*SPECIAL NOTE: I dedicate this blogpost to Brian Tucker. A very good soul, a lover of the arts and a very fine man indeed. Thank you Brian for your support of good writing and the arts.*
She had orchestrated the whole thing.
He was her boyfriend's brother and I could see the appeal. So many complications and her at the center of it all with her hands clean and smelling of sweet bath oils. She had a way of making things happen without even touching them.
One time she went out to shop for food. We were broke. We had both lost our jobs on the same day a few weeks before. We were living off lentils. I was performing the loaves and fishes with the last of the starvation food in the back of the pantry. We sipped free coffee from the cafe where we used to work and bemoaned the lack of employment without actually looking for something new. She thought the universe would provide and told me so. I wanted to roll my eyes, but that would mean taking them off her for a moment. She was luminous.
She told him that I would sleep with him, knowing that if she wanted it then it would be so. He smelled of garlic and chai tea and patchouli and he needed a shower. He was her boyfriend's brother. I thought about that, me and the brother, her and his brother. All of this made it possible.
That day in her bedroom was a surprise. She liked to watch him with me. I let him touch me in front of her because she wanted it. He had crazy eyes and he made no sense with his yoga-talk and health food and his denials of the flesh. He could talk with her for hours and the words they used were phrases from "The Living Game" a kind of capitalist commune that they both had an interest in. They talked about the Universe as if it were a conscious being. They talked about mantras and affirmations and choosing your disease to teach you universal lessons.
I watched her talk and there were her lips and I watched them, thinking about the waxy scent of her lipstick and the powdery texture of her skin. I was all touch and scent and taste in those days and the prickling irritation of their conversation was easy to ignore.
She settled down onto her pillow, lifting the golden mane of hair into her delicate fingers, leaning on her palm and watching. She wanted to watch us. We knew this and he unzipped my skirt and showed my body to her and entered it quickly, all of this for her. She did nothing. She did everything. We heard her little murmurs, the only sign of her pleasure, just a breathy cooing that encouraged us.
I'm not sure who touched her first, but somehow our fingers were slick with her. I remember lifting the damp white cotton of her pants and then I was in side her, he was inside her. Our fingers had fused and they worked in the same rhythm that his hips had found. Her lover's brother, her female lover and her, at the juicy apex of it all.
I remember her orgasm as a soft tightening around our fingers, a sucking fish that hauled my whole body through her. She barely moved, but I bucked uncontrollably against his pelvic bone, rubbing and pushing as if I might tear through his body and into hers.
I thought I was in love, but perhaps it was just the irresistible succulence of the girl.
The boy rolled away and I wanted him to disappear, to leave us, me still reaching inside her, my fingers shaking and flexing and reaching, as if cracking the salty shell of an oyster and peeling back the flesh to find a pearl.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Dinking
Too many tequilas.
He balanced me on his handlebars and we flew down the hill.
It was an old bike, heavy curled metal, a Rocket. I often walked past the old man who had made it, his shop still clinging to it's place on the street despite the rampant gentrification of the area. He wore old clothes, a pork pie hat, a loved jumper with a dozen threads skittering off into the night. When I clapped him on the shoulder I felt the strength beneath the threadbare shirt. He lifted me up onto the handlebars like a doll. I held myself up and opened my mouth to suck in the night air and laughed it out again.
We had to drink the last few fingers of the bottle. It was because of the worm. We tore it apart and swallowed half of it each. If there were any halucinagenic properites we were too drunk to notice. We laughed into the night.
At the top of the hill we sat and drank in the city lights, the wormy glint of traffic creaping in catapillar lines.
"I want to make love in the dew."
He just laughed and hoisted me back up onto his handlebars.
In his bed then. I watched him itchy with restlessness, smoking, turning to me suddenly and reaching out with his nicotine yellow fingers. He traced a stop start map on my flesh. He hummed. I sat as still as I could because when I moved he would retreat to pace in a corner of the room, reaching for his guitar to pluck a few chords out of the air, his body thin and pale against the warm round wood. My stillness sat in counterpoint to his itch and twitch. He tore pieces of his clothes from his body and then, shivery, wrapped the scraps of fabric around him.
Perhaps we would make love. I would have to let him settle first, like a trapped animal adjusting to his cage. I concentrated on my stillness, carefully occupying my space in his bed, an odour of calm emanating from my pores. Perhaps he would join me on the bed, hurrying into sex without warning, hurrying away at the end of it. This was a pattern I was used to with him. I tried to modulate my breath, to stop the heart-thudding rise and fall of my chest. Only in my stillness would he feel safe enough to join me. And so, I waited.
He balanced me on his handlebars and we flew down the hill.
It was an old bike, heavy curled metal, a Rocket. I often walked past the old man who had made it, his shop still clinging to it's place on the street despite the rampant gentrification of the area. He wore old clothes, a pork pie hat, a loved jumper with a dozen threads skittering off into the night. When I clapped him on the shoulder I felt the strength beneath the threadbare shirt. He lifted me up onto the handlebars like a doll. I held myself up and opened my mouth to suck in the night air and laughed it out again.
We had to drink the last few fingers of the bottle. It was because of the worm. We tore it apart and swallowed half of it each. If there were any halucinagenic properites we were too drunk to notice. We laughed into the night.
At the top of the hill we sat and drank in the city lights, the wormy glint of traffic creaping in catapillar lines.
"I want to make love in the dew."
He just laughed and hoisted me back up onto his handlebars.
In his bed then. I watched him itchy with restlessness, smoking, turning to me suddenly and reaching out with his nicotine yellow fingers. He traced a stop start map on my flesh. He hummed. I sat as still as I could because when I moved he would retreat to pace in a corner of the room, reaching for his guitar to pluck a few chords out of the air, his body thin and pale against the warm round wood. My stillness sat in counterpoint to his itch and twitch. He tore pieces of his clothes from his body and then, shivery, wrapped the scraps of fabric around him.
Perhaps we would make love. I would have to let him settle first, like a trapped animal adjusting to his cage. I concentrated on my stillness, carefully occupying my space in his bed, an odour of calm emanating from my pores. Perhaps he would join me on the bed, hurrying into sex without warning, hurrying away at the end of it. This was a pattern I was used to with him. I tried to modulate my breath, to stop the heart-thudding rise and fall of my chest. Only in my stillness would he feel safe enough to join me. And so, I waited.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
The Desire
The desire is the thing.
No amount of good sex could ever compete with the idea of good sex.
Desire is a tickling at first, just a little irritation, then there is the inexorable swell of it, like a magnifying glass directing all that heat into a single point of need. It is so hot that you can't settle under the light of it.
I was never patient enough for desire. I allowed myself to jump into bed at the very earliest stirrings, sometimes no stirring at all, just an opportunistic coming together, an easy flesh-on-flesh, a damp parting, occasionally repeated, but never often enough to learn anything about those lovers.
On those rare occasions when I managed to hold the magnifying glass long enough to smoulder, I lost sleep. I would launch myself out into the chill of night and walk till I could imagine that the smoulder of desire had been extinguished by the sheer force of my will, but when I stopped to rest under a street light or at an intersection, I would hear the crackle of it crisping my skin.
I was prone to fixating on the object of my desire, walking past the places we had been together, recapturing threads of conversation still snagged on the brickwork and stamped into the pavement. Desire revisited and unrequited begins to look like obsession. I would become obsessed with the idea that the act of sex would release me from the intollerable state of desire.
The desire is more powerful than the fulfillment of desire.
I have learnt this over the years when the dissapointment of consumation has unravelled me. Still, it is difficult to relax under the magnifying glass and now and again I become the unsettled night prowler, the obsessive girl of my youth, the wild-haired sex addict that I will perhaps never out-grow.
No amount of good sex could ever compete with the idea of good sex.
Desire is a tickling at first, just a little irritation, then there is the inexorable swell of it, like a magnifying glass directing all that heat into a single point of need. It is so hot that you can't settle under the light of it.
I was never patient enough for desire. I allowed myself to jump into bed at the very earliest stirrings, sometimes no stirring at all, just an opportunistic coming together, an easy flesh-on-flesh, a damp parting, occasionally repeated, but never often enough to learn anything about those lovers.
On those rare occasions when I managed to hold the magnifying glass long enough to smoulder, I lost sleep. I would launch myself out into the chill of night and walk till I could imagine that the smoulder of desire had been extinguished by the sheer force of my will, but when I stopped to rest under a street light or at an intersection, I would hear the crackle of it crisping my skin.
I was prone to fixating on the object of my desire, walking past the places we had been together, recapturing threads of conversation still snagged on the brickwork and stamped into the pavement. Desire revisited and unrequited begins to look like obsession. I would become obsessed with the idea that the act of sex would release me from the intollerable state of desire.
The desire is more powerful than the fulfillment of desire.
I have learnt this over the years when the dissapointment of consumation has unravelled me. Still, it is difficult to relax under the magnifying glass and now and again I become the unsettled night prowler, the obsessive girl of my youth, the wild-haired sex addict that I will perhaps never out-grow.
Friday, June 27, 2008
The Pick-up
It has been a long time since anyone showed any interest in me.
I have started to dress like an adult. I have bought new clothes. I have had my hair done by a real hairdresser although I sometimes grab for the scissors when there is no one around to tut and shake their head at me. I bought perfume duty free and sometimes I remember to wear it. I have taken to wearing blood red lipstick that I imagine would look quite nice, red lips parting and taking in the length of a penis.
I used to like it when my girlfriend painted her lips. I used to watch her lips open for some man's penis and it used to excite me, just the look of it. So now, in my new clothes, I have adopted her warpaint.
I was sitting in a pub the other day and he came up to me. He was a short man, inoffensive. He was wearing a yellow reflective jacket like a tradie or a cyclist. He was old, my age, old. He reminded me that I was an adult now. I looked up from my book, blinking, bleary-eyed, emerging from a good story well told.
"Can I sit here?"
There were seats everywhere. The bar was almost empty. There were other girls, prettier girls, girls younger than me and he had singled me out from the crowd because I looked old and single and perhaps lonely.
"I mean, is this seat taken? Do you mind if I sit here?"
He was probably my age, maybe a little older. He looked fine. Not mentally ill or drunk or high on anything as far as I could tell. He wanted to sit with me and chat, just a quiet conversation after work. No one has tried to pick me up in years. I am tempted to say that no one has ever tried to pick me up, but that would be wrong. There was that one boy who asked me on a date (see "Bagged and Gagged") and there were those two drunk men who chased me at 2am one night. I suppose that was a come-on of sorts. But really, in the scheme of things there has been no one interested.
Not ever.
He was interested. Tentative. Interested.
I looked at him, mole blind from the book, a little sad from the one glass of wine drunk too quickly.
Oh yes. I am growing older.
If I were single now, there would be no men plucked from my furtive fantasies, no wild affairs with those beautiful people I have been diligently ignoring. I could perhaps go back to my life of casual sex and one night stands. There would be some pleasure in it I suppose, but I blink up at the man who is standing with a beer in hand, waiting to be invited to sit down, and I am suddenly floored by the inexorable march of years.
The first and only pick up in so many years. This possibly nice man who is possibly the same age as me.
I refuse politely. I have my book to finish, my good story well told. I have a second glass of wine to consume it with. I have my nice adult clothes and my red lipstick and my low self-esteem to keep me company. I have a husband, shielding me from the harsh glare of reality, from the horrible potential of quietly following this man who is as old and sad as I am, back to his lonely bed.
He doesn't insist. He excuses himself politely and I watch out of the corner of my eye as he stands at the bar and quietly finishes his beer and walks out and away, rejected. Dejected.
And my heart breaks just a little, for his sake, but mostly for my own.
I have started to dress like an adult. I have bought new clothes. I have had my hair done by a real hairdresser although I sometimes grab for the scissors when there is no one around to tut and shake their head at me. I bought perfume duty free and sometimes I remember to wear it. I have taken to wearing blood red lipstick that I imagine would look quite nice, red lips parting and taking in the length of a penis.
I used to like it when my girlfriend painted her lips. I used to watch her lips open for some man's penis and it used to excite me, just the look of it. So now, in my new clothes, I have adopted her warpaint.
I was sitting in a pub the other day and he came up to me. He was a short man, inoffensive. He was wearing a yellow reflective jacket like a tradie or a cyclist. He was old, my age, old. He reminded me that I was an adult now. I looked up from my book, blinking, bleary-eyed, emerging from a good story well told.
"Can I sit here?"
There were seats everywhere. The bar was almost empty. There were other girls, prettier girls, girls younger than me and he had singled me out from the crowd because I looked old and single and perhaps lonely.
"I mean, is this seat taken? Do you mind if I sit here?"
He was probably my age, maybe a little older. He looked fine. Not mentally ill or drunk or high on anything as far as I could tell. He wanted to sit with me and chat, just a quiet conversation after work. No one has tried to pick me up in years. I am tempted to say that no one has ever tried to pick me up, but that would be wrong. There was that one boy who asked me on a date (see "Bagged and Gagged") and there were those two drunk men who chased me at 2am one night. I suppose that was a come-on of sorts. But really, in the scheme of things there has been no one interested.
Not ever.
He was interested. Tentative. Interested.
I looked at him, mole blind from the book, a little sad from the one glass of wine drunk too quickly.
Oh yes. I am growing older.
If I were single now, there would be no men plucked from my furtive fantasies, no wild affairs with those beautiful people I have been diligently ignoring. I could perhaps go back to my life of casual sex and one night stands. There would be some pleasure in it I suppose, but I blink up at the man who is standing with a beer in hand, waiting to be invited to sit down, and I am suddenly floored by the inexorable march of years.
The first and only pick up in so many years. This possibly nice man who is possibly the same age as me.
I refuse politely. I have my book to finish, my good story well told. I have a second glass of wine to consume it with. I have my nice adult clothes and my red lipstick and my low self-esteem to keep me company. I have a husband, shielding me from the harsh glare of reality, from the horrible potential of quietly following this man who is as old and sad as I am, back to his lonely bed.
He doesn't insist. He excuses himself politely and I watch out of the corner of my eye as he stands at the bar and quietly finishes his beer and walks out and away, rejected. Dejected.
And my heart breaks just a little, for his sake, but mostly for my own.
socially awkward
sometimes i forget that i am socially awkward, often embarrassing and not particularly sexy
then i remember
then i remember
Deflowering the Virgins
A very special pause to talk about the virgins.
We remember the first time we have sex. Our body remembers. Our untouched flesh grows a skin, a pale white shell, delicate, and yet unbreakable unless you press it in just the right direction.
I have yolk on my fingers.
A delicate yellow, the colour of a buttercup held up to a child's chin. I am careful with this gift they have given to me. A once and never to be repeated offer. I unwrap them like the present that they are, they have made themselves a gift to me and I am grateful.
A virgin will not be judging me against their previous lovers. I am free to focus on our pleasure without the little voices telling me that I am not as thin or energetic or exciting as the other lovers that have trudged here before me.
I approach the virgin lover as one might a blank canvass, ripe with potential, a space where we might create a masterpiece which is not derivative of any other work. I am careful with my initial brushstrokes, sketching out a pattern that we might follow at a later time. This is just a study for what will become a lifetime of practice.
I am careful to avoid the usual traps, the selfishness that comes with inexperience, the clumsy rush, the lack of creativity. I hold their hands in mine and we explore the potential of the work together, drawing out the form and colour and the shape of it.
There is an art to deflowering a virgin and I am well versed in it. I keep a watchful eye out for the complete body of work, tracking my virgin lovers discreetly through their later pieces. I see my successful beginnings filling out and bearing fruit with all the pride of a teacher who watches a favoured student stride out into the world.
So to you, my students in the art, a quick salute and a bon voyage. May your work be large and bright and energetic.
We remember the first time we have sex. Our body remembers. Our untouched flesh grows a skin, a pale white shell, delicate, and yet unbreakable unless you press it in just the right direction.
I have yolk on my fingers.
A delicate yellow, the colour of a buttercup held up to a child's chin. I am careful with this gift they have given to me. A once and never to be repeated offer. I unwrap them like the present that they are, they have made themselves a gift to me and I am grateful.
