Irish

I’d never met him before, really, and I was nervous. I’d decided to randomly turn up on his door step and surprise the poor bastard. For better or worse. We’d met a couple of months previously but only briefly. I’d spoken to him a couple of times, heard his sexy Irish drawl and wondered about him.

As I pulled the big yellow beast into a parallel park on the wide, unfamiliar street I could feel the slick of perspiration on the steering wheel. I cursed again the fact I hadn’t been able to buy a sheepskin steering wheel cover. Still, it wasn’t from lack of trying. I slid my hands down the wheel’s slim metal frame, felt the warmth of the engine beneath my feet and the comfortable sag of the old bucket seat against my back.

Outside were the trees and a dying afternoon. It seemed to be saying “What?” to me - as they often do in small, quiet, unfamiliar towns. I loved the wide verge and the cared-for houses, chicken- wire on wood frame fences. I took a swig on my bottle of warm water and waited. I wondered if he would know what my car looked like, having never seen it and whether he would know it was me behind the wheel. I briefly felt like a stalker but decided that life was made up of the experiences you’d had rather than those you wondered about and I was doing the right thing.

I got out of the car, lit a joint and sat on the bonnet. Or rather I perched my arse on a corner of the front of my car; I’d been driving for five hours and she was a little too warm. A bit like me, I could feel the flush in my cheeks as though I had drank half a dozen glasses of red wine. I knew my hair was a mess, I didn’t care.

He came walking around the corner carrying a shopping bag full of breakfast food. He looked relaxed, like he’d knocked off work and there was another bloke with him. I presumed it was the guy he lived with.

I called out his name.
He said something to the other guy who continued walking towards the house. He came towards me. He said he was surprised to see me but he smiled and seemed at ease and not put out. He had a grin that sparkled on his face and I relaxed a bit.

He put the groceries down and took a long look at me and my joint. I felt a bit presumptuous but I dragged on the end of it some more anyway and put it out. He liked my belt, he told me. It made me look down at his hands, I’m not sure why but they looked warm and used and sexy. I met his eyes.

I offered to take him somewhere so we drove to a park and stared at the Aussie bush and yarned. I wanted the car to be a lounge not a couple of seats and a steering wheel. I wanted to touch him but I wanted him to touch me first. He did. He put his hand right up my thigh and said something tasteful like “why don’t you sit on me?”

“Because I’ve never even kissed you” I said and laughed. I got out of the car. We tried to start again and as he talked I leaned against him. He had his back on the car, I played with the shirt on his chest and we both talked about nonsense and enjoyed the feeling of all that sexual tension caught in the air between us. I wondered if he could feel me shaking. Eventually I met his eyes and kissed him. It was ok, warm and hesitant.

I licked the inside of his mouth and his response was almost too much, he pulled me to him with those big arms I was a little afraid of, I could feel his strength and he dove into my mouth with warm passion. After a while I pulled away, I knew I was shaking and I could feel the thick weight of his hard-on on my thigh, against my pelvis. ‘I wanted you fuck me somewhere special with all the time in the world, not here, near my car at some random park at dusk’. I told him. He drove me to his house; or rather he made a call and borrowed a friend’s flat for the night. I was thrilled. I organized for him to walk to his mates and pick up the keys while I went to a seven eleven and bought tea-light candles and condoms. I wished for massage oil but didn’t have any. I picked up Chinese.

When I showed him the plastic bags full of food he said
“Is this what we’re gonna eat?”
I nodded.
“I want to eat you” He said and I let dinner get cold. There would be a microwave. I kissed him again and pulled him to me with more grace this time. He was big and warm and the tension he held in his big frame turned me on. I whimpered. My breath was shallow and I wanted him.

He talked a little bit in that strange accent of his, but we didn’t seem to have anything in common besides a sense of humour, a sense of adventure, and this; the warm moments before sex that made us feel like magic; made lust a pretty thing with its glittering eyes and short, fulfill-able promises.

I’m sure he could see the darkness in my eyes; I was embarrassed at the simplicity of it. I wanted him. I didn’t know what he thought of me but I wanted tonight and this unfamiliar man who seemed like a beast made for passion. He took his shirt off and let me caress his skin. It felt like Christmas. I noted each tiny inch of his body, the scars and imperfections and in that moment wanted to own every one. He noticed the birth mark on my middle and I told him that when God was spit roasting me into life he painted one brushstroke twice in one spot instead of the whole thing evenly and he kissed it, even licked my side a little and stretched a hand up to cup my breast which was still trapped in the material of my shirt.

He took my shoes off, sat me on the couch and finally let my warm breasts touch the hard wall of his chest. He ran his hands over the skin of my belly, under my breasts along the fabric of my bra and I ached for him. I wanted him to touch all the skin he couldn’t yet because of my clothes. I ran one palm up the length of his back before clambered to my feet. My cheeks were flushed and my breath was heavy, or was it shallow? The air seemed sweet and lonely, a long way away from his touch.

I insisted he sit where I had been on the couch and sat on him, I wrapped my arms around his big neck and we kissed some more. I couldn’t get enough of his touch, his tongue. I pushed my pussy onto his cock, through his jeans, grinding into him. Then I crawled down off him and knelt on the floor, I licked his chest and he kissed me again, awkwardly, hungrily. I flipped the latch of his belt and drew away.

