Instrument of Love
studio was set in the grounds of a chateau - a reconstruction created
from 15th Century engravings. It was well after nine when we arrived.
I had never brought a groupie back to the studio before; it just wasn’t
the done thing. We made our way up the gravel driveway; she gleefully
regarding its security lit frontispiece; for me, the lustre of this
once-great tenement had long since decayed to a dull familiarity.
Passing through the vast receiving hall bedecked in period splendour
- camel hair carpets, tarantula rugs, blood rich wall coverings depicting
silk entreaties to unknown deities - she gasped in wonder at his morbid
collection of ephemera.
Replica constructions from the 1440's; in one corner a set of stocks;
in another a hangman's noose depends from a black beam. Central in
the hall stands a grotesque statue crudely hewn from the base of a
massive oak, as if growing from the foot of the stump, a man possessed
by demons scrapes at his skin and tears out his innards to boil in
the cruel glare of the moon.
The connecting room, which led to the sound studio, was equally vast
and as opulently bedecked in art of the era. Paintings this time -
massive Breugelesque tableaux framed in the bronzed skulls of animals
of the land, voles, rats, cats, even geese, ducks, central top bottom
left and right respectively the plated skulls of bull, cow, lamb and
goat. The familiar nightmare scenarios of the Middle Ages were graphically
depicted - Witchcraft; Demonological symbols; Repentant missionaries;
Torture; Children put to the stake for the sins of their parents;
Farmers run through with living pitch forks; Women pregnant with fat,
horny reptilian charges; Girls barely pubic raped on inverted crosses
by the Offal Magus; Beater of Mercies; Wings of the Dark Bat named
Beelzebub; The air full of tragic prayer; Trees bearing fruit of ruptured
cherubs; Rivers of gore.
Velour curtains decorated with inlaid gold framed the 13 stained-glass
chapel windows depicting the betrayal and arrest of Jesus Christ in
the Garden of Gethsemane, his unjust trial in the court of King Herod,
the crowning of thorns applied by torturers whose gleeful eyes burned
holes in the lead work, the ascent and crucifixion on Calvary and
the miraculous resurrection some days later. A chandelier of baby
bones hung from a camel hair hose. The brickwork of the dead fireplace
the bad teeth of a death shriek. The cloying air like the stagnant
chill of a dead man's hand on naked flesh.
“Can you understand how phoney all this seems to me?”
I asked her as she gaped in awe, my voice like a cracked bell.
I led her through to the studio. Etienne was there looking at his
watch and huffing and blowing like an old maid. We did our sound check
and, that formality dispensed with, Etienne excused himself.
I asked her if she’d stay the night while I drained a can of
“You're rich?” she asked, looking around the state-of-the-art
“Thought life on the road was all tour buses and sleazy motels?”
she was all groupie talk now, which sort of annoyed me.
“Eti likes to live in style. At my expense. Says it is good
for his muse. The bastard's crippling me.”
“Advances?” she flipped to journalist mode, which made
my ulcer, bleed a little stronger.
“You soon piss them away let me tell you.” I led her from
the studio down oak panelled corridors chemically aged by professional
She was hesitant as I opened the door to the master bedroom and indicated
she should enter the darkened chamber, I leant round her to flip on
She suddenly ran in at full speed with a girlish whoop of delight
and threw herself on the four-poster bed kicking up a thick plume
of dust and mite faeces. Groupies, I smiled to myself, love ‘em
or hate ‘em, you can't do this without ‘em.
I got to work on the adoring fan, there in the settling dust. Spectres
of previous seduction scaring the shadows away like overlit porn.
Etherial emblems of en-suite shower sessions with the face pressed
into the tiles. A tooth-brushing reflection taken from behind in a
storm of need. Crawling doggy style from the bathroom conjoined at
the crotch. Struggling onto the bed clumsy in their urgency. Boiling
flesh punctured by the rogue bedspring of arrhythmia.
Reaching into her cyan-coloured cotton bra, I got a good hold, rubbed
a bit like I thought she might have wanted and thumb-nailed the nipple
for no extra charge. Lifted weighty globes out of soft supports. I
had them in my hands in a trice. I could feel the cooling flesh, sweat
underarm. She pulled away from me, willing me on with eyes dilated
purest ebony lust. Go on, she hissed, do it now. How was I to know
she expected me to fucking kill her? I plunged a hand into her knickers.