A virgin will not be judging me against their previous lovers. I am free to focus on our pleasure without the little voices telling me that I am not as thin or energetic or exciting as the other lovers that have trudged here before me.
I approach the virgin lover as one might a blank canvass, ripe with potential, a space where we might create a masterpiece which is not derivative of any other work. I am careful with my initial brushstrokes, sketching out a pattern that we might follow at a later time. This is just a study for what will become a lifetime of practice.
I am careful to avoid the usual traps, the selfishness that comes with inexperience, the clumsy rush, the lack of creativity. I hold their hands in mine and we explore the potential of the work together, drawing out the form and colour and the shape of it.
There is an art to deflowering a virgin and I am well versed in it. I keep a watchful eye out for the complete body of work, tracking my virgin lovers discreetly through their later pieces. I see my successful beginnings filling out and bearing fruit with all the pride of a teacher who watches a favoured student stride out into the world.
So to you, my students in the art, a quick salute and a bon voyage. May your work be large and bright and energetic.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
The Straight Girl part 2
I felt his lips beside hers. The two of them, half kissing, half battling over my nipple. I felt the clash of teeth. Saliva dripped from their kiss. His hand reached out and held the heavy globe of my flesh and kneaded it too firmly. When he hooked his finger into me it was the same gesture I had seen him perform on her, and I inched away out of his reach. I slipped away from them, resting on the edge of the tussle, taking stock.
I could, of course leave the room. They were lovers. There was no need for me to stay and watch her obvious desire for him. He had not completely removed his clothing, stripping aside his trousers and settling against and then inside her. I watched. She was not the same lover I had known. This was not the languid weight of flesh that I had rubbed myself against. This was an active participant. Someone eager to become involved. A straight girl, moved by her straight lover.
I stood and circled the bed. When I reached out my hand there was her hip, warm and soft against my touch. He watched me settle on the bed behind her. He watched me. I watched him. I pushed myself so close to her that I became her. I felt him move in her and I knew how her body responded. I became her body. I responded.
He was staring at me and into me. His eyes were fingers on my skin. When I buried my forehead in her hair there was only the gentle rocking of her hips against mine.
She stopped. I didn't. He couldn't.
Apparently this catastrophe of cutting things short was my responsibility. "someone didn't stop" and not his fault at all. So that was the end of it. There was no suggestion that we could continue after this. There was no denouement. He stood up and she followed him and then there was just me and the damp cooling place in the bed where they had been, where she had been.
I could, of course leave the room. They were lovers. There was no need for me to stay and watch her obvious desire for him. He had not completely removed his clothing, stripping aside his trousers and settling against and then inside her. I watched. She was not the same lover I had known. This was not the languid weight of flesh that I had rubbed myself against. This was an active participant. Someone eager to become involved. A straight girl, moved by her straight lover.
I stood and circled the bed. When I reached out my hand there was her hip, warm and soft against my touch. He watched me settle on the bed behind her. He watched me. I watched him. I pushed myself so close to her that I became her. I felt him move in her and I knew how her body responded. I became her body. I responded.
He was staring at me and into me. His eyes were fingers on my skin. When I buried my forehead in her hair there was only the gentle rocking of her hips against mine.
She stopped. I didn't. He couldn't.
Apparently this catastrophe of cutting things short was my responsibility. "someone didn't stop" and not his fault at all. So that was the end of it. There was no suggestion that we could continue after this. There was no denouement. He stood up and she followed him and then there was just me and the damp cooling place in the bed where they had been, where she had been.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
The Straight Girl part 1
They began to make love despite me. It was a kind of territorial thing for him. He knew that we were sleeping together. Whenever he came around he put his arm around her, sat with his arm in her lap. She was never wearing knickers and I would watch him hook his finger up inside her, right in front of me, as if he were marking his place. I would smell her on him at the dinner table. He tore bread from the loaf and passed me chunks of it laced with a delicate sauce that I recognised from our furtive moments of exploration. I knew that I was useful to her. I made him want her with the kind of passion that can only be inspired by jealousy.
We heard his footstep on the stairs and there was a cessation of movement. I felt her held breath against the bare skin of my breast. My nipple pulled tighter, inching closer to her slightly parted lips. I was all wound up. We would have made love. I needed to make love. Then there were his footsteps on the stairs and he was with us.
He had never seen me naked before. She had been naked with us, dripping out from a shower with her hair all dark with scent and water. He had once lifted her onto the kitchen bench and then there was that thing he did with the lebanese cucumber and the dinner party, and I suppose that is another story that I could tell you sometime. But he had never seen me even partially unclothed.
He was watching from the doorway. I sensed her turn towards him like a sunflower photosynthesising. She never turned like that in my direction. The few times that we had made love, it had been all me. She lay and sighed and demonstrated her delight by parting her thighs just a little further, making those little dove sounds at the back of her throat that made me want to bite down on the pillow, tear the sheets, force myself into the perfect peaches and cream of her skin.
Sometimes when we were walking in the street, a boy would pass us on the other footpath and she would reach for my hand, or nuzzle into my shoulder or even kiss me with her lips parted, locking her fingers into the crazy wire of my hair until the boy was out of sight and she could walk on without comment.
So, the sunflower thing, the gentle movement of her body, and there at the apex of her attentions was the boy. He saw me naked for the first time, my body pressed close to hers, my nipple almost, but not quite entering her mouth, my hands buried in my own crotch because she never lifted a finger to touch me and I was always forced to touch myself. This, then is how he first saw us together.
There was a levelling up, a squaring off. I know I settled my shoulders more firmly on the bed. It was her bed, smaller than my own but with nicer sheets and the scent of roses. I held my ground and he held his, pulling up straighter in his casual lean, filling his chest with air, tensing his shoulders just a little making him look stronger than he had a moment before. All this subconscious king of the jungle stuff that we share with dogs and lions and rats. We might have stayed that way all night if she hadn't snuggled just that little bit closer, latching on to my breast like a suckling child, but with that full red pout of her lips that both of us had kissed at one time or another.
We heard his footstep on the stairs and there was a cessation of movement. I felt her held breath against the bare skin of my breast. My nipple pulled tighter, inching closer to her slightly parted lips. I was all wound up. We would have made love. I needed to make love. Then there were his footsteps on the stairs and he was with us.
He had never seen me naked before. She had been naked with us, dripping out from a shower with her hair all dark with scent and water. He had once lifted her onto the kitchen bench and then there was that thing he did with the lebanese cucumber and the dinner party, and I suppose that is another story that I could tell you sometime. But he had never seen me even partially unclothed.
He was watching from the doorway. I sensed her turn towards him like a sunflower photosynthesising. She never turned like that in my direction. The few times that we had made love, it had been all me. She lay and sighed and demonstrated her delight by parting her thighs just a little further, making those little dove sounds at the back of her throat that made me want to bite down on the pillow, tear the sheets, force myself into the perfect peaches and cream of her skin.
Sometimes when we were walking in the street, a boy would pass us on the other footpath and she would reach for my hand, or nuzzle into my shoulder or even kiss me with her lips parted, locking her fingers into the crazy wire of my hair until the boy was out of sight and she could walk on without comment.
So, the sunflower thing, the gentle movement of her body, and there at the apex of her attentions was the boy. He saw me naked for the first time, my body pressed close to hers, my nipple almost, but not quite entering her mouth, my hands buried in my own crotch because she never lifted a finger to touch me and I was always forced to touch myself. This, then is how he first saw us together.
There was a levelling up, a squaring off. I know I settled my shoulders more firmly on the bed. It was her bed, smaller than my own but with nicer sheets and the scent of roses. I held my ground and he held his, pulling up straighter in his casual lean, filling his chest with air, tensing his shoulders just a little making him look stronger than he had a moment before. All this subconscious king of the jungle stuff that we share with dogs and lions and rats. We might have stayed that way all night if she hadn't snuggled just that little bit closer, latching on to my breast like a suckling child, but with that full red pout of her lips that both of us had kissed at one time or another.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Island goddess
I was at my lowest point. I think I was the heaviest that I had ever been. The days all seemed to lump together like white sauce, indifferently stirred. There were clods of time sticking to the slow soles of my shoes. I barely ate but I seemed to swell larger with each day as if the days were just accumulating in my flesh. I woke up tired, I dozed. Sometimes I wondered why I bothered to wake at all.
And then there was Vanuatu.
I was joining him there. He had been working, was still working. He had gathered a crew of carefree dark skinned teens around him. I blinked, wormy in the sudden exuberance of light. I stepped out of the cab and fumbled through the unfamiliar coinage. The driver said something to me and I barely recognised the words. I thanked him.
Vanuatu. I was here. I shook myself out of my depressive fug and found my way to our accommodation, a cheerless little weatherboard house under a mango tree.
Young coconuts split in half, the jelly flesh scooped up with a squeeze of lime. Sticky flowers opening to drip their sap onto the sandpaper tongue of the earth. Kava kava, reeking of old socks and vomit but the horrors of a cup full of the stuff is followed by an easing back away from the jagged edges of life. I dream of poppies, heroin, morphine as I feel my shoulders unknotting.
Then there are the men. I am big as a mule and pale and green-eyed. My fizzy hair lends me an island silhouette.
I spend too much time alone while he is working. I prune my toes in salt water. A dugong holds me in his strong fins and drags me out to sea. His stomach is the softest belly I have ever caressed. His back is barnacled and hard as oyster shell. "He wants to make 'push push' with you," they tell me.
Sex is everywhere and nowhere as my partner buries himself in the stress of the job.
I walk alone on a little island, a tourist island. I have learned a few words and when the man greets me I can say hello and how are you, and isn't it a lovely day. He is fixing a boat. I swim fully clothed because there is some rule about modesty. I am unlovely. No one would touch me. I feel safe and lonely in my pillow of extra flesh.
It is a short walk around the island. It is raining lightly. There is the sound of the ocean. There is nothing all around except the water and the forest and the intermittent plummet of coconuts thudding on sand.
I become aware of him. He carries a machete. They all carry machetes. His footsteps keep pace with me. He is my shadow. I am wary of him at first, and then I become afraid. When he steps up beside me we both grin at each other. My grin is wide and desperate, his is unmistakable. He looks at my body beneath it's various layers of clothing as if I were exposed to his gaze. He sees the jelly flesh of new coconut, the purple maw of succulents, dripping their stinking floral juices onto his thirsty tongue. I realise that I have been naive. I am alone on a lonely island in the rain. This is a man with a machete.
"You make push push." He points to himself. He points to my breasts, my cunt. He is grinning, and my own grin is so tight with terror that it could split my head apart.
"No thank you."
But it was not a question.
His hand is in my hair, his free hand. The other is still holding his machete. He drags me a step closer to the swell of flowers and ferns.
"No no."
Not a word that he understands in any language. He is all heavy muscle and salty sweat. I can smell his otherness, the difference in our diets fills my nose. He is yams and plantains and skinny chickens. I am brie and olives and smoked salmon. He is determined to have a taste of me. I can not say no.
I remember my few lessons in Bislama. The cheeky teenage girls have taught me a few words, giggling behind their modest hands, dressing me in their frumpy island dresses and saying that I am beautiful.
"I know your name." I say it in Bislama. It is one of the phrases that the girls have taught me. His grip on my hair loosens.
"I know where you work." Really I have said that 'I know job' but he understands and he swears and he takes a step back.
He swears again and again, spitting, and the sand sucks it up and leaves a little bubble of bile near his toes. I know that it is a word for female genitalia. It is the first word that the girls taught me. A word full of sniggering. He is not laughing as he spits it at me.
I turn and I walk and he is my shadow, a little way behind me, chasing me with that word. I walk faster. At some point I turn and he is no longer in sight. I run. I am shaking. I am cursing myself now. How could I put myself in that position. Did I know what nearly happened? Did I have any idea how close I was to a big dark pit that it would have taken years to drag myself out of?
At home I was someone to be mocked, avoided, laughed at, but in Vanuatu I became desirable. A big island goddess. I was followed, whispered to, flirted with. The dugong held me around my sizable waist and eased me further and further out to sea. Men stood between me and my boyfriend, winked and pointed as if I might suddenly race away with them to a quiet spot for a bit of 'push push'.
Vanuatu. The boys just loved me in Vanuatu.
And then there was Vanuatu.
I was joining him there. He had been working, was still working. He had gathered a crew of carefree dark skinned teens around him. I blinked, wormy in the sudden exuberance of light. I stepped out of the cab and fumbled through the unfamiliar coinage. The driver said something to me and I barely recognised the words. I thanked him.
Vanuatu. I was here. I shook myself out of my depressive fug and found my way to our accommodation, a cheerless little weatherboard house under a mango tree.
Young coconuts split in half, the jelly flesh scooped up with a squeeze of lime. Sticky flowers opening to drip their sap onto the sandpaper tongue of the earth. Kava kava, reeking of old socks and vomit but the horrors of a cup full of the stuff is followed by an easing back away from the jagged edges of life. I dream of poppies, heroin, morphine as I feel my shoulders unknotting.
Then there are the men. I am big as a mule and pale and green-eyed. My fizzy hair lends me an island silhouette.
I spend too much time alone while he is working. I prune my toes in salt water. A dugong holds me in his strong fins and drags me out to sea. His stomach is the softest belly I have ever caressed. His back is barnacled and hard as oyster shell. "He wants to make 'push push' with you," they tell me.
Sex is everywhere and nowhere as my partner buries himself in the stress of the job.
I walk alone on a little island, a tourist island. I have learned a few words and when the man greets me I can say hello and how are you, and isn't it a lovely day. He is fixing a boat. I swim fully clothed because there is some rule about modesty. I am unlovely. No one would touch me. I feel safe and lonely in my pillow of extra flesh.
It is a short walk around the island. It is raining lightly. There is the sound of the ocean. There is nothing all around except the water and the forest and the intermittent plummet of coconuts thudding on sand.
I become aware of him. He carries a machete. They all carry machetes. His footsteps keep pace with me. He is my shadow. I am wary of him at first, and then I become afraid. When he steps up beside me we both grin at each other. My grin is wide and desperate, his is unmistakable. He looks at my body beneath it's various layers of clothing as if I were exposed to his gaze. He sees the jelly flesh of new coconut, the purple maw of succulents, dripping their stinking floral juices onto his thirsty tongue. I realise that I have been naive. I am alone on a lonely island in the rain. This is a man with a machete.
"You make push push." He points to himself. He points to my breasts, my cunt. He is grinning, and my own grin is so tight with terror that it could split my head apart.
"No thank you."
But it was not a question.
His hand is in my hair, his free hand. The other is still holding his machete. He drags me a step closer to the swell of flowers and ferns.
"No no."
Not a word that he understands in any language. He is all heavy muscle and salty sweat. I can smell his otherness, the difference in our diets fills my nose. He is yams and plantains and skinny chickens. I am brie and olives and smoked salmon. He is determined to have a taste of me. I can not say no.
I remember my few lessons in Bislama. The cheeky teenage girls have taught me a few words, giggling behind their modest hands, dressing me in their frumpy island dresses and saying that I am beautiful.
"I know your name." I say it in Bislama. It is one of the phrases that the girls have taught me. His grip on my hair loosens.
"I know where you work." Really I have said that 'I know job' but he understands and he swears and he takes a step back.
He swears again and again, spitting, and the sand sucks it up and leaves a little bubble of bile near his toes. I know that it is a word for female genitalia. It is the first word that the girls taught me. A word full of sniggering. He is not laughing as he spits it at me.
I turn and I walk and he is my shadow, a little way behind me, chasing me with that word. I walk faster. At some point I turn and he is no longer in sight. I run. I am shaking. I am cursing myself now. How could I put myself in that position. Did I know what nearly happened? Did I have any idea how close I was to a big dark pit that it would have taken years to drag myself out of?
At home I was someone to be mocked, avoided, laughed at, but in Vanuatu I became desirable. A big island goddess. I was followed, whispered to, flirted with. The dugong held me around my sizable waist and eased me further and further out to sea. Men stood between me and my boyfriend, winked and pointed as if I might suddenly race away with them to a quiet spot for a bit of 'push push'.
