. That’s how much she wanted to work with you. How did you end up with this girl on your set again again? She was extremely youthful. The only reason. These girls go into theatre school and emerge 10 years older than they really are. Such a waste. You once took in a smack junkie who was cruising bars and after you had your way with her she emerged as a seasoned arthouse actress. No one needs to go to theater school to learn how to act. All it does is turn girls into pretentious little whores who aren’t even real whores.

You give her the stare, the kind of look that makes girls unravel before you, but she has been to theatre school and is used to hard stares, so she is unaffected.

“Τι σε φοβίζει πραγματικά;”, you ask her.

“H εγκυμοσύνη.”, she says. “Φοβάμαι το σπέρμα. Πάντα φοβόμουνα την ζωή την ίδια. Life was supposed to be fun. Birth is not an option. Giving birth to a blind and hairy little child… This is not how i was supposed to be.”

That was it. The danger-word, σπέρμα. Το Γρύλισμα bursts out of your stomach like a cannonball flying right through you and crawls inside her. Puffs her up. There is no time for either one of you to panic or get terrified, you might as well have taken a shovel to her back and smashed her lower spine in the spot under the spotlights your friend has set up for you. As she swells up within seconds she collapses under her weight, her legs giving away underneath her. “Τι τρέχει;”, you ask innocently, “Weren’t you the girl who likes Glee? Did you watch the episode where Brittany is giving birth singing Bohemian Rapsody? You’ll be singing like that just shortly my dear.”. Her face contorted, the longer you stare at her face the further and further you disappear into the depths of your own belljar. Sounds become ever more distant until you hear nothing but your inner voice screaming inside of you like a drill-sargeant: “OUTOUTOUT”, but το Γρύλισμα is not responding. It is just not coming out. Did it suffocate and die inside this girl? Oh, let it be true. You point to a mirror to the right of the girl, she is not looking but you tell her, “I wanted you to look more like this during the shoot. When something is inside you, you have it within you. Εξίσου σημαντικό το τι έχει μέσα του ήδη ο καθένας.”. The girl levitates from the floor, you can’t even see her body anymore, all you see is a giant flesh-coloured ballon filling up the room. Shortly you’ll be able tie a basket underneath her and fly away from this hellhole. Girls have always been your favourite means of escape.

A hand emerges from her mouth, then another, many more follow. “I just wanted my baby to be pretty. Turned out to be a monster with no eyes but lots of hands.”. It is such a disappointment. Not that you mind seeing your actress inflated and deflated, torn apart and looking 50 years older within seconds. For a moment you were sure το Γρύλισμα was gone inside her, that the monkey on your back was gone for good. No such luck for you, but hey, were you ever that lucky? “Μάλλον δεν θα μαι και στα καλύτερα μου, το οποίο όταν μιλάμε για μένα είναι λίγο πιο αστείο απ’ ότι συνήθως γιατί ποτέ δεν με θυμάμαι καλά.”, you concede.

The girl looks up at you with her ancient face. “Σου φαίνεται τόσο παράξενο ότι αρκετές γυναίκες απλά δεν θέλουν οικογενεια η παιδιά και απλώς εκβιάζονται συναισθηματικα η οικονομικά από την κοινωνία να μπλεχτούν σε οικογενειακες καταστάσεις; Κι’ ότι εάν ειχαν την άνεση, ούτε οικογενεια, ούτε παιδιά θα έκαναν;”

A set of rhetorical questions that fortunately require no answer from you.

-Κορίτσι, γιατί φοράς ακόμα την μάσκα; Τελειώσαμε το γύρισμα για σήμερα.
-Για να μη βλέπεις το γέρικο πρόσωπο μου, σκηνοθέτη σαδιστή.
Οι άντρες γαμάνε τις γυναίκες για να βιάζουν μετά τις κόρες τους.


The Pink Movie. “A porn director try to make his rekviem,an absolute love film !!(xrated)”.

Ντανιελ Μπεργκνερ. Τι θέλουν οι γυναίκες; Περιπέτειες στην επιστήμη της γυναικείας επιθυμίας.

My Life: Isadora Duncan (The autobiography of Isadora Duncan. 1927.)

Various song lyrics and Facebook entries by The Boy.

το Γρύλισμα appears courtesy of ΜΟΥΣΙΚΟ ΚΙΝΗΜΑ: (ΜΑΥΡΕΣ) ΤΡΙΧΕΣ.


απορρίμματ(IK)α is Efthimianese for “Am I trash?”

The following part of this blog entry is pure fiction and bears no relation to existing people or events.

Το Γρύλισμα και η Στριγκλιά Νίκης 

by drs. Efthimia Dilpizoglou

(c) 2014 all rights reserved

Η Στριγκλιά Νίκης escaped from the mouth of a girl getting spanked on your set to the song “Try a little tenderness” by Cassia Eller. She was enacting an RPG age-play scenario about a mother named Nike, after the popular brand of running shoes, and her recalcitrant son Leuter Is. Your dad’s lawyer contacted the Nike Inc. sponsorship department for a lucrative and mutually beneficial sponsorship deal, curiously Nike Inc. refused to sponsor your movie despite the female lead who was named after the brand and willing to wear the shoes for the duration of the movie with several ECUs inserted throughout the feature to visibly showcase the Nike Inc. swoosh logo. Nike Inc.’s lawyer talking to your dad’s lawyer argued that the Nike brand is a family brand and they did not want to have their brand associated with S&M age-play pornography. “Leuter” is the Dutch word for “dick”, so the name of Nike’s son, “Leuter Is”, was basically a clever Dutchism for the phrase “He’s a dick”. You thank Paul Verhoeven for that one, who, when asked why he picked Rutger Hauer as the male lead in his famous film Turks Fruit, had answered: “Omdat-ie een leuter is.”. Later Paul Verhoeven claimed he was misquoted and that his actual statement was: “Omdat-ie zo’n kleuter is.”, supposedly referring to Rutger Hauer’s playful child-like qualities and energy as an actor, but the misquote had already become one for the film history books. Fortunately no one had cracked any inappropriate jokes yet about “een kleuter op je leuter is leuker neuken”, because you are a professional S&M pornographer and that type of stuff is something you cannot be associated with.