When I finally released his cock from the prison of his pants I was a little surprised at the size of the thing, I thought he’d been all talk. It was big and pink and Irish. I put it in my mouth. I ran my tongue around its perimeter and felt him reach out and touch his hand to my hair. I shook my head ‘no’ and he understood. At first he put his hands behind his head out of the way but as I licked the length of his shaft I looked up through my lashes and caught his eye. I felt like a porn star for that second and he put his elbows away. I thought he said ‘fuck yeah’ but I wasn’t sure.

I was busy, attending to the giant pink lollipop that was a thousand times more fun that a lolly. I wondered if he’d be one of those guys that jumped if you pushed a finger up his arse. Despite myself I giggled and I hoped he would just think I was being playful. That made me giggle more and I stuffed more of his length into my mouth to forget myself. Then I “butterfly” ed his cock and wet it more with each lick.

I stopped for a second and wiped my mouth. “What?” he said but I didn’t know. Not until he stood up and picked me up. I wrapped my legs around his waist and he walked me over to the kitchen counter. He unbuckled my jeans and pulled then off, he barely looked at my knickers and slid his hands under my butt on the counter and pulled me to him. He still had his pants sort of half on and this time the fabric was delicious.

He kissed my lips and he slid me along the counter a bit, he bent me backwards until I was arched on the table and took my pussy very gently in his mouth, as he licked my centre with a practiced tongue I thought “Oh god he hasn’t even fucked my yet”. The thought made my limbs turn to liquid and I let him caress me, he teased and I quivered. I came as he buried his mouth in my pussy. “I want you to fuck me” I begged, quietly. I don’t know if he heard me. He stood up. With his hands he caught the flesh above the bend in my knees, pulling my arse over to the edge of the counter. He kissed my mouth and he tasted of me.

He took the rest of his pants off, covering his ample cock in a condom quickly so as not to break the moment. It worked, before I could sit up in surprise he pushed into me and entered my intimate space. The effect was amazing, I gasped and squirmed. He stroked, a little more length this time I felt my insides opening like a flower. I couldn’t get enough of the feeling. I held on and let him set the rhythm. Sometimes he watched his sex move in and out of mine, stealing glances at the blissful expression of surprise on my face, sometimes he picked up the pace and made sounds; I held onto his back as he kissed me, thrusting into me making us both rock with his movements.

I was at sea in waves of ecstasy. Love and sex are everything and nothing all at once, these moments express it best. It was the best of everything all at once and all too soon I was soaring above the world, in my own little box of glitter and ‘hooray’s. I came in his arms and squealed as my orgasm rocked through me. ‘Come for me?’ I pleaded, trying hard to get the words to form in my mouth. Another orgasm fizzed through my veins and he smiled down at me “Of course not” he drawled “We’ve got all night”.

I climbed down off the counter and he let me gently to the ground. I giggled like a fifteen year old and went to find the bedroom. I wondered if there was a bath. I could hear him following me down the hall…

notes from growing up

I spent another day alone, aside from strangers I navigate past at the pool and my dog who is forever infesting my life with soul searching glances. The guilt is unimaginable and I don’t know what it’s about. Perhaps the girl we have had staying in my front room for some months left a lasting impression on my dog and he notes her absence more than I.

I read an article today about the process of transition into a new place and how desolate it’s possible to feel. Feeling down and unable to make an effort and go out and push it beyond your comfort levels in order to be rewarded with something, anything that’s different to what you could have contributed to the situation just as one, down person. I think I understand that this is a new phase in my life and if I only embrace it with all its horned edges I stand to benefit a great deal from the change. Still, stuck in a city without human interaction, surrounded by people is very difficult, even armed with virulent optimism.

Just when I had lost all faith in humanity I took my dog for a walk before work. I passed three men hauling small things out of a dumpster. I walked by saying a brief hello. One man called out to me “Miss would you like a present?” he gave me charms in an unopened packet, the kind you use at parties to identify which drink is your own. The irony was not lost on me but it was a sweet gesture. Just as when he told me I had some bark in my hair and gently picked it out for me. I went to walk away and another bloke asked me if I painted. I came away with five oils including the primary colours. Perhaps the world isn’t such a barmy inhumane domain after all.