Got the shock of my life.
“What's this?” I asked out loud, my palm resting on the
place designed by God to house a woman's sexual anatomy. I could gain
no purchase, could slide no finger in, this didn't even feel like
female genitalia. Nothing about it was right.
She just looked up at me affecting her best victim. She was using
some sort of magic on me, willing me to get enraged by her anatomical
tomfoolery. I could see she wanted me to put my hands round her throat
and keep squeezing until her lips when grey and the blood vessels
in her eyeballs popped and blood spilled out of her doe-eyes. It sickened
me that look. I couldn’t believe there were such people in the
world who would stoop so low. I shook my head to eradicate the murderous
“What is this?” I repeated the initial question, applying
pressure to the unbreachable genital area.
“My chastity...” she blanched.
“Chastity.” she recited a well-practised sermon, “I
am now and always will be chaste. Retaining one's purity, as the wise
have foretold, is the essential keycard to the Kingdom of Heaven.”
Was she sniggering? A twitch in the corner of her eye?
“You're taking the piss.” I unzipped her jeans, intent
on uncovering the gag – maybe Eti had put her up to this, that
man was without remorse in such matters. Cold air rushed in between
her plump thighs. What would be the use of a biologically chaste woman
to someone like him at a time like this when he had a rod on him like
concrete. And fury, just plain fury to do the deed.
Picture the soft crucifixion scene. There she lay, fully exposed in
the sudden chill. Biological virgin splayed on the altar of annihilation.
I examined the woman for stitch marks or latex seams stress marks
in the fx make up but could find neither to accompany the unsullied
aperture of her rectum. The lightbulb this side of the master bedroom
was missing its shade hence full beam. Spot on, no doubt about the
”What is this?” I noticed a vaguely hexagonal mark on
her left hip. The sort of indentation left by a childhood dose of
chicken pox or rubella. The walls of the hole as I examined them further
seemed to resolve themselves into a true and regular hexagon. I may
be going slightly nutsoid here ...
“Where are you going?” the woman, propped up on one elbow,
felt the moment of redemption slipping away. She clearly had come
here to be killed. Maybe she had been stalking me for a few weeks.
Maybe I had been recommended by The Underground as someone who could,
in the throes of sexual passion, squeeze a little too hard on a suffer
and forget to let go....
“One minute..” I pulled out a blue velvet guitar case
from underneath the wardrobe, flipped the locks like a Rodriguez film,
removed an item, relocked it and returned the case to its allotted
place of rest. I resumed my place knelt between her thighs and touched
her left hip with something cold, metallic? A sliding sound as of
some Victorian mechanism clicking into place. My cock, I have to say
at this point surged with heavy longing; it made a physical indentation
in my leather trousers.
The Allen key I had shoved into her hip was a perfect fit, for the
love of all things subversive. I licked my lips. Turned the key through
one hundred and eighty degrees. Only a true madman would have spotted
the potential of the crude musical tuning device.
Eyes tear-laden with incredulity, I watched the blossoming of a truly
alien piece of technology. Sole witness to this most astonishing exhumation.
A Lazarus sideshow in a world choked by denial. The heady musk of
never before released sexual oils and pheromonic unguents filled the
air as her convulsions lost their desperate edge. Some entirely different
set of serpentine musculature had been activated it seemed.
Only half aware of the consequences of his next act, musical fore
father of his own lover and all the incestuous mind games that sorta
shit can play on folk, I set about making a child to carry my code
into the next millennium and beyond. This, I resolved in my distorted
logic, was the future I had been denied; the key, if you will excuse
pun. I resolved to shag this thing here on the flea-ridden master
bedroom of Machecoule Recording Studios registered in the name of
my agent Etienne Davignol.
That's what I set about doing.
The woman’s obvious plans of aided suicide fell by the wayside
that night as tortured screams of sexual release had to be gagged
by my own hand. She was an epileptic under my palm, no one driving
the eyes shot with fear at this unkindest twist. Worse than murder,
she knew. Worse than terror. Worse than pity. Worse by far than death.
“Come this way, now...” I said after it was done, and
together we walked naked through the rain-lashed night.