Vanuatu. The boys just loved me in Vanuatu.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Boy loves Boy
I'm not sure I would have gone out with him if he had been straight.
I knew he was gay and that made me look at him twice. He was sweet, kind of cute. And then there was his history, the magic of all the men he had loved before me. The secret slide show of them flicks past in my imagination, a pornographic film with this boy as the star of every frame.
This boy could be my boy. He liked me. He didn't like girls but he liked me, this odd girl-boy who seemed to like sex as much if not more than him. We could become a team. A wonderful sexy team.
I made love to his previous indiscretions. There were other men in the room with us. I imagined them all into existence. I introduced myself to them whilst I was in bed with him. I turned him over and I became them, retelling his stories as he lay on his stomach and closed his eyes. I inhabited the young boy who lived upstairs. I lifted Richard''s hips with the boys hands and reached for the lubrication and I entered him with slow fingers, prizing him apart and finding a cruel rhythm just as the boy upstairs had done. I felt the power of it, the joy of being completely in control. I liked the stillness of his body beneath me.
"I want to watch you make love to a man." I told him, and he was in no position to refuse.
I knew he was gay and that made me look at him twice. He was sweet, kind of cute. And then there was his history, the magic of all the men he had loved before me. The secret slide show of them flicks past in my imagination, a pornographic film with this boy as the star of every frame.
This boy could be my boy. He liked me. He didn't like girls but he liked me, this odd girl-boy who seemed to like sex as much if not more than him. We could become a team. A wonderful sexy team.
I made love to his previous indiscretions. There were other men in the room with us. I imagined them all into existence. I introduced myself to them whilst I was in bed with him. I turned him over and I became them, retelling his stories as he lay on his stomach and closed his eyes. I inhabited the young boy who lived upstairs. I lifted Richard''s hips with the boys hands and reached for the lubrication and I entered him with slow fingers, prizing him apart and finding a cruel rhythm just as the boy upstairs had done. I felt the power of it, the joy of being completely in control. I liked the stillness of his body beneath me.
"I want to watch you make love to a man." I told him, and he was in no position to refuse.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
In the Money
We were selling crap. We were all aware of this. One of us sold macrame pot hangers, someone else sold knives with woven handles. Someone made horrid little sculptures out of shells.
There was nothing of value in any of it. Even my paintings weren't my best work. The frames were cheap. I knocked them out in an hour, each one similar to the one before, half Playboy centrefold, half forest landscape, all of them a quick sketch, nothing permanent. The frames were simple wooden things, cheap and nasty.
We sat in the sun in our sweat-damp singlets and sipped bad coffee and gathered the cash. A fistfull of it. It was the weekend before Christmas and people just wanted to buy things.
"Three aunts, five cousins, four nieces, Ill take six of those." People will buy anything the weekend before Christmas.
There are a group of us at our place. There is her (painted flowerpots with plastic bobble eyes on them), the beautiful one with the pearl skin. She looks as if the sweat were sprayed on by a stylist. Her damp hair might be gelled in place. There is her boyfriend. I am jealous of him and he is jealous of me, but we tolerate each other effectively. There is that other one, and I must admit I have wanted to make love to him for the longest time. I have suggested it at intervals and he has grinned and said 'no thanks' as if I were asking him to support some charity or other by buying a raffle ticket. There is the fellow with the chain-link bras who gave me one because he liked me. There is the other girl, my constant companion. Then there are some people I have only just met and who I will soon forget. It is a crowd.
We pop the corks on several bottles of champagne. The heat makes us drunk before we have even started sipping.
My room is all bed. The king sized thing is a wall to wall lounging area. We lie on and around each other, fully clothed until someone suggests we should take our clothes off and lie in the money.
We count it. Each one noting down our share and we lay it all on the futon and there is a lot of it. Piles of small notes, change jingling at the bottom of it all. Someone leaps into the centre of it. Money sticks to her hip. She nestles into it all as if it is some harsh kind of bubble bath. In a moment there are the papered bodies of friends and strangers.
I take my clothes off and I join them. I lie on money that has been passed from hand to hand. It is like an add for some sexually transmitted disease, who has touched the money and whose hand have they touched etc. Someone rolls a wad of notes and inserts the little fist of paper into someone elses body.
I have no objection to the possibility of an orgy, but the money scratches at me. One of the men is using his self-help jargon to make this all seem like some kind of motivational exercise.
"Money attracts money and if you put it inside you, you will draw money into you, you will be made of money."
Someone claps a five dollar bill over my breast and squeezes it. I stand, and pick my way across it all and leave them writhing in their ugly orgy of wealth.
I drink my champagne, water the plants and wander back to watch the financial transactions being conducted on my bed, more motivational seminar than actual sex. The activity comes to a resolution rather than a climax and someone starts to count the soiled money into neat piles.
He checks the figures against his spreadsheet and somehow they have managed to make twenty dollars in the deal. Someones loss is the group's gain.
"See, money grows money."
Which is a blatantly ridiculous statement.
I will have to wash the sheets. I will have to vacuum the carpet.
I leave them to wander home individually and in pairs. I run a cold bath which I will sit in alone. The beautiful girl will shut her bedroom door, snapping the cone of silence around her own raised voice and that of her jealous boyfriend. The boy I have lusted after will bring me a cup of tea and refuse to climb into the bath with me, yet again.
Tomorrow everyone will wander back to their respective family homes.
Then it will be Christmas.
There was nothing of value in any of it. Even my paintings weren't my best work. The frames were cheap. I knocked them out in an hour, each one similar to the one before, half Playboy centrefold, half forest landscape, all of them a quick sketch, nothing permanent. The frames were simple wooden things, cheap and nasty.
We sat in the sun in our sweat-damp singlets and sipped bad coffee and gathered the cash. A fistfull of it. It was the weekend before Christmas and people just wanted to buy things.
"Three aunts, five cousins, four nieces, Ill take six of those." People will buy anything the weekend before Christmas.
There are a group of us at our place. There is her (painted flowerpots with plastic bobble eyes on them), the beautiful one with the pearl skin. She looks as if the sweat were sprayed on by a stylist. Her damp hair might be gelled in place. There is her boyfriend. I am jealous of him and he is jealous of me, but we tolerate each other effectively. There is that other one, and I must admit I have wanted to make love to him for the longest time. I have suggested it at intervals and he has grinned and said 'no thanks' as if I were asking him to support some charity or other by buying a raffle ticket. There is the fellow with the chain-link bras who gave me one because he liked me. There is the other girl, my constant companion. Then there are some people I have only just met and who I will soon forget. It is a crowd.
We pop the corks on several bottles of champagne. The heat makes us drunk before we have even started sipping.
My room is all bed. The king sized thing is a wall to wall lounging area. We lie on and around each other, fully clothed until someone suggests we should take our clothes off and lie in the money.
We count it. Each one noting down our share and we lay it all on the futon and there is a lot of it. Piles of small notes, change jingling at the bottom of it all. Someone leaps into the centre of it. Money sticks to her hip. She nestles into it all as if it is some harsh kind of bubble bath. In a moment there are the papered bodies of friends and strangers.
I take my clothes off and I join them. I lie on money that has been passed from hand to hand. It is like an add for some sexually transmitted disease, who has touched the money and whose hand have they touched etc. Someone rolls a wad of notes and inserts the little fist of paper into someone elses body.
I have no objection to the possibility of an orgy, but the money scratches at me. One of the men is using his self-help jargon to make this all seem like some kind of motivational exercise.
"Money attracts money and if you put it inside you, you will draw money into you, you will be made of money."
Someone claps a five dollar bill over my breast and squeezes it. I stand, and pick my way across it all and leave them writhing in their ugly orgy of wealth.
I drink my champagne, water the plants and wander back to watch the financial transactions being conducted on my bed, more motivational seminar than actual sex. The activity comes to a resolution rather than a climax and someone starts to count the soiled money into neat piles.
He checks the figures against his spreadsheet and somehow they have managed to make twenty dollars in the deal. Someones loss is the group's gain.
"See, money grows money."
Which is a blatantly ridiculous statement.
I will have to wash the sheets. I will have to vacuum the carpet.
I leave them to wander home individually and in pairs. I run a cold bath which I will sit in alone. The beautiful girl will shut her bedroom door, snapping the cone of silence around her own raised voice and that of her jealous boyfriend. The boy I have lusted after will bring me a cup of tea and refuse to climb into the bath with me, yet again.
Tomorrow everyone will wander back to their respective family homes.
Then it will be Christmas.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Fortune Cookie #5
These posts are words of wisdom that have got me through life reasonably happy and sexually satisfied. If you want to pass these words of wisdom onto friends or younger members of your family, cut out the sayings one by one, there will be about one fortune cookie each week - and buy a cheap packet of fortune cookies from your local Asian supermarket. Using tweezers, remove the existing naff saying from each cookie and replace it with one of Krissy's words of wisdom. Throw a party. Distribute the cookies. Everybody happy.
Fortune Cookie #5
Jealousy is the spark that lights the tinder of desire.
Fortune Cookie #5
Jealousy is the spark that lights the tinder of desire.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Her ex
There are rules about ex boyfriends.
He was her ex.
I knew the rules, and when he asked me to come dancing with him after work, I felt myself pause. I loved my friend with the kind of force that seemed unbreakable.
He was her ex.
I wanted to dance. I wanted to fling myself at drunk and sweating strangers. I wanted the speed he offered me, and, speeding, I wanted to run with him out into the birth of tomorrow. He was her ex.
We danced at a club. Dark and muggy with sweat and the scent of strangers. At some point he sat down on a bar stool cradling a beer and I knew that he was watching me but I continued to dance with the kind of joyous abandon that only children, and drunk women on speed have the energy for.
The inevitability of his bed.
It was a kind of segue like you see at the movies. A slow fade from the bright lights of the dance floor to the same woman, me, bouncing on the creaky springs of his bed. The same tune was ringing in my ears. I was humming and bouncing and he was still cradling a beer and sitting on a stool beside the bed and watching me.
Had we caught a cab? Had we danced all the way back from the city, singing and laughing and sipping from bottles hidden in brown paper bags? I don't remember any of it. I remember the club and then I remember his bed.
He was her ex and I was on his bed.
I remembered the rules as he was taking off my clothes. You don't sleep with your best friend's ex boyfriend.
The song came to an end at that point. I couldn't remember the tune. I was still swaying in the dying chords, but the music was gone and I was suddenly naked on his bed in the throbbing silence. My skin was touching his skin. His penis was resting in my hand, fully erect and twitching. I remembered then what she had said about his penis, how it was far too large and used to hurt her. She felt all torn up inside, and, weighing it against my palm I realised why.
I wasn't going to sleep with her ex-boyfriend.
The head job was to buy time. I wanted it all to go backwards, bouncing off his bed fully-clothed, bouncing back to the nightclub, blowing the speed back out of my nose through the rolled-up banknote. But that was the movies and this was the real world and his erect penis was in my hand and he was reaching for my crotch. I backed away. I was on my knees and it was easy enough to put distance between him and me just by leaning down and slipping his penis into my mouth.
My best friend was a small woman, short as me and thinner. She was all slim hips and swelled breasts. I stretched my mouth to accommodate his penis and wondered how she had brought herself to come back to it again and again. I wondered if he was listing our similarities and our differences. I wondered if he was comparing us against each other. He was her ex. I was her best friend. I was giving her ex a head job and I hated myself for it.
I held my fists around the length of his penis to stop him from pushing it in too far. He was drunk and a little rough. He locked his hands into the thick wild scratch of my hair and I felt like I might suffocate if I continued. I tried to pull back but he was numb to the struggle and I had to reach out to squeeze at the dangling sack of his balls before he opened his eyes and found me there, locked onto the length of him and struggling for air.
I pushed away and drew breath and said it before I lost the nerve to say it at all.
"I am not going to sleep with my best friend's ex-boyfriend."
We looked at his wet and jittery penis and I shrugged.
"You'll have to finish that off yourself."
He was a good man. I liked him. I felt bad for him. It would have been easy enough for him to guilt me into finishing the job but he just nodded and eased down onto his haunches, defeated.
"I'm sorry." I told him. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come home with you."
"There's my flatmates bed. He's away for a couple of days."
He hid his penis behind his hands, suddenly shy of it.
"We'll go out for breakfast." he said, and I nodded.
We would both masturbate in our separate beds and we would lie there afterwards, feeling slightly sullied by the act. We would go out for breakfast and it would be awkward and a little embarrassing. There would be an odd little peck on the lips as we parted.
There would be that fight a couple of days later, where I couldn't convince my best friend that I had put his penis in my mouth to stop him from having sex with me. There would be the weeks of regret and a slow hard crawl on my knees to sneak back into her affections.
"I'm sorry," I said, with my clothes bundled up against my breasts.
"That's okay," he told me, but he was wrong.
I realised then that it is never okay to be naked with your best friend's ex.
He was her ex.
I knew the rules, and when he asked me to come dancing with him after work, I felt myself pause. I loved my friend with the kind of force that seemed unbreakable.
He was her ex.
I wanted to dance. I wanted to fling myself at drunk and sweating strangers. I wanted the speed he offered me, and, speeding, I wanted to run with him out into the birth of tomorrow. He was her ex.
We danced at a club. Dark and muggy with sweat and the scent of strangers. At some point he sat down on a bar stool cradling a beer and I knew that he was watching me but I continued to dance with the kind of joyous abandon that only children, and drunk women on speed have the energy for.
The inevitability of his bed.
It was a kind of segue like you see at the movies. A slow fade from the bright lights of the dance floor to the same woman, me, bouncing on the creaky springs of his bed. The same tune was ringing in my ears. I was humming and bouncing and he was still cradling a beer and sitting on a stool beside the bed and watching me.
Had we caught a cab? Had we danced all the way back from the city, singing and laughing and sipping from bottles hidden in brown paper bags? I don't remember any of it. I remember the club and then I remember his bed.
He was her ex and I was on his bed.
I remembered the rules as he was taking off my clothes. You don't sleep with your best friend's ex boyfriend.
The song came to an end at that point. I couldn't remember the tune. I was still swaying in the dying chords, but the music was gone and I was suddenly naked on his bed in the throbbing silence. My skin was touching his skin. His penis was resting in my hand, fully erect and twitching. I remembered then what she had said about his penis, how it was far too large and used to hurt her. She felt all torn up inside, and, weighing it against my palm I realised why.
I wasn't going to sleep with her ex-boyfriend.
The head job was to buy time. I wanted it all to go backwards, bouncing off his bed fully-clothed, bouncing back to the nightclub, blowing the speed back out of my nose through the rolled-up banknote. But that was the movies and this was the real world and his erect penis was in my hand and he was reaching for my crotch. I backed away. I was on my knees and it was easy enough to put distance between him and me just by leaning down and slipping his penis into my mouth.
My best friend was a small woman, short as me and thinner. She was all slim hips and swelled breasts. I stretched my mouth to accommodate his penis and wondered how she had brought herself to come back to it again and again. I wondered if he was listing our similarities and our differences. I wondered if he was comparing us against each other. He was her ex. I was her best friend. I was giving her ex a head job and I hated myself for it.
I held my fists around the length of his penis to stop him from pushing it in too far. He was drunk and a little rough. He locked his hands into the thick wild scratch of my hair and I felt like I might suffocate if I continued. I tried to pull back but he was numb to the struggle and I had to reach out to squeeze at the dangling sack of his balls before he opened his eyes and found me there, locked onto the length of him and struggling for air.
I pushed away and drew breath and said it before I lost the nerve to say it at all.
"I am not going to sleep with my best friend's ex-boyfriend."
We looked at his wet and jittery penis and I shrugged.
"You'll have to finish that off yourself."
He was a good man. I liked him. I felt bad for him. It would have been easy enough for him to guilt me into finishing the job but he just nodded and eased down onto his haunches, defeated.
"I'm sorry." I told him. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come home with you."
"There's my flatmates bed. He's away for a couple of days."
He hid his penis behind his hands, suddenly shy of it.
"We'll go out for breakfast." he said, and I nodded.
