The Oldest Profusion - Flash Fiction

I paraded in peignoir, basque, thong, stockings, garters and heels, along the catwalk of his imagination. Clotheshorse me, when his seasonal design is to me saddle me naked. Ultimately to leave no lingering lingerie eclipsing my flesh from his solar flaring gaze, his sidereal probing fingers. No celestial bridge of sighs, but mere pumping caisson, pontoon poon. As his hands perform a stiff dance of the seven veils, starchily dismantling the silk garlands and wreaths he had insisted I caparison myself with, my mind drifts as to where he came by such a hackneyed assemblage. Mail order catalogues? (That precisely dates his vintage). Doorcrack glimpses of his mother? Camera Obscura erotica or illicit daguerrotypes? (I am reaching too far back in time). Nonetheless, whatever the deep lying wellspring, still a dreary, trite imago from which his particular grubby bedbug emerges. His bromide afflatus supposed to becalm me, only serves to stroke my dander. My scabs, scales and less than immaculate macula, thrust themselves beseechingly at him as proof of flawedness, a stiletto stab of subjectivity. But he is lost inside his head. Where I am entombed. Behind his hyaline eyes I have no substance. Me mere stained glass window (with the emphasis on ’stained’), to stop up his gaze and interdict the light that would adjure me depth. The lifeless wrinkles of husked silk on the floor bore more dimensions than the stripped me. 

Eyes In The Back Of His Hands

My blind lover reached out to light upon me. I stayed as still and as silent as I could, suspending my breath so as to provide him with no cues. I coveted the way he foraged to locate me. Without sound and motion, he zeroed in on my heat. The temperature of my blood. The cadence of my heart, audible only to him. Watching him search only further raised it, pulsing like a beacon. Thus we mutely reinforced one another’s avidity. In time, though our anticipatory senses had in actuality dismantled all incremental chronology between us, he attained the monolith of me. He clasped my face in his hand, gently dabbed his fingers to triangulate my mouth, before bombardiering his own lips to mine.

My eyeless lover did more than cup, contain and compass me. He carved me and hewed me from my block. His expert, unjudgemental hands moved to plot me, each a deliberate motion reforming the configuration of me. Wilfully I shifted and writhed so that my flesh would never settle in the same aspect. Making each handhold of my body a fresh exposure. My contours scaled and duly honoured, not as some milepost or waystation, but a sacred destination in and of itself. Even with my eyes open, tracking his parabolas over my skin, I could not feel myself as he graved me. As he raised the siege of me. 

My sightless lover became my eyes for me. For in no other possible way could I grasp my own outlines. My eyes were shut as he revealed me to myself. I enveloped his hands with mine and let him guide me over the unknown terrain of me. 

Taken from the flash fiction collection "Extra-Curricular" available from Amazon, I-Tunes and Createspace.

Four Dirt Trails

This is the word cloud for my contribution to Games Perverts Play's theme of "Dirt".

Games Perverts Play is a website curated by Quite Riot Girl, which has submissions on a different theme each time. The submissions range from essays, through erotica to literary and experimental fiction in the realm of the sexual.

My contribution to "Dirt" was titled "Four Dirt Trails" and was exactly that; four stories examining the different contexts and meanings of the word dirt as exemplified in the diversity in the word cloud about. I don't really write erotica, but I do write about language and power and of course, the bedroom is one particularly salient demonstration of the two going hand in glove. The four have a different tone, one is a sort of fairy story, another more of a deconstuctionist mini-essay on talking dirty/ sex talk and so on...

If you click on the link, you can download "Dirt" for free as a PDF. There's some wonderful writing there by the likes of Penny Goring, Dan Holloway, Mark Simpson, Jonathan Kemp, Magda Sullivan, Betty Herbert and Quiet Riot Girl herself.

There is a content warning for the material.