to have and to hold

Elena held on to Thorunn’s stable arm as they entered the banquet hall, the throng of other guests sweeping them along. She couldn’t help but feel elated. It was a new sensation to be on a man's arm in public, and such an arm! She shuddered to think of the men it had slain. Though, it was his left arm, she mused, and perhaps was perhaps not as deadly as his right. Elena and her father had ridden this morning from Frjóey, to get to Jolgeir today. It had made for a solid days riding even with their party's experience and had taken from dawn until the sun was midway overhead. As they dismounted, Elena had assumed they would be greeted by only a small council and larger festivities kept til the morrow. Olrick had at that moment informed her that the eve of the battle was this very day. She hadn’t expected to be amongst the splendour of the entire household, only a few hours hence.
In truth, her legs ached. She was sure to have blisters on her dainty feet. Elena wasn’t aware that a day in the cool spring air had added a glow to her cheeks and a warmth to her brown eyes. Her young face shone with the pleasure of exertion, easily mistaken for vigorous enthusiasm for the nights proceedings. It leant her the charming air of a novice, though she was not out of step with large functions such as this and could conduct herself beautifully.
Elena gazed about at the grand quarters. Every torch had been lit, every surface scrubbed clean until it sparkled and the room was rapidly filling up with men and women, musicians and story tellers, creating a buzz about her. At her side Thorunn kept his steady pace. She was glad of his calm company and the assistance of his leather-bound arm. She found his forearm pleasingly cool to touch.
He cut a striking figure, strong and solid in contrast to the colourful bussle and hum. Tonight he wore rich, soft leather. Beside him, Elena’s corset accentuated her creamy breasts. Her creamy orbs thrust themselves into a provocative association with eye level. In deep green that suited her pale complexion, she couldn’t have known her loveliness, or how his great form at her side lent her the look of an exquisite flower in a storm.
The image was not lost on her father, Olrick. He watched as they entered the great hall. Though the conversation carried on at his table and other great men bent his ear with hearty greetings; pride kept his eyes on his daughter and ultimately, tonight, he was pleased.
Today should have been the first day of spring carnival and the hall was full to bursting. Tomorrow most of the men of fighting age would be riding out to protect Jolgeir, the great castle playing host to tonights festivities. They rode against the mighty barbarian army threatening to take a strong hold in these lands. Olrick's features wrinkled in distaste. He redirected his mind to pleasanter thoughts and his gaze once again settled on his daughter. For tonight, and for this special occasion, Elena had been bejewelled in the most exquisite examples of his previous successful campaigns. Great charms the colour of sea water glistened on her neck and shimmering strands of the finest silver hung suspended in glorious tributes at her throat. On each finger a ring, each more spectacular and more beautiful than the last. No woman in the hall had anything to equal her rosy complexion, gleaming hair and sparkling jewels.

aside from that Mrs Lincoln, how was the opera?

the only thing I wanted was for you to love me.
the only thing I really wanted was for you not to die.
I don’t really know how I feel about you
actually
and
now I won’t ever have to know.

I don’t mind that you hit me a couple of times and
I grew out of the mental abuse that comes of neglect
but I never understood why you were so selfish.

neither did she

and its hard to know who was in the wrong. All I see is my mother’s wasted life

look what sticks in your guts when you're forced to look back
look what happens when you never take risks
look what happens when you’re an arsehole who’s tight with their money

who’s to say if you tasted blood when I asked my brother to punch you?
you were only asking for it
I remember you hitting the floor

I wanted to see teeth on the ground

You made my guts ache with your pain
that special kind,
that only a fist to the eye can deliver
but
you don’t even have to do it any more for me to feel it

Is it dark in there with the warmth of the light turned off?

I never played sport because of you
and
I couldn't let girls hug me
it would have hurt too much
if I winced
they’d have looked for the bruises
that’s ok
you won’t be thinking of me
ever
again

it’s a cold, heavy trust that I hold in the pit of me
you are gone you are gone
You…

but I wanted you to love me
and it’s a terrible thing to wish for a death,

even yours

Freeway

The two of them met up for a third time. They had a strange relationship that could almost have been based on awkward silences, in-between moments and stolen glances that made the air thick with an undercurrent of hopeful misunderstanding, a ripening flavour.

The first time they had gone to a café and sat for a few hours. At first Mark had read most of the Saturday paper and Jaq had been tempted to get out her novel but to his credit a waiter had come between them offering to bring backgammon to the table. They had sipped endless tea and coffee and taken their shoes off and stroked each others legs. To the outside observer innocently engaging in backgammon. Jaq had sat for ages with her legs crossed, one calf resting against Mark’s thicker calf. She knew he must have been able to feel her touching him and she left it there, marveling at the exquisite pleasure she felt from such a small luxury.

She wanted to know he was equally excited, he seemed to shiver whenever she was too near to him; as they leaned across the counter and paid the bill together, as they left together and experienced an awkward moment at the narrow door. How to gauge his reactions when the man said so little?

Mark was a roof plasterer but he liked to work and he liked to keep himself fit. Not knowing what to say didn’t feel silly to Mark. He liked the simplicity of it. He wanted to get her into bed but knew he couldn’t just come out and say it, not if he wanted to ever see her again afterwards. He admired the way she held herself and pretended by being near him he wasn’t sending her a little crazy. He heard how her breath caught and how she thought about each breath if he got too close. With a coffee table, two full cups and a full backgammon board separating them he knew he had little chance of doing much more than they were, engaging in schoolyard tantalizing touches and the occasional meaningful look. She was good at them, he gave her that. Her meaningful look - the way she looked at him almost through her eyelashes with her head dipped so low, sipping coffee - this teased him more perhaps than it should. Her sipping was so suggestive it left him laden with possibilities. He felt himself thicken with blood.

He had clenched and unclenched his itching hands under the table, to help the moment pass. He knew he wanted her, and didn’t know whether it would be worth the effort. It was with these odds in mind that he suggested a second meeting.
They had gone to the movies but he hadn’t liked the film and as they had arrived at the cinema late their seats hadn’t allowed them the feeling of intimacy he thought they required. A third meeting seemed inevitable and now as he pulled his white HQ station wagon into the driveway the moment seemed to ripen.

She heard the tyres on the concrete of the drive and wet her lips in the hallway mirror. She wanted to take him to have lunch out of town. Jaq wanted to sit next to him on the vinyl bench seat and feel the strange sensation of his body vibrating next to hers. She wanted to enjoy the drive, have something to eat together and see where it took them.