We would both masturbate in our separate beds and we would lie there afterwards, feeling slightly sullied by the act. We would go out for breakfast and it would be awkward and a little embarrassing. There would be an odd little peck on the lips as we parted.
There would be that fight a couple of days later, where I couldn't convince my best friend that I had put his penis in my mouth to stop him from having sex with me. There would be the weeks of regret and a slow hard crawl on my knees to sneak back into her affections.
"I'm sorry," I said, with my clothes bundled up against my breasts.
"That's okay," he told me, but he was wrong.
I realised then that it is never okay to be naked with your best friend's ex.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Break-up Sex
Good but sad.
We used out teeth gently although we wanted to bite down on each other's skin, to ingest a piece of our history so that we would never forget.
We would never forget.
I would never forget the time he made a flower for me out of paper, crafted by his own restless fingers. I would never forget his timidness and his care. He gentled the bars of my cage with his concern, thick and soft as cotton wool, and when I flung myself against his boundaries, wild animal, longing for some other kind of life, I knew that I was safe in his clutches. Bored, panicked, crazed, limited and safe.
The sex we had that night was not the comforting kind that we had grown used to. We stole pieces off each other, samples of skin secreted away under our fingernails, the taste of sweat, the bitter burn of his semen that I would taste at the back of my throat for days. He pressed his thumb into my skin so fiercely that I felt the flesh give and his fingerprint is still on me, a lasting scar.
We didn't speak of the bad times but they were there too in the way we tugged at each other's hair and in the tears that inched their way out of our eyes and into each other's mouths.
We lay then in the ruin of our relationship and the glory of our sex, all contradictions, loving each other and hating that there was nothing left to do but part.
"Why didn't we have sex like that when we were still together?"
"Because we were still together."
I unknit my fingers from his large safe hand. And on that note. We parted.
I lay next to him and we were holding hands, sticky with our sweat and juices and I could hear his heart pounding in his wrist.
"Why didn't we have sex like that when we were together?" he asked, and I turned away because I was afraid that I might cry. I held my breath till the wave passed and I was dry-eyed and tired and sad but I would always remember the break-up sex I had with him.
Not a word was spoken. I was there when he opened the door and we kissed, a desperate kiss, something long and taken in stages like a degustation. A gentle kiss with the door wide open behind us, a pause to close it, an ever desperate descent into the kind of passion that we never managed when we were together.
There was this sinking sensation which was just our love for each other surfacing briefly, bobbing up and falling away again, the corpse of it, plummeting.
There was nothing new revealed in our sudden nakedness. There was his skin and mine. An abundance and a poverty. So many contradictions. I loved him like family. I knew him like my own self. I would never make love to him again. Just this once more. A full stop.
We used out teeth gently although we wanted to bite down on each other's skin, to ingest a piece of our history so that we would never forget.
We would never forget.
I would never forget the time he made a flower for me out of paper, crafted by his own restless fingers. I would never forget his timidness and his care. He gentled the bars of my cage with his concern, thick and soft as cotton wool, and when I flung myself against his boundaries, wild animal, longing for some other kind of life, I knew that I was safe in his clutches. Bored, panicked, crazed, limited and safe.
The sex we had that night was not the comforting kind that we had grown used to. We stole pieces off each other, samples of skin secreted away under our fingernails, the taste of sweat, the bitter burn of his semen that I would taste at the back of my throat for days. He pressed his thumb into my skin so fiercely that I felt the flesh give and his fingerprint is still on me, a lasting scar.
We didn't speak of the bad times but they were there too in the way we tugged at each other's hair and in the tears that inched their way out of our eyes and into each other's mouths.
We lay then in the ruin of our relationship and the glory of our sex, all contradictions, loving each other and hating that there was nothing left to do but part.
"Why didn't we have sex like that when we were still together?"
"Because we were still together."
I unknit my fingers from his large safe hand. And on that note. We parted.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Racial stereotypes and the reasonably discreet penis
I don't know what it is about Japanese men.
I haven't actually slept with a Japanese man, but when they pass me in the street I find myself looking twice, following them down the road. It is all racial stereotyping. I assume that their skin will be that fine satin finish, kind of hairless and warm but softly furred like our Freedom Furniature couch that I love to be naked against. I love the young Japanese men with their man-girl features and I always suspect that they are hiding a reasonably discreet penis. Something that would be appropriate for any orifice. Something well-proportioned and polite.
It is a terrible mistake to stereotype someone by their cultural background. They might look at my Slovene family and imagine me harsh and cold in that mid / eastern European kind of way, or Australian girls who are all blond and bounce on the beach in their tiny bikinis.
"He could of course have a huge penis," I explain to my friend who is still shaking his head in disbelief. "He could be enormous. Ridiculously large. I admit it. I have jumped to some racially motivated conclusion."
But I watch the young Japanese man order a beer and slip up onto a bar stool, gorgeous, thin-hipped, girlish, and I can't stop thinking about the size and shape of his penis.
I haven't actually slept with a Japanese man, but when they pass me in the street I find myself looking twice, following them down the road. It is all racial stereotyping. I assume that their skin will be that fine satin finish, kind of hairless and warm but softly furred like our Freedom Furniature couch that I love to be naked against. I love the young Japanese men with their man-girl features and I always suspect that they are hiding a reasonably discreet penis. Something that would be appropriate for any orifice. Something well-proportioned and polite.
It is a terrible mistake to stereotype someone by their cultural background. They might look at my Slovene family and imagine me harsh and cold in that mid / eastern European kind of way, or Australian girls who are all blond and bounce on the beach in their tiny bikinis.
"He could of course have a huge penis," I explain to my friend who is still shaking his head in disbelief. "He could be enormous. Ridiculously large. I admit it. I have jumped to some racially motivated conclusion."
But I watch the young Japanese man order a beer and slip up onto a bar stool, gorgeous, thin-hipped, girlish, and I can't stop thinking about the size and shape of his penis.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
What not to post.
I have been avoiding the topic. There was that time, and it would be a perfectly acceptable scene in fiction. It has dramatic structure. It has all the elements, but I am ashamed to write about it. I was too young to know better. It is a small thing. Just a moment in the inner life of a child that will resonate with a reader. I should just let it be on the record, laugh about it. Move on to the next blog post as if it does not unsettle me.
There are other moments that will be omitted. The breaking of a moral code that I have built my life on. A moment when I probably acted inappropriately. That time I made someone cry and wished I hadn't. The moment when I debased myself and it was no one's fault but my own. A liturgy of unspoken moments. The silences are deafening.
The secret blogposts burble beneath the vacuous chatter. Yes I did this and I did that and isn't it all so funny and shocking and sexy. Under all the frivolity I remember that there were moments that I am not proud of and I am still not brave enough to write them down. Cowardly vagina. Scared and secretive vagina. The brittle bravado shining on the surface of my body like a piece of armour.
There are other moments that will be omitted. The breaking of a moral code that I have built my life on. A moment when I probably acted inappropriately. That time I made someone cry and wished I hadn't. The moment when I debased myself and it was no one's fault but my own. A liturgy of unspoken moments. The silences are deafening.
The secret blogposts burble beneath the vacuous chatter. Yes I did this and I did that and isn't it all so funny and shocking and sexy. Under all the frivolity I remember that there were moments that I am not proud of and I am still not brave enough to write them down. Cowardly vagina. Scared and secretive vagina. The brittle bravado shining on the surface of my body like a piece of armour.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Cat Piss.
The cat pissed on my bed.
It was the only mattress I owned and it was winter. There were holes in the floorboards and the winter came up through them along with the scent of marijuana. She had pissed on my mattress and my pillow and my doona. I hugged my coat around me, dragged four pairs of socks over my frozen toes. I huddled in the corner of the room and listened to the incessant drone of the traffic trundling through the Normandy five ways.
He had written his number on a piece of paper and even though I didn't really like him, I had kept it. I liked his friend. His friend said he was a talented artist, huge canvasses, exhibitions. He used to live in my flat and there were cryptic lines of text scraped into the floorboards from the days when he would sit in what was now my bedroom smoking dope and making art and living the whole Hunter S kind of thing.
He leered at me and I knew he liked me, but I didn't even return his smile. I was polite for the sake of my friend but he had come back up the stairs an hour later and passed me the slip of paper with his number on it.
He wasn't my first choice. I wanted to stay with my friend, but he had started experimenting with the needle and he raised his head, bleary eyed and there was the smell of vomit on his breath.
"The cat pissed on my mattress"
He blinked at me. He looked sick. I couldn't bear it if he had to throw up while I was in the room with him. I trudged out to the telephone booth. I didn't have the phone on. I didn't have the money for a phone. This new home was one step up from the park I used to sleep in, not far from it at all. Already I had had an urge to wander out and curl up under a hedge and watch the boys queuing up for the toilet block.
"The cat pissed on my mattress."
I heard his heavy breath rasp into the phone.
He was happy to hear from me. He had a car. He was more than happy to get into it and drive all the way across town to pick me up. "I'll sleep on the couch" he said and I almost believed him.
I waited in my flat. I hissed at the kitten when she tried to crawl into my lap. The whole place smelled like urine. My life smelled like urine.
In his car I weighed up how much a night in his bed would cost me. Sex probably. Maybe just a head job. Maybe even a hand-job without even having to take off my clothes. I sulked in the passenger seat and he put his hand on my knee as he took the corners quickly with a little screech of the tires.
"You've had a hard day, haven't you?" He asked me, hungry eyes wide with fake concern.
I steeled my self for the whole shebang. Sex, head job, hand job, everything all at once probably. I resolved to up my end of the bargain. Dinner, a glass of wine, maybe even two.
There was never another mention of the couch. No dinner, but a bottle of wine presented to me beside his bed. It was a beautiful house. There was an ornate bedside table and he told me that he had found it in my flat. He had stolen it because no one cared about the place, no one would notice. I touched the mahogany swirls, the little clawed hands carved into the wood, the wings and curliatures. It would be worth a fortune and I wished it was back in my flat where it belonged. I began to hate him a little bit then. I wouldn't be able to hide it. I removed my belt and gulped wine and when I lashed him with it it felt right. I wanted to hurt him.
He wrestled the wine out of my hand and picked me up and threw me onto the bed. Sex. The kind of unlovely, scratching, fighting kind of sex. I have to admit that I enjoyed it. I lunged for his face with my fingers and he caught my hands and I put all my force behind it, knowing that he was stronger than me. That he'd always win the fight.
I wouldn't let him touch me. Wouldn't let him kiss me and when he was done I kept on him even though I knew it would hurt. He struggled away from me and tried to lie peacefully but I wouldn't let him.
He stood up eventually and slept on the couch. I helped myself to his wine and sniffed my armpits which smelled of cats piss and fury. I was hungry. I wanted to help myself to the contents of his fridge. Rich kid, living off an allowance from his parents.
I hated him for that. I hated that I had to ask him for a place to sleep. I hated that the only other option for a bed for the night was a schizophrenic junkie with breath like vomit. I sat in his luxurious bathtub and ran the shower too hot and felt sorry for myself. I scrubbed myself with expensive hand-made soap and soaked my hair in organic conditioner and cried.
In the morning, when he dropped me home I smelled like sandalwood. He sniffed my neck and kissed it and told me that he had had the best time. He wanted to see me again. Tonight. He wanted to pick me up before dark.
"I'm fine" I said, "I'll call you." and I dragged the heavy mahogany door closed. I looked at the mahogany picture rails, thick with dust, the ornate fireplace, the badly painted wall with a ghosting of graffiti bleeding through the thin top coat. I longed for the bedside table that he had stolen from the house, from me, from every other renter who would find some refuge here.
I fed the cat and hugged her and scolded her gently with a kiss to the back of the neck. That night we curled up together in the fading reek of her urine and her body heat was comforting. Sometime after midnight there were footsteps on the dark wood stairs. Someone hovering just outside the door. I held my breath. I stubbed the tiny glow of my cigarette out into a jam lid.
A moment later, the footsteps padded away down the staircase and then they were gone.
It was the only mattress I owned and it was winter. There were holes in the floorboards and the winter came up through them along with the scent of marijuana. She had pissed on my mattress and my pillow and my doona. I hugged my coat around me, dragged four pairs of socks over my frozen toes. I huddled in the corner of the room and listened to the incessant drone of the traffic trundling through the Normandy five ways.
He had written his number on a piece of paper and even though I didn't really like him, I had kept it. I liked his friend. His friend said he was a talented artist, huge canvasses, exhibitions. He used to live in my flat and there were cryptic lines of text scraped into the floorboards from the days when he would sit in what was now my bedroom smoking dope and making art and living the whole Hunter S kind of thing.
He leered at me and I knew he liked me, but I didn't even return his smile. I was polite for the sake of my friend but he had come back up the stairs an hour later and passed me the slip of paper with his number on it.
He wasn't my first choice. I wanted to stay with my friend, but he had started experimenting with the needle and he raised his head, bleary eyed and there was the smell of vomit on his breath.
"The cat pissed on my mattress"
He blinked at me. He looked sick. I couldn't bear it if he had to throw up while I was in the room with him. I trudged out to the telephone booth. I didn't have the phone on. I didn't have the money for a phone. This new home was one step up from the park I used to sleep in, not far from it at all. Already I had had an urge to wander out and curl up under a hedge and watch the boys queuing up for the toilet block.
"The cat pissed on my mattress."
I heard his heavy breath rasp into the phone.
He was happy to hear from me. He had a car. He was more than happy to get into it and drive all the way across town to pick me up. "I'll sleep on the couch" he said and I almost believed him.
I waited in my flat. I hissed at the kitten when she tried to crawl into my lap. The whole place smelled like urine. My life smelled like urine.
In his car I weighed up how much a night in his bed would cost me. Sex probably. Maybe just a head job. Maybe even a hand-job without even having to take off my clothes. I sulked in the passenger seat and he put his hand on my knee as he took the corners quickly with a little screech of the tires.
"You've had a hard day, haven't you?" He asked me, hungry eyes wide with fake concern.
I steeled my self for the whole shebang. Sex, head job, hand job, everything all at once probably. I resolved to up my end of the bargain. Dinner, a glass of wine, maybe even two.
There was never another mention of the couch. No dinner, but a bottle of wine presented to me beside his bed. It was a beautiful house. There was an ornate bedside table and he told me that he had found it in my flat. He had stolen it because no one cared about the place, no one would notice. I touched the mahogany swirls, the little clawed hands carved into the wood, the wings and curliatures. It would be worth a fortune and I wished it was back in my flat where it belonged. I began to hate him a little bit then. I wouldn't be able to hide it. I removed my belt and gulped wine and when I lashed him with it it felt right. I wanted to hurt him.
He wrestled the wine out of my hand and picked me up and threw me onto the bed. Sex. The kind of unlovely, scratching, fighting kind of sex. I have to admit that I enjoyed it. I lunged for his face with my fingers and he caught my hands and I put all my force behind it, knowing that he was stronger than me. That he'd always win the fight.
I wouldn't let him touch me. Wouldn't let him kiss me and when he was done I kept on him even though I knew it would hurt. He struggled away from me and tried to lie peacefully but I wouldn't let him.
He stood up eventually and slept on the couch. I helped myself to his wine and sniffed my armpits which smelled of cats piss and fury. I was hungry. I wanted to help myself to the contents of his fridge. Rich kid, living off an allowance from his parents.
I hated him for that. I hated that I had to ask him for a place to sleep. I hated that the only other option for a bed for the night was a schizophrenic junkie with breath like vomit. I sat in his luxurious bathtub and ran the shower too hot and felt sorry for myself. I scrubbed myself with expensive hand-made soap and soaked my hair in organic conditioner and cried.
In the morning, when he dropped me home I smelled like sandalwood. He sniffed my neck and kissed it and told me that he had had the best time. He wanted to see me again. Tonight. He wanted to pick me up before dark.
"I'm fine" I said, "I'll call you." and I dragged the heavy mahogany door closed. I looked at the mahogany picture rails, thick with dust, the ornate fireplace, the badly painted wall with a ghosting of graffiti bleeding through the thin top coat. I longed for the bedside table that he had stolen from the house, from me, from every other renter who would find some refuge here.
