"You look like you're going to cry," he whispered from behind, and just as I was about to take it for true concern, he leaned in and said, "I gotta say, it's getting me all excited."
It was dark and damp and it smelled suspiciously like wet carpets, and when he grabbed me by the arm and lead me deeper into the crowd, he seemed to delve into the chaos, dissolving into it as if it were his natural habitat, all but the travesty that was his hair; all florescent blue and coquettish
curls. It wasn't until later that night that I realized his hair was actually white, and only appeared blue because of the black-lights.
"So, why'd you take me here?" I asked, sounding a bit too casual about the fact that a stranger forced me away from my friends and took me to some shady club that looked like it belonged in Satan's armpit.
"Take?" he leered at me, clenching and unclenching his jaws to the backdrop of industrial post-punk music, "Are you saying you're up for grabs?"
"Maybe. Are you looking to make your claim?"
He shook his head, blue curls aswirl, "Careful, now."
"Why should I be?" I smiled, rolling the tip of my tongue around my straw before slipping it into my mouth; a gesture he seemed to thoroughly enjoy.
"Didn't your mother warn you about strange men?"
"Are you saying you're strange?"
"I wouldn't say that," he trailed off, smiling silently to himself, like he was in on some secret joke, "I just have a... strange appetite."
"And what are you craving tonight?"
He smiled, licking his lips, "You."
"But you don't know me." I said, as he inched closer, ignoring (or pretending to ignore) the uncertainty in my voice.
"I know what you could be."
"And what is that?"
"Do you want me to show you?"
He
loomed over me with a sullen expression to his face, as if he was
contemplating something so terrible, even he couldn't believe it, and in
the black of his eyes lurked the most frightening shade of red—blood red—and every voice in my head was telling me to get the fuck out of here, but instead I leaned in and said, "Please."
Monday, June 23, 2014
Saturday, April 26, 2014
Off-white
You make me feel so much, don't you know?
No, you don't.
You make me feel so incredibly—so painfully—plain, like I was the off-white paint on your bedroom walls, the one you keep meaning to change (but never get around to).
And you don't know, but I live for that half-wink, half-squint you throw into your side-way smiles.
And you don't know, but I adore every inaudible word that comes out of your cigarette-stained lips.
And you don't know, but I treasure the cluster of grey hair around your temples, and how they seem to hide away under the scrutiny of my gaze.
And then you come around and call me with a name that isn't mine, and you say that you aren't good with names, and you're sorry for half a second, and you carry on.
You make me feel like fucking shit, don't you know?
No, you fucking don't.
No, you don't.
You make me feel so incredibly—so painfully—plain, like I was the off-white paint on your bedroom walls, the one you keep meaning to change (but never get around to).
And you don't know, but I live for that half-wink, half-squint you throw into your side-way smiles.
And you don't know, but I adore every inaudible word that comes out of your cigarette-stained lips.
And you don't know, but I treasure the cluster of grey hair around your temples, and how they seem to hide away under the scrutiny of my gaze.
And then you come around and call me with a name that isn't mine, and you say that you aren't good with names, and you're sorry for half a second, and you carry on.
You make me feel like fucking shit, don't you know?
No, you fucking don't.
Saturday, March 29, 2014
A Certain Man, XII
It's not his.
And he knew right away. How his face fell; glum and grey and lips the colour of nightshade. And I couldn't help but shiver to no end, when he bent over and said, "Looking forward to meet you, little one". How he could be so cruel in his kindness was beyond me.
We had another boy, a plump and healthy bundle that had to be forced into the world, ripped out of me and thrust into cold, indifferent hands. And whenever he looked up at me with large blinking eyes, I could almost swear he knew. He would sit there and judge me in silence, like his father did before him. I had thought my guilt would somehow dissolve and subside with the birth of my child. That he would serve as the final stage of my repentance, but instead, he was the fruit of my sin, a constant reminder of my most terrible of mistakes.
But how I adored him. How I adored both my sons. It often startled me how quickly they were growing, and because of that, I had this crippling fear of somehow losing track of time, of turning away for a second and finding them grown and gone. It always felt like they were running, flying miles ahead, and I always fell back, unable to keep up.
They were so very different, my two boys, and so much like their fathers that I began to wonder if I managed to pass anything at all to them. My eldest was the sun in its warmth. He felt with such openness, such abundance, as if love was only ever meant to be given, and not received. And my youngest, like the palest of moons, cared silently, inwardly; but so severely, that at times it would overflow, trickle over the edges and stain the crown of my head with shy, uncertain kisses.
