Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
I thank my friends for this. The ones that have claimed my sucesses as their own. My solid army of supporters, and amongst them the few that I call my family.
Now 2010. Time perhaps for some new year resolutions. The next book / books and a commitment to keep myself honest. I promise to use this venue to keep track of my progress. It worked for the last book. Let it work for this. A return to the furious vagina.
More research. More reading. More good books beside my bed, less job-books as I consider myself more a writer than a bookseller. A month of solid work in Januar. Less chat, more words. The internet will be my friend and not a mere distraction.
2010. Lets look forward to 2010.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
I attribute it all to Susan Sontag. On Photography, and what happens to my head when I read her. I don't have to agree, but my mind feels stimulated enough to have a conversation. Affection was all about the body, now I am flexing my brain. Strange. The change.
We will wait and see.
Friday, October 9, 2009
She turned off the headlights and the motorcycle retreated into darkness. She could see the vague outline of it but it might be anything.
She placed the keys in the bowl on the kitchen bench. The place for keys. Everything in it's place Neat stale air. She breathed. There was a time when she would have opened the window, but she had lost that battle to a sudden gust of wind and a broken glass. She turned the air conditioning up a notch thinking about open faced helmets, drops of rain hitting her eyeballs, the scent of night jasmine. Breathing in static dryness and artificial chill.
She could smell him on her.
She moved through the loungeroom and there was evidence of her passing, her bag dropped to the ground and forgotten in an instant, her helmet perched on the table, her gloves on the couch The jacket draped over the bench framing the kitchenette. It wa a regular complaint, her shedding. There were pieces of her everywhere, abandoned, unnoticed even at his place there would be something, old bus tickets fallen from her bag, a pen that she had used to write his home phone number down. The envalope on which she had written his number. (She should have folded it back into her pocket or the zip pocket of her bag) A tampon wrapped in toilet paper and secreted in the very bottm of this kitchen bin. Her mark on his place. Her address, glaring from the window of the envalope dropped onto the floor beside his bed. Pieces of herself.
She took her knickers off and held them in her hands staring at the crotch, expecting blood. She had a sudden flash of that first time in high school and almost laughed. This new first thing. Despite the last days of her period, despite the idea of something done for the first time, it had not drawn blood. No one hurt then, which was a relief.
She stepped into the shower. The sound of the water echoed. She would wake her husband and he would roll over in his sleep and glance at the clock.
She turned the shower to a slow drizzle, but it was no better. Soap, shampoo, bath cream. She rubbed the chemical scent onto her skin. She turned the tap off and reached for a towel. Fresh towels today. Today was Tuesday. There were fresh towels on a tuesday, slightly stiff and smelling of washing powder.
She huddled in it. The temperature had dropped. The sun rising and the cold air rushing in to meet it. There must be some science behind it, but it was a mystery to her.
No point in sleeping. She rummaged in the dirty clothes pile for different underwear, a shirt and trousers, rolling the things still warm from her body and pushing them to the bottom of the basket.
She emerged and there was steam drifting off her skin because of the cold and that was nice. The flat was a mess. She had done nothing more than drift through it and it was untidy. SHe began to stoop and gather. She lifted her helmet and there was a fine layer of sand on the table where it had rested. She wiped the surface with her palm and the sand was no longer on the surface but she could feel it on the floor under her feet. It took her a while to find the dustpan and brush which was embarassing. She found the broom quickly but that was not what she wanted. She looked in the laundry and behind doors and she thought she might have to check the bedroom but she found it in the pantry. She leaned over and she was light-headed. She was unused to this kind of protracted wakefulness.
She scraped the sand into the dustpan and she noticed that she had a headache. A big one. Something fierce and inescapable like you see on the adds for Panadol Forte. A headache, penance for her lack of guilt. At least this is wht she thought when she stood and covered her eyes with her hand. And then she fell, knocking the side table over, spilling sand back onto the floor, setting her helmet to skitter and stop in lazy rolling circles. It was a crash but not a terribly loud one, and in the bedroom her husband shifted once and settled and continued to sleep.
The clock flicked over, one red glowing digit at a time. The shower dripped. She had dropped the towel in the bathroom and it slowly soaked up the damp spill off the tiled floor.
Kissing. This moment of wonder opening, like his lips, a soft kind of understanding, a fruit falling and seeping into the dry earth. She had never put time into kissing. Twenty years of marriage and before that there was no time for something so preparatory. One kiss perhaps or several, but each one a hurried preface to sex. She kissed and she closed her eyes and her mouth softened and it was something that invaded her whole body and the idea of sex was superfluous. The kiss was the whole of it and the idea of sex seemed unimportant next to this momentous. Inside the kiss was a bitter-sweetness, all the love songs she had dismissed as saccharine, all the awful romantic comedies that she had always avoided. Not one kiss, but a series of kisses that might never stop. But they did stop eventually and she put her fingers to her lips as if she could pick up this knowledge with her fingers and remove it.
She replayed it. In this space there was time for it. She rocked away from the kiss, hand to lips. Thought, they were right. Thought, how can there be this new thing after so many years. Thought, I will have to rethink my relationship to a whole genre. Thought, maybe it is too late now. Because there was a glimmer of awareness. At the edges of the kiss there was a falling forward and pain, her body tensing. An overwhelming hurt, like the flip side to the kissing, and when she came close to it she almost woke to it and it was too big. It might swallow her.
She turned back to the kiss, replayed on a loop. This new thing. Tried to link the lyrics to love songs to it, but there was no comparison. The words were specific, fixed, nothing. The kissing was some kind of chemical reaction. It was physical. Some change was taking place inside her body and she would not be the same when it was done. She leaned forward. She touched lips. She softened and slowly opened them.