They rode in silence, for a while, until the open road of the freeway stretched before them. Then he shifted his big hand from the gear chance to her lap, casually. He left his hand resting on her thigh. Jaq leaned in to tune the radio, she feigned concentration on the knobs and dials as she felt the pressure of his hand slide a little further up. She left the radio unattended. Jaq turned to look at his profile, and into the wind created by both of their windows being open she added
"That’s delicious”

“What?” he said, smiling

Jaq told him about her burger joint, she explained the turn offs to get there as they drove, his hands were firm on the thin black wheel and he drove lazily, sometimes looking at her through the corner of his eye, sometimes turning to her. They stopped in the middle of nowhere still on the freeway and he turned and kissed her. He muttered something about not being able to concentrate and gathered her up with one of his big arms and brought her to him.

At first he just planted firm kisses on her lips, lazily the same way he drove and she was disappointed. She had expected the snap and pop of fireworks as their lips were finally allowed to touch. On the plus side, he smelt great, like woodfires and coffee and he kept up the firm pressure of his insistent onslaught,turning his body so his right hand held her ribs, just under her breast. His soft kisses became something else as their mouths opened to one another. She grew bolder, feeling her way around the slippery crevices, the heat of her tongue caressing the inside of his lip.

Mark couldn’t help himself. He leaned in and slid his right hand up to where he wanted it to be, closed around her breast. He heard her tell-tale intake of breath, how she shifted as though to offer him more. With their mouths still touching, Jaq climbed onto him, kissed his neck, the unfamiliar stubble on his chin, she slid her slender hands around the back of his neck and applied pressure with her hips, wanting him. She felt him respond, the noise in the back of his throat accompanying the satisfying swelling she could feel against the soft flesh of her thigh.

She wanted his big hands all over her. He pushed her shirt up so he could look at her breasts, the black lace she wore made them sit so that they overflowed the cups, begging to be released, he could feel his cock against the heat between her legs, even though his jeans.

Outside the day darkened, although they hardly noticed. Jaq turned her attention to his pants, she flicked his belt buckle open with one hand, panting to undo the loop, the first button and his zipper. His eyes were dark with lust and she climbed off him.

“I want you to drive.” she said

“While I do this”

Jaq pulled her ti shirt over her head so that all she had left was her small skirt and her bra. He ate up the view appreciatively and started the car. As he pulled out of the emergency lane he noticed a light spatter of rain had collected on the windscreen. He forgot the weather just as quickly when she scooted over to him, pulled his shirt up a little. Jaq kissed his chest, her hot kisses leading her towards the top of his boxers. She ran a finger around the front of his waistline, just inside the rim of the material and his cock surged with blood. He tried to concentrate on the road.

As she released his penis from the confines of his clothes she stopped for a minute, admiring his sex, proudly at attention, a drop of pre-cum glistening at its head. She bent her head and licked it off. He jerked in his seat, taking a moment to reassert himself at the wheel. First she added moisture to the length of his shaft, licking around the head and down the sides to where she met the material of his jeans. Finally after Jaq felt she had sufficiently greased all of the surrounds she took his cock in her mouth, gripping the base with one hand.

At first she didn’t allow him the relief of sucking the whole thing, she merely teased, breaking her rhythm, not devouring much each time and waiting for a reaction. When she finally took Mark's entire length, the car seemed to accelerate.

“Oh God.”

Jaq ran her hand up his length and applied pressure with her lips. She established a rhythm and worked at it, loving the way he responded, the motion of the car, the craziness of the whole situation. For her part she felt the slick heat of desire in her knickers.

Dimly Mark became aware of the rain on the windscreen. At the first he turned the wipers on and strove to ignore it, the pleasure in his lap mounting, the warmth of her mouth, the noises of effort and arousal (he wasn’t sure which) as she sucked and cajouled his rock, hard cock. In the end he knew he had to pull over. Reluctantly Mark turned the wheel towards the emergency lane and Jaq sat up, wiping saliva from her chin

“What is it?”

“I can’t drive in the rain…like this”

“Good.”

Jaq sat quietly while he stopped the car, only lightly caressing his shaft, keeping her hold on him, allowing the drowsy effect of arousal to continued to fog his thoughts. He sat back after turning the engine off, hoping she would resume what she had been doing. Jaq didn’t. She threw a couple of glances at him, opened the passenger side door and stepped out of the car into the rain.

Mark didn’t follow. He wanted to see what she could do. He turned the wipers on. By now she was in front of the car, waving at him through the light rain. She stood in front of the bonnet and unclipped her bra, she threw it at the aerial and it caught and stayed. He laughed. She cupped her full breasts in her hands, the rain making her nipples stand to attention. She gently tuggeded first one, then the other, with a thumb and a forefinger. She bent over the bonnet and the rain came down heavier, her dark hair stuck to her neck. Water trickled all over her body.

Mark climbed out of the car. Jaq sprang up on the bonnet of the HQ and crawled like a cat away from him. He caught her ankles and not-so-gently pulled her around to face him. He pulled her by the calves 'til his hips touched her thighs. He didn’t say anything. His jeans were still undone.

Mark kissed her slippery rain-drenched lips. Shocked by the heat that raged inside her, he struggling to contain himself. Jaq merely wrapped her legs around him, locked her ankles and drew him closer, pulling his shirt off over his head, exposing the hard wall of his chest to the crazy, light pressure of rain. Mark bent his head and kissed her cold breasts, brought them warmth with his hands till he felt the heat of her body blazing under his touch. She ran her hands appreciatively over his chest, creating fire even as she shook.