I fed the cat and hugged her and scolded her gently with a kiss to the back of the neck. That night we curled up together in the fading reek of her urine and her body heat was comforting. Sometime after midnight there were footsteps on the dark wood stairs. Someone hovering just outside the door. I held my breath. I stubbed the tiny glow of my cigarette out into a jam lid.
A moment later, the footsteps padded away down the staircase and then they were gone.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Painting
"I would fall in love with you," he told me, "You would be the one I dream of if I didn't have that perfect blond teenage girl to fall into bed with."
He said this whilst he was concentrating on the canvas. I had constructed a kind of easel for him made out of furniture, an old wooden chair frame and a second chair wired in place to rest the canvass against. Bored old chair, legs in the air like a seasoned prostitute. His canvass was large and dark and there was an angry angular figure glaring out at me in shades of grey.
I was painting a hunched figure, white headed, sad-eyed. I was cheering the whole thing up with flowers, sweat peas, bright red against a white fence. My hands were coated in acrylics and a sticky layer of Estapol. I had a headache. I was allergic to Estapol or perhaps it was the reek of turps in a tub beside my mat board.
"I am Jesus." he told me suddenly, pulling up from a screeching flurry of black lines.
"I don't believe in you then."
"No, it is true. Hard to believe. But true." He explained it all to me as I added little green leaves to the sweet peas. I sat back on my heels and rubbed paint into my neck and wondered if my headaches came from the way I leaned over the work, inhaling the fumes, ingesting them through my pores, craning my neck down and across the painting.
I rolled a smoke and lit it and my brown fingerprints crackled when they touched the flame. The tally-ho sparked up and I sucked in tobacco and paint and a host of other toxins. My headache eased a little with each inhalation.
"Do you believe that I am Jesus?"
I nodded. It made sense, the way he looked at it. "Yes," I told him. "You are Jesus."
I lay down on my mattress and watched while he filled all the grey spaces up with black, a black canvass. The figure was completely obliterated, but I knew that he had been there at some stage, perfect, peering. Now he was just a few stray lines under all that sharp-edged fury. He lay down on the bed and wrapped his charcoal hands around me and I would have rocked back onto the hard shape of his penis if I didn't have a fierce burn on for someone else.
"You know I'd go for you," he sighed into my hair, my mad friend, my midnight painter friend, "I'd really have you right now, if it wasn't for that perfect blond angel."
"You're mad." I told him, "You know there's no such thing as Jesus."
He groaned and rubbed himself against me for a moment before rolling onto his back and lighting a rollie for me and then one for himself.
"Why do I have that Angel? Why can't we just go for it?"
"Because you're mad as fuck and we both love someone else."
He looked at my painting, the one with the sexless hunchback and the floral fence.
"That's a picture of you."
It was of course, a picture of me.
"You feel like you are outside of everything and everyone else is part of a club that you're not invited to."
This was a month before he stabbed himself in the chest sixteen times. Before his casual heroin use overtook his painting and his carving and his whole flat and his life. Before his blond angel stole all my Kate Bush CDs. Before he killed his best friend's pet rat. I put my hand on his chest and felt his heart and it would have been so easy to slip my fingers into his jeans and find some comfort there, but I was not his blond angel, and he was not the other crazy man that I thought I was in love with and tomorrow we would be painting again, together and we would fall asleep holding hands and bemoaning the fact that we couldn't bring ourselves to make love to each other.
"You are a better person than my blond angel," he said, "you are not as mean, not as pretty, but infinitely more beautiful on the inside."
I thanked him for his honesty, his almost compliment.
"And you're not alone on that side of the fence." We rolled back into our contained desire for each other, settled instead for body heat and the scent of nicotine on each other's fingers.
He said this whilst he was concentrating on the canvas. I had constructed a kind of easel for him made out of furniture, an old wooden chair frame and a second chair wired in place to rest the canvass against. Bored old chair, legs in the air like a seasoned prostitute. His canvass was large and dark and there was an angry angular figure glaring out at me in shades of grey.
I was painting a hunched figure, white headed, sad-eyed. I was cheering the whole thing up with flowers, sweat peas, bright red against a white fence. My hands were coated in acrylics and a sticky layer of Estapol. I had a headache. I was allergic to Estapol or perhaps it was the reek of turps in a tub beside my mat board.
"I am Jesus." he told me suddenly, pulling up from a screeching flurry of black lines.
"I don't believe in you then."
"No, it is true. Hard to believe. But true." He explained it all to me as I added little green leaves to the sweet peas. I sat back on my heels and rubbed paint into my neck and wondered if my headaches came from the way I leaned over the work, inhaling the fumes, ingesting them through my pores, craning my neck down and across the painting.
I rolled a smoke and lit it and my brown fingerprints crackled when they touched the flame. The tally-ho sparked up and I sucked in tobacco and paint and a host of other toxins. My headache eased a little with each inhalation.
"Do you believe that I am Jesus?"
I nodded. It made sense, the way he looked at it. "Yes," I told him. "You are Jesus."
I lay down on my mattress and watched while he filled all the grey spaces up with black, a black canvass. The figure was completely obliterated, but I knew that he had been there at some stage, perfect, peering. Now he was just a few stray lines under all that sharp-edged fury. He lay down on the bed and wrapped his charcoal hands around me and I would have rocked back onto the hard shape of his penis if I didn't have a fierce burn on for someone else.
"You know I'd go for you," he sighed into my hair, my mad friend, my midnight painter friend, "I'd really have you right now, if it wasn't for that perfect blond angel."
"You're mad." I told him, "You know there's no such thing as Jesus."
He groaned and rubbed himself against me for a moment before rolling onto his back and lighting a rollie for me and then one for himself.
"Why do I have that Angel? Why can't we just go for it?"
"Because you're mad as fuck and we both love someone else."
He looked at my painting, the one with the sexless hunchback and the floral fence.
"That's a picture of you."
It was of course, a picture of me.
"You feel like you are outside of everything and everyone else is part of a club that you're not invited to."
This was a month before he stabbed himself in the chest sixteen times. Before his casual heroin use overtook his painting and his carving and his whole flat and his life. Before his blond angel stole all my Kate Bush CDs. Before he killed his best friend's pet rat. I put my hand on his chest and felt his heart and it would have been so easy to slip my fingers into his jeans and find some comfort there, but I was not his blond angel, and he was not the other crazy man that I thought I was in love with and tomorrow we would be painting again, together and we would fall asleep holding hands and bemoaning the fact that we couldn't bring ourselves to make love to each other.
"You are a better person than my blond angel," he said, "you are not as mean, not as pretty, but infinitely more beautiful on the inside."
I thanked him for his honesty, his almost compliment.
"And you're not alone on that side of the fence." We rolled back into our contained desire for each other, settled instead for body heat and the scent of nicotine on each other's fingers.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
The Girl I Once Loved
There is sunlight on my bed. It touches my naked legs and I notice that it doesn't stray to where she is stretched out in the dark. Strange that I am all lit up and she is not. I am so used to the thick dark of her shadow. Her beauty obliterates me on any ordinary day.
We are side by side and we have only ever touched when there has been someone else with us. I have reached for her, only vaguely distracted by some boy on top of me. I have snuggled up beside her, feeling the rhythms of her hips, swaying, as she is entered by some other man. Once, in front of a video camera, I kissed her and couldn't seem to pull away even when the director yelled cut.
I watch her when she is walking. I see the sunlight outline her legs under her white skirts. I watch her sit in front of the television with her knees lolling wide and a little damp line at the centre of her pristine white knickers. My knickers are never white. One moment against my skin and they tan to the colour of my nipples.
I admire her, I am envious of her, I want to be her and I want to fuck her.
My skin is heated in a sun pattern. We are both wearing buttoned shirts and knickers, mine a dirty grey, hers pure white. I settle my knee against hers. She doesn't shift away. My hand is close to her buttons and I touch one with my finger. I struggle it through the tight enclosure of the button hole. When it is open I sneak my finger into the space, feather it back and forth. Maybe she feels the gentle rustle of it so close to the swell of her breast.
She doesn't move. She doesn't shift away when I ease my fingers upward to where another button holds the delicate fabric closed across the generous proportions of her breasts.
Her bra is white. It is delicately flowered. I ease her shirt away and her bra is revealed, thick and delicate as an orchid, her flesh rising above the albino petals, squeezed together by the positioning of her arms.
I unbutton my own shirt. My own bra is black. My breasts are darker than hers. When I shuffle closer to her chest I gaze down at the inconsistencies of our flesh. Her breasts are pale and delicate and scented. Mine are too generous, too dark, too oily fleshed like some slit open fish packed into too tight packaging. I ease the cups of my bra down and there are my brown nipples, enlarged aureole, the tight nibs clenched at their peaks. There are several dark hairs at the edges of the nipples and I wished I had thought to pluck them away before revealing myself to her.
She still hasn't moved. I look to her face, heavy lidded eyes, gazing down towards those now erect stray hairs. She hasn't made me stop but she hasn't invite my attentions either.
I will show her what to do. I will lead by example. I clutch one of my breasts in my fist and raise it out of the loose droop of my bra cup. I bend my head towards it and I lick the nipple so that she can see how the flesh grows taut and twitchy. The nipple aching out towards the touch of tongue like an accusing finger. I take it all into my mouth, I suckle, a show for her, a demonstration. She could lean down and lick it too, alongside my own mouth. She could replace my attentions with her own. I lift both of my breasts towards her mouth, so close that her breathing disturbs the fine pale hairs that line the swell of them. If she were to yawn she would swallow a nipple, but her mouth remains firmly closed. She sighs and she settles closer to me. I feel her hips brush mine. My knee is caressed by the fine swell of her calf. She has raised her legs.
My hands release my breasts back into their holdings. My fingers travel the swell of my stomach, my less than perfectly flat stomach and touch the elastic of my knickers. Her crotch is somewhere down here. I stretch my index finger out and here is the tight press of white cotton, slightly damp but perfectly laundered.
She nestles closer, pushes her crotch against my fingers, closes her eyes and settles where she is within reach of my shivery finger. It is all I can do not to tear away the pretty white cotton, but I restrain myself. I ease my finger under the elastic. I notice that she is wet. I wonder whether it would be too much to shuffle down her body and taste the nectar. My mouth is watering at the thought of it. Her breath is sweet, her skin is sweet, her hair is sweet. I am hoping that her cunt will add a savory edge to the palate that is otherwise all pales and pinks and sugary pastel hues. I sneak my fingers into the nest of fine cropped hair. I think she must cut it with scissors. It is so fine and neat and manicured like expensive lawn. I open her like I have opened her buttons, easing my fingers under the delicate fabric of her skin, fluttering my finger back and forth, making space for the rude invasion of my own flesh. She opens to me, moist and soft and I imagine that she will be sea-shell pink like the inside of some spidery white shell fish. My tongue is itching for mussels, oysters, pippis.
The phone rings. She opens her eyes and stretches and my finger is abandoned to the harsh cold Sunday afternoon air. I shift back away from the darkness into the spotting of sunlight. She rolls off my king-sized bed and I hear her little bird voice from the next room as she answers the phone.
"Hello? No, nothing much. Now's good."
I am nothing much. I sniff my finger, lick it. Sweet. She is sweet. There is no hint of a base note. She is all sugar. I shuffle over into the darkness where I smell her sweet sweat and perfume on the pillow and I curl my damp finger around a single, abandoned, blond hair.
We are side by side and we have only ever touched when there has been someone else with us. I have reached for her, only vaguely distracted by some boy on top of me. I have snuggled up beside her, feeling the rhythms of her hips, swaying, as she is entered by some other man. Once, in front of a video camera, I kissed her and couldn't seem to pull away even when the director yelled cut.
I watch her when she is walking. I see the sunlight outline her legs under her white skirts. I watch her sit in front of the television with her knees lolling wide and a little damp line at the centre of her pristine white knickers. My knickers are never white. One moment against my skin and they tan to the colour of my nipples.
I admire her, I am envious of her, I want to be her and I want to fuck her.
My skin is heated in a sun pattern. We are both wearing buttoned shirts and knickers, mine a dirty grey, hers pure white. I settle my knee against hers. She doesn't shift away. My hand is close to her buttons and I touch one with my finger. I struggle it through the tight enclosure of the button hole. When it is open I sneak my finger into the space, feather it back and forth. Maybe she feels the gentle rustle of it so close to the swell of her breast.
She doesn't move. She doesn't shift away when I ease my fingers upward to where another button holds the delicate fabric closed across the generous proportions of her breasts.
Her bra is white. It is delicately flowered. I ease her shirt away and her bra is revealed, thick and delicate as an orchid, her flesh rising above the albino petals, squeezed together by the positioning of her arms.
I unbutton my own shirt. My own bra is black. My breasts are darker than hers. When I shuffle closer to her chest I gaze down at the inconsistencies of our flesh. Her breasts are pale and delicate and scented. Mine are too generous, too dark, too oily fleshed like some slit open fish packed into too tight packaging. I ease the cups of my bra down and there are my brown nipples, enlarged aureole, the tight nibs clenched at their peaks. There are several dark hairs at the edges of the nipples and I wished I had thought to pluck them away before revealing myself to her.
She still hasn't moved. I look to her face, heavy lidded eyes, gazing down towards those now erect stray hairs. She hasn't made me stop but she hasn't invite my attentions either.
I will show her what to do. I will lead by example. I clutch one of my breasts in my fist and raise it out of the loose droop of my bra cup. I bend my head towards it and I lick the nipple so that she can see how the flesh grows taut and twitchy. The nipple aching out towards the touch of tongue like an accusing finger. I take it all into my mouth, I suckle, a show for her, a demonstration. She could lean down and lick it too, alongside my own mouth. She could replace my attentions with her own. I lift both of my breasts towards her mouth, so close that her breathing disturbs the fine pale hairs that line the swell of them. If she were to yawn she would swallow a nipple, but her mouth remains firmly closed. She sighs and she settles closer to me. I feel her hips brush mine. My knee is caressed by the fine swell of her calf. She has raised her legs.
My hands release my breasts back into their holdings. My fingers travel the swell of my stomach, my less than perfectly flat stomach and touch the elastic of my knickers. Her crotch is somewhere down here. I stretch my index finger out and here is the tight press of white cotton, slightly damp but perfectly laundered.
She nestles closer, pushes her crotch against my fingers, closes her eyes and settles where she is within reach of my shivery finger. It is all I can do not to tear away the pretty white cotton, but I restrain myself. I ease my finger under the elastic. I notice that she is wet. I wonder whether it would be too much to shuffle down her body and taste the nectar. My mouth is watering at the thought of it. Her breath is sweet, her skin is sweet, her hair is sweet. I am hoping that her cunt will add a savory edge to the palate that is otherwise all pales and pinks and sugary pastel hues. I sneak my fingers into the nest of fine cropped hair. I think she must cut it with scissors. It is so fine and neat and manicured like expensive lawn. I open her like I have opened her buttons, easing my fingers under the delicate fabric of her skin, fluttering my finger back and forth, making space for the rude invasion of my own flesh. She opens to me, moist and soft and I imagine that she will be sea-shell pink like the inside of some spidery white shell fish. My tongue is itching for mussels, oysters, pippis.
The phone rings. She opens her eyes and stretches and my finger is abandoned to the harsh cold Sunday afternoon air. I shift back away from the darkness into the spotting of sunlight. She rolls off my king-sized bed and I hear her little bird voice from the next room as she answers the phone.
"Hello? No, nothing much. Now's good."
I am nothing much. I sniff my finger, lick it. Sweet. She is sweet. There is no hint of a base note. She is all sugar. I shuffle over into the darkness where I smell her sweet sweat and perfume on the pillow and I curl my damp finger around a single, abandoned, blond hair.
Friday, June 13, 2008
The 100th Horse Theory and the 50th Vagina
When he posts his 100th story I want to take him out and flirt with him. I want to go bleary-eyed and beer-kiss him on the mouth and because my wild days are over and because I am in love with someone else, I want to take him to a strip club and watch his cheeks pink as some other girl in a g-string and the tiniest triangle of fabric over her nipples, looses balance on her get-out-of-here stilettos and falls into his chaste lap. I want to watch his horror and embarrassment at other men pawing over the nearly-naked flesh. I want to watch his horror and embarrassment over his own barely-concealed erection. I want to watch his reaction to my noticing his barely-concealed erection.