Bec thinks, I am being seduced, and would have laughed except that would be impolite. Instead she smiles, trying to catch his eye, to let him know that she is onto him, that she wasn’t born yesterday, in fact that she was born a long long long time before him and that this is the oldest trick there is, used so often that it has become a cliche. She wants to let him know that the very idea of him seducing her is ludicrous because of her age and because she has had a husband for so long. In fact, she takes a breathe to say something like this and is surprised by the tightness in her chest the little tremour in her upper lip. When he leans a little closer to her in his chair she feels unsettled. When he holds her hand, she is afraid that the startle in her heart is shaking the chair.
She has responded to him physically from the beginning of it. Who knows what alchemy takes place in a human body when it decides it would like to be in physical contact with another human body. It was sometime between seeing his photographs, all framed up and hanging in perfect symmetry in the university gallery, and finding him leaning over her shoulder as the developer did it’s chemical best to turn shiny white paper into a thing of beauty. Bec caught his smell and he touched her arm lightly for balance or to underline something he was saying. He laughed at a joke she made and no one ever laughed at her jokes, in fact she often joked that she did not have a sense of humour and people would look at her with such pity that it seemed they didn’t realise she was actually making a joke. Anyway, something shifted at some point and his physical presence took on weight that made her slightly anxious.
Soon after she had read an article on Cougars, women of her age who were vilified or perhaps mocked, for finding younger men attractive and actively pursuing them. The word echoed in her head. She began to see them everywhere, these women dressed in leopard print, these women with makeup like war paint. These women who seemed much older than she did but who weren’t at all. Bec stopped wearing the lipstick that she quite liked. She became accutely aware of her cleavage which was ample, and began to wear button up tops where not an inch of it could be sighted, even if a boy was leaning over her shoulder staring down past her cleavage into a tray of chemicles and an image slowly revealing itself like a wonderful secret.
He holds her hand. At first it is a simple gesture to illustrate something he is saying. She can barely hear what he is saying. When he touches her fingers the sound is snapped off. There is only his hand resting gently on hers and the thump of blood rattling her chair and the rythm of her pulse says, I am being seduced, I am being seduced, I am being seduced. She does not mean to respond, would not know how to respond, and when she parts her fingers and catches his between hers it is more to break the intollerable suspence than to respond to his advance. She holds his fingers tightly between hers to stop the inevitable escalation, not to aquiese and yet it seems now she has done it that this response only encourages him. He shifts his chair right up against hers careful not to disturb the delicate lacework of their fingers. He leans his head and kisses the nape of her neck. All this in the dark. The dark he created by turning the light off.
His kisses almost convinced her. They were heart felt. They were closed eyed things, mostly lip and breath with just a hint of tongue. His kisses were designed to reassure her. He took his time with them. There was nothing urgent about his tongue but he wasn't denying her the full force of his passion. He can kiss, she thought. He has practiced kissing. It is one of the things she likes about his most, his studious inhaling of information. When he watched her developing, printing, asking questions, taking it all in. It is how she first decided he might be attractive.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
He folded his arms over the bulk of his chest, let them hang awkwardly at his side, folded them again. She had set him on edge and she was sorry for it, but also, somehow, relieved.
"Not with the light on."
"Really?" he nodded, "I did it with the light on."
There was a clatter, something falling in the flat upstairs. His mother lived up there. His mother who was barely older than she was herself. She had met his mother. His mother knew about Bec's husband. She knew Bec worked at the university where her son was enrolled. Bec turned her back towards him and settled onto the bed that smelled of old dog and boy sweat. Three upturned empty beer stubbies lazed on the ground near her toes. A pile of magazines and books about photographers that she adored were scattered amongst them. Novels that she had read and loved fell in an untidy heap.
She no longer wanted to sleep with him. She wanted to go home to her safe life and her safe husband and her darkroom with its familiar chinks of light that she was forever battling. A boat that did not need rocking.
He turned the bedside light off. He touched her back, the small of it, where the edge of her underpants cut into the flesh. She turned to him nd even in the dark she could see that his body was as imperfect as her own. Stretchmarks, sagging, extra weight carried in all the wrong places. His underpants were old and had too much give in the elastic. She felt tender towards him. There was something sweet about his nervous interface with the world.
He kissed her on the mouth and he could certainly kiss. That was one thing about him. His mouth, so gentle, nothing urgent about it. No tongue, just a soft pressure of his lips against hers and she felt her desire rise up in her and spill over and when he touched her knickers they were wet.
"Here." she took his fingers and slipped them inside the crotch of her pants.
"You are so wet." he said kissing her again.
"I am never wet," she told him and maybe he believed her, it was hard to tell. They knew so little about each other. She lay, then, on his dog-scented pillow and slipped off her bra and then her pants and she was naked. He struggled out of his own, tripping slightly, graceless. And even in this light she could see that the overhang of his belly hid a tiny, frightened looking penis tucked up inside a foreskin that seemed too large for it, as if it were a small child wearing his father's overcoat.
There had been no words between them and now this. Bec found herself pausing, the stockings tripping at her ankles. Another boy would have been two shy to speak, but he was curious, this one. This was what she liked most about him. His sharp eyes. His inquisitiveness. She kicked the stockings away and felt somehow more naked, standing like this in her underpants with his question between them.
"It keeps the stockings up. Otherwise they ride down and I chafe."
He would be imagining her chafed thighs. She had betrayed herself. He cocked his head to one side, half listening, half a question.
"And then you have another pair of underpants underneath." He didn't touch her but she was suddenly aware of her second pair of underpants, the striped cotton things. These and the bra she was wearing. A black bra, unmatched.
"Everygirl you have been with has been your age right?" Bec asked him then, slipping her fingers under the waistband of her knickers, pulling them up slightly, hoping that this would hide the roundness of her belly, the stretchmarks, the very faint but also, she imagined, glaringly obvious age spots. Beneath her knickers, her pubic hair tangled like steele wool. She remembered a conversation between two of her students; 'Pubic hair? That's something you only see on fetish sites isn't it?' And then the general laughter that would be expected.
