The Saga of Psycho The Rapist

It was 2009, and after cashing in the GUKPT Luton Main Event I felt confident going into the Walsall leg that I could do well. I’d been studiously reading Phil Gordon’s Little Green Book of poker and was ready to put big Phil’s masterplan into action.

The big day arrived and I was quickly eliminated.

With no flights available until a few days later, that night I took a wander round the town to have a few solitary beers and consult Phil’s Gospel to work out where I had gone wrong in the tournament. I must have missed a something, I needed to read between the lines, that’s what big Phil would do. Lost in the sacred text, I looked up just in time in avoid bumping into a black man with what looked like a silk tie-die dress on. They weren’t wrong when they called it the Black Country I thought to myself, there was jiggerboos everywhere. Playing back the hands in my mind and pouring over the Little Green book of knowledge for clues, I failed to notice that I had accidentally turned into a dark alleyway.

What happened next is too is painful to talk about but the upshot is that I was systematically raped by a dozen niggers. After the terrible deed was done, they further compounded their brutality by Bukkake’ing me for an agonising 30 seconds. I can’t describe how undignified you look after being ejaculated on by the descendents of twelve elephant washers, and I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that 12 well hung darkies jizzing on your face causes problems for the skin, and crucially to my story, problems with the eyes.

Reluctant to go to the quacks but with increasing blindness forcing my hand, I shook off the embarrassment and popped down to local GP to get some eye drops. He was a queer looking fellow with a mock John Gielgud accent.

“How did the symptoms manifest?” asked the Doctor.

“12 Nigerians ejaculated in my eyes.” I said.

“Good god” he bellowed “You faggoty kids get up to all sorts these days”.

“No. You don’t understand, Doctor. I was raped”

“I see. We’ll need to run an AIDS test immediately”.

“No need, Doc. I’ve already got AIDS.”

I could see he was shocked at my matter-of-factness, so I dodged the awkward moment when he offers me his pity, but is secretly wondering if I have used the toilets, by elaborating:

“To me, Doc, it’s a family heirloom of sorts. We were the first in our neighbourhood to have AIDS. My old dad passed on to me, and one day I hope to pass it on to the future Clive Junior.”

A look of horror adorned his face. I could see that I hadn’t instilled any confidence in him that I was at peace with my predicament, so I casually followed up with:

“You know, when I was being banged up the arse by nigger, after nigger, with dicks like monstrous chip-shop saveloys, I couldn’t help but be reminded of a classic joke I once heard: ’Statistically 9 out of 10 people enjoy gang rape’. Well I can tell you Doctor, l will take great consolation in knowing that statistically, four of those beasts will catch my AIDS.”

“You poor man” he uttered solemnly.

Suddenly, he began shiftily scanning the room, as if checking for intruders that might have got in through the only door without us noticing. Once satisfied that we were alone, the Doctor pulled out a business card from is desk drawer, approached me, and slipped it into my top pocket.

“Give her a call. She’ll sort you out, old boy. I can highly recommend her” he said with a sleazy smile that grew as he reminisced, and briefly orgasmed.

Clearing his throat and putting his hand on my shoulder whilst leading me to door, he offered a line of comfort “If only somebody had thrown them a basketball – you could have been spared all of this pain .”

A week later and still a bit upset about being violated by a dirty dozen, with my eyes still blurry from the jazz festival that took place on my face, and with images of the rape flashing constantly through my mind, I suddenly remembered the business card the Doctor had surreptitiously slipped into my pocket.

Retrieving it from my pocket I could just make out through the puss in my eyes:

———————————————————

Full facilities

Hourly and half-hourly rates

All sorts catered for

Fanny Forshaw – Psycho the rapist

———————————————————

At the time I couldn’t quite see how getting raped by a Psycho was going to help me. Perhaps it’s a radical new technique, in which they heal the mental scars of a terrible ordeal through the medium of rape. I wasn’t sure it was necessarily appropriate in my case, but I was game.

I rang the number, “Hello, could I speak to Fanny please, I’d like to avail myself of her services”

“This is Fanny” said a husky sounding voice on the other end of the phone. “I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly fit you in until late doors tomorrow….. oh hang on”, she said, “that’s right, the judge has cancelled, I can fit you in at 5 if that’s not too short notice?”

“No, I’ll be there. By the way, my name is Clive”

“Ok Clive, 2 hours”. And with that she hung up.

I wondered if the whole “Judge” charade had been contrived to reassure me that she wasn’t just some crack whore. No matter, the voice alone had me intrigued, and I had only two hours before the illicit rendezvous to ponder just how to make the ‘rape’ look convincing when unless she looks like Annie Duke, I’m not going to be putting up a fight.

Arriving at the address she had given me, I was greeted by a blonde woman smoking a cigarette outside. “Fanny?” I enquired. “Yes” she replied, “You must be Clive, come this way”. She held out her hand and led me inside, expertly flicking the cigarette dead centre into the ashtray outside the building. She was a striking looking woman. Both pipes make no mistake. I could see why she made the Doc moist. No rape would be taking place here today.