Poor man. What did he do to deserve my unwanted friendship? He diligently chipped away at 100 blog posts, some of which made the furious vagina jealous, all of which were posted on schedule, a magnificent performance. Horses are ahead by a nose, but vaginas are coming up the rear.
So now it will be just him and me and a stripper in a pony costume with an iced cake. Happy 100 Horses it will say, and he will blush and blush and blush...
* Also, a special day today for the Furious Vagina. It is my 50th post. 50 day's of sexual exploits. Thank you readers for spending time with me. Many happy returns.
Poor man. What did he do to deserve my unwanted friendship? He diligently chipped away at 100 blog posts, some of which made the furious vagina jealous, all of which were posted on schedule, a magnificent performance. Horses are ahead by a nose, but vaginas are coming up the rear.
So now it will be just him and me and a stripper in a pony costume with an iced cake. Happy 100 Horses it will say, and he will blush and blush and blush...
* Also, a special day today for the Furious Vagina. It is my 50th post. 50 day's of sexual exploits. Thank you readers for spending time with me. Many happy returns.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Fortune Cookie #4
These posts are words of wisdom that have got me through life reasonably happy and sexually satisfied. If you want to pass these words of wisdom onto friends or younger members of your family, cut out the sayings one by one, there will be about one fortune cookie each week - and buy a cheap packet of fortune cookies from your local Asian supermarket. Using tweezers, remove the existing naff saying from each cookie and replace it with one of Krissy's words of wisdom. Throw a party. Distribute the cookies. Everybody happy.
Fortune Cookie #4
Try to tongue-kiss someone and then NOT have sex with them. See. Impossible, isn't it!
Fortune Cookie #4
Try to tongue-kiss someone and then NOT have sex with them. See. Impossible, isn't it!
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
One of those parties.
I heard the story many years later. 'There was this party and there was a sacrifice to the snake goddess, and all these naked women doing satanic rites and sex offered up to Beelzebub. In this little house in Petrie Terrace". That was what identified the whole thing to me. That little house in Petrie Terrace where we used to sun ourselves naked by a pool that was once used for embalming corpses, where we dug a grave to bury a cat and found three cat skeletons already buried there one above the next. That little house where we threw those parties, that particular party. The one offered up to Beelzebub, apparently.
There were drugs. There were lots of drugs, but I only took a little, more than enough it seems. I became fascinated with a painting and then I communed with the viscosity of the hardened landscape of oily colour and then I time shifted into the hand that had created the painting in the first place. That little episode, fascinating as it was, took up several hours at the end of which I was excited and energized and buzzing with the need to tell strangers all about it.
There were balloons tied to the fence and people walking by took it as a sign to wander up the stairs and through the open door. There were people in the bathtub. I loved baths. I remember telling them about the painting and how I had been teleported into the moment when the paint was layed onto the canvass, the very act of painting. I could feel each stroke of the brush in my body.
Then I remember my friend dragging me out of the bath by my naked shoulders, wrapping me in a towel that felt like a big ball of cotton wool.
"Come have a bath" I told her, "There's plenty of room."
She whispered something about junkies and I turned to see that the naked strangers in the bath had a syringe that they were passing between them. I looked down at my arm, grateful to find my flesh un-pierced. I'm not sure what happened to the junkies but there was talk of the men in the house drying them off and throwing them out into the light drizzle of the midnight street.
I made love to a girl on the couch. There were a group of people gathered around us, I am told, but I only remember the colour and smell of her hair, the thick ginger fish fur of her tickling at my lips. The viscosity of her juices, my fingers all crushed together by the miracle of her flesh contracting.
There was the rat fed to the snake. Not a sacrifice in the pagan sense, but the snake needed to be fed and the strangers gasped and acted outraged at the idea of breeding rats for the purpose of food. I remember trawling through my own conflicting emotions. I had been down this ethical path before, stopped short at a dead end. It wasn't my snake. It wasn't my rat. It wasn't my decision to make and I was glad of it.
I leaped into the pool, the pool that had been used to bathe the corpses. Seven foot long, seven foot wide. I started to run in circles shouting "whirlpool".
Bodies falling into water, some of them clothed. "Whirlpool", "whirlpool". And what a hurricane we made with our laughter and our little naked dance.
"...and then there was a kind of Pagan Maypole dance only naked, in the pool."
"Oh, I told her. That party. I know that party. That was our place."
I went back over her description of it, redistributing the events only this time in context. Our party. Our almost Pagan party made legendary in some younger person's eyes. I suddenly felt that perhaps I had grown just a little old.
There were drugs. There were lots of drugs, but I only took a little, more than enough it seems. I became fascinated with a painting and then I communed with the viscosity of the hardened landscape of oily colour and then I time shifted into the hand that had created the painting in the first place. That little episode, fascinating as it was, took up several hours at the end of which I was excited and energized and buzzing with the need to tell strangers all about it.
There were balloons tied to the fence and people walking by took it as a sign to wander up the stairs and through the open door. There were people in the bathtub. I loved baths. I remember telling them about the painting and how I had been teleported into the moment when the paint was layed onto the canvass, the very act of painting. I could feel each stroke of the brush in my body.
Then I remember my friend dragging me out of the bath by my naked shoulders, wrapping me in a towel that felt like a big ball of cotton wool.
"Come have a bath" I told her, "There's plenty of room."
She whispered something about junkies and I turned to see that the naked strangers in the bath had a syringe that they were passing between them. I looked down at my arm, grateful to find my flesh un-pierced. I'm not sure what happened to the junkies but there was talk of the men in the house drying them off and throwing them out into the light drizzle of the midnight street.
I made love to a girl on the couch. There were a group of people gathered around us, I am told, but I only remember the colour and smell of her hair, the thick ginger fish fur of her tickling at my lips. The viscosity of her juices, my fingers all crushed together by the miracle of her flesh contracting.
There was the rat fed to the snake. Not a sacrifice in the pagan sense, but the snake needed to be fed and the strangers gasped and acted outraged at the idea of breeding rats for the purpose of food. I remember trawling through my own conflicting emotions. I had been down this ethical path before, stopped short at a dead end. It wasn't my snake. It wasn't my rat. It wasn't my decision to make and I was glad of it.
I leaped into the pool, the pool that had been used to bathe the corpses. Seven foot long, seven foot wide. I started to run in circles shouting "whirlpool".
Bodies falling into water, some of them clothed. "Whirlpool", "whirlpool". And what a hurricane we made with our laughter and our little naked dance.
"...and then there was a kind of Pagan Maypole dance only naked, in the pool."
"Oh, I told her. That party. I know that party. That was our place."
I went back over her description of it, redistributing the events only this time in context. Our party. Our almost Pagan party made legendary in some younger person's eyes. I suddenly felt that perhaps I had grown just a little old.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
House Guest
I want to invent a silent vibrator. The house guest is always there and my vibrator is languishing in the bottom drawer. I reach for it in daydreams. There is always a low note whirring somewhere in the back of my head. My body rattles sympathetically. There is, of course, the shower, my one moment of privacy away from the house guest, but there are water restrictions, and my time is limited and it is never the same.
I catch myself daydreaming about my vibrator while the house guest is trying to talk at me. I nod. I am distracted. I want to concentrate, but there is that low whirring sound and the narcotic rush of pleasure that accompanies it, plastic rattling off bone.
Our flat smells of endless rain and mouldy carpet and the sleep-breath of too many bodies sucking up the oxygen. The flat needs to be aired. It needs to be free of human bodies for a day or two. It needs to breathe.
I need the freedom to walk into the kitchen without my clothes on. I need to make the bed squeak at night, thumping off the concrete wall like a raised finger to the neighbours. I need to develop a vibrator with a silencer, one that you could safely use in your pocket on the bus, something developed for the room next door to your mother or if you are sharing a dormitory with someone else, or if you have a house guest.
The house guest wants another cup of coffee and a chat. I smile. I put the stove-top on. I listen to the phlegmatic burble of the thing which is a slightly lower note, but not dissimilar to the glorious sound that my neglected vibrator makes.
I catch myself daydreaming about my vibrator while the house guest is trying to talk at me. I nod. I am distracted. I want to concentrate, but there is that low whirring sound and the narcotic rush of pleasure that accompanies it, plastic rattling off bone.
Our flat smells of endless rain and mouldy carpet and the sleep-breath of too many bodies sucking up the oxygen. The flat needs to be aired. It needs to be free of human bodies for a day or two. It needs to breathe.
I need the freedom to walk into the kitchen without my clothes on. I need to make the bed squeak at night, thumping off the concrete wall like a raised finger to the neighbours. I need to develop a vibrator with a silencer, one that you could safely use in your pocket on the bus, something developed for the room next door to your mother or if you are sharing a dormitory with someone else, or if you have a house guest.
The house guest wants another cup of coffee and a chat. I smile. I put the stove-top on. I listen to the phlegmatic burble of the thing which is a slightly lower note, but not dissimilar to the glorious sound that my neglected vibrator makes.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Extra Ticket
I wanted a ticket to the movies. This is the reason I had sex with him. I have to be honest about this. He returned to my bed and I let him because I realised that having sex with him was the worst kind of prostitution, the kind where you do it for a jam doughnut in the playground and the doughnut makes you sick anyway.
Here's how it happened. He won tickets to the movie. The preview of the movie. I imagined sitting in the cinema and my nostrils filled with the scent of popcorn, a comforting chocolate Malteezer kind of smell all childhood and heavy petting and Sunday afternoon all rolled into a plush red seat. I thought about that movie all through dinner. I dreamed it, fantasized the ending. I even found myself wondering about the characters in cultural studies 101. I wanted to go to the movies. I wanted to go to that particular movie. I opened my wallet and counted the money there, almost enough for a bus ticket. I wanted his extra ticket.
I seduced him one afternoon. It was his first time. It crossed my mind that a virginity was probably worth more than the cost of a ticket to the movies. I felt a little guilty, but I liked him. I liked the way he shuddered nervously and became very quiet, looking up at me as if I were an angel, deflowering him in a halo of heavenly light. I liked the way he was made, the compact muscles and the strong curve of his legs. I liked the way he waited for me to show him where and how and the way he listened when I told him what to do and why to do it. I liked his studiousness, his bookishness. I liked the way he came too quickly but was quite prepared to come again before too long.
Afterwards, in the fading afternoon I asked him about the ticket, but he had already promised it to his friend. I felt the wind fading from the sails, but I stuck with it, returning to his room one night after the next.
I watched them leave for the movies together. I stayed at home and drank tea and wondered. They returned home gloriously happy. They showed me the prize that had been hidden under their theatre seat. They were best friends. I liked that he had stuck with his promise to his best friend.
That night I came into his bedroom and taught him about blindfolds and ropes made out of stockings. He smelt a bit like Maltezers, and the damp dark. There was a kernel of popcorn caught in the cuff of his jeans.
I longed for the cinema all through the long slow fucking.
He was a nice man, quiet, and with the kind of eyes that could be cold or blazing if you caught them in a particular light. He was fiercely intelligent. Nice body, and I had flirted with him as I flirted with any of them, intermittently and without much commitment. He was almost my favourite. I liked the short boy with curly hair who used to bang his forehead against the wall whenever his computer wasn't working. There was not much between them, the fire-eyed boy and the boy who was mildly asperges. It could have gone either way.
Except for that ticket to the movies.
Here's how it happened. He won tickets to the movie. The preview of the movie. I imagined sitting in the cinema and my nostrils filled with the scent of popcorn, a comforting chocolate Malteezer kind of smell all childhood and heavy petting and Sunday afternoon all rolled into a plush red seat. I thought about that movie all through dinner. I dreamed it, fantasized the ending. I even found myself wondering about the characters in cultural studies 101. I wanted to go to the movies. I wanted to go to that particular movie. I opened my wallet and counted the money there, almost enough for a bus ticket. I wanted his extra ticket.
I seduced him one afternoon. It was his first time. It crossed my mind that a virginity was probably worth more than the cost of a ticket to the movies. I felt a little guilty, but I liked him. I liked the way he shuddered nervously and became very quiet, looking up at me as if I were an angel, deflowering him in a halo of heavenly light. I liked the way he was made, the compact muscles and the strong curve of his legs. I liked the way he waited for me to show him where and how and the way he listened when I told him what to do and why to do it. I liked his studiousness, his bookishness. I liked the way he came too quickly but was quite prepared to come again before too long.
Afterwards, in the fading afternoon I asked him about the ticket, but he had already promised it to his friend. I felt the wind fading from the sails, but I stuck with it, returning to his room one night after the next.
I watched them leave for the movies together. I stayed at home and drank tea and wondered. They returned home gloriously happy. They showed me the prize that had been hidden under their theatre seat. They were best friends. I liked that he had stuck with his promise to his best friend.
That night I came into his bedroom and taught him about blindfolds and ropes made out of stockings. He smelt a bit like Maltezers, and the damp dark. There was a kernel of popcorn caught in the cuff of his jeans.
I longed for the cinema all through the long slow fucking.
He was a nice man, quiet, and with the kind of eyes that could be cold or blazing if you caught them in a particular light. He was fiercely intelligent. Nice body, and I had flirted with him as I flirted with any of them, intermittently and without much commitment. He was almost my favourite. I liked the short boy with curly hair who used to bang his forehead against the wall whenever his computer wasn't working. There was not much between them, the fire-eyed boy and the boy who was mildly asperges. It could have gone either way.
Except for that ticket to the movies.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Motorcycle
Before I ever learned to ride a motorcyle there was this:
I climbed up behind him and there was the inevitable Freudian thing. My Father rode a motorcycle. He rides a motorcycle. He was significantly older than me and therefore, along with the vehicle, the obvious comparisons could be made. I hoisted my daddy-complex up behind him, a little scared, a little exhilarated. He rode fast and low around the corners and I was excited by the speed and the vibrations and then of course the Freudian thing.
He rode to my place and I clung to his body, freezing in the autumn grey. We were going to have sex. Him, me and Richard. He knew about Richard. There were rules set. He can't put his penis inside me. He can't kiss me unless I kiss him first. I won't touch his penis unless I want to. Yes. He can touch my penis. Yes. He can suck my penis. The usual story really. For me there were no rules, predictably.
He had a spare helmet on the back of the bike. He had a spare jacket. Perhaps he was expecting to ride me home, or maybe he did this all the time, picked up women in cafe's and lured them onto his motorcycle. "Come for a ride?" a pick up line with a built in laugh track.
The sex was fun, predictable, but fun. He seemed to grow harder when Richard touched him. He liked the oral sex from both of us, but he wanted Richard to suck him longer and even ejaculated into his mouth. We destroyed most of a packet of condoms experimenting with various positions and combinations. We ended with a cup of tea and a bit of a laugh, naked at the kitchen table.
I was thinking about his motorcycle. I was thinking about the lurch in your stomach around corners and the way your nose is pressed into the scent of leather as you hug yourself up close to the rider in front. I was wondering how hard it would be to get a motorcycle license, the cost of one, the problem of getting your shopping home in the rain. I was thinking about that time when I first left home and my father came and visited me on a motorcycle. I was thinking about how he took me out and bought me a denim jacket which I loved. I was wondering what had happened to that denim jacket which would have become unfashionable and probably a little too small for me in the intervening years.
Richard was reaching over and kneading his penis with his fingers. Richard was bowing into his lap. It seemed like we were about to launch into another round.
After that, perhaps, I would ask him to take me for another ride.
I climbed up behind him and there was the inevitable Freudian thing. My Father rode a motorcycle. He rides a motorcycle. He was significantly older than me and therefore, along with the vehicle, the obvious comparisons could be made. I hoisted my daddy-complex up behind him, a little scared, a little exhilarated. He rode fast and low around the corners and I was excited by the speed and the vibrations and then of course the Freudian thing.