She was of a generation that still clung to their pubic hair as older ladies once clung to their beehives or blue rinses.
"Yes, I suppose so. Most people sleep with girls their own age."
She had moved on from her question and his answer startled her.
"Why do you ask?"
"Well, I suppose I am quite a contrast to them. I suppose my body is different, not quite as - tight."
"I suppose so. I haven't thought about it. It's not like I have a huge list of lovers to compare you against."
She had put the idea of comparison between them now and it could not be removed. She stood her ground, swaying slightly in her mismatched underwear, presenting her older, tireder body as if it were a challenge.
Her own students were mostly tall and lean and athletic. They grew their hair long, carried copies of Camus or the poetry of Byron conspicuously protruding from their back pockets.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Where do your words come from?
I read. This is how I ingest words. I have always read. The more you read the more the words become a part of your palatte. You can colour with them. They become richer with the years. You don't need more words you just need more ways to use them. All colours can be created using three colours. All stories can be made with simple words.
Where did you grow up and where do you live now?
I live in a tiny flat. Too small to think in. I go out into the world to give myself space. I grew up inside four walls and I wished, always for the outside, for space and quiet and privacy. I grew up in the arms of loved ones. I now live in the arms of loved ones. I am lucky and have been. Always.
What’s the first sentence/line of your latest work?
It keeps changing. At the moment it is - At some point he turns the light off. - this may not be the same tomorrow.
What piece of writing do you wish you had written?
I wish I had written The Virgin Suicides by Jeffrey Eugenides. It is perfect.
What are you currently working towards?
I am working on a novel, the novel. I want to birth a novel out into the world
Complete this sentence… The future of the book is all in the content. The content will not change. A good story is always a good story. I don't care what shape the vessel comes in. All I can tell you is it won't be a choose your own adventure. It will be a perfectly constructed story. No games, to gimmicks, to bells and whistles. This is the thing that is sure and true.
This post is part of the Queensland Writers Centre blog tour, happening October to December 2009. To follow the tour, visit Queensland Writers Centre’s blog The Empty Page.
Monday, September 28, 2009
But on a day to day it will seem like you were never there.
I mourn now, in advance, because I believe I will not be able to bare the mourning period. But we bare up. I do, at least, and it seems to me that you have moved on unscathed, finding me in the moment of our meeting like a fond memory.
Friday, September 18, 2009
And that, was the tour. Summed up, and with an emphasis on sex.
Monday, August 24, 2009
There are elements of my book that I didn't know existed. Your reading divides me into facets and makes me shine in directions that I didn't expect to shine in. I am more exciting, reflected in your eyes. I am brighter. I sit in the corner of the green room and my face is familiar they say. The paper. That photo repeated and in the repetition it becomes better than it once was. It is the kindness you lend to me. It is the aspects of yourself that I am humming along with, sympathetic vibrations. you talk about me in your reviews and I can see you. A part of you that I inhabit for the duration of the read. This pleases me. I like being you. You fit me.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
We talk about this, shouting to be heard over the music.
One of those parties that leaves me slightly insecure. Everyone so glamorous and people I should know. I am vague on the faces, lost with the names. I pretend to be calm an in my element. I am lost at sea till someone mentions autofelatio. Or was that me? Perhaps I started this discussion, probably. I see the relief on the small circle of faces as they join in the banter. Saved from social anxiety by inappropriate conversations about sex, yet again.
Friday, August 21, 2009
She showed me one that was the small sigh of a winged creature creeping past on a slight breeze. Anodized metal, beautiful hues. perfect and expensive. How much should you pay for the comfort of silence?
I am on the road. My blogging is intermittent. My masturbation similarly curtailed. I dream of an anodized hummingbird. I wake to a small thumb of metal and a tell tale buzz.
Monday, August 17, 2009
I should bask in the glow of good reviews, but instead I am distraught, wondering if this hype will just serve to dissapoint people when they read my next novel.
I am afraid I will freeze over when I am reading from my work. I am afraid I will not have enough to say about the creation of that work. I will be on the same stage as M J Hyland and Ethan Canin. Enough to make me quake even now, a week out from the thing.
I don't like art, he says, theis visually obsessed boy. I open a book and there is a glossy print. I can almost smell the oil paint, a grand adventure in colour and texture. I feel it in my gut, and then, suddenly, lower than this. Art. It is crossing the line. Perhaps design is the kissing and the touching of breasts, but art is where you don't care about polite any more. No colouring within the lines. Art is 'put something inside me', my cunt, my hungry open mouth. Art is 'that gets into me'. An end to foreplay, a coming together of disparate things.
Perhaps that is why my lust for him could never last. He was light petting, an illustrators delight. I would have wanted something other than that in the long term. I would have wanted that time when you are in the moment, swept up into each others bodies. The erotic potential of things without edges. The erotic potential of art.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
There in the dark I feel the familiar twinge of bodily demands and now, I wonder if it would be too much to remove myself to deal with it. Are you touching yourself? No, or maybe, when the answer is yes. Shall I help you? Join in with you? Touch you too? How could I ask this, now, in this odd self conscious buzz of insecurities. So I lie stiff-limbed and hope it does not escalate, thinking of other times when I was more at ease with myself, not second-guessing.
Times like this are harder for me. Before, I would spiral down into more and more denial, no sex, no food, no alcohol, no bus to work, making myself ride in the cold and the dark without a light. Making myself work when I should sleep, making myself suffer for all the bad things I have chosen to shoulder.
This is a new era. I have a book and people like it and the natural end will not be where it once was. I must hook my fingers over the good and haul myself up and out of it. This mire. When things are not quite right in my head.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
It is all come on over big boy, poking fun to make friends. Put down love. The kind that makes them squirm but pay attention. Reeling them in by seeming only half attentive. When they are there at her feet she cuts the line and laughs and walks away and they are hers.
