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A Fifteen Minute
Trip By Train
“Would you like one?”
Her voice was creaky, but not from having a sore throat. It was a part of her. She asked the question lightly, though grave enough to acknowledge the mystery of knowing I dervently wanted one of her cigarettes.
“If you don’t mind, I think I would.” The words had to be forced out of my throat, as if I didn’t have control over them. She took the seat across mine and laid a packet of tobacco on the small table between us. I studied the picture of a perky woman’s head wearing a tiger skin cap and black eye make-up. “Do you know how?” I looked up, lifting a glance over her breasts as I sought her face. That same flash grasped me once again and sent a bolt down the center of my back, it made a track. I took on the tigress, but my hands were trembling. I did my best to keep them still and managed, more or less, to do so. I remember hearing only the boom of our progress and the rustling of cigarette paper between indexes and thumbs. Through the corners of my eyes I could make out she was looking, at me. Something clutched to my chest and my heart missed a beat. I grinned courteously and took no further notice of her, or at least pretended. In an act of filling up the gap, I tried to reclaim my canvas of twilight, but all I stared upon was her reflection.
(2001) Wedlock
The magpie sat in the same place it had, its gloomy stare shimmering in the winter light. I swear I saw a reflection of the smashed car inside its eyes. Then heard a loud bang, which startled the bird. It flew off a second time. We turned to see the car in flames. “There goes his car,” she uttered with the coolest of voices. Her eyes grew big as she stared into the fire. “Was it not yours?” I inquired. “No, it wasn’t.” She shivered when she said it. And her eyes shrunk. Black smoke filled the air around us. I wanted to put my arm around her, take her somewhere warm. “Shouldn’t we call the police,” I suggested. Responsible as I am. “Can you drive me home, we can call from there?” As if she had to ask. Her look sank. Seemed sad somehow and not because of the wreck. She was trembling. I opened the passenger door for her, nudged her inside.
She dropped the rope next to me onto the bed. “Do you know what good girls do with this?” She wasn’t kidding. “They tie up the bad girls and make them pay?” “That’s right.” She pulled me upright and now her crotch was screaming at me. I groped her and she fought back. I grabbed again and scratched her. She let me kiss the spot, then her mound and then her lips. I wanted to taste her so deeply, licked at her and licked again. She was slick. I moaned as she took hold of my shoulders and pushed herself onto my mouth.
The shockwave came in slow-motion, seemed to decelerate my motion in time. My movements in space as I bucked into that bank inside of me – her filling my spaces. The bank felt good to crash into. Generated upon impact a need so ancient, primal, and distinct. The need that would, and could, be stilled only by the very wave whose break of surge sparked this hunger to begin with. As it broke upon my confines, I did roar. Grunted so extrovertly that she pushed in her third finger, then her fourth and last. My insides almost burst, then didn’t. Grew only larger as they expanded. For her, by her.
(2005)
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Maîtresse de manège
[1] It’s wrong. Can’t happen. Is what I think when I see you. Landing on the wrong leg. As your horse has to trip himself out of balance and skids on his side through the dust for some length. As I rush over too quickly, am aware of the gait I do this with too late. In the moment where my thought charges too sudden, and tramples you horny all over. But you’re getting up. You’re okay. You say. “Just a few scratches.” But I know you. You won’t admit this kind of thing that soon. Moreover, because I see you limp for a fraction. Your face allows contortion for just a second as you let yourself slump against the obstacle post. I think you relish it in secret. Because I understand this. Recognize that look. But it can’t happen. You know very well why not. It shouldn’t happen again.
(2008)
The Vanity Off Sex
The phone wakes me up. The ringing, it sounds urgent. It’s you; close to midnight. We’ve been spending time. In class, or eating out, or at parties you like to go to. You dance like a hurricane, it’s dazzling. You drink like one, too. I carried you home once. We haven’t talked about that night either, or the morning after. But it’s always there. Behind the shimmer in your eyes when you poke and look at me after I say stuff that jumbles your mind. I do that sometimes. “Are you there?” “Yeah,” I say still dizzy from my evening portion, “I’m here.” Hesitation. “How are you?” I hear it right away. “What’s going on?” “Just wanted to call. How are you? Are you ok?” “No, you didn’t.” “Didn’t what?” “Just call.” Silence. I get up. Wobble streaking back my messy hair. Try to get my vision back. “I…,” you start, then change your mind, “I missed you, that’s all.” But there’s something raw. Butchered. About the last of your syllables that seems to cling like a hook to the inside of your windpipe and grates as the sound drags out of your mouth, and through the speaker. “Give me thirty minutes. Okay?” I say. I think you nod, only to realize I can’t hear that. “Mm,” you add. “Stay put. I mean it.” I hang up and find clothes. Well, pants. I can’t seem to make up my mind on what else to wear, so go to freshen up at the sink. But, then that gives me too much time to focus, too much time to think rationally and I need to not do that right now.
(2009) |
Rage
The silence hangs like thick dictionaries between us. Volumes of sounds shoot through my head and yet no single word finds its way to the surface. This isn’t possible either. Because we, I, haven't been finding that surface for a while now. This silence is too steep for that.
I want you to take me. I want you to kill.
Shove you against the wall. My knee between your thighs. My hip against yours. I writhe. We look— lightning. You furious. As am I, but for a different reason. You pant. Softly, because you don’t want me to notice, but I see your chest moving. The fabric pulling tighter, subtly, where your divine nipples are. I touch them. They stand.
(2008)
Power Play “You’re an absolute cunt for making me walk this far,” I whisper grinning into her hair, and clamp the shell of her ear between my teeth. My breath escapes in a vaporous cloud, which fleetingly engulfs her head while we cleave through the night ahead. The needles of her pumps tack the pavement and it’s cold outside. The park is dark. Everything how I like. She reaches for my thigh, gives my laboring muscles there a good squeeze and says, “Nothing a dyke like you couldn’t handle. Besides, you know perfectly well how relative everything is.” And she’s right. Of course, the tiny pill she snuck into my mouth before we left the bedroom helps a lot. Not that it’s doing much, at least not that I can tell yet. She probably thinks I didn’t notice. Except she knows I’d’ve swallowed it from her anyway—but I like how her pills-in-kisses mean trouble. That’s why we play this game. This way. (2009) When The Glove Comes Off “Mm, get it wet,” I mumble with my tongue half caught on hers, knowing how much wetter she’ll get from this. Her ass rubs itself in my right hand while she starts reaching for my drink wanting some. But I don’t give it to her. Pull her hair instead, yank her back a little bit. Just enough so I can get under her jaw, suck on that spot beneath the angle in her bone. It softens her up. We look at each other and I still don’t let her move. Pour the scotch down her chin. It never touches her mouth but runs down in mine and I lick her throat clean, bite in her skin. Her breathing turns to panting as I do all this; her resistance becomes hospitable. “Now suck on it,” I order her, because she has to. (2008) |
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