He rode to my place and I clung to his body, freezing in the autumn grey. We were going to have sex. Him, me and Richard. He knew about Richard. There were rules set. He can't put his penis inside me. He can't kiss me unless I kiss him first. I won't touch his penis unless I want to. Yes. He can touch my penis. Yes. He can suck my penis. The usual story really. For me there were no rules, predictably.
He had a spare helmet on the back of the bike. He had a spare jacket. Perhaps he was expecting to ride me home, or maybe he did this all the time, picked up women in cafe's and lured them onto his motorcycle. "Come for a ride?" a pick up line with a built in laugh track.
The sex was fun, predictable, but fun. He seemed to grow harder when Richard touched him. He liked the oral sex from both of us, but he wanted Richard to suck him longer and even ejaculated into his mouth. We destroyed most of a packet of condoms experimenting with various positions and combinations. We ended with a cup of tea and a bit of a laugh, naked at the kitchen table.
I was thinking about his motorcycle. I was thinking about the lurch in your stomach around corners and the way your nose is pressed into the scent of leather as you hug yourself up close to the rider in front. I was wondering how hard it would be to get a motorcycle license, the cost of one, the problem of getting your shopping home in the rain. I was thinking about that time when I first left home and my father came and visited me on a motorcycle. I was thinking about how he took me out and bought me a denim jacket which I loved. I was wondering what had happened to that denim jacket which would have become unfashionable and probably a little too small for me in the intervening years.
Richard was reaching over and kneading his penis with his fingers. Richard was bowing into his lap. It seemed like we were about to launch into another round.
After that, perhaps, I would ask him to take me for another ride.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Duet
He sat next to me when many boys wouldn't. I liked him. He was smart. he read books when many of the other kids didn't read. There were two seats left at the beginning of the school term and one of them was next to me and he took it. Many wouldn't have. I was the kind of person you should avoid. The kind that would ensure that you were not cool if you sat in the seat next to me. He sat in the seat next to me.
I always answered the questions first even though I knew it would make me unpopular. He didn't seem to mind. He still waved to me in the playground if he saw me. Once he leant me a pen.
On fridays there were singing classes. The teacher would put the radio on and we would listen to the ABC Lets Sing programme. Most of the songs were funny. Kids snorted while they sang. I liked the slow songs but there were almost no slow songs on the list. Speed Bonny Boat was a relief when we came to it. I could really let my lungs fill up with air and belt it out with long clear sustained notes. I was in the combined school's choir and we sang hymns, beautiful things with complicated notation. I learned to sight sing, which was another nail in the coffin of my 'coolness'. This day, in class I listened to the music and I sang along and it was beautiful. I sang, and he sang beside me, at my shoulder. We sang for the longest time.
When I looked around the other kids were snickering. They had all stopped singing and they were watching us, him and me as we sang a duet. Speed Bonny Boat with just two passengers. I noticed that he had a beautiful voice.
We stopped. We both blushed. The rest of the kids laughed and laughed, until the teacher, who was in on the joke, told them all to shush.
We sang more quietly after that, with restraint, but when I walked down the school path to my mother's car I realised that perhaps our singing together was the beginning of something. Perhaps we were in love. My first love.
I wish I could remember his name.
I always answered the questions first even though I knew it would make me unpopular. He didn't seem to mind. He still waved to me in the playground if he saw me. Once he leant me a pen.
On fridays there were singing classes. The teacher would put the radio on and we would listen to the ABC Lets Sing programme. Most of the songs were funny. Kids snorted while they sang. I liked the slow songs but there were almost no slow songs on the list. Speed Bonny Boat was a relief when we came to it. I could really let my lungs fill up with air and belt it out with long clear sustained notes. I was in the combined school's choir and we sang hymns, beautiful things with complicated notation. I learned to sight sing, which was another nail in the coffin of my 'coolness'. This day, in class I listened to the music and I sang along and it was beautiful. I sang, and he sang beside me, at my shoulder. We sang for the longest time.
When I looked around the other kids were snickering. They had all stopped singing and they were watching us, him and me as we sang a duet. Speed Bonny Boat with just two passengers. I noticed that he had a beautiful voice.
We stopped. We both blushed. The rest of the kids laughed and laughed, until the teacher, who was in on the joke, told them all to shush.
We sang more quietly after that, with restraint, but when I walked down the school path to my mother's car I realised that perhaps our singing together was the beginning of something. Perhaps we were in love. My first love.
I wish I could remember his name.
Friday, June 6, 2008
Replacement Ride
I lined up a replacement bike. How else would I get to work? I had to drop the bike at the shop, ride to work, ride home, off to work the next morning, then the next day I would still have to pick my bike up at the shop.
The replacement bike was a monster, all black and red and wracked with consumptive juddering. A coughing metallic beast. It was too tall for me. I had to lean it half way to the ground to mount it and then there would be that pivotal place where the bulk of it would prefer to lie down than stand up. I wrestled myself onto it and I almost dropped the thing. Bloody thing! I felt like a parasite on it's back. It was trying to scratch me off with it's touchy break pads and it's quick draw on acceleration. I thought of rodeo's, men in hats dragged through the dirt, red dust caked over grazed flesh. I held on and rode it.
My heart stopped then raced, then stopped again and there was a moment at a round-about when I was sure I was going to drop her because of the camber of the road and the tiny stumps of my legs struggling to keep her upright.
Familiar territory, Spring Hill, The City, Southbank. I relaxed into the shape of the seat. Odd riding position. My Virago is so upright, so laid back. It was a racer, and I had to lean forward with my arms stretched out. I felt exposed, like someone stretched on a rack. Overstretched. There was an uncomfortable breeze sneaking a slow path up through my leather jacket.
It was only at the lights on Boundary Street that I became aware of the small joys of riding a racer. Almost at work. I barely needed to concentrate on the mid-morning traffic. I could navigate this stretch of road with my eyes closed. I closed my eyes, just for a second, but enough to notice that this particular riding position tilted my pelvis forward onto the saddle. There was that juddering rub, that must have been there the whole time, but when I relaxed into it the friction overwhelmed me.
Almost at work. The welcome distraction of a pedestrian crossing. I let the vibrations settle in to my bones. I felt my clitorus swelling, spreading out to engulf every centimeter of my stomach and my thighs. A few more minutes and I would orgasm. I would orgasm from the sheer pleasure of riding a motorcycle that was not my own.
Almost there.
I approached the turn into the carpark slowly, but not slowly enough. I would not be able to climax before I had to turn the engine off. I paused at the turn off. Some car behind me beeped. I continued on. Just a quick ride down the back streets, just a little meander. Montague Road is a long stretch of easy rode. I settled in to ride it. Rode it. Somewhere around Bicycle Revolution, the moment arrived. I maintained my speed. I didn't close my eyes. I felt the race of my heart and the throbbing, some me, some the bike, and at the end of it I was still upright, a little steamy in the helmet, unscathed.
I really have to get me a racer one day.
The replacement bike was a monster, all black and red and wracked with consumptive juddering. A coughing metallic beast. It was too tall for me. I had to lean it half way to the ground to mount it and then there would be that pivotal place where the bulk of it would prefer to lie down than stand up. I wrestled myself onto it and I almost dropped the thing. Bloody thing! I felt like a parasite on it's back. It was trying to scratch me off with it's touchy break pads and it's quick draw on acceleration. I thought of rodeo's, men in hats dragged through the dirt, red dust caked over grazed flesh. I held on and rode it.
My heart stopped then raced, then stopped again and there was a moment at a round-about when I was sure I was going to drop her because of the camber of the road and the tiny stumps of my legs struggling to keep her upright.
Familiar territory, Spring Hill, The City, Southbank. I relaxed into the shape of the seat. Odd riding position. My Virago is so upright, so laid back. It was a racer, and I had to lean forward with my arms stretched out. I felt exposed, like someone stretched on a rack. Overstretched. There was an uncomfortable breeze sneaking a slow path up through my leather jacket.
It was only at the lights on Boundary Street that I became aware of the small joys of riding a racer. Almost at work. I barely needed to concentrate on the mid-morning traffic. I could navigate this stretch of road with my eyes closed. I closed my eyes, just for a second, but enough to notice that this particular riding position tilted my pelvis forward onto the saddle. There was that juddering rub, that must have been there the whole time, but when I relaxed into it the friction overwhelmed me.
Almost at work. The welcome distraction of a pedestrian crossing. I let the vibrations settle in to my bones. I felt my clitorus swelling, spreading out to engulf every centimeter of my stomach and my thighs. A few more minutes and I would orgasm. I would orgasm from the sheer pleasure of riding a motorcycle that was not my own.
Almost there.
I approached the turn into the carpark slowly, but not slowly enough. I would not be able to climax before I had to turn the engine off. I paused at the turn off. Some car behind me beeped. I continued on. Just a quick ride down the back streets, just a little meander. Montague Road is a long stretch of easy rode. I settled in to ride it. Rode it. Somewhere around Bicycle Revolution, the moment arrived. I maintained my speed. I didn't close my eyes. I felt the race of my heart and the throbbing, some me, some the bike, and at the end of it I was still upright, a little steamy in the helmet, unscathed.
I really have to get me a racer one day.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Fortune Cookie #3
These posts are words of wisdom that have got me through life reasonably happy and sexually satisfied. If you want to pass these words of wisdom onto friends or younger members of your family, cut out the sayings one by one, there will be about one fortune cookie each week - and buy a cheap packet of fortune cookies from your local Asian supermarket. Using tweezers, remove the existing naff saying from each cookie and replace it with one of Krissy's words of wisdom. Throw a party. Distribute the cookies. Everybody happy.
Fortune Cookie # 3
Everyone looks the same when you are wearing a blindfold.
Fortune Cookie # 3
Everyone looks the same when you are wearing a blindfold.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
The table
He had sex with me on the table because he wanted her to see. She was eating her breakfast at the table, a mountain of food. I wondered how she could eat so much and still remain so willowy. She was a little doll, the kind of girl who would have once been mesmerised by her little plastic Barbie, made almost exactly in her image.
This morning I watched her flick her long pale hair over her shoulder and I was jealous and desirous all at once. He watched her too.
I had slept with him the night before because of her, and I resented it. He had come into my bedroom full of grinning teeth.
"She says that you will sleep with me if I ask."
She says. If she said I should jump off a precipice I might have, shrieking her name in the direction of my descent. I shrugged and I slept with him. A quick, disinterested fuck. When it was over I lay there thinking about her body, wishing he would leave my bed so that I could masturbate in private.
So in the morning there she was eating breakfast.
"I fucked your friend" he said to her. Those teeth bothered me. I couldn't bare them, all spit and sparkle.
She smiled at us as if she approved and I love-hated her completely.
"Don't you believe me?" he asked her, even though it was clear that she did.
"You told me she'd have sex with me and so she did."
I was invisible. It was all about them. I watched her smoldering glance burn through the rich fall of her hair. I wondered when he would leap across the table, pushing aside the chairs and the vase of wilted flowers that I had bought and the bowl of cereal and my body, all those items superfluous to the purpose of their conversation. I wondered how long until I saw him kiss her horribly wonderful mouth.
Instead he reached for me and lifted me and put me up on the table for display. He was going to have sex with me on the table. He was going to fuck me in front of her. I wasn't certain what my reaction should be. I watched as she paused, placed the spoon back into the bowl. She pushed breakfast to one side and watched us with that half-lidded bored expression that she had perfected. She wanted to watch him fucking me on the table. She wanted to watch me being fucked. I wanted her to watch me. I wanted her.
He was clumsy with my clothing, scratching my thighs with overlong fingernails as he struggled down my knickers. He lifted one of my legs to point to my vagina. She looked. I felt her eyes on me, sharper than his finger as he pushed it inside. She was looking at his one finger, two, then three, disappearing inside my body and I wished it was her fingers. I would tolerate her ridiculously manicured nails, I would enjoy the little nips of her talons, tearing at my soft flesh. I wanted to be this open for her and when he pushed me around and spread my knees for her to see the slightly parted labia I hoped that she would lean over and inspect them more closely. She didn't.
He turned me back around and plucked one of my condoms from his pocket. He had planned this. He had taken it when he was dressing. He had thought about the process of fucking me in front of her in the shower, and when he was brushing his teeth.
He fucked me on the table. He was the brother of her boyfriend and I was nothing in this. It was about him and it was about her, but I peeled my shirt off because I wanted her to see that I had breasts too. I bent and suckled on my own breasts because I wanted her mouth there. I was modelling behaviour. I hoped that this scene would be repeated without her boyfriend's brother. I wanted her all for myself.
He came before I was ready and it was finished. I wanted her to finish me, but, heavy lidded, she pulled her bowl of cereal towards her and continued to eat without a word.
I was suddenly shy. I hadn't had an orgasm. I wanted to be bold enough to turn towards her and show her how my climax might be achieved with a slight fluttering of her fingertip. I wanted to but I didn't. I was suddenly self conscious as I slid off the table and pulled my pants back on.
Later in the shower I barely needed to touch myself. There was the scent of her shampoo on the walls and the slipperiness of her highly scented soap beneath my feet. There was her razor on the soap dish and she had stood naked under the same scald of water. I had to hold the wall with shaking fingertips to stop myself from falling. I heard her little breathy bird-voice in the kitchen, asking some question of the brother of her boyfriend. Have you seen the milk? Do you want another cup of coffee? My clitoris tugged towards the sound of her voice. I held the open cap of her shampoo close to my face and fell a second time, silently sliding to the floor of the shower and placing a hand over the wild race of my heart.
This morning I watched her flick her long pale hair over her shoulder and I was jealous and desirous all at once. He watched her too.
I had slept with him the night before because of her, and I resented it. He had come into my bedroom full of grinning teeth.
"She says that you will sleep with me if I ask."
She says. If she said I should jump off a precipice I might have, shrieking her name in the direction of my descent. I shrugged and I slept with him. A quick, disinterested fuck. When it was over I lay there thinking about her body, wishing he would leave my bed so that I could masturbate in private.
So in the morning there she was eating breakfast.
"I fucked your friend" he said to her. Those teeth bothered me. I couldn't bare them, all spit and sparkle.
She smiled at us as if she approved and I love-hated her completely.
"Don't you believe me?" he asked her, even though it was clear that she did.
"You told me she'd have sex with me and so she did."
I was invisible. It was all about them. I watched her smoldering glance burn through the rich fall of her hair. I wondered when he would leap across the table, pushing aside the chairs and the vase of wilted flowers that I had bought and the bowl of cereal and my body, all those items superfluous to the purpose of their conversation. I wondered how long until I saw him kiss her horribly wonderful mouth.
Instead he reached for me and lifted me and put me up on the table for display. He was going to have sex with me on the table. He was going to fuck me in front of her. I wasn't certain what my reaction should be. I watched as she paused, placed the spoon back into the bowl. She pushed breakfast to one side and watched us with that half-lidded bored expression that she had perfected. She wanted to watch him fucking me on the table. She wanted to watch me being fucked. I wanted her to watch me. I wanted her.
He was clumsy with my clothing, scratching my thighs with overlong fingernails as he struggled down my knickers. He lifted one of my legs to point to my vagina. She looked. I felt her eyes on me, sharper than his finger as he pushed it inside. She was looking at his one finger, two, then three, disappearing inside my body and I wished it was her fingers. I would tolerate her ridiculously manicured nails, I would enjoy the little nips of her talons, tearing at my soft flesh. I wanted to be this open for her and when he pushed me around and spread my knees for her to see the slightly parted labia I hoped that she would lean over and inspect them more closely. She didn't.
He turned me back around and plucked one of my condoms from his pocket. He had planned this. He had taken it when he was dressing. He had thought about the process of fucking me in front of her in the shower, and when he was brushing his teeth.
He fucked me on the table. He was the brother of her boyfriend and I was nothing in this. It was about him and it was about her, but I peeled my shirt off because I wanted her to see that I had breasts too. I bent and suckled on my own breasts because I wanted her mouth there. I was modelling behaviour. I hoped that this scene would be repeated without her boyfriend's brother. I wanted her all for myself.
He came before I was ready and it was finished. I wanted her to finish me, but, heavy lidded, she pulled her bowl of cereal towards her and continued to eat without a word.