A whole party full of men and all of them buzzing around her. It is distressing for me. This treat them mean game. I like her but I see the cruelty in it. I seem them stripped bare, humiliated. I see them lose face and not care.
I see how she does it and know that I too could have any man there. At my feet, kicked and beaten and hoping for scraps off the table.
That horrible game. A cliche. But it works. It works for her. Maybe because she is prettier than I am. Maybe because I can't hurt people like that, even if it makes them love me more.
I would play but I can't. You are either liked, and cared for or I give you a wide berth. There is no middle ground.
Therefore the adoring hordes are at her feet and not mine.
Friday, August 14, 2009
This is what I wanted. Want. This is my longed for thing. There is sex. It is on offer. But all I want right now is a hug. Just a hug and perhaps a kiss that warms my lips like cognac and helps me to stop running on the inside. Just for a moment.
I talk and laugh with my friends but I want to haul myself into a foetal ball. I want to shout, hug me. hug me. Hug me. But I am silent.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
And I felt nothing. At the time. But now a pervasive wonder at my own emotional disconnection. This replaying of my own non-reaction which is, in itself reaction enough.
But if you saw that on the street you would be effected, he tells me.
But the man died.
Like in ancient Rome where the lions tore apart the men and women but it happens at a remove. It is presented as theatre.
But the man died.
Like the time I saw a woman having sex with a male horse. I only watched for a second but I could tell she didn't want to do it and it wouldn't end well.
But the man died so what happened to the woman.
I didn't watch it till the end. I didn't want to watch it. I think she was forced to do it. It was filmed in mexico or something.
But the man died and the woman what happened to the woman?
Wouldn't end well, have you seen the size of a horse? Hung like a horse? Only watched for a second.
And I wonder how long I would watch it for. All the way through. Like the man on the train. And maybe I would go back and watch it again like I might with the man on the train. Not to reinforce the death or the pain or the disemboweling but to find out why I feel so little. Why I am removed from my own empathy.
By one time. One place. One character.
But as I narrow the narrative I know that I have made the correct choice. This was the right decision. I am happy enough. I have opened a world of possibilities just by peering through this particular doorway.
Sex. In a good way, captured and pressed between pages like the remnants of a flower long dead now.
Monday, August 10, 2009
We are down to the honesty of one blog to the next because I have no buffer, just as I have no resillience against the germs and viruses that are feeding on my energy.
So now I will not write about the porn stars, although I will. One day I will. Instead I will play the third mix tape which is maybe my favourite and search the internet with things that might help me cross one thing of my list or another.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
You are not a writer unless you are writing. Therefore I am not a writer. I know this as the positive reviews come flowing in. I know it as I prepare to stand up and chat pleasantly with readers at various festivals. I will want to stand and tell them. I am not a writer because I am not writing.
Yesterday I had three orgasms in a row. Sore, sated, I wondered why the sudden rush of excitement. something to do with my impotence when I settle in front of a computer. Something to do with the dry spell.
I settle in front of the computer. I send words that are nothing but similes all strung together, pretty tricks to hide the fact that there is no heart to the thing. Hard to read, he tells me and he is right, but I want to bite him for it. I want to hunker down like a wolf and howl and snarl. I am suddenly back on the bridge looking down at the water. I am suddenly in the trench and him there telling me I am not allowed back in it. So it leaves me standing in the firing line, a helpless friendless target and I turn my gun on him, friendly fire, because he will not help me now. This small success has left me naked and without a book to shield myself with.
Because she is asleep lying face down on his father’s bed, Simon is free to look at her. There is a sheet. It might once have been pulled discreetly over her flesh but now it serves only to underline her nakedness, drawn loosely around her knees, a slack lasso of white cotton. If someone were to pull on the end of the sheet it would snap her thighs together, hobbling her, but as it is, she is slightly exposed to his gaze. He is gazing. It is wrong for him to be standing here, feasting on the image of this strange naked woman, but this is the first strange naked woman that he has ever encountered and he is instantly, painfully aroused.
He holds his breath because any sound might wake her. He has a limited time to stand here in the doorway. She will wake up. If he moves she will wake up. If he exhales she will open her yes. He makes the most of stolen seconds. He looks at the twin globes of flesh that are her buttocks, the plummet of her waist, the fat curve of a breast squashed out from under her body by her weight. Her nipple is hidden, but the swell of flesh is enough to make his palms clammy. The breast alone would halt him, feeding on the image till his jaw ached and his eyes watered, but then there is the gentle parting of her thighs and all that lies between them.
The image of her nakedness fills up his head.
In this moment Simon would not be able to say if her hair is red or blonde or black, but he would know that her thighs are thick fleshed and that there is a little swollen mouth between them, hidden. He did not expect this. All of the magazines he has seen show a small incision, a cleft. The skin of the airbrushed beauties is neat and bald and dry. He has never seen anything like this fleshy pout. He would never have expected the sweat or juice or whatever it is that glints in the dim light, to be so visceral, so wet. He never anticipated the profusion of dark hair licking the inside of a woman’s thighs.
Simon stands and he stares until it is an image that he will be able to draw from memory, until his hands shake and his knees threaten to topple him. He is light-headed with looking, terrified that a minute more would propel him into the room. He has a terrible foreboding. He imagines the animal side of himself, the side that masturbates till he is red and sore, the side that secretly looks up the skirts of girls on the bus, he imagines this animal Simon ripping free of his skin like the Incredible Hulk, tearing out of his clothing. He imagines the Hulking animal Simon, climbing up onto the bed and throwing itself onto the naked flesh, unrestrained and unrestrainable.
He can no longer hold his breath, red-faced, trembling, Simon exhales.
The naked woman rolls over.
Breasts. Simon sees breasts.
The naked woman opens her eyes.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Thursday, August 6, 2009
I realised I have been behaving like a child. I smiled at a baby and said it was cute to a mother that was ten years younger than I am, or more. I think I meant it at the time. It was smiling. It seemed like an ok baby. When they had gone I just thought about how young she looked, the mother, and how I didn't have the energy for children.
