I've been awol lately, mostly because of work commitments, and I just find myself tired and uninspired at the end of the day – too tired to even ponder the S-word; I haven't been writing much poetry lately, because I leave too much of my soul out there on the page, my past, my loves; it isn't that I wan't to hide, but I find that sometimes rather than being cathartic, it plunges me into the depths; I'm not bipolar, but I can really whip myself up into a frenzy, sometimes sexual, other times I just wallow in the misfortunes of my life, and that isn't considerate to my friends;
it's better to stick with sex, that's where I can let myself go, the warm gurgle of an orgasm, the touch, real or imagined of a lover as well as his scent, his taste, his sounds, his warmth – it's infectious – and I feel almost as if I'm flying as I touch on a fantasy, perhaps a fantasy of touch, of taste; I've told you how physical writing is for me, but it does that to me, starting subtly, perhaps while I'm writing about being too busy to visit you, my friends, but then it seduces me, the soft rustle of leaves, a gentle stream, my stream seductively floating me to the white water, the rapids of my fantasies, I think of it, sensation, my breathing becomes shallow, as if I'm on a run, but more like the first touch of a man, a kiss perhaps, but possibly the exploration of his hands, testing me – a test drive? – It could go that way, and I feel warm, too, breathing deeper, hopelessly taken by my mental wandering, I reach out for more, for him, I'm hungry, I'm insatiable, and I want him, my fantasy man – he's no hunk, just an ordinary guy, but he has to be intelligent, he's got to seduce me with his words,
he can be quiet, but I've got to see it in his eyes – he knows, he understands, and he wants what I want – and we all know what that is right now – I take a deep breath to slow it down, the slower the better, he must be my Eric Clapton, my slow hand, but no cool hand, I want him hot, hot for me, hot under me – I want him uncomfortable, under my control, in my control, in me, in me in every way, physically and metaphorically, urgent like my lack of punctuation moving faster towards our mutual goal of mutuality of intellectual fulfillment of ecstasy he takes me to orbit past the hydrazine cloud of the destroyed spy satellite but I'm not afraid I'm more dangerous than that he knows he screams it for all to hear while I quietly destroy him there is no other but me and he is mine he … he … satisfies me, sates me with his words, the glint in his hazel eyes that mirror mine, and he hasn't even taken off his clothes, yet he inhabits me as I possess him, body and soul, his words, my words, inseparable
It’s happening again – I’ve got to let it out, I’m writing too much real fiction, The Wind Whisperer, and no sex, well, not that much in the story at least; people have been saying that I’ve should write more of the real stuff, fiction, essays, I enjoy that part of writing, for me it’s therapy, letting out the frustration, and that usually means sexual frustration, I want it now, I need it now, you, dear readers are going to give it to me, yes, I can feel it already, the heat, the rush, mmmm, I can feel you as if you were sitting here in my lap, well, you are, via computer technology, between my legs where you belong, and I open myself to you, my heart, my body all of me – I can feel your heat – yes, there, oh, you can be so good to me,
I’ve been pondering the seven deadly sins lately, and I keep coming back to lust, I’m finding it difficult to tackle wrath, and although I have a long fuse, it’s a big explosion; sex can be that way, the longer you wait for it, the better it is, if only that were true – I’m expecting an 150 megaton blast, you’d better watch out – that’s the physical wait, but I make up for some of it by writing these words for you, my bedfellow – you keep me warm at night and sometimes during the day, like right now on a Sunday evening while I’m waiting for dinner to cook, I can just smell it, not dinner, sex, I can feel it coming like dinner, and I’m hungry, so hungry for you, and I’m tired of the foreplay, foreplay is good, but I want the main course and you are my dinner tonight, can you smell the semen in my hair, that’s left over from my jacuzzi fantasy, I loved that, but today you get to join me, and in fact, I’m your fantasy today, what am I doing now – holding you while you keep me warm, mmm, your skin is so soft against mine, I assume I’m naked in your fantasy, or about to be, did my cloths come of easily, torn, shredded, wet – I like it wet – water, baby oil, corn oil (hehe), even, yes, you know about that already, but no blood, and no pain, but I suppose if that is your fantasy, you don’t have to tell me, don’t, I don’t want to know, let me have it, and I take you places, where you want to go, need to go, I’m doing it now, do you like it, I do, and I’m feeling it, yes, there, the usual place, the best place, how do I taste, you haven’t tried, do, I like to be tasted, I think I taste like commas tonight, I’ve been using them almost relentlessly, but no periods, it’s not that time of the month, I’m ripe and ready, salted, peppered and comma-ed, what are you waiting for?
