Sexus Tunc Collectae. A Memoir. Part IX. Secret Intelligence Service |

Secret Intelligence Service

Sexus Tunc Collectae

Part IX

“Certain women cause everyone to want to be like them and those affected are left without understanding why. They are lifted into and carried in the aura of the woman irrespective of what they profess to be, where they are and worse, what they claim is important. If they are ever so honoured to be with that woman they run the risk of death because the threat of unrequited love is all-powerful. What people do physically is important only so far as it satisfies their instinct, their function, but the female aura cannot ever be touched by another, it remains omnipresent when the woman has gone.”

Herr Wüst (Anklagen – Pseudonym). Theatre Director. Berlin-West. (1980)

Sexus Tunc Collectae

Isbn 9781906503628

I might just state that barely one year had passed and that this memoir will be very long and detailed.

Rodney and I were in bed, it was late evening. He would often stay long into the night with me and then exit quietly into the awaiting darkness outside.

“Darling”, I whispered into the back of his head, “Thank you for everything”. My thanking him was the everlasting sentiment, that it would float forever among planetary bodies near and far, throughout the infinitude of space.

Earlier he’d been telling of the object of his desire; me. I woke him by tugging his ear. He turned, I thought he’d been sleeping but he hadn’t.

“Dearheart,” he said softly, “Do you want to talk?”

“Of course, I do.” I always did so it shouldn’t have come as a surprise. The imparting of knowledge most often took place while we were in bed. This was my university, my education.

“I want you to nurture your compulsion to express thoughts, to fill your inner-self, then to present it in the fashion of the most creative minds. You can do that, I know you can. It’s one thing doing what others request of you, but you are worthy of much more and the two go together hand in hand.”

I needed to clarify something. “Tell me, what is my compulsion, my inner-self?”

“Dearest you take what you see of the world, just as everyone does but there is a character amongst the throng who pre-ordinately judges on everyone’s behalf and finds expression in words. People are not the same in this, there are many but there are few. Those who are – they transcend all boundaries and what they give lasts forever. You will find your own unique expression and amaze everyone. You are one of the special ones.”

“I am your protégé.” I told him. ‘I am your student.’

“More than that. I want you to be able to live with leaders and at the same time be the special one close who is the object of their fascination and admiration.”

“I think for some maybe I am that already.”

He found my comment amusing.

“Yes, I agree but you can surpass everyone with the originality of your thoughts. This is not to denigrate the devastating effect of your body. I have seen how you affect people. I am the same in that response and it won’t change.”

“The spy who loves me,” I told him.

“The work you will be doing requires the type of person you will develop into. It takes a very long time and remember that you have to understand yourself and this means most of what you bring with you, the already assembled answers to things will get discarded.”

“So I am going to be a spy. It’s already set?”

“Yes but my darling please drop the synonym would you; intelligence officer. But from your new entrant – preliminary it will take years. Consider yourself as our ‘asset’ for the time being.”

What he was saying I did think about after he’d left and concluded that I was not merely taking over from him, in time I was to become him. He wanted that. He wanted to fill me with himself in totality. We were two, but one at the same time. I was warmed by this ever forming duality.

That said, what he’d told me about meeting certain men at the Blackpool rendesvous (at the resort on the Lancashire coast) as an enhancement of my perspicacity to date in observation and interpersonal skill left me utterly dumfounded. Was I anything like capable of properly performing such a very involved role? I didn’t think so. Having been pushed overboard would I plummet to the bottom of the ocean never to be seen again? There was more and I will recite what he said, thus;

“The two Germans I want you to liase with are very, very important to us. One is from Die Bundesrepublik (Germany – Federal Republic), and hails from the Weimar, where his parents were politically active. He is an artistic director for a theatre company in Berlin. The other man lives here, and was a senior military officer – ‘Heer’ in the Wehrmacht (Army). I’m not going to tell you any more because I want you to enter into their confidence and try and understand them. I know you already have the ability to accurately report. This is going to be an enormous challenge and please know it could be unpleasant but only in the sense that they are difficult, complicated people. My pink petal will not be in danger.”