I want a new way to masturbate. I have lost the heart for it tonight.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
I chanced on a tender scrap of pornography last night. A video just like any other but this was different somehow. The two men seemed to like her. One of them dipped his head and tasted her. Some kind of pleasure in the cunnilingus. I remember my first love, now dead. His joy from going down there. His excitement. A never to be repeated love of oral sex. I wonder if it is just me or if all men come to it reluctantly. He wouldn't participate in penetrative sex that one. He made me wonder what it was about me that I couldn't be breached. I couldn't ask. I was young and insecure. He had an answer surely, but he died with it. So I am left to wondering, why did you never enter me? Is it because all else can be kept at arms length? Is it because you do not want an intimate connection? Keep it light. Keep it play. Is it because you never had the heart for it? Or because to leave the bed to get a condom would mean to change your mind about the whole thing.
Too late to ask when he has died. Too late.
So now, with the memory of his lips and the echos of good pornography subsiding, I begin to wonder about cunnilingus and all the worries about my inadequacies surface. Am I too strong tasting? Is this, again, too intimate an act? I imagine the petals of a flower opening. The soft velvet. I would dip my head and taste. I would stay there for the longest time. I would learn the machinations of my own sex by scent and touch and taste. For you, does this seem unclean? The differences between us are underlined. And there is a sadness. but it is a small one. We have other things.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Girl, warm. Freshly washed, smelling of sweet chemicals that humans seemed to like. Him, pungent, the stale scotch sweat leaking from his armpits. His pyjamas unwashed for far too long, the yellow stain of his sweat on the back of them. Him with his arm draped around her shoulder. Him with his face pressed against her collar. This moment with him. This shuffling back against him. This contact, the hardness of him. He shifted his hips once, twice. She held her breath. This love. This huge love. And his sob against her neck.
It grew warmer. She shed her winter coat. He shed his clothes and moved about the house naked. Staring at his reflection in the dark windows or the silent television screen as if he had discovered a stranger in his own home. Mild surprise, concern, curiosity. They lay together in his bed and sometimes it was an easy comfort. Other times he grew agitated, pushed at her, ordered her to the foot of the bed, regretted his tone and fell on her with apologies. Girl breathed through it. She turned her rump towards him. Love, she thought, biggest love.
There was nothing to it when it came down to it. It was quick. It was nothing really. Just a physical representation of the big love. After it was done, he clung to the nape of her neck with his fists, shaking. That was the nicest part. She was reminded of her mother, a vague memory of being carried, the loose skin at her neck held tight, a comfort.
He put a mattress at the foot of the bed. She understood. He needed space from it, from her. She sat up on her haunches and rested her chin on the end of the bed and watched him twitch and clasp his knees to his chest. Sometimes at night he cried out in his sleep and then she would leap up onto the bed and lie with him. It was summer, hot, but he had taken to wearing cotton pyjamas that stuck to his skin, damp in patches.
"There," he said, tired, barely awake, but raising his hand to stroke her chest regardless. "Good Girl, good Girl."
And Girl closed her eyes and abandoned herself to love. The biggest love that almost tore the skin off her with its ferocity.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
The sound of the shower stopped suddenly. He stepped out onto the bath mat. It was ludicrous. She looked towards him, the little upward bounce of his penis.
Huge love. An ache.
She watched him stare at his own reflection in the mirror. Lost. Girl shuffled closer.
Not lost. He had her. She knew exactly where they were. Here. In their bathroom, with the cold tiles and the fluffy bath mat that his wife had loved.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
This had been happening for too long.
He sat in the chair he liked to sit in and she dragged herself closer with her toenails, sidling up along the linoleum till she could rest her chin on his foot. She breathed on his ankle. Each little puff a whispered secret. Your wife is gone. I am here. Your wife is gone. I am here. And as if he had heard and understood he reached down and touched her head. Girl closed her eyes and whined, knowing there was no way she could love something or someone more than this.
She had taken to easing her way into the bathroom. When his wife was alive he would shut the door completely. She would sit outside, and even her thigh pressed against the bathroom door would not budge it. Some mornings, on the weekend the wife would join him in the shower and girl would pause between breaths, listening for the little human sounds, the coos and giggles, the grunts. There was of course something not right about it. Her excitement was ludicrous. They were people. Naked, hairless, ridiculous.
Once they left the bedroom door open and she crept in and sat by the bed. There was something tender about their little naked bodies entwined that way. Rolling like pups, and the mounting that occurred in the middle of it seemed a mimicry of adult love. The smell of them, hot and acid, off-putting at first, but she got used to it, became almost excited by it at one point, hunkered down onto the carpet and pushed against it in that way that felt best.
Friday, July 31, 2009
I have never been good at stopping. Whispered, 'wait, wait' and me struggling to hold off. I need to be ordered to stop touching it. I need to be restrained, physically, because when the escalation has occurred it is difficult for me to find a place to rest. But wait, wait. I want for this to be a shared pleasure, so for my pleasure and for yours I will not finish here. I will continue. Maybe one day we will come to our collective natural ending.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
and can be bought from here
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
I wonder how it felt. The night before the first sex ever. The night before I left home. The night before seeing him for the second time - the first time doesn't count as there was no anticipation. The night before I left, knowing I would never lie beside him again. The night before the announcement of the prize. The night before my launch. When I wear that dress that makes me look nice and I have a list of people to thank. The night before it goes public. The night before they have started to read it. I am still a closed book this night before. Tomorrow, or the next night, you may see me differently.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
She lifts edge of frilly knickers and inches them down.
He steps closer and erection can be sighted by camera.
She starts to moan just at the sight of the erection.
I turn the sound to mute. There is nothing less exciting than the moans of a girl who is directed to do so. I am distracted by the thought of this and follow a memory trail to moans that seemed staged, sounds that were not the real response to physical stimulus. To my own noises which sometimes surprise me, stark piggish grunts or the held-in sound of someone asphyxiating.
