bit more from it

His back teeth ache. A shot of saliva leaps into his mouth and he swallows. He is touching her breast through her dress. He can feel the hardness of her nipple, the way it rises, tenting the fabric. She holds his hand in her own and guides it, slipping his fingers under the low plunge of her dress under the bra and he has her breast in his hand. His hand is shaking. Now that he is aware of it, it is all he can feel, his fingers rattling against her tight nipple, the palm of his hand sweating against the swell of her breath. He grabs at her and she eases his shaking fingers away, her fingers stroking herself very gently, teaching his own fingers how she wants to be stroked. When he has learned this, she lets him take over, he feels her hand retreat and he has her whole breast in his hand and he is moving his fingers back and forth in the rhythm she taught him, feeling the tight bud rub against is fingers as he does so.

a bit from it

When she slides back against him he is startled by it. He feels his body stiffen. His arms lock tight against his chest. His knees are dovetailed planks. He tries to swallow but it is impossible. She is leaning against him. She has shifted so that her bottom is in his lap. He has a flash of the first moment he saw her, the miracle of secret folds and hair and the glisten of damp. He is hard. She nestles closer and he can feel the heat of her skin separated from his penis by a meniscus of fabric. He would be touching her. If she were naked, if he were naked, he would be pressed against her now. She reaches backwards towards him and he is a statue of himself. She almost has to wrestle his hand into her own. She pulls his arm over and around her body and clutches his fist between her breasts. His fist is between her breasts. He is aware for a moment that his breath will be warming the back of her head, moving her hair like grass in a late warm breeze. He would touch her hair, except his hand is a fist clamped between her breasts. He knows what her breasts look like, soft and very round and with brown nipples spreading across them. He shifts his hips closer against her. This is what she wants, he supposes, to feel that he is hard and tight. This is why she shifted onto the feel of it. He pushes it against her, almost a challenge. He has a hard on and it can’t be hidden so it is here. He wants her to know that it is here.

cock

There is nothing left of him but his cock. When he rolls over in bed it is there, pressing against the mattress or else tenting the thin cotton sheet which he uses as a shield against mosquitoes. It is hot this summer. There is talk of climate change, waters rising. The south pole has melted and the water from it hangs in the air around him so that every breath is a thick humid lungful. He sweats and there are different scents on his skin. His hair smells like clothing left too long in the machine. His armpits are sharp as acid. The scent of his shoes precede him particularly after a run. There are these smells, but more than these, there is the scent of his cock.

prostitute

I will prostitute myself because I am dry. My mouth is a trap for sand and earth lice. My mind is a place where ants forage for meger scraps. My words are leaves, fallen but not yet swept up. I would tear it up and throw it away if it were something tangible, but this is not how the work is now, it is stored electronically, beamed across the continent with the tap of a key. There is nothing to tear and burn and even if I took a hammer to this computer there would be record of it somewhere. Nothing is undone.

So I know I cannot write it and I also cannot stop. I have nothing but this wasted opportunity. Without it I am not held to the world. I am dry, but I can lube up my cunt and fake my orgasm for all who will listen. Hear this sweet acceleration of breath. See the pulsing which I mimic with the tug of my muscles. Even my eyes ca roll back and my neck snap tight. And the words that spill out of my cunt-mouth can arouse the millions who truck through me.

All this from the sad recline of the couch I cannot lift myself up off. I have plummeted and I have dragged all potential stories with me. There is nothing that you do not see on the surface of my skin. I am a bag of stretchmarks and lesions and boils. I am a little constellation of moles and a burst blood vessel. I am thick flesh with a generous deposit of fatty cells. I am some hair, some fine lines marking out a frown. I am the prostitute and I am open for your business.

Red

I paint my nails red. I do this to match my lipstick. I wear lipstick because, sometimes there are nice things said when I wear it. I have bought a red dress and I feel pretty in it. These small things to cling on to. Perhaps when I hold my fingers up to the light and see the light sparkle on them I will forget the trip to Meyers, the 17 different pieces of clothing, none of which came even close to fitting, the back view and the side view and the moment when I thought I would have to call a sales assistant or tear the dress completely.

I concentrate on the gentle little strokes of the nail brush, and although I never wait till they are completely dry, it only causes damage to the very tips of them. Mostly they are just a nice shade of red. I wear lipstick and nail polish and I put on the red dress although I know that he will not notice any of these things. They make little difference. I am still the woman who could not fight her way out of the tailored dress. I am still the one in the side view, the back view, the front view, which I am at least more used to. I feel a little prettier, although he would not use that word if pressed. Not pretty. Not beautiful. But then he is not so shallow. He likes to sit across a table from me and talk about books. He likes it when I am not so serious or self conscious. When I abandon myself to laughter. The straight-man who comes out with the occasional one-liner. He likes me then. He likes me. And maybe this is enough.

Like and love

I don't remember why I thought I liked him. Now, with so much time elapsing every day, I don't remember. I must remind mysef of this when the next one comes and the one after that. We do survive it and then, when it is gone, we are confused. I don't remember why I liked him with that kind of breathless, sleepless passion. I don't remember why my body turned towards him like a flower. I do remember that he was there for me at times when I needed it. Not always, but on a few select occasions. I remember our shared taste in movies, our conversations about books and philosophy. I remember his ability to find me funny when I am not known for my humour.

I know about the next one. I know why I like him. I like him for his loyalty and his intelligence and most of all his care. He tries to say things that will make me feel better. Sometimes he fails. Still, he is always willing to try to keep the friendship safe and for this I love him. One day I will look at him and I will wonder what that was all about, that gnawing regret, that endless self-hate which is based merely on the fact that he will never want me in that way. The cycle is about rejection. I have learnt this. Finally I have learnt.

This time I will keep him for the things I like. This time it will not end as it has always ended, torn between what I will do and what I would want to do and smashed against the unweildy rock of what he would refuse to do if he were asked to anyway.

This time I will keep the things I want. I promise. Just wait and see.

self conscious

People will read this. Not many, but a few. This is a new way of looking at it all. I write and sometimes it is with that same reckless abandon, that late night, all alone frantic writing, the kind that is too raw and too real and yet the kind that you might recognise yourself in. Sometimes I post in that same breathless moment. Yes. This is how it is. Press Publish Post. And then a momentary relief because I have been honest with it.

But things have happened in the interim. People I do not know have come up to me, on the street, on a ferry, once in the foyer of a theatre. People have added their spin to what I have said, they have identified with me, placed themselves where I am, feel a sense of ownership for feelings that I am barely aware I have.

I write a post and press publish and I take a step back from the screen. I see the people reading this, I put myself in their place, I see myself through their eyes. I re-enter the site. I find the post. I press delete.

This is a new thing for me, this odd self censorship, this taking back of what I have just said.