Gosh, was I meeting ex-Nazis? Well, the answer was yes at least to one, but as he’d stressed, the men were very important (to the intelligence machinery) and to consider just how much of a different world they would reflect on, of what he’d referred to simply as they being ‘difficult and complex’, was mind-blowing. He was giving me no pointers whatsoever as to how to manage these encounters. Would you believe that? It was a terrifying prospect. Then it occured to me that they could be actors and I inserted as a test of sorts. However I quickly discarded that because I remembered certain of his concluding remarks;

“It matters not who someone is or what they have been. As long as they satisfy our interests and continue to in their entirety they will remain safe.”

Safe from who? I wondered but it was not important to me I know.

I can say with surety that neither of these liaisons turned out to be anything remotely like what I could have ever expected, even in my wildest and most exotic flight of fantasy. If I said that the prospect had been terrifying, well, the reality is lost in the search for sufficient descriptive tools, though I must endeavour to make a living portrait.

Blackpool No. I

I was still unused to the luxury of walking upon thick carpets because in California they weren’t used but here there were the softest carpets everywhere. The room I was to go was not so far from the second floor elevator and before saying anything further, I must emphasise that these liaisons were monitored so to guarantee my safety (and for others to know what transpired in its entirety). What one might deduce from this is open to speculation but it did add the consideration (safety) which hitherto had never been mentioned. My own tentative assumption had been more toward who I was to spend time with being somewhat unpredictable because of who I had been told they were. Little did I know, and there again, why would I know anything more than that?

I knocked on the door and waited. What did he look like and what peculiarities regarding his character were considerations paramount in my thoughts. Was my pulse elevated? I can say, not really. The peephole made a sound and I made eye-contact without actually seeing who I was looking at. When the door opened I was met by a short, dark-haired and unattractive man, likely in his sixties. He didn’t smile while gesturing I enter. I can remember that he seemed most preoccupied by my shoes (high heels) and which led me to wonder if he objected to my wearing them.

I was dressed in a new outfit that I had bought locally just the day before. I recall it well because it was a medium length silk dress, with a pleated cotton belt, the pattern was striking; of black and white harlequin. I bought a small handbag too, so to compliment my dress and had this little gem with me.

“Bitte treten sie ein und entspannen sie sich.”

“Thank you, I said, assuming he meant hello and come in.

He continued with, “Mein Englisch ist schlecht.” My English is poorly developed.

“That’s fine,” was my reply and wishing that I could have responded in his native German. Now he was gazing at me and there was no indicator as to what was at the fore of his mind. I say this because usually there were hands upon my rear and my hair was lifted from the back because sex was the approaching railroad train about to pulse through. Conversation having usually arrived between and after.

Perhaps he was used to intensely studying people, after all he was a theatre director for which I assumed this was an absolute requirement. The depth of his eyes revealed nothing abnormal was my perception, though it meant little.

There was a trolley with a covered tray. He ate in his room. I had eaten alone too but in the dining hall.

“Your motions are those of the actress.”

“Thank you,” I said which was in many ways in line with my newly aquired, important designation (an intelligence ‘asset’), was it not?

“Und eine Hure. A whore.”

I detected no animosity in his referring to me as a whore. I was not only an actress, but more, a whore too.

“Deine Hände.” Give me your hands.

He took my hands, stepped back and began scrutinising my features. I met his eyes two or three times more during this and doing so left me feeling slightly uncomfortable.

He knew I was going to ask if he wanted me to sit down but he put a finger to his lips. I wasn’t to speak.

“Eine hure lebt als die unterste categorie des menschlichen zustands und wo alle stürzen, unabhängig von der absicht ihrer handlung. We are all whores.”

He’d dropped my hands and gestured into the space between as if waving away the word ‘whore’ and all of what it carried. I was uncertain of what to think. Then with one hand he reached to take loose lengths my hair and began gazing at their texture. I watched him.

