Horse

I find myself looking up 'sex with horse'. It has come to this. My short foray into bestiality has been in the most odd venue. The Stately library. The quiet and hallowed halls. I open my laptop and my headphones are plugged in. In Ear Park. I hear it, but quietly and I turn the volume up before I realise that the headphone jack is not completely settled in place. The music piped into the quiet air. In Ear Park, echoing out to all the Asian students settled at their desks beside me.

Quiet finally and Googling bestiality. A hunt that takes me to odd places. Finally, YouTube and each click a slow pause for intermittent streaming. Girl and Horse, Sexy Girl and Horse, Horse Sex. And me uncertain how this will end.

This is not something I have ever looked for. Yet the idea of this research, the idea that I can arouse as I disturb with the writing that will follow this research. This makes me shake. An odd excitement.

steal

I would steal it. Surely there will be no trouble. If I am caught I will shrug and say, no harm done. Nothing a few dollars can't fix. I will say I stole it because when the envelope is opened he will seek you out and show you and you will say: awesome. I will be awesome in your eyes and this is how I long to be seen.

silly. silly reckless juvenile stunt. But I would steal it for him. For you.

Paul Auster's missing sex scene

I read Paul Auster's Invisible.

Humming with the potential for sex and damage. There is sex but it is hidden from us. The magician pulls the curtain and there is just the knowledge that it has happened. We hear pale skin, the softest ever and we imagine the buttery girls that have been at our fingertips.

Do all girls taste the same? You think they might, but I remember something acidic on my tongue, a strong scent to it and I would have pulled away if it had not been impolite. I tasted disease or lack of cleanliness or her nasty edge, bitter sticky. No, nothing to do with her mean streak I suppose because another was all sugar, honey sweet when I suspect that she was more insidiously manipulative.

Auster and his triste and my mind wanders to the girls I have known because this girl, Auster's beautiful poised older woman with her striking face and her femme fatal body, this girl is someone I am having on the page. I taste her in the missing sentences. I feel her fingers in my body. Auster's empty sex. I open the curtain and reveal it.

watching

are you watching?

yes

are you watching me?

yes

out there somewhere in the bitter dark, out there in the world with your hands curled around my book. My secret pornography. Not so secret.

with your hand curled into a fist around your penis.

with your hand snapped tight like a flower and inserted into your sticky body. Watching my sex open before you on the page. in your mind. in my bedroom. and yours.

and yes that is my arse on the cover since you ask so many times. Yes you can use the visual stimulus. You can use the internet. Silent pictures. My words like subtitles. Some little fisting scene. Some anal sex, double entry, whatever takes your fancy but the impetus is mine. My sex. Affection is something different. Love another thing. All three of these then brought together and you reading it braille-like. I would show you how slick it is to touch if I could. Some say my work is visceral. Is it? Turn the page. On the little beep. Turn the page now.

Peter Rowbotham

Peter.

You deserve to be named and remembered.

I give you a day of silence.

We had some times.

Goodbye

I would write a post to mark it, but all I have is the words you left me with and no clever way to contextualise them.


So inside it feels like I am running. That is all. There should be more but I have nothing.

Love and tears

So I don't believe in love. Don't really think I should be advocating it. Not in the he loves, she loves kind of vein. So when she reappears, un-erasable it is not love but something else. Still, I listen to love songs, read about it in books. Heartbreaking. I am moved. I look at art. I hug. I kiss. I feel the harsh fist of something in my chest and I know what the the romantics would say about this. Care plus sex. A heady mix of chemicals unbalancing me. I would call it love if I were so inclined. I would convince myself. It would be easy enough. It is the way I tear up. The hormonal wash. I am getting old and softening.