He enters her. Lifting her leg for the camera's shaky gaze. In a little, out again, in a little more. All this to show us, the viewers that this is the actual act of coitus that we are paying for.
The actual act of coitus. Staged. Performed for me. And the sight of two bodies working at and into each other is eternally stimulating. My own body responds, readying itself for orgasm. Yes. I know that there is no emotional connection, but this is a vagina and that is a penis and they are in contact with each other and I am watching it. He does that fast thing, that piston hard fuck action that is quite popular. It is not a rythm I can sing to, but he takes his pauses and the camera zooms in for a close shot of a penis entering a vagina.
I come. Quickly. My body locking up as it does, muscles spasming in my back and my neck, toes curling, nipples snapping erect. I know how my body works and what it will do. I know that this is a quick physical release and the come down is sudden and brutal. I am overwhelmed by the emptiness of post-porn orgasms. I feel the weight of loneliness, and that too is associated now with sex. This terrible lack. Sad flourescent glare. My to-do list suddenly visible, throbbing in time to in fading pulsations.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Saturday, July 25, 2009
I had my hand raised. I wanted to be picked. I still have a small cold place inside me that would have liked to have been selected. I watch the team gathering around you and I know I am not a team player. Not your team. I step aside and let the crowd gather at your feet. What I thought was doubles, tennis, has turned out to be basketball. I put my hand down slowly.
Don't pick me. But you probably weren't going to anyway.
Friday, July 24, 2009
lovingly secreted. kept in dusty places. Kissed gently, and from a distance so as not to set off the various protective alarms.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
He doesn't really see me in that way because there are other cave girls, one for each day of the week and then some. I will never choose him because he is not so good with the axe-throwing. But we want to be picked anyway. Even if nothing will be done in the scheme of things, we each want what we should not and will never have. We each want what we wouldn't want if it was on offer anyway.
I turn to the great philosophers and I see that again, I am not unique. I am up there with the Germans, the Existentialists and the Greeks. I am cave girl in her own corner, withering from the cruel gaze of natural selection.
Ah. Writing about sex. Do we get sick of writing about sex? Tomorrow there will be more sex and the nest day. It is the only constant. That, and the idea that we are not in control of our own strings.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Beer o'clock is more sexy than writing about writing about sex.
Writing about sex is more sexy than writing about writing about sex.
Sex is more sexy.
Sex is way more sexy.
Finding a new position after 20 years of tried and true repertoire is much more informative than my article about writing about writing about sex.
So give me the sex and take away the writing about. Give me the new found pleasure and let someone else provide the instructional video.
Monday, July 20, 2009
I remember, as a small child, you would steal a toy and cut its mane, its hair, its fingers off at the knuckle. I would hold my tears until my head ached. I would shrug, dry-eyed as if I never cared about the toy in the first place. Sometimes I would comfort the severed plastic stumps later, smothering the damaged hand with kisses. "You know I love you. You know I will always love you." I would sacrifice all that I cared for in an effort against competition.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
I want to let go. I want to move on without the problem of my lust dragging behind me, snail trail. Everyone can follow the silvery slipperiness and find you at the end of it.
I am embarrassed by this.
I am in two minds. I see-saw between this double-think. I think of Orwell. Enemy and friend at the same moment. We have always been at war and we have never been at war. And so I circle, hooked on the idea of you and it is beneath me, this erratic behaviour.
On his death bed and his love declared and me knowing that this was something that could not be returned in the same way.
I love you, just not in the way you want me to love you.
And so I wrestle with myself, jumping between the lover and the beloved, knowing that there is no happy solution, that the only way out is to slink off to somewhere else, dragging my snail trail of desire along with me.
I will let you go. And, as is my style, I must let you go completely and utterly. And all this love, all this sad wasted love.
He died with all that sad, wasted love. I move away, love hissing out of me like I'm punctured. Why can I not just re-frame this. Why can I not just hold this love out like a present or a shared secret? Why is it all fisted in my womb like a cancer? Why does it hurt in my groin? Did it hurt in his groin? His love for me?
I am letting it go. Honestly. Just a few more days in the water and I will climb out and towel off. Because it makes me cry when I stop. It makes me lonely. I miss it like tobacco or like alcohol. I miss it like some people miss heroin. I miss it like he missed me, fiercely, irrationally and without any hope of repayment.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Thursday, July 16, 2009
"fine. Room for improvement"
because I put such little effort into performance. the orgasm that I am seeking is my own. Yours is just something that I use to turn myself on. Your excitement, an inspiration. Your climax a little visual stimulus.
It wasn't always so. I am sure I remember times when my sighs were there to make you harder. My mouth around a penis, purely for his pleasure.
More recently it has been selfishness that motivates me. My mouth that likes to be filled, my breasts that need to be sucked. My various penetrations that all add to the pleasure. All for me. I swallow if I feel like it, if the taste is right on the back of my tongue. I will spit if I chose to. I will take the pain or the kindness in my own time and my own way.
A sign of age no doubt. I hear about women who live alone and wear a groove for themselves in time. My groove is my selfish climb towards orgasm. Mine. For me. And who are you again? My love? My lover? Thank you then, but the pleasure is all mine. And no, I do not fake those orgasms. I never have. If you don't believe me, put your fingers in here now and feel it for yourself.
Rating? Five star full body orgasm for me and your fingers, your penis noting the excitement. You? What were you doing again?