Deftly he scooted her knickers to one side and thrust into her, almost pulling her free of the bonnet in his urgency. She held onto the car as he offered his full length to her soft folds. At the first stroke she threw her head back, let him take her. The cold metal under her arse heightening her senses, a contrast to her warm and welcoming centre, stretching to accommodate his length. He carefully came back for a second thrust, sending shudders through her. At first she twisted, reluctant to remain still, until he kissed her full on the mouth, passionately and Mark felt her melting under to his touch.

She allowed him to set the pace, sometimes leaning away from him, allowing rain to work its magic on her body, spreading its tantalizingly cold fingers over her figure.
After a while he picked her up, still connected at his cock and carried her to the back seat. He laid her down, disregarding the water on vinyl, leaving his feet outside the car. Here Mark fucked her without distraction. He felt her rising to the brink of orgasm, with his long strokes. Relief a first, from the cold pressure of rain at his back was soon joined by an overwhelming sensation of desire, urgency. She squirmed and clawed him closer and he slowed his tantalizing rhythmn

"Don't you like that?" Mark mocked quietly.

Her cheeks were flushed and she seemed bewildered at his attempt to curb her pleasure. Jaq nodded, unable to speak.

“Are you going to cum for me?”

She writhed, wanting him to continue at his relentless pace. Jaq mewed.

“What do you want me to do?”

His body was hot and heavy on top of hers

“Don’t stop.” She said

“I want... you to fuck me”

He picked up their pace once more and smiled with his teeth as her pleasure visibly increased. She made short, soft, happy noises with each stroke
“Like this?”

And relentlessly he said and picked up the pace again.

“Yes” she said, burying her face in his hair “Like….th”

Jaq couldn’t complete the sentence. She felt his length surge inside her, filling her even more. Just when she thought she couldn't take another moment,that she might stretch and break, shattering into stars if he offered her another pleasurable millimetre, he came, shuddering and making her shake from the inside out. She squealed appreciatively and she took Mark's full weight as he came to rest on her.

“Don’t get up just yet” She said softly “And don’t take it out.”

They waited a moment, as their breathing slowed, smiling.

“My legs are all wet, Babe” he said seriously and she giggled.

He untangled himself and got into the front seat, leaning over to look at her disheveled form.
“Did you like that?”

She stopped staring at the roof upholstery and propped herself up on one elbow to look at him.

“You're amazing” Jaq said and grinned.

'never gonna step on a full beer are you love'

'No' she says. He pushes her to the bushes. She scrambles into the darkness. She's running away.
“I'm running” she says to herself. Her teeth are tight.
“I'm running…” The car’s about 4 km’s back. He’s folded against the windscreen. He’s wishing. Wishing... He can feel it draining out of him slowly.

Her shirt catches on the needle-like natives, she’s
not running anymore, it's getting damp. As the light leaves the bush-land it looks like a blanket coming in from the sky. She steps carefully, trying to remember where the road is.

He's wearing a look of surprise when they find him. The men in blue run the usual checks. The special services task force will be out here looking until tomorrow night but the shire area stretches into wilderness both sides. ‘Cosy’, the locals call it. And it's such a small town in the wilderness…
‘A Death trap' -The SES Regional Services-.

The SES take themselves seriously out here, managing somehow to muster respectability in spite of bright orange jumpsuits.

She's sits for two days. She can tell by the sky. Her cold legs are numb and there’s a bump on her head. (She’d expected that). Expected that? Not really at all what she imagined and he squirms around on her mind.
She doesn't look for him. She doesn't want to.

There is remorse right down to her young toes, she has to massage them every couple of hours. There is remorse too, in the tight feeling in her head. She sucks leaves. The daylight dies again.

The SES didn't take as long as expected to find a clue. The clue was her. She wasn't expecting that. They hadn’t expected to find anyone alive. All of a sudden out of the wall of trees walked a person. She couldn’t believe her eyes. They take her from the bushland and there really isn’t much talking.

The investigation carries on for a few weeks, they keep her in a psych. ward. In the end not all of the details are clear. There’s a few things about that night they can't clean up and they're all looking at her.

She bares her teeth.

He can see something but it's just the light reflecting off solid metal. He doesn't move.
It was a bad idea, a mad time. Mad, bad pain follows.
“Didn't really love the bitch” he mouths. (He bets they all say that). Bet. Hedge bets.
Better than ever if I get out of here…

He doesn't.

They've found the car and found him dead. They never found the other man. The one that got away. Odds are the investigation never even knew there was another man. Who am I to say?
Open an old wound? Say nothing
Stay.

She talks in her sleep in the psych ward.
She says “enubba, reto and incubububbua ad” but no one understands. Perhaps it wasn't meant to mean a thing.

One day, all by herself, she gets a good solid grip on the walls. She makes sounds like an animal and she speaks to the other man present in the room, the nurse.
“Away! Away!” She says. Then she starts to tell a story…
A tall tale about a night in the bush-land. She can feel the words spilling out of her mouth in no particular order, like most things. All of a sudden she feels better.

Away, away is where they take her.

She causes a riot on the inside.The try to keep her contained, further into the bowels of the building but her chanting incites the other inmates and they transfer her to an isolation wing.
“Away away” she says, in place of a greeting to a cell-mate.
“Never gonna step on a full beer are ya love?” She mumbles without eye contact. “And I won’t throw one at you…”
She moves into the corner.
“No” she says softly shaking her head. “He’s not the dead one, he’s not the dead one… I remember...” She shivers, she massages her thin legs.

They never found him. They never will. He pushes around in her mind.