“Rotes Blut. You hair bleeds.”

I couldn’t decide if he were complimenting me, I guessed he was not. Blood? I was prejudging a very complex person I had to be aware.

Die Klage der Roten Hure.
Ich spreche. Ich spreche. Psst. Es liegt Angst in der Luft. Dort dringen todesmaschinen in meine träume ein. Geh weg, ich kann nicht vor dir fliehen.
Schau mich an. Schau mich an. Ahhhhhhhhh.
ICH DUSCHE DEN KOPF DES TODES MIT ROT.
Ich bin eine Hure und ich bin rot. Ich bin blutschön gebracht. Rot. Rot. Rot …….. Ahhhhhhhhhh.

He obviously knew I couldn’t understand much if any of what he was saying and he did tell me in English. (I have to recall as accurately as I can from what transpired later – it was actually the words of a song he had written and to which he wanted me to perform and in a very animated way).

The Red Whore’s Lament
I speak. I speak. Psst. There is fear in the air. Your death machines enter my dreams. Go away, I cannot escape you.
Look at me. Look at me. Ahhhhhhhhhh.
I shower the head of death with red.
I am a whore and I am red. I am blood beauty brought. Red. Red. Red …….. Ahhhhhhhhhh.

I had never received formal voice training, as per singing and the few acting skills I was now familiar with I had derived from my time with Rodney, therefore I was jumping ahead. I was looking forward to developing these skills along with others at a future date but that said, if this was to be a guiding lesson in the art and from an expert, that was absolutely fine. Though some might wonder if this was quite an odd thing to engage with me. I mention the latter because I really didn’t know whether it was or not because, as are all complex interactions, there were many dynamics, all interfusing and as I said, he was a very complicated person. But I will say I thought his intrinsic character appeared more toward the staunchly German than the ones I had met prior and who could altogether discard their nationality with the drop of a hat and outwardly become the typical British person. Did this mean anything with regard to him, a theatre director from the Federal Republic of Germany? I knew nothing about him really, it was akin to my looking at a book I hadn’t read, only knowing its cover. In addition and somewhat vaguely I could have tried to picture the nature and extent of what had been done already by my ‘handlers’, I refer to any intervention into his mental and physical status and the expectations, if any, around my particular presence – what such a close assignation as this might provoke. Asking ‘what’ is a good question. Basically I was a sponge for absorbing whatever he wanted to shower me with. Was he a westerner at heart and thus being misconstrued by someone (me) who yet had read very little on the recent historical developments across Europe, particularly that of a divided Germany? Was he a Communist sympathiser?

I say this in retrospect (it did not occur to me at the time, only later), that my stint with him was indeed an opportunity for an evaluation from various disciplines, ‘shadowy disciplines’ if you wish to refer to them as such – a profile of which was to be determined by whomever had been observing. By my saying ‘stint with him’, I refer to the depth of content this couple of hours might have revealed, the depth of content he was completely free to reveal and being prompted so to do by me.

I want him to have a name (pseudonym) because it is a better method of reference than using ‘he’. I shall refer to him as; Herr Wüst (Anklagen). This was not his actual name.

”Hör mir zu, hör zu.” Attend, listen

He moved me in the manner of being spun around. He wanted to look at me from the rear. His grip on my waist was determind.

There was a tall mirror across the room but I couldn’t see him. He was shorter than me. Then I felt him moving the zip from the top of my dress. His breathing was upon my shoulders, soon exposed. He was saying something and this is what later I discovered (more or less) had been the content (My dress had fallen to my wait and I assisted its final journey to the carpet by unfastening the buckle of my belt. I kicked off my high heels). :

”Bestimmte Frauen. . . Bestimmte Frauen . . . führen dazu, dass jeder so sein möchte wie sie, und die Betroffenen wissen nicht, warum. Sie werden in die Aura der Frau gehoben und getragen, unabhängig davon, was sie zu sein behaupten, wo sie sich befinden und was sie für wichtig halten. Wenn sie sich so geehrt fühlen, mit dieser Frau zusammen zu sein, laufen sie Gefahr zu sterben, weil die Drohung mit unerwiderter Liebe allmächtig ist. Was Menschen physisch tun, ist nur insofern wichtig, als es ihren Instinkt und ihre Funktion erfüllt, aber die weibliche Aura kann niemals von einer anderen berührt werden, sie bleibt allgegenwärtig, wenn die Frau gegangen ist.”