Η Στριγκλιά Νίκης echoed across the room, and immediately το Γρύλισμα burst out of your head like Zeus giving birth to Athena and chased after her, bouncing up and down and off the walls like a couple of tennis balls. You never thought το Γρύλισμα could pair up with anything audible, but the combination of το Γρύλισμα and η Στριγκλιά Νίκης was a perfect match, perfect pitch too. It was kind of endearing the way it tried to keep up with her, but she was always one beat ahead of το Γρύλισμα following right behind her. She was so fast, she broke the soundbarrier. So into herself she was, she didn’t even seem to notice το Γρύλισμα was still after her, she went about her business bouncing around the room like it was the most natural thing in the world. As a professional S&M pornographer you had seen everything, but even you marveled at the beauty of a girl releasing such a Στριγκλιά Νίκης deep from within her. You were pretty sure such things only happened on an S&M film-set and nowhere else on the planet. Your business instinct told you this was a great opportunity, so you pulled out your best camera to capture the moment but neither you or your best camera were fast enough. You, your camera and το Γρύλισμα all looked like fools chasing after something so primal and free. Η Στριγκλιά Νίκης was already deep inside your ears, past your ear-drums, moving through your body like a tidal wave. How very different a sensation this was from το Γρύλισμα biting and scratching and kicking and pulling its way through you. Feeling the Στριγκλιά Νίκης within you was unlike any sound you had ever experienced before. She escaped from the tip of your toes, stood one instant before you to have one last good look at you and said, “You are the saddest wanker I have ever seen in my entire life”, and then she was gone.

Nothing could console το Γρύλισμα, who was heartbroken over the loss of its great love, η Στριγκλιά Νίκης. You recorded a whole record full of sad love songs to console το Γρύλισμα, several of your female Facebook followers committed suicide as a result of that record, others went blind with impacted tearducts, but το Γρύλισμα was so overcome with desperate heart-ache, it grew ever more violent by the day. For the first time in your life your girlfriend could actually see the bruises on your body that το Γρύλισμα caused inside you while throwing another temper tantrum. “Χάθηκε η Στριγκλιά Νίκης…”, it mumbled over and over. You never thought you would see το Γρύλισμα cry, but crying it did and you had to rock it to sleep every night like a weeping infant as it soaked your bed wet, its tears spilling out of your thick black hairy armpits like cascades. Your revolutionary lullaby το Νήμα was the only song that would calm down το Γρύλισμα to the point where it could rest, and you could finally sleep.

One by one a thousand nights now stars extinguish
Gods provoking us to seek illumination lost
Come a time for all manner of excuses
Where was love when I was just a little boy
It’s lost

Tired, exhausted and bruised all over, you would sit behind your pianodrum and sing:

Butterflies will flutter over
The resting places of our dead
Carved into their hands forever
The commandments of every land
In a secret garden flowers blossom
Fertilized by sweat and tears
And this hungry infant shall be nourished
When the springtime reappears
Carcasses will sing caresses
Of a secret illicit love
When our enemies arrive they’ll measure
Weight up every final bunch
A hope I had of hope now
Traveling away into the void
And the thread you are persuing has
It has been severed long ago
Time to time
I’d feel something real inside

Tο Γρύλισμα slept restlessly τυλιγμένο γύρω απ’τον λαιμό σου like a huge python smothering you. It was actually hugging itself the way you used to hug yourself whenever you felt alone, back in the days when you were alone and lonely. You knew that desolate feeling from your own experience, so you allowed it to coil tighter and tighter around itself, until one night it wrapped itself too tight and broke your neck. You had to walk around with a neckbrace for some while, and joked about your predicament: “I finally look like the characters in Cronenberg’s Crash!”. Tο Γρύλισμα was too depressed to laugh at you silly jokes.

One night as you sat behind your pianodrum to sing the revolutionary lullaby again,

Everybody keeps a dream inside their heart
As I close my eyes I envision flying overhead

Το Γρύλισμα intervened to ask you one pertinent question before bedtime: “Πες μου, πόσο μα πόσο μαλάκας είσαι;”
“Είμαι ένα τόσο μαλακισμένο πλάσμα που δεν περιγράφεται με λόγια. Απέραντα μαλακισμένος. Just ask my dedicated hate-blogger who couldn’t manage to use up enough blog space to describe the true extent of the matter.”

A tear rolled down the horrible face of το Γρύλισμα. You picked up a towel and wiped your sweatty armpits. “Χάθηκε η Στριγκλιά Νίκης… και φταις εσύ.”.


Various song lyrics and Facebook entries by The Boy.

το Γρύλισμα appears courtesy of ΜΟΥΣΙΚΟ ΚΙΝΗΜΑ: (ΜΑΥΡΕΣ) ΤΡΙΧΕΣ.