The weather is miserable, and so am I.
Right here is something I’m working on for my unholy dissertation about feminism and other such insanity. It’s based on the theories of the dialectics of dualism, bisexuality and plurality and sexual difference. If you know what that all meant you’re probably as geeky and depressed as I am. As always comments etc are welcomed, don’t be shy, I’m really not so odd.
I fell to the bed, torn and ragged with drink. He threw the curtain closed and came after me. We pushed and pulled, striving flesh taunt, arms and knees bone angled points. Tumbled, backdown, I, held hotly. Slick insinuation forcing backwards, tensile, puncturing. Loosing limbly - skin bubbles slide, permeate and dissolve together. Straining fleshly we dance: one two, one two; follow the pulse rootwise. Now the switch. Leading rhythmically; action and reaction. Melded bodies unchanged, roles reverse. The gift is greedily taken, the victim overpowering. Wrestle and pray, the suitor is devoured and dies throatily. Above and below, taker and taken, twisting etherwards, vaporised. Together we evacuate, explode blankly, skeins of thought blown outwards.
Slow drag down, bodies call. We settle formally, each to our own shape. Vein mapped arms clamp down, the mission fulfilled. Gasping, drowning in the air, heaving weakly on the bed sheets. Salty arms draw forever inwards. Pulled to the bosom, nestled wetly. The mouth sucks raw pink, with a plump and greedy childish smile. The active babe drains the willing source.
I push my fingers into his back, blood under the nails.
‘I’m not your mother.’
Then, afterwards, he pulls on my clothes and I slip into his. I swagger through the dusty air, open the door and emerge outside. Swaying she follows, all rolling angular hips and barefoot grace. I stroll down the lazing amber street, looking at the shop girls, servile in their pretty skirts. She follows, hiding beneath her fringe like a fan, coyly dropping her eyes from the staring shoppers who flow by and disappear.