Leading me inside a plush looking room and sitting me down on a sofa she softly said, “Make yourself comfortable, I’ll just go and make sure nobody disturbs us”. Barely had the door closed behind her before I was bare arsed, stood the sofa, with my cock draped over a silver ashtray as if on a platter.

As she came back into the room Fanny shrieked in abject horror.

“What’s the matter?” I asked puzzled.

“What the hell are you doing, Clive?” she screamed angrily.

“I’m here to be healed through the medium of rape!” I triumphantly exclaimed, dropping the silver ashtray to punctuate the last two thirds of the sentence with air quotes.

“I’m afraid there has been a terrible misunderstanding. I’m a Psychotherapist Clive, not a prostitute”.

This entry was posted in Miguel And Clive - The Directors Cuts, Miguel and Clive's World and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

19 Responses to The Saga of Psycho The Rapist

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    [Edit: Did we used to work together? Clive, of Miguel and Clive.]

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  6. Seven says:

    Ah, i see. Well that’s not too trciky at all!”

    • Diosmary says:

      Ignore the bertkacs around “CiF” – just unwanted formatting by the application I was composing the comment in. Link that doesn’t appear to work is Other illustrative manifestation of a rape culture – that those Facebook pages not only are tolerated by the site but get hundreds of thousands of user “likes”; of course not every who “liked” them has committed or will commit rape – but they all (apart from those who’ve “liked” in order to be able to challenge and engage critically on those pages) apparently think the messages of those pages are somehow funny (I wish I could hear some of them attempt to explain what’s humourous about those pages). People who might work in criminal justice, who might serve as jurors, who might work in other capacities where they will encounter survivors of rape, and who might have friends or family members who are survivors and need their support. Great.

    • Sheryas says:

      The only thing I can think of here is that a far gretaer number of average male rapists are running around out there than we ever imagined. They’ve gotten away with this for decades, and that they are the ones outraged when women finally catch on to this. It is the rapists actually derailing the thread, and they fear getting caught, they fear a world where women know that any man could be a rapist. There’s no way to tell at all, no way. The only way women can be sure they will not be raped at a party, is for no men to be at the parties.

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    • Heverthu says:

      , men who have cemmittod or are prepared to commit rape do not have devil horns or other easily distinguishable features. They are more likely to appear and act quite unremarkably, indeed may be likeable, charming, and appear trustworthy – all attributes that both facilitate the people they assault being drawn into a vulnerable situation with them, and that means that their victims have a harder time being believed and supported. Most rape survivors already knew their attacker, who in many instances was a friend, colleague, partner, or acquaintance – someone in their work, social or family circle. And what the original Schrodingers Rapist post that Cath links to articulates so brilliantly is the general wariness that women feel when approached by “average men” they don’t know – for one thing, women are in fact told so much to be careful and wary of men, and for another, lots of women have learned from their own experiences of “average men” who’ve been intrusive and pushy and not taken a hint, in both minor and major ways. This is our reality. In short, appearing to be an “average man” – even being a likeable and popular man – says absolutely nothing about whether or not that person is prepared to force himself on someone else sexually. That’s not saying that all such men will, it’s saying that we can’t know and, more importantly, that to imagine that such men inherently won’t is a mistake. I don’t believe that we do [condone rape]: it’s taken very seriously, and I think there’s a latent danger in claiming it isn’t – that victims will believe their claims will not be taken seriously; and may not report crimes. All told, i think some criticism of your article was valid. Many complaints of rape are already not taken seriously. That’s a consequence of the “rape culture”, not a consequence of discussing it. A lot of lip service is paid to the awfulness of sexual assault, but . Many victims already do not report being assaulted – reported rapes are much lower than the frequency of rape that surveys about it produce. The idea of rape culture is that there are wider, subtler ways in which our culture actually supports and normalises sexually coercive behaviour. For example, the old but still surprisingly current “romantic” dramatic trope of a female character resisting a heroic male character who is pursuing, restraining, blocking or pressuring her in some way and then giving in. Or the common heteronormative conceptualisation of sex that it is something that men must “get” from women, or that women provide to men. Or the very common visually objectifying display of women’s bodies in all kinds of contexts and media, in ways that men’s bodies are not typically presented. Or a massively popular and influential social media site deciding that intimidatory language that evokes sexual assault is something they are ok with tolerating in their space. The problem is that much of this is just seen as “normal” of how we as society regard gender, sex, and sexuality – but it’s unequal, oppressive and destructive, and obstructs effective tackling of the problem of rape. The “rape culture” approach to discussing the problem of sexual assault serves to take it beyond the limitations of the usual victim-blaming and the idea of aberrant perpetrators. It’s good that lots of “average men” want to distance themselves from men who commit rape – but you need to also be active in becoming aware of and challenging the diversenormalisations of sexual coercion, and listening to womens experiences and supporting them.

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