I showed her the final room of the studio, the holy of holies. I am
sure that even now she envisioned a prolonged end to her life incarcerated
in the steaming filth of her own excrement, eating rats and cockroaches
to suffer another day in Purgatory; bitter morsels that stain the
pallet after months of consumption. The tongue turning grass green.
Teeth, enamel eaten away by fungus, naked nerves biting down on each
struggling crustacean back and vermin pelt. How could she have read
me so wrong? I am no murderer. No serial killer.
Thunder cracked overhead. We were in the vestibule, the little foyer
of a Catholic church where one makes the sign of the cross with Holy
Water to ward off any demons one might have secreted in the coat hood
or pocket or necktie. Crafty little buggers, these demons, you're
scrubbing them out of your personal things for weeks after the possession.
There was indeed, here, a damp sponge in a bronze tray.
dipped her fingers in, made the sign of the cross and followed me
up sixteen stone steps. No handrail. A sheer drop down the left hand
side. Along a short arched corridor of rough stone. Through another
This final chamber was no church. At least, it resembled no church
in the Orthodox mould. No morbid crucifix hanging from the ceiling.
No altar. No tabernacle. No stained glass. No pews. No recognisable
religion whatsoever. Just a white clay floor reminiscent of a Sumo
dojo. White, carved limestone walls. A raised pedestal of Black Marble
in the centre of the chamber seemed to suck down the energy of a ceiling
that illuminated itself; a monochrome playground of infant shadows
scampered about the eerie walls. I knew Eti would have already gone
As this was my final night in this or any Earthly hemisphere, I stood
on the plinth and showed her how the mechanism worked, holding my
cock and softly stroking until I faded from existence.
* * * * *
From her perspective, she would have witnessed the ass-thumbing masturbator
at his seedy job. She would have registered a real change in his anatomy,
as he appeared to be stroking the neck of an electric guitar in place
of his manhood. The gleaming elements in the ceiling would have congealed
above him. He would have held out his palms in the glowing snowfall,
the guitar jutting from his groin, titanium cords refracting rainbows
as somewhere a fader eased in.
Music, identical to the piece that she had heard in the studio session
would have echoed in the chamber. Who’d have guessed it was
a sound check for this bizarre instrument? There would have been something
close to satisfaction tainted with imminent loss in his smile then.
His body would have resolved itself into no shape this woman had ever
seen before. Never would she have witnessed something, someone, so
totally naked. Stripped of substance, rendered in rhythm, made of
music. Hadn't he always worn his leather disguise to protect the unadulterated
splendour that was this magnificent organ, she might have pondered?
By now, tuning forks would have sounded. Flutes and copper curls would
have been sprouting from every fleshy part of him as their Love Cantata
for Lazy Lead Guitar was given the full orchestral arrangement.
She would have seen his human back break open like the crust of fresh
bread and a horn section welded to the side of a saxophonic structure
would have burbled out erotic syncopation as it slowly rose from his
spinal column. Gills of ecstatic song would have erupted all along
the length of his forearms. Veins weeping counterpoint. All about
him, like iron filings littering a dish of butter, sweet music would
have lifted him to a choral ascent.
In what remained of his gaze would have been raptures. His physical
form would have lifted as glowing motes of musical disintegration
as the piece climaxed, fattening on major chords, sheared by the shameful
lunacy of key, rocked by tempo.
* * * * *
I watched from the other side. My home you could call it.
She took her hands from her ears and straightened up. Then I saw it
– the eyes of my greatest lover. My brother from the Stoned
Years. His eyes shone forth from hers and I knew she would step onto
the pedestal as I had done. She would follow my example and we could
be together as we had been once-before in this realm. She would step
onto the pedestal the way an early morning bather dips a toe into
the pool. I knew once in position, she would insert a finger into
her arsehole and stimulate her clitoris with the other hand as I had
shown her. I knew what it was like to travel on the waves of music
and be at one with the chord and the counterpoint and the climax would
be like no other gold-bleeding loin trembler she’d ever had
as she travelled across the galaxy to be with me. She and I would
be at one, why did I not see it in her eyes before this point –
the wrong side of a one-way system?
Her mouth twitched with obvious hesitation. I willed her to take a
step towards the plinth...