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Still, I will watch your pornography and you will watch mine. I will come while watching yours. You will come while watching mine. This is the thing about relationships. The subtle give and take.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Some times I can just have a bath to read my book, or listen to a fiction podcast from the New Yorker. It is just an association. Pavlovian. I run the water and I crave sex and alcohol. Easy as that. Today I will refrain. I have a handful of pages left to read and I do not need the regular distractions. Today a bath is for cleanliness, warmth and a good book.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
I struggle to imagine what I could find sexy in it as my body readies itself for whatever I may settle on, the skin flushing, my nipples pulling erect, the thickening of the labia. Anything really. I could come from the thought of someone walking around upstairs. I could come from the idea that all the little green lights on my gmail are people watching me. I could come from the warmth of the water and from the thought of all that has come before. I come from the pornography. It is relatively easy but when it is done I feel nothing. There are no small aftershocks. Only tenderness can stay with me through the day. Only intimacy. Perhaps, only the idea of beauty in the form of tenderness. Perhaps, only from the idea of a kiss.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
He moped, opened the refrigerator door, closed it. He opened packets of things and then realised this was not what he had wanted but ate them anyway. They would both gain the weight of sadness. Still. It was over. There would be no repair.
She found a hand towel with the scent of him still on it and thought briefly that she might keep it. A momento of something that was once nice. She threw it into the wash with the sheets and the socks and her underthings. When she took the towel off the line there was nothing left of him. It was the end then.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Bec pulls her face into an amused frown. Perhaps he has been studying her kissing technique. She remembers David's kisses, big sloppy things that engulfed her whole face at times. The over-zealous enthusiasm of a puppy. Bad kisser. Good intentions. She is remembering this when he opens his mouth and forms silent precise words with his lips.
I LOVE YOU.
I LOVE YOU.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
I love you now and always is not some trap. I bristled. I thought it was meant to scold me for my lack of contact and my distance. I understand it now. Love, now and always, no matter how distant we become. Our separate parts of the world forever connected by this thin thread of concern that will never be broken.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
I did love you. You know that. And I think you may have felt some kind of love too.
ah. well. that was something.
As a child, I was not so into horses. I prefered the dollhouse, the spaceship, the cave.
This then will be something new.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Monday, July 6, 2009
Sometimes I don't care how much others care about me. My own care is enough. It is huge. Sometimes their reciprocation is just a nice thing that happens if it does. Often my love is enough.
Other times I feel the lack of care from them and I would cut my love off cold, a severed vein, the last of my concern gushing out of me, leaving me pale and emptied out.
I love you. I've always loved you. I think about you every day.
I want to stamp my feet at the complications of this love. I want to rage and cry and rage again. I want to tear it up. I will not love like that. It is unfair for him to have loved like that. Someone stop me from loving like that.
How can you not love me? How could I not love him? Why did he chose to love me so stubbornly? What a stupid fucking waste of all that love. What a stupid fucking waste.
Two people in my book now dead. And all the love running out onto the floor where it will make a mess and have to be cleaned up anyway.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
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.
silly. silly reckless juvenile stunt. But I would steal it for him. For you.
Friday, July 3, 2009
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.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
are you watching me?
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.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
And so you covet.
The physical comes after. The physicality is the usual thing. You are used to finding the warm bodies irresistible. This is nothing new. But add to this the terrible emptiness, the lack and there is alchemy.
But do not mistake it for love. The love is there and there is an intersection but it is not the thing that binds you. The love is familial. Recognition of commonality. Obsession comes from a place where something is missing, the need to repair. The love does not come with a sense of urgency. I must unpick it so that I can put it together for myself. I am making this thing from scratch, and each thread must be perfectly placed and perfectly coloured.
Monday, June 29, 2009
I can't imagine that passion will withstand this erosion, but this is the premise that I will begin from. Maybe it is not the specific passion itself, but the idea of passion that is so long lived. We come to this point and there will be a juncture. The intensity of it is about timing, circumstance. I cannot bring myself to call it love. But it lodges physically. It is a disease that settles into our bones, making our legs shake. Eventually we will be worn away by it, but for now it is molten. It pulls focus. A veneer of normality is brittle. This thing will crack it. Passion spilled out all over the place. Like blood. Like ink from that squid I once caught in the night. Noticing the stain of it, only later, in the morning, when the light had come around once more.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Potential tristes, each and every conversation. Your vagina settling onto his penis at the warm heart of every interaction. You are filled by the potential to be filled.
In the playground they draw a line across the asphalt. Girls on one side. Boys on the other. And they meet at the line to learn games that involve clapping hands. If it weren't for the line they would remain coyly in their segregated groups. It is the warning that drives them to link fingers. It is the banning of books leads to more reading.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
How is it that we are so completely unaligned. I dance, you follow awkwardly. I am all flesh and heart. You do the head work.
A + B = an equation that you have practiced. And so it goes, this thing between us figured, decimal place by decimal place until we come to our separate conclusions.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
I wonder if they are laughing because they are in an elevator doing this or because it is funny that he would lick her vagina. This kind of behaviour seems ordinary but I wonder if they don't do this, these boys. All of these boys. Not liking it because it tastes of flesh and juice. Not liking it because it is too intimate. Not liking it because there is hair. Not liking it because that is where we bleed from.
The audience laugh and I do not. It is not funny because I like to be the recipient of this kind of attention, not all the time, but some of the time. I wonder how many head jobs, how much spit or swallow, how much hand on the back of the head a woman has to get down to before a man can kneel and put his mouth to her and not snicker.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
I watch Disgrace and I see the ending followed by a lack of resolution. A drawing out of the resolution. What might be neat is followed by a limping string of events that serve to muddy things again.
In my story they do not walk away from each other at the moment of resolution. They choose to stay, and so the muffled orgasm will be followed by more fighting and more fighting without the relief of sex to clear the decks once more. Their timing will be perpetually out, a toy bird ducking its head to drink the water then stuttering into a graceless fall and bob and nod. Forever if you let it drink and fall away again. The pattern can not be broken unless someone steps in to remove the glass or, better yet, the bird.
Buy the fucking battery Krissy. Take the old one out and go to the shop and buy it because you must not rely on the world to make you feel whole and sexy. You must be alone in this and all things. Have you not learned?