”Bestimmte Frauen . . . Certain women . . . they cause everyone to want to be like them and those affected are left without understanding why. They are lifted into and carried in the aura of the woman irrespective of what they profess to be, where they are and worse, what they claim is important. If they are ever so honoured to be with that woman they run the risk of death because the threat of unrequited love is all-powerful. What people do physically is important only so far as it satisfies their instinct, their function, but the female aura cannot ever be touched by another, it remains omnipresent when the woman has gone.”

”SING MÄDCHEN, DAS LAMENT DER HURE.” Sing the Whore’s Lament

He was encouraging me to sing and he was walking away. Where was he going? I did sing the very few words I could recall and not unsurprisingly I think; ”Ich spreche. Ich spreche.” I speak. I speak. I sang them again but more loudly. Then into the ensuing quietude I suddenly felt something wet and sticky being smeared across my shoulders and bra strap. It had an aroma that was familiar, believe it or not. I turned my head and I saw a large piece of cherry pie in his hand, pastry and all. This was what he was smearing onto me. This was what I’d had while at dinner with cream. It was absolute favourite desert. Had he been in the dining hall and taken notice, had he been watching me eat? This was not the time to ponder on such simple questions. He was smearing it down my back and whispering while the pastry was falling onto my new dress;

”Ich spreche. Ich spreche. Psst. Es liegt Angst in der Luft,” I speak. I speak. Psst. There is fear in the air.

I knew he was expecting me to continue because he was arranging my arms in an expression of what I assumed was defiance at the collective attitude yonder (everywhere?). I sang but it was not sufficiently expressive, judging from his reaction which was not gentle (he’d given me a slight but determined push and I took this to mean ‘a poor effort’).

I sang again.

”Ich spreche. Ich spreche. Psst. Es liegt Angst in der Luft.”

”Noch einmal. Mit zorn.” Again / REPEAT with ANGER ! ANGER !

”Ich spreche. Ich spreche. Psst. Es liegt ANGST in der LUFT.”

We began a period of silence and in which I was left standing, bemused, wet and sticky. Why was Herr Wust standing behind me? Was this a drama of the avante garde theatre? I guessed that it was judging from his first statements regarding the subject of everyone being whores and the world of philistines deserved of contempt for their collective ignorance and self-delusion.

I could feel my panties moving to accomadate his hand and quickly the sticky desert, particularly the cherries, was present in my most private place (anally).

”DAS LAMENT DER HURE.” The Whore’s Lament is a judgement you must throw at the audience. SING !”

I sang as he requested, even given where his hand was. A new experience you might wonder. I was quickly becoming used to obliging what were perhaps termed ‘satisfactions of the perverse’.

”Ich spreche. Ich spreche. Psst. Es liegt ANGST in der LUFT.”

After having smeared the cherries as deep as he could (what felt to be so) into now both orifices he moved to push his fingers into each side of my mouth. I could feel his breath close at the back of my head. He was reciting more;

”Dort dringen todesmaschinen in meine träume ein. Geh weg, ich kann nicht vor dir fliehen.” Your death machines enter my dreams. Go away, I cannot escape from you.

The words were just left floating in the air. I couldn’t recall beyond ‘Dort dringen’. I suspected he was becoming very impatient, with raised voice, he repeated thus; ”Dort dringen todesmaschinen in meine träume ein. Dort dringen todesmaschinen in meine träume ein.”

I sang, ”Dort dringen todesmaschinen in meine träume ein . . . Dort dringen todesmaschinen . . . in meine träume ein.”

