*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.
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