Learn learn learn learn learn learn.
Your time is up.
Monday, June 22, 2009
All this is fine for now, for today because the memories are good and clean but one day the smoke traces will lead me back to people I miss. People who are gone. Dead perhaps or disappeared in a stamp of feet and a barrage of fists.
The secret lurch down in my bowels as I remember sex, touches, kisses. Sense memory stirring me like a drug, like the acid sweat smell of a trip coming on and all the trepidation and excitement that goes with it. Sometimes the memory of a thing is almost better than the thing itself.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Will this ever go away? This longing for a distant past? This flesh knowledge? Wet. I become wet when I think of it for any length of time. I do not become wet for other memories. I save this for you.
They ask about obsession and I remember. Distant past that might have been last week or the one before. You do not leave me. I return to you. Will this be forever? Is this single train of thought a faithlessness when the one I love is here and tangible and cared for?
You are a symbol of yourself. This is not a hat. This is not a pipe. This is not you, this is me and the memory I drag up over and over. This is you worn smooth and turned into the thing I want of you. This is me, my orgasm, my orgasms. Over and over without much effort. Minimum effort. Maximum result.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Many thanks for your continued support.
We talk of people you could have sex with. I imagine this in gentle sepia. I imagine you dipping your head to kiss their necks, these girls, some of whom love you. You are surprised to be loved, it seems, or perhaps this is just a conceit because you know all too well that you are lusted after. Still, when I imagine you with each one, I imagine you clothed and doe-eyed. I imagine the romance of it when you have never been a romantic soul.
You ask for a list of people I could see you with because your judgement is blinded by the lack of sex and your proximity to the possibilities. You ask me to picture you with your perfect other. I picture you, but they are faceless, these others, because it has been a good night and we are here in the early hours of the morning and the picture of us is infused in that same sepia glow. All I can see is the laying down of memories, our memories.
We will be friends for ever you say and it might be true. You with your indistinguishable other. Me with your children close as family. But I cannot picture the sex because this is all about talking way into the night, fond smiles across a conversation-lit room, and the safe wonderful hug at the end of it. This is the wonderous idea that now, finally I can be a friend for you, just for the sake of it.
So he touches me and it is a man touching a woman, and it is an old friend, knowing that most of his old friends have abandoned him and I will not do so.
I am not the abandoning type. I am loyal. Kisses me on the cheek and I am reminded of other similar kisses. Other, closer, newer friends who I worry for. Don't let them fall as my old friend has fallen. Keep them safe. I love them more and if they fell I would catch them without question, I would keep this faith that I have in them.A hard promise, but one that feels right.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Nothing has changed, and yet importance has been given to a body of work.
This is what happens when you pick me. Suddenly, I am given credibility. I can relax in to an easy confidence. I think of all the times I have been picked. Someone agrees to have sex with me, not the next girl or the one before, but me. Legitimacy I become someone desired.
After the picking is done with I know that nothing has changed. My work is still as good or as bad as it always was. My body is as questionable. My sexual prowess has not been transformed by the fact that I have been chosen.
I am considering the idea of sexual verses sexy. I am considering the concept of beautiful. All this for something I am writing, but I pause and I think, before I was published I was still this good. Before I was picked to be someone's lover I was still as full of sex.
I need to learn how to pick me. I pick me. I don't need you to pick me at all. I know when the work is good. I know when I am all sex in a thin skin. All this is up to me.
At night we roll away from each other and curl our arms up and hug nothing, very tightly.
This is the way we keep love for the longest time. This is the way we mind each other without becoming disappointed. This is love and I am comfortable with that.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
For these reasons if you do not desire me then the loss is specific and acute. This does not affect me or my desirability. Look at how I move, I will make a good dance partner, given time, I follow easily and am not afraid to take the lead. All the criticisms I sometimes hurl at myself are irrelevant. I store them up because I am a good catch, double entendres intended.
I have been caught, and I fall into his hands and he puts his fingers inside me and he says, 'you are desirable' and he is right. I have to nod, although at times I can't see through the hurly burly of the day to day to recognise this as truth. I am desirable, and despite the silence from the audience of poe-faced gazers, I am desired.
Monday, June 15, 2009
I feel the mean snap of his chatter and am reminded that I am privileged and may not complain. But there is still pain. Nothing gets easier with these blessings I have collected up. There are still the dark nights and I am still no less lonely. Only now I have no story and must remain silent. Or that is what he tells me.
I see her hurt and I am moved. I do not want to be moved but I am. I am sorry for your loss because I am no longer supposed to be sorry for my own.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
My fault entirely. No point apologising because I apologise every day. I am sorry but this will happen again.
Maybe all I need is silence.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
In the quietening of my heart I think about the way my friendships follow this same pattern. So thin that I could break them. And I do. Eventually. I rattle the fragments of us in my fist, pull the wings off it, throw it into a breeze. When there is no life in it I cry. When will I learn to be more gentle with my things.
I struggle into my clothes. Catch a glance in the mirror. Habitual wince. All this before dragging myself back to work.
What a joke. Weekend of growling and barking and standing tight lipped in our corners. We are less than friends now. This aborted attempt to come to grips with each other. I bring all my intellect to the task but no amount of craft and structural truths will save this shambles of a love. You and I for years, coming to some kind of internal truth. I stare at you and you are nothing but a manuscript. You are not my person anymore. I have no person. I have no new thing to go onto. Damn you were fine. We were fine. I miss something. You. I think I miss you.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
I am more experienced and therefore I am better. I am more virile, more orgasms in any one day therefore I win the king of the jungle.
It is about father's and sons and therefore it is inextricably about sex. Eating and fucking the human animal reveals itself. All of it about sex. You can hide it behind science or philosophy, volcanoes or gods, but still it erupts a thousand times a day. This territorial fucking. This beating of chests. And yes, I am impressed. And yes, I am interested. A female of the species, ever-attuned to the scent of fathers and their sons.