I was suddenly shy. I hadn't had an orgasm. I wanted to be bold enough to turn towards her and show her how my climax might be achieved with a slight fluttering of her fingertip. I wanted to but I didn't. I was suddenly self conscious as I slid off the table and pulled my pants back on.
Later in the shower I barely needed to touch myself. There was the scent of her shampoo on the walls and the slipperiness of her highly scented soap beneath my feet. There was her razor on the soap dish and she had stood naked under the same scald of water. I had to hold the wall with shaking fingertips to stop myself from falling. I heard her little breathy bird-voice in the kitchen, asking some question of the brother of her boyfriend. Have you seen the milk? Do you want another cup of coffee? My clitoris tugged towards the sound of her voice. I held the open cap of her shampoo close to my face and fell a second time, silently sliding to the floor of the shower and placing a hand over the wild race of my heart.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Scent of her hair.
Her hair is intoxicating. I smell it. It is fanned out on the pillow. Her hair seems to be perfectly arranged where ever she falls. Sitting on the couch, there is a cascade of it draped over the red velure, perched on the kitchen bench she is hidden by a honey coloured waterfall. Lying in bed next to me there is this perfect arc of gold as if her hair is in motion even now, flicking out across the black sheets which are the ideal background.
I do not want to fall in love with her. Lust is impossible to dodge. She is all sex. Her breasts are large and have a tendency to spill out of her clothing. Her waist is thin and she has the kind of lips that look like they have just been kissed. Her lips make me jealous. They make me want to kiss away any memory of a previous lover. When I hear her in bed with her boyfriend I thump my books onto my desk. I crash and scutter. I want her to hear me in the next room, to think of me at her moment of orgasm. I want to rip the biley sting of lust out of my throat and feed it to her, drop by drop.
She is too pretty. Beside her I become a troll.
And then there is her hair.
One day, in the shower, I used her shampoo. I covered myself with the smell of her, wondering if boys would suddenly begin to look at me as I passed them in the street. I had often seen them stare at her, alerted to her beauty by only the passing smell of her hair. I emerged from the shower clean, but smelling of my usual loamy soil, the natural odour of my skin all earthworm and hobbit with a hint of sex. My olfactory fingerprint stamping itself on the air.
Today it is hot and the heat wafts the scent of her hair onto my damp pillow. She has fallen beside me as if exhausted, draping her gorgeous limbs across my sheets. She sighs and holds out her hands to trap my fingers.
All the men are lost to her. I have given up bringing people back home with me. They drift away from me, inching closer to her gravitational pull. I suppose I am lost too. I let her hold my fingers and I am a knot of tense muscles and thudding blood. I can see her breast easing up from her chest in a perfect arc. I can smell her hair. I want to yell 'stop flirting with me'. I want to tear her Barbie Doll limbs from their plastic sockets and rub her shining locks in the dirt. I want to fuck her. I want to leave the stain of myself on her so that she will be sullied by something less celestial than herself. I want her grounded because I am grounded, but mostly I just want her.
I do not want to fall in love with her. Lust is impossible to dodge. She is all sex. Her breasts are large and have a tendency to spill out of her clothing. Her waist is thin and she has the kind of lips that look like they have just been kissed. Her lips make me jealous. They make me want to kiss away any memory of a previous lover. When I hear her in bed with her boyfriend I thump my books onto my desk. I crash and scutter. I want her to hear me in the next room, to think of me at her moment of orgasm. I want to rip the biley sting of lust out of my throat and feed it to her, drop by drop.
She is too pretty. Beside her I become a troll.
And then there is her hair.
One day, in the shower, I used her shampoo. I covered myself with the smell of her, wondering if boys would suddenly begin to look at me as I passed them in the street. I had often seen them stare at her, alerted to her beauty by only the passing smell of her hair. I emerged from the shower clean, but smelling of my usual loamy soil, the natural odour of my skin all earthworm and hobbit with a hint of sex. My olfactory fingerprint stamping itself on the air.
Today it is hot and the heat wafts the scent of her hair onto my damp pillow. She has fallen beside me as if exhausted, draping her gorgeous limbs across my sheets. She sighs and holds out her hands to trap my fingers.
All the men are lost to her. I have given up bringing people back home with me. They drift away from me, inching closer to her gravitational pull. I suppose I am lost too. I let her hold my fingers and I am a knot of tense muscles and thudding blood. I can see her breast easing up from her chest in a perfect arc. I can smell her hair. I want to yell 'stop flirting with me'. I want to tear her Barbie Doll limbs from their plastic sockets and rub her shining locks in the dirt. I want to fuck her. I want to leave the stain of myself on her so that she will be sullied by something less celestial than herself. I want her grounded because I am grounded, but mostly I just want her.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Yellow Truck
We lie for hours on the front lawn of the rented house, my sister and I, side by side in our swimming costumes, trying for a tan. My sister pinks up quickly, but I have inherited my grandfather’s swarthy skin and my plump limbs turn to charcoal in the sunlight. A yellow truck rattles by and the back of it is filled with young men in singlets and khaki work pants. My sister raises her roasting body up on her elbows and stares combatively straight at them The truckload of workers break out into spontaneous cheering. Under the darkness of my tan I can feel a blush sweeping across my skin. They are cheering for her, for us. I have never been looked at or whistled at by boys before. I am the fat weird girl who reads too much. I am the one they laugh at, never to be cheered for. We wait for another truck to pass and when it does we both rise up to challenge it. Another cheer, and whistling this time as if the speed and the distance has disguised the hideous puffiness of my flesh. My sister holds up her middle finger and this defiant gesture earns her an excited round of applause.
“I’m gong to take my top off," I tell her. I know she doesn’t believe me, but when the next truckload of workers passes I lower the top of my one piece swimsuit and the cheers are explosive.
We lie back, giggling and breathless.
“If you could see ten years into the future, who do you think you would be with. Would you have a boyfriend? A husband?”
She snorts, turns over onto her front to scald her back in the sun. “No. I think we’ll both be sad and alone.”
She’s probably right. My mother found and lost a husband, my aunt never even looked for one, the husband that my grandfather has is barely sighted by the rest of the family unless he emerges briefly from his room to visit the bathroom. But still I am longing for sexual contact. If not a boyfriend, then at least a series of encounters with anonymous men. I will never fall in love with a man. I know that all my love is saved and given to my best friend Gillian. My heart swells to bursting when I think of her, and unless we finally admit it I am destined to a life of loneliness, but still I want to experience sex for myself.
A dream. The yellow truck stops. The nameless men vault over it’s railings, run towards our garden. They are all tight arms and shining sinew. They are ripe with heat and strength and sweat and when they are close enough to cast a shadow over me I feel afraid. My legs are shaking. I wanted this. I pulled down my swimming costume and exposed my breasts to them and I wanted them to stop for me. Now that they have I feel afraid, but the fear is a shiver that vibrates the muscles under my skin. I cross my legs coyly and the pressure of this movement creates a wet warmth in my crotch.
There are two endings to this dream and I’m not sure which of them I like the best. In the first I am passive. They circle me and I feel their shadows dark and cold like the bodies of sharks brushing against my lets. My fear silences me. The first man to break this circling stand off is slick with sweat. He kneels, straddling my crossed legs and it is at the encouragement of the others that he slips his hand between them and his finger, rough from work and smelling like loamy soil, drags the crotch of my swim suit aside and I feel the scratch of it entering me. I am trembling by now and my fear is like excitement. Hands on both my legs, hands around my wrists. Four men stretching me taught as a skinned roo and the fabric of my swimmers stretch so easily when he wrenches them to one side. The heavy chest pushing the air from my lungs. The scent of sweat and hay and diesel, the tugging of the hands around my limbs. I am acutely aware of each of these sensations and if I wake before the first man has finished with me and zips up, stepping aside for another man to take his place, then I am disappointed. I crush my fist between my legs and roll over hoping to regain the rising tide of excitement before the last fragments of sleep drift away.
In the second version of the dream the men flirt. This is a slower beginning, but I enjoy their banter. At some point one of them admits that he has seen my tits. I feign surprise. They all agree. They did see me lower my top. They saw the large brown nipples standing tight and erect. My nipples respond to the thought of their attention, pulling the thin white lycra away from my body. It is impossible to hide them from their gaze and they are gazing. I might as well show them what they have already seen. I take my swimming costume off, stripping it down and away from my breasts which bounce back into full view. They watch, enthralled and I enjoy them too, Seeing my breasts as they must see them, full and round and pulling into buds of dark skin at their crests. One of them asks if they can touch me and I consider this. Only the man I choose can touch me. I am free to choose. They are all different. Some of them are large shouldered with tight brown muscles, some of them are smaller, with a wiry athleticism, some of them are very tall, dwarfing me. Amongst them there is one who is shy and small and pale. This man is hovering near the edges of the crowd. I point to him and he when he drops to his knees in front of me I notice that he is shaking. I know then that I will make the others watch while he sucks on each of my breasts. I will peel the rest of my swimming costume down and make him spread my labia so that they will see how pink and soft it is inside. I will make him lie on top of me while they watch, tortured by desire. I will make him take his penis from his overalls and, fully clothed, and with his blundstone boots scratching for purchase in the dusty ground, I will make him enter me. Sometimes in this dream I let some of the others touch my breasts, touch the place where his penis has become slick with my juices. Sometimes I make them touch him too, with their hands, and their mouths. Through all of this I am the one they listen too. They do not challenge me or complain. They never judge me. They desire me. If I wake during this dream I lie in my bed and touch the place between my legs that has become warm and damp from dreaming, and I keep my men from the yellow truck where I can see them, behind my closed eyes in the bright focus of my imagination and I make them work until, pressing my lips together I fall into the silent pulsing dark of climax and then beyond that, into sleep.
“I’m gong to take my top off," I tell her. I know she doesn’t believe me, but when the next truckload of workers passes I lower the top of my one piece swimsuit and the cheers are explosive.
We lie back, giggling and breathless.
“If you could see ten years into the future, who do you think you would be with. Would you have a boyfriend? A husband?”
She snorts, turns over onto her front to scald her back in the sun. “No. I think we’ll both be sad and alone.”
She’s probably right. My mother found and lost a husband, my aunt never even looked for one, the husband that my grandfather has is barely sighted by the rest of the family unless he emerges briefly from his room to visit the bathroom. But still I am longing for sexual contact. If not a boyfriend, then at least a series of encounters with anonymous men. I will never fall in love with a man. I know that all my love is saved and given to my best friend Gillian. My heart swells to bursting when I think of her, and unless we finally admit it I am destined to a life of loneliness, but still I want to experience sex for myself.
A dream. The yellow truck stops. The nameless men vault over it’s railings, run towards our garden. They are all tight arms and shining sinew. They are ripe with heat and strength and sweat and when they are close enough to cast a shadow over me I feel afraid. My legs are shaking. I wanted this. I pulled down my swimming costume and exposed my breasts to them and I wanted them to stop for me. Now that they have I feel afraid, but the fear is a shiver that vibrates the muscles under my skin. I cross my legs coyly and the pressure of this movement creates a wet warmth in my crotch.
There are two endings to this dream and I’m not sure which of them I like the best. In the first I am passive. They circle me and I feel their shadows dark and cold like the bodies of sharks brushing against my lets. My fear silences me. The first man to break this circling stand off is slick with sweat. He kneels, straddling my crossed legs and it is at the encouragement of the others that he slips his hand between them and his finger, rough from work and smelling like loamy soil, drags the crotch of my swim suit aside and I feel the scratch of it entering me. I am trembling by now and my fear is like excitement. Hands on both my legs, hands around my wrists. Four men stretching me taught as a skinned roo and the fabric of my swimmers stretch so easily when he wrenches them to one side. The heavy chest pushing the air from my lungs. The scent of sweat and hay and diesel, the tugging of the hands around my limbs. I am acutely aware of each of these sensations and if I wake before the first man has finished with me and zips up, stepping aside for another man to take his place, then I am disappointed. I crush my fist between my legs and roll over hoping to regain the rising tide of excitement before the last fragments of sleep drift away.
In the second version of the dream the men flirt. This is a slower beginning, but I enjoy their banter. At some point one of them admits that he has seen my tits. I feign surprise. They all agree. They did see me lower my top. They saw the large brown nipples standing tight and erect. My nipples respond to the thought of their attention, pulling the thin white lycra away from my body. It is impossible to hide them from their gaze and they are gazing. I might as well show them what they have already seen. I take my swimming costume off, stripping it down and away from my breasts which bounce back into full view. They watch, enthralled and I enjoy them too, Seeing my breasts as they must see them, full and round and pulling into buds of dark skin at their crests. One of them asks if they can touch me and I consider this. Only the man I choose can touch me. I am free to choose. They are all different. Some of them are large shouldered with tight brown muscles, some of them are smaller, with a wiry athleticism, some of them are very tall, dwarfing me. Amongst them there is one who is shy and small and pale. This man is hovering near the edges of the crowd. I point to him and he when he drops to his knees in front of me I notice that he is shaking. I know then that I will make the others watch while he sucks on each of my breasts. I will peel the rest of my swimming costume down and make him spread my labia so that they will see how pink and soft it is inside. I will make him lie on top of me while they watch, tortured by desire. I will make him take his penis from his overalls and, fully clothed, and with his blundstone boots scratching for purchase in the dusty ground, I will make him enter me. Sometimes in this dream I let some of the others touch my breasts, touch the place where his penis has become slick with my juices. Sometimes I make them touch him too, with their hands, and their mouths. Through all of this I am the one they listen too. They do not challenge me or complain. They never judge me. They desire me. If I wake during this dream I lie in my bed and touch the place between my legs that has become warm and damp from dreaming, and I keep my men from the yellow truck where I can see them, behind my closed eyes in the bright focus of my imagination and I make them work until, pressing my lips together I fall into the silent pulsing dark of climax and then beyond that, into sleep.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Love lust
I just love some people so much that I feel like I should lust after them. This is a kind of love that squeezes the muscles low in the stomach, the same muscles that contract during orgasm. When I think about this hand-full of people I feel that the quick contraction of muscles might become an embarrassment.
I can't think about these people for too long or I might suffocate or cry or drop into one of those spontaneous hands-free orgasms that is so debilitating when you are on the bus.
Some of these people know that I love them too fiercely. Sometimes I tell them just to alleviate some of my red-faced mortification when I am in their presence. A few of them are oblivious. These are the quiet few who would find my enthusiasm quite frightening and who would never speak to me again if I ever let on how I feel.
"You must stop falling in love with your friends" my husband tells me, he who has been drenched by the full force of my love and who has managed to keep his footing despite the brute force of the wave.
I must stop falling in love with my friends, but they are so wonderful, this tiny cluster of bright people. I wish I could consume them. Ingest them. I wish I could take them up into my body and have them dissolve into me, making me as good a person as they themselves have been. I want to be free to mix my all-consuming love into the force of my lust which is quite substantial. I want to drink the concoction and grow drunk on it.
In another world, in another life I would make love to each of them and become them and feast on them and allow myself to be ripped into pieces by them.
Is this too much to ask?
I can't think about these people for too long or I might suffocate or cry or drop into one of those spontaneous hands-free orgasms that is so debilitating when you are on the bus.
Some of these people know that I love them too fiercely. Sometimes I tell them just to alleviate some of my red-faced mortification when I am in their presence. A few of them are oblivious. These are the quiet few who would find my enthusiasm quite frightening and who would never speak to me again if I ever let on how I feel.
"You must stop falling in love with your friends" my husband tells me, he who has been drenched by the full force of my love and who has managed to keep his footing despite the brute force of the wave.
I must stop falling in love with my friends, but they are so wonderful, this tiny cluster of bright people. I wish I could consume them. Ingest them. I wish I could take them up into my body and have them dissolve into me, making me as good a person as they themselves have been. I want to be free to mix my all-consuming love into the force of my lust which is quite substantial. I want to drink the concoction and grow drunk on it.
In another world, in another life I would make love to each of them and become them and feast on them and allow myself to be ripped into pieces by them.
Is this too much to ask?
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