Abruptly in a mangled mess 1

When I finally roll out of bed it's late on Saturday morning. The daylight seeps in, past the shitty layers of sheets I've strung up over the large window (fat chance of preventing light leaks), succeeding only to cover my squalor in dirty yellow light. I attempt to get up, tipping and swaying like a boat on the high seas thanks to my hang over. Outside the comfort of my room, the corridor is much darker. The hallway carpet deadens my footfalls and I sneak guiltily into the lounge room. Much to my surprise, not to be greeted with filth of the previous night. There is not a beer bottle to be seen, the floor is devoid of caps and rubbish. It's clean - and I know my flatmate is loath to lift a finger. Which begs the question: Who has come to the aid of the less-domestically minded amongst us? Perhaps (flat mate) Kath has finally organised a cleaning lady? It would seem an action much overdue. I walk about wishing for bread to make toast or breakfast of any kind. My tongue feels as though I have been licking the fridge door seal.
Kath's bedroom door is closed and I assume she's home. After poking my head into the kitchen (we're still devoid of any kind of sustenance) I go back to my room. I feel ill and I've got a 1.25L bottle of warm lemonade stashed under my bed for just such an occasion. Ah lemonade, that alixar of men, like a balm to my hungover wounds. I spend some time bouncing a tennis ball against the wall to amuse myself; until Kath proves she's awake and yells out at me to stop.
'I'm writing a uni paper!!!'
I laugh aloud, so I'm sure it carries to her room. I feel like a ten year old.
Under-stimulated and hungry I ring Bob, Bingo and Rowley to come around and we set up camp in the lounge room.
Kath goes out.
Bingo's the first to arrive; hardly surprising as he lives around the corner. The sort of mate you need around - handy to know, quick witted and good with his hands. Bingo is thick set, and whilst I can't say that I've ever understood the way he dresses he's definitely got a 'thing' going on. A signature style that's more crap than class.
We were kids when Bingo earnt his nickname. Previously known as Nathan - he got his foreskin caught in the zipper of his pants at school, caught in the zip of a pair of ski pants his mum made him wear. It was supposed to give him extra padding against his numerous daily scrapes and falls, and they were the shiny variety so spills could wipe right off. He copped a lot of shit for wearing those pants. Never more-so though than the day with his trapped foreskin.
He now has two thirds of the skin on his dick. 'Bingo!' the bigger guys would shout at school when they say him, that's how he looked, suspended in pain and shock, running from the boys toilets in a horrible, leaping triumph to foolishness. Why wasn't he paying attention? He bravely ripped it out and severed...something before he passed out. He never lived it down. We tend not to really tell that story any more. Least of all to future Bingo-bedfellows, though I imagine they discover his mangled gonads soon enough in his arms. Generally if a girl asks why he got that nickname and it's custom to yell 'legs eleven', like a bingo-hall number caller. It's a stupid gag, that makes no sense if you didn't know but we've been doing it for years now and it successfully takes the heat off.
Something like that in your formative years could really fuck a guy up. Something like that has the potential to turn an even tempered, out-doorsey man into an computer-loving, cat-owning introvert. Not Bruno - these days he's a good luck charm; a trump card, a rowdy, shameless, good-natured blessing of a man. I try to tell him so regularly. I tell him he's awesome, he tells me I'm a wanker and when he's pissed he sometimes tries to get out his signature foreskin and do his best to press it to my face. What can I say? We're close.
Today Bingo's dressed himself in brown jeans and a mustard short sleeve collared shirt. It has brown piping around the pockets and embroidered flowers around the press studs. On a smaller man it might look ridiculous. Bingo's broad shouldered and his arms are massive. His belt features Mr Potato-Head's dressed as cowboys - on a white background - they even have little spurs. He's also wearing spats. I smirk into my beer, but I don't give the guy a hard time. He's built like a bear and chicks sometimes take an interest so he must be doing something right.

Eggs Florentine

Its amazing.
Everything is.
After a good orgasm I find myself
contemplating the intensely self-indulgent nature of everything.

Well it is.

But I decided that as long as you are only developing simple enjoyment – taking simple self indulgent pleasures based on an indulgent nature; then this can’t be harmful. Watching ants can’t be harmful to anyone.
But bugger-me-dead it’s fun and we all ought to do it.

Reminds me about
the
stuff we forget. If you know what I mean. You know what I mean?
I don’t know why I’m asking that.
Perhaps that is because we are that lucky generation that will inherit the unfortunate ability to be misunderstood.

The seven minutes that follow sex are non refundable moments in life. Like when you find out the cat is dead, or the sewage system your house will now need will be more than 6000 dollars..
wondering if you’re pregnant,
double checking a scratchie because things are looking good…

It’s the sort of religious experience with yourself that makes you understand how Paris could have felt having slept with Helen of Troy despite the ensuing war.
A heroic, silly moment.
This is a feeling; like the others I mentioned
that doesn’t have a name.

I‘ve put it down to seven minutes as a matter of scientifically researched phenomenon. The euphoria that goes with it accompanies any strenuous physical accomplishment, is well…euphoria because by god- it’s got a name. In my opinion the rest of it doesn’t.

How relaxing to smell someone so close,
that dipped-in-honey feeling deep in your breast.

The nameless moment when you don't know whether he might love you or not and
whether that strange warmth is beating out of his body too.
Of course it doesn’t always.
Even then I’ll still greedily take the moment,
like a satin-sheeted bed and enjoy the feel of it,
it’s intensity,
even though he might not have cut his toe-nails in more than three weeks and it’s catching on the fine threads in the satin sheets.