My two boys. How I wished, with all my heart, I could pluck each and every star and hang them over their heads. To capture the world and lay it at their feet. They would never want, never need; not while I live and breathe. Not once would they feel unloved, unwanted, or ostracized. Not once would they stumble without someone to hold on to. Not once would they seek validation in the warm embrace of another. Not once would they kiss without feeling. Not once would they love out of obligation. And most importantly, they would never, not even once, feel alone.
My two boys.
May they never be their fathers. May they never be their mother.
And he knew right away. How his face fell; glum and grey and lips the colour of nightshade. And I couldn't help but shiver to no end, when he bent over and said, "Looking forward to meet you, little one". How he could be so cruel in his kindness was beyond me.
We had another boy, a plump and healthy bundle that had to be forced into the world, ripped out of me and thrust into cold, indifferent hands. And whenever he looked up at me with large blinking eyes, I could almost swear he knew. He would sit there and judge me in silence, like his father did before him. I had thought my guilt would somehow dissolve and subside with the birth of my child. That he would serve as the final stage of my repentance, but instead, he was the fruit of my sin, a constant reminder of my most terrible of mistakes.
But how I adored him. How I adored both my sons. It often startled me how quickly they were growing, and because of that, I had this crippling fear of somehow losing track of time, of turning away for a second and finding them grown and gone. It always felt like they were running, flying miles ahead, and I always fell back, unable to keep up.
They were so very different, my two boys, and so much like their fathers that I began to wonder if I managed to pass anything at all to them. My eldest was the sun in its warmth. He felt with such openness, such abundance, as if love was only ever meant to be given, and not received. And my youngest, like the palest of moons, cared silently, inwardly; but so severely, that at times it would overflow, trickle over the edges and stain the crown of my head with shy, uncertain kisses.
My two boys. How I wished, with all my heart, I could pluck each and every star and hang them over their heads. To capture the world and lay it at their feet. They would never want, never need; not while I live and breathe. Not once would they feel unloved, unwanted, or ostracized. Not once would they stumble without someone to hold on to. Not once would they seek validation in the warm embrace of another. Not once would they kiss without feeling. Not once would they love out of obligation. And most importantly, they would never, not even once, feel alone.
My two boys.
May they never be their fathers. May they never be their mother.
Friday, March 14, 2014
Soured Milk
He said his name was Svengali; a lie, I'm sure, but one that I let him have. He said he was looking for someone like me, and when I asked what that was, he said, "A mouse to keep."
I don't know why but from that very first lie I felt inexplicably drawn to him. He had a strange aura about him, an amorphous essence that seeped through his limbs and into the air like miasma; thick and dark and full of hate. And he strung me along so effortlessly; a flick of his wrist and I was on my knees, and instead of pulling me up, he put his foot on my shoulder and pushed me further down until I was at his feet.
When I look back at it all, I can't help but feel regret. I don't regret the path I chose, but rather, the way I chose to travel along that path; hiding so comfortably under the pretense of coercion. I liked the idea of being the helpless victim; an impressionable young girl who's only crime was a weakness to a man's charm. In reality I was very much aware of what I was getting myself into, and I needed nor trickery nor deceit to do it.
I wanted to be his mouse. I wanted to be worthless and to revel in my insignificance. I wanted to live in filth, to be as vile and morbid as I wished to be. I wanted his anger, and I wanted his hate, and I craved the pain. I wanted all of it, and he, the mighty Sven, would give and give and give.
And there was no end to what I would take.
I don't know why but from that very first lie I felt inexplicably drawn to him. He had a strange aura about him, an amorphous essence that seeped through his limbs and into the air like miasma; thick and dark and full of hate. And he strung me along so effortlessly; a flick of his wrist and I was on my knees, and instead of pulling me up, he put his foot on my shoulder and pushed me further down until I was at his feet.
When I look back at it all, I can't help but feel regret. I don't regret the path I chose, but rather, the way I chose to travel along that path; hiding so comfortably under the pretense of coercion. I liked the idea of being the helpless victim; an impressionable young girl who's only crime was a weakness to a man's charm. In reality I was very much aware of what I was getting myself into, and I needed nor trickery nor deceit to do it.