I had achieved much more but please realise I am adding to because there were more than a few gaps in the sequence and he assisted by whispering these into my ear and I repeating them.

”Schau mich an. Schau mich an. Ahhhhhhhhh.” Look at me. Look at me (followed by a loud scream).

I screamed at the top of my voice while simultaneously I again felt his anally plunging fingers. I guessed there was a particular significance between the height of my scream and where his fingers were. A negation of the accepted laws of beauty? Some would see it this way. However, I was subsequently told that his work was experimental, in this he was very unorthodox and importantly, it was not a nulification of my appearance nor any other woman. Hard to accept?

ICH DUSCHE DEN KOPF DES TODES MIT ROT.
Ich bin eine hure und ich bin rot. Ich bin blutschön gebracht. Rot. Rot. Rot …….. Ahhhhhhhhhh. I shower the head of death with red. I am a whore and I am red. I am blood beauty brought. Red. Red. Red …….. Ahhhhhhhhhh.

Again he assisted my singing the words.

Toward the end I felt a warm and heavy liquid pouring over my shoulders, into my hair and down my forehead. It was a jug of cream.

He wanted me to complete The Red Whore’s Lament. I wanted to wash the cream from my face but I wasn’t going anywhere. He was telling me what to sing and I was doing my best to see.

Die Klage der Roten Hure.
Ich spreche. Ich spreche. Psst. Es liegt angst in der luft. Dort dringen todesmaschinen in meine träume ein. Geh weg, ich kann nicht vor dir fliehen.
Schau mich an. Schau mich an. Ahhhhhhhhh.
ICH DUSCHE DEN KOPF DES TODES MIT ROT.
Ich bin eine hure und ich bin rot. Ich bin blutschön gebracht. Rot. Rot. Rot …….. Ahhhhhhhhhh.

”Noch einmal. Mit zorn.” Again / REPEAT WITH THE ANGER !

”SCHREIEN, SCHREIEN.” Scream!

When he knocked me at the back of my right knee I promptly crumbled to the carpet, to become the performer on all fours.

”SCHREIEN, SCHREIEN.” Scream!

I screamed but not sufficiently loud. There was cream in my eyes which I couldn’t clear and was extremely uncomfortable.

”SCHREIEN, SCHREIEN.” Scream! Scream! Scream!

“See the glow through the prison door. LOOK ! It is bright ! Outside has been killed 1.000.000.000 and this the five hundredth year. THE WHORE IS RED ! THE WHORE BLEEDS FOR ALL OF YOU !

“DIE HURE BLUTET FÜR SIE ALLE !”

He tugged at one of my hands and I relinquished which only left the other to support myself from being face down upon the carpet. He wanted me to violently masturbate, this was what he was doing with my hand in his. A conference of touching upon and within my vagina. He knew where the most sensitive place to reconnoiter and the pulsing pleasure I felt was immediately immense and with the taste of cherry pie and with the cream in my eyes and with the directing of a German play of the avante-garde staged at a theatre in free Berlin . . . The Red Whores Lament. You see they had killed 1.000.000.000 and the whore was bleeding for them all. My bleeding, the blood of the actress, in the most intimate place, was for them a symbol of sorrow, moreover a symbol of Herr Wüst’ sorrow. The audience was violently shaken from the infected condition of collective complacency.

Ich bin eine Hure und ich bin rot. Ich bin blutschön gebracht. Rot. Rot. Rot . . .

It was early evening at a Northern Italian café at the Yugoslavia border. I was seated on a wire chair and within fifty yards, should I now venture, there was the certainty of my never returning, the guarantee that my life would end, that I would be shot. Ten minutes had saved my life. The time was valuable to me more than ever now. How many minutes of ten are there in the hours and days into years? I did wonder and wonder . . ..

My discussion with Rodney appears next on Part X, along with Blackpool (II)

Part (X) go to

Isbn 9781906503628

Secret Intelligence Service

Adversditate. Custodi. Per Verum

___________________________________________________________________________________________________