Orgasm’s help remind us that the world is an amazing place.

My SBS moment lives on.
It’s incredible brevity is probably part of its charm.

My mother says ‘everything passes, everything pales everything palls’.

Succinct
accurate
the way we like our Sale of the Century contestants (or should I say Temptation)

These are amongst life’s simply pleasures.
For once in my life I know what I mean and I

I don’t divulge anything in these 7 minutes. Not always…because I could be next to a man I barely know
or a lover
I don’t want him to find out too much

I’m not one to talk about relationships.

Life is amazing for a lot more than just this one reason but I would at least put cumming in the top ten.

And
there is such a fine line between being self aware and self-conscious.

It’s sexy to be aware, for example of the fine hairs on my arms and in Melbourne I notice the wind more than in Perth and it caresses my bare arms. I notice it.
I feel like I have come to a point in my understanding of my sexuality love of life can be orgasmic and that’s sexy too,

so I can feel the world through my sex, at times too. I can feel my body and it’s feminine responses. Just as I am careful not to look for responses in people at me, or look for my reflection too often in passing windows. I want to ooze happiness, not vanity.

I roll over to him and I can smell his smooth skin and my sex. It hangs in the heavy bedroom air with a spice rack of other odours, his hair. Our sweat. ..

I wish he was alive. I wish I hadn’t shot him as I came.

I'm going to Cairns. I love you

Life, she laughs at me…like tonight as I sit at my computer. The machine is a heap of shit. I chose to call it the muse to my masterpiece. The keys are sticky with age; the keyboard stained and the space button is missing. Instead of a large friendly bar, all I am left with is a small plastic sensor. This small target that remains in it's place; I must train my fingers to touch with fair accuracy at regular intervals.
I believe in the terse nature of humans. If you don’t make your decisions for yourself then nobody will make them. It goes with the idea that it's better to over-rate yourself because if you of all people don't then no body else in the world will. I’ve made a decision, tomorrow I am going away. I can hear the rain on the roof outside and the rattle of my tiny mind inside. It’s time to get out. Time to leave and I can feel it; clear as clear as religion coursing through me.
I can’t explain away love, or my life’s lack of it. I haven’t planned anything for so long I’ve forgotten what a pleasure and a curse it is to imagine past the next few months into a future. Tonight I pack and engage the possibilities; how much more is there is to touch and see?

I get up early. I eat reason for breakfast. It sticks in my throat and I fight to swallow it along with my raisin toast, with a heavy backpack on my shoulders I close the wooden door

'click'

I listen to the sound of my own shoes crackling the leaves of the path.
No more half-dazed days. Goodbye watching days slip by. As I leave in this confusion of love and endurance, it's a relief to hang hope off a decision. I’ve always glanced over at people with babies or small children and wondered what it is they were hoping for.
Only once in my life have I felt like I belonged. I really, truly, loved him and I’ll probably never know why. Worse I’ll never understand why he didn’t want me. All I have is the knowledge that he didn’t and couldn't. It's when I learned the art of self - preservation. It seeped in after that. I make my way down the foot path. I spit and keep walking, it’s cold for this time of year and the afternoon light is like an after-thought. It’s as if it should already be 5 o’clock and the sun sinking behind me. It’s not- it’s barely one thirty and I just want to leave. Autumn and it’s tricks.
I’ve always wanted a car, a bright yellow valiant with an Australian flag on the aerial, mostly because I had a friend with one once. She was reckless and strange and we parted company. A few years ago I heard she died (the world is always too small for good people). Of course I don't have wheels or the hope of acquiring them so I walk. Loaded and ready to catch a bus.
I have an idea that I’ll use my passport and try and get a cheap flight when I get to the airport. I haven’t much money. It bothers me. I chew on my lip. At the airport I buy chips and a coffee. Amid the throng of travelers I'm relaxed and busy. This day holds new truths that I hadn’t known existed. I take stock of my funds and the price to get anywhere. I choose Cairns. I choose Cairns because it’s small and unfamiliar but there's still the possibility to go north if I want to. Depending how it goes when I get off the plane. I’m a bit rumpled that I can’t afford to go overseas but I have to make do with a change. The flight isn’t for 5 hours and I kick around at the airport.
When I was smaller I wanted everything, I was fierce and opinionated and passionate, brave and stupid. I wished for things with unfaltering faith and lots of the time I got them. Years later I wonder where that little girl went? Did she walk away when she realized I was never going to stand out in a crowd? Did she let go of my hand and wander off in her party dress and I didn’t notice until it was too late? Or did I merely make a series of strange, easy choices and she left. I certainly don’t feel old. I just feel like I’ve been kicking around in a shoe box. A shoe box that’s pretty and that I picked out for myself and now I’m inside it, knowing it intimately and I don’t like it as much as I thought I would. I smile conspiratorially at no one. I rearrange my arse in the plastic bucket seat. It’s too uncomfortable and I want to be outside.
A man offers me a cigarette whilst I’m standing around on my own, at the glass doors in the wind. I take it. I smoke for something to do but I don’t really taste it. He asks me where I’m going. The man says I have the look of winter. He says it's fortunate I’ve chosen to go away. I look at him unsmiling. My brave face, facing his. People are so free and easy with their opinions. His opinion is meaningless. Passing observations made on a life he knows nothing of. I don’t thank him for it. Taxi drivers, old people, aunts, people you meet at the fish and chip shop, buskers, smack addicts you turn away for lack of change, mum – they all have something to say about how I look and feel. I don’t want it. I want to be blank faced, tired and mysterious.