I wanted to be his mouse. I wanted to be worthless and to revel in my insignificance. I wanted to live in filth, to be as vile and morbid as I wished to be. I wanted his anger, and I wanted his hate, and I craved the pain. I wanted all of it, and he, the mighty Sven, would give and give and give.
And there was no end to what I would take.
Saturday, March 8, 2014
A Certain Man, XI
If absence is meant to make the heart grow fonder, then my heart must be bursting, because I've come to depend on his substance like the air that I breathe. I would humor myself that he felt the same way. That I could feel it in the way he touched me; hands shivering as if he was stirring from within, fingers buried in nimble pairs into the confounds of my walls, and later, left arm sneaking in, settling deep in the base of my back and pushing me further into him, or him into me, or both into each other.
I'm not saying it wasn't wonderful in its own way—his company—but it never quite felt like it did before. That feeling of finally being whole, shivering from the core of my being, as if being momentarily at peace was more troubling than comforting. I didn't feel whole because I wasn't empty to begin with. I wasn't his blank canvas anymore; I was a mother and a wife and all too filled with happiness and regret to surrender myself to him. I didn't feel whole, but I was filling up, overflowing, and it wasn't long until I reached a tipping point.
And all along I couldn't help but laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. What was I feeling guilty for? For that man I so dutifully called my husband? The man I found melting beneath his momentary indiscretions? What a man he was, and what a man he proved to be. I remember that lump in my throat, whenever he bent over and kissed my swelling belly, whispering our child's name over and over again. What a man he was, what a man he proved to be.
"Do you want something to eat?" his voice came in slow and unassuming, sinking me further down my haze of post-coital guilt.
"Why do you always insist on feeding me?"
"Well, we are a hospitable people."
"No, really." I protested, but failed to press further when he leaned in and kissed the small of my back. He always kissed me in the strangest of places. I asked him about it once and he claimed it wasn't on purpose. Still, it makes you wonder, doesn't it? About men that kiss you on the stomach, and those that kiss you on the very end of your back.
"You know what I've always wondered? Whether you've been with other women, since..." I trailed off, not quite sure where I was going.
"I have."
"It's so strange to me, you and someone else. I just can't picture it."
"Jealousy doesn't suit you, miss."
"Missus."
He smiled, a strained stillness looming over his face. Usually the color of icy waters, his eyes were now almost black, with pupils dilated nearly double in size. I couldn't help but marvel at how his eyes said so much, when once they said so little. Had the years really changed him so much? Or had I simply been blind all this time? What secrets have you told with those eyes, I wonder, and what secrets have I failed to hear?
"You hate being here, don't you?"
"I do."
"Is he any good?"
"Good enough."
"Off you go, then."
I'm not saying it wasn't wonderful in its own way—his company—but it never quite felt like it did before. That feeling of finally being whole, shivering from the core of my being, as if being momentarily at peace was more troubling than comforting. I didn't feel whole because I wasn't empty to begin with. I wasn't his blank canvas anymore; I was a mother and a wife and all too filled with happiness and regret to surrender myself to him. I didn't feel whole, but I was filling up, overflowing, and it wasn't long until I reached a tipping point.
And all along I couldn't help but laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. What was I feeling guilty for? For that man I so dutifully called my husband? The man I found melting beneath his momentary indiscretions? What a man he was, and what a man he proved to be. I remember that lump in my throat, whenever he bent over and kissed my swelling belly, whispering our child's name over and over again. What a man he was, what a man he proved to be.
"Do you want something to eat?" his voice came in slow and unassuming, sinking me further down my haze of post-coital guilt.
"Why do you always insist on feeding me?"
"Well, we are a hospitable people."
"No, really." I protested, but failed to press further when he leaned in and kissed the small of my back. He always kissed me in the strangest of places. I asked him about it once and he claimed it wasn't on purpose. Still, it makes you wonder, doesn't it? About men that kiss you on the stomach, and those that kiss you on the very end of your back.
"You know what I've always wondered? Whether you've been with other women, since..." I trailed off, not quite sure where I was going.
"I have."
"It's so strange to me, you and someone else. I just can't picture it."
"Jealousy doesn't suit you, miss."
"Missus."
He smiled, a strained stillness looming over his face. Usually the color of icy waters, his eyes were now almost black, with pupils dilated nearly double in size. I couldn't help but marvel at how his eyes said so much, when once they said so little. Had the years really changed him so much? Or had I simply been blind all this time? What secrets have you told with those eyes, I wonder, and what secrets have I failed to hear?
"You hate being here, don't you?"
"I do."
"Is he any good?"
"Good enough."
"Off you go, then."
Sunday, February 16, 2014
Play
I told him he smelled like wood-fire
and he said I smelled like regret.
Sandalwood and smoke
when I bent down and kissed his head.
Dear me, how you grow with pride
with every stroke
with every stride.
I say, darling, you're so good
too good to simply eat
and you say that's not the way you play.
So what if you close your eyes
and I tuck away my pride
and the world looks the other way
would you play with me, then?
and he said I smelled like regret.
Sandalwood and smoke
when I bent down and kissed his head.
Dear me, how you grow with pride
with every stroke
with every stride.
I say, darling, you're so good
too good to simply eat
and you say that's not the way you play.
So what if you close your eyes
and I tuck away my pride
and the world looks the other way
would you play with me, then?
Monday, January 13, 2014
A Certain Man, X
"Cigarette?" he asked, and without really waiting for an answer, he pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and slipped it into mine.
"I've quit, you know." I mumbled, wondering if the warm moistness of the cigarette was somehow foreshadowing (it was).
He raised an eyebrow as I inhaled, slowly leaning back to his seat, "I'm a bad influence, then."
"The worst." I smiled, blowing smoke towards him.
I hadn't really planned this; being here. It all sort of fell into place, like some grand cosmic plan. A little push (or pull) that sent me tumbling towards him. I had stopped at the bakery before going home, and lo and behold! The man himself, bent over and examining a loaf of bread. For a moment I had to halt and reconsider, but when he looked over and gave me one of his smiles, I found myself standing right before him; not quite sure what to say.
But he knew exactly what to say. Leaning in and whispering softly in my ear, "How can I be of service, miss?"
To which I said, "Take me home."
Which brings us to our current predicament. This old fucking place, it looked exactly the same. The moment I stepped through his door, I suddenly felt the weight of the years slump on my shoulders, and when I looked at him, I saw both my best and worst mistake. It was such a dense atmosphere: me; smoking, him; watching over in silence, while the leather of his chair squealed with his every movement, every touch. Never in my life have I identified so fucking strongly with a piece of furniture.
"It's missus, by the way." I smiled, charging my gaze against his. I couldn't help but fondly look back at a time when he threw me completely off-balance, especially at the beginning of our relationship. I often found him overwhelming; he was so raw, so frank in his desires, and once it was all over, he was all soft-spoken charm, and I was never quite sure which side of him I preferred.
"Oh?" he raised an eyebrow, his smirk full of intrigue, "Interesting that you find it necessary to say that."
"Well, I wouldn't want you to get any ideas."
He snorted, leaning further back into his seat until our knees were almost touching, "Oh, I would never."
I felt so exposed, so defenseless, that I just had to cross my legs, and his gaze immediately fell to my lap, my knees, my ankles, and then he shot up to my eyes and smiled. There was an uncertainty to his gaze, despite its apparent boldness; desire immersed in fear of rejection—no, fear of consent. The notion of us together again was both a dream and a nightmare. The distinction being its ascension from fantasy to reality. If we were to materialize, to exist, once again, we would bring about long-forgotten (or ignored) truths, unraveling like a ball of yarn—one that neither of us truly wished to acknowledge.
"Did you ever get married, by the way?"
He nodded, "I've always been married, actually."
"No!"
"Yes, ma'am." he laughed, bringing his hands to his lap and tapping his fingers against his thigh, "Well, separated now."
"Why didn't you ever tell me?"
"You never asked." he raised his brow, a smirk lurking somewhere behind his lips. You never cared, was what he truly meant to say. I almost felt the urge to explain, to air out my guilt and apologize, but I couldn't possibly do that, could I? It's completely true, I didn't care at all, and why should I? No courtesies, no obligations; I did what I was told, kept on track, stuck to the rules.
"So back then, you were.." I trialed off, knowing he'd eagerly pick up where I left off.
"Cheating on my wife."
"With me."
He smiled, the smog in eyes turning into the palest of greys, "With you."
I don't know if it was on purpose; allowing his eyes to portray such clarity of emotions, or it was beyond his control, but I found myself repeatedly swallowing my nerves, and his gaze immediately shot to my throat; eager to incriminate, "Would it have changed anything?"