About a half an hour later I'm sucking the cigarette man’s cock. We only talked for a couple of minutes before it occurred to me. It wasn't hard to get to this point. Blunt = sexy when it comes to casual fucking and here we were in a toilet cubicle at the airport. I’m doing it for sport, aware that he might try to give me 50 bucks at the end and I’ll feel insulted. I'm extremely good at it. He mutters some phrases I’ve heard once or twice before. He bucks me a little with his knees, shoving his cock further and further into my face until he cums with a rusty grunt. It doesn't take long. I clamber up and kiss his lips; briefly. His stubble and his smell are unfamiliar. I let myself out of the cubicle before he even buttons his pants, there-by avoiding the awkwardness. He makes a sound but I don't turn around and it's over. I smirk and check the sides of my mouth in the mirror.

I buy a fanta. Three hours have passed. My lips are numb and rubbery. They feel huge to me as I press them together. I buy a newspaper to find out what day of the week it is.

Thursday.

I sit by myself in the lounge making origami boxes - this eats up more than an hour of my time. I’m feeling anxious now. There is nothing for me at the other end. I interact badly with people. I curse myself for giving head – again, when I could have had someone to talk to for another hour or two. I wonder where he’s going and realise I didn’t ask.
The last time I was intimate with my lover; the man who broke my heart- I’d given him a head-job. I had taken the time and given freely to the task of making love to his silky skin. Caressing him and sucking his cock like a nymph. He’d gotten up afterwards and I’d watched him walk around my tiny bedroom, nude. His taut, lean muscles on display… he was so comfortable with himself, such a rare thing, after weeks of hiding under the sheets unaware that he was beautiful. I was so sure he loved me that day, and I glowed on the inside- fit to bursting with words that I chose to hold back. Now I am glad of it, I would have been made a fool. He let go of my from his life the next day. As it was I had no idea that we would never be that close again. I had no idea then, that he never feel anything like I felt for him. He always told me he had nothing to give. I should have listened. Instead I gave and gave until my love for him gutted me, took my energy for fun and happiness and churned it into an unquenchable restlessness. Well he was a cunt and he fucked me. Today I am an emotion cripple. We can’t blame others for our mistakes. Can I blame the fearless little girl I used to be? She got me into that mess based on trust and understanding. I smirk to myself at this and an elderly lady at my side shifts in her seat uncomfortably. I wonder if she will get up and move away. I stop picking my emotional scab. I look up to see my friend with the cigarettes. He acknowledges me coolly and indicates his pocket. I make my way out of the lounge behind him, out onto the street. We smoke, not talking and eventually he leaves. I can still hear the wind.
I board the plane to Cairns. When we disembark the airport is tiny and hot. I buy bananas and bread and peanut butter and go and sit on the pier. There are cafes and restaurants everywhere. I sit at a bench to make up my food. It’s getting dark now but it’s not cold. I’m not sure where I’ll stay. The best place to start is the pub, I’ve not much money but if I can find a bar with locals I might learn where to look for work in the morning. For now I use my plastic knife to smear peanut butter on white bread. My fingers poke the banana flat to fit in the sandwich.
I figure I’ll find my way when I need to.

I don't care I'm eating it anyway

The man sat.
He tended to do this, at length. He is just being... in the room.
Stoic, one might surmise or merely saturated by the desire for un-change.
How can something so still, be alarming?
Thought 1: When tragedy befalls us; why is it that we act as though what is said by those left behind will somehow carry on memories into history? At the scene of great tragedy actions are surely remembered more clearly?
Thought 2: Getting through a crisis; 'If you change nothing - nothing changes'.
Thought 3: If you buy it all:
the popouri (?!)
the cakes and celebrations
the job-you-never-liked-but-convinced-yourself-you-needed-anyway
the inevitable bank loan
the car
these to-the-minute sunglasses; watch, food processor, i-phone.
…
...this will never occur to you on a sunny Saturday afternoon, having eaten more than your fill of barbequed meats and finished reading the country's best tabloids; had you saved 'til you barely ate cheese on toast - you could be cruising as a tourist around a continent who's economic stability is based on the very currency you'd be under-spending at a locally-owned shop.
You could be living an adventure paid for by the inane toils of your adult life.
I digress.
The man sits. At the minute; just run of the mill sitting.
To me this is nothing short of astounding. I'm constantly distracted. I am constantly prompted by improbable reasoning into action.
This ability of his to sit back, observe and understand - or give the impression of not needing to alter circumstance, ever - incredible.
He sits.
'You're just sitting'
'Yes' he says
'Again'
'Yes'
'I want you to do something'
'And what would that be?'
'I don't know' I say.
Anything. Something. The frustration pains me. Why do I care? I don't say that. I don't say anything.
He sits.
I fidget.
Finally I ask him to say random numbers. It bridges the space between us into a semblance of comfortable conversational banter.

'86'

I smile

More than three minutes pass. I should turn on the radio. I shuffle my feet.
'54'
It is as though a weight has lifted. I don't understand why it should mean so much.
I am blissfully happy.
'Thank you' I say and kiss him
'Nay problem' he says with a belly laugh. We fall back into silence and I feel the tumour of my discontent begin to seed.
The silence thickens
'34' he says, after about ten minutes and with little certainty.
My relief is palpable.