I sighed, "I guess not."
"Good to know." He sat his drink aside and leaned in, fingertips stroking the inner side of my knee with such hesitance and self-awareness, that I couldn't possibly protest his touch. His fingers were so cold that at first I didn't even feel them, until he began to travel along my thigh, rubbing them so feverishly against my skin, I was sure I'd soon run out of breath. His eyes fell so softly, so delicately on my lips and I knew, in the pit of my stomach, what he was about to do.
And I decided that I hadn't the will or strength (or desire) to stop him.
"I've quit, you know." I mumbled, wondering if the warm moistness of the cigarette was somehow foreshadowing (it was).
He raised an eyebrow as I inhaled, slowly leaning back to his seat, "I'm a bad influence, then."
"The worst." I smiled, blowing smoke towards him.
I hadn't really planned this; being here. It all sort of fell into place, like some grand cosmic plan. A little push (or pull) that sent me tumbling towards him. I had stopped at the bakery before going home, and lo and behold! The man himself, bent over and examining a loaf of bread. For a moment I had to halt and reconsider, but when he looked over and gave me one of his smiles, I found myself standing right before him; not quite sure what to say.
But he knew exactly what to say. Leaning in and whispering softly in my ear, "How can I be of service, miss?"
To which I said, "Take me home."
Which brings us to our current predicament. This old fucking place, it looked exactly the same. The moment I stepped through his door, I suddenly felt the weight of the years slump on my shoulders, and when I looked at him, I saw both my best and worst mistake. It was such a dense atmosphere: me; smoking, him; watching over in silence, while the leather of his chair squealed with his every movement, every touch. Never in my life have I identified so fucking strongly with a piece of furniture.
"It's missus, by the way." I smiled, charging my gaze against his. I couldn't help but fondly look back at a time when he threw me completely off-balance, especially at the beginning of our relationship. I often found him overwhelming; he was so raw, so frank in his desires, and once it was all over, he was all soft-spoken charm, and I was never quite sure which side of him I preferred.
"Oh?" he raised an eyebrow, his smirk full of intrigue, "Interesting that you find it necessary to say that."
"Well, I wouldn't want you to get any ideas."
He snorted, leaning further back into his seat until our knees were almost touching, "Oh, I would never."
I felt so exposed, so defenseless, that I just had to cross my legs, and his gaze immediately fell to my lap, my knees, my ankles, and then he shot up to my eyes and smiled. There was an uncertainty to his gaze, despite its apparent boldness; desire immersed in fear of rejection—no, fear of consent. The notion of us together again was both a dream and a nightmare. The distinction being its ascension from fantasy to reality. If we were to materialize, to exist, once again, we would bring about long-forgotten (or ignored) truths, unraveling like a ball of yarn—one that neither of us truly wished to acknowledge.
"Did you ever get married, by the way?"
He nodded, "I've always been married, actually."
"No!"
"Yes, ma'am." he laughed, bringing his hands to his lap and tapping his fingers against his thigh, "Well, separated now."
"Why didn't you ever tell me?"
"You never asked." he raised his brow, a smirk lurking somewhere behind his lips. You never cared, was what he truly meant to say. I almost felt the urge to explain, to air out my guilt and apologize, but I couldn't possibly do that, could I? It's completely true, I didn't care at all, and why should I? No courtesies, no obligations; I did what I was told, kept on track, stuck to the rules.
"So back then, you were.." I trialed off, knowing he'd eagerly pick up where I left off.
"Cheating on my wife."
"With me."
He smiled, the smog in eyes turning into the palest of greys, "With you."
I don't know if it was on purpose; allowing his eyes to portray such clarity of emotions, or it was beyond his control, but I found myself repeatedly swallowing my nerves, and his gaze immediately shot to my throat; eager to incriminate, "Would it have changed anything?"
I sighed, "I guess not."
"Good to know." He sat his drink aside and leaned in, fingertips stroking the inner side of my knee with such hesitance and self-awareness, that I couldn't possibly protest his touch. His fingers were so cold that at first I didn't even feel them, until he began to travel along my thigh, rubbing them so feverishly against my skin, I was sure I'd soon run out of breath. His eyes fell so softly, so delicately on my lips and I knew, in the pit of my stomach, what he was about to do.
And I decided that I hadn't the will or strength (or desire) to stop him.
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