Thank God for Fridays, well, most of them; it seems most of my streams come on Fridays, usually in the evening, usually in reaction to news, good or bad, and there was some today – I’m not good at dealing with it – usually I flee in to my inner space, my inner erotic paradise, where dreams grow; it helps me escape, escape into that eternal musky, sultry summer evening, where there is always someone there to satisfy me, spiritually and physically – not a god or devil, just someone who knows my needs intimately, who makes me forget the cough I’ve been carrying for a few days, or the ache, the ache of longing – I long – and I’ve longed for a long time, but on Friday night, facing a weekend on my own or with my friends and not work, I think about him and about my dreams
erotic fantasies, sometimes, usually, it’s an obsession, but it helps me to survive, I’m not a sex addict, I’m addicted to dreams, dreams about sex maybe, dreams about him, about my suppressed existence, my past, my mistakes, yes mistakes, I’ve made them, but he’s nearby so it’s not all bad, and he visits my dreams, and I know I visit his, maybe I visit yours, I hope I do, and I hope it’s good for you, exciting and satisfying, do dream of me when you can – my dreams, well, I run a lot, escape dreams, he has them, too, I know, exploring places from my past, places as they never appeared in real life, places where I search for things, find things that I don’t expect, naked – funny, he says he’s always naked in his dreams, too, it’s a mystery;
I’m naked now, metaphorically, for you my reader as I bare my soul, I give you my tanned lean limbs, a runner’s tan, my milky white breasts – obviously, I never run topless – milky white like my soul, my hair bleaches in the summer, but it’s a dark red now (compliments of L’Oreal) otherwise it would probably be salt and pepper; my pure soul, which reaches out to envelope you, so you will love me – I crave affection – as most writers do, let me hold you with my words, so you can not but love me, my words, the intricacy in which I put them together to let them play, play with you, play with your dreams, in your dreams; I am there making your dreams, hopefully empowering you to make them come true; he says I inspire him, so shouldn’t you drink of the same nectar, the nectar of life, the nectar of dreams, the essence of love, and the kernal of art, I’m the most exalted carnal goddess, and sex is the most creative of drives, go forth and multiply, entertain me …
pleasant dreams my lovelies
Arlen was quiet most of the next week, during which I divided my time practising, playing duets with Nipples, and walking the grounds with her. The mild weather had begun to melt the snow. She also made a stab at teaching me how to cook, teaching me a few dishes that I might serve Arlen when he arrived. She had the patience of a saint.
I couldn’t chat much with Charlie either. Nips had taken to spending the evenings gabbing with me in my room until either we passed out from the alcohol, or fell asleep, several times waking with her next to me in my bed.
What I wanted desperately to speak with her about was Arlen. How should I greet him? Should I be his fantasy? What should I wear? She wouldn’t want to hear that, and she wouldn’t want to hear about Charlie either. They didn’t see each other much at Uni. Nipples and Sandra were the star postgraduate composers, while Charlie was a lowly undergraduate, a talented trumpeter, and only a part-time composer – basically a non-entity. A flash of jealousy scarred Nipples’ face whenever I mentioned her. She knew about us, somehow.
Sandra was a different story. Something seethed underneath, and Nips wouldn’t discuss her at all, other than repeated warnings to be careful. I had to formulate an action plan for that visit on my own.
Amelia sent me a number of emails, mostly asking about Nipples. Was she all right? Was she eating enough? Was she lonely? Was she having a good time? Did I like her music? If I didn’t know better, I would have thought there was something between them, but aside from some online contact, Nips claimed they had hardly met, other than for a short lesson while Amelia was in town for a première.
Emails came irregularly from Liz and Laura as well, enquiring about my plans with Sandra, but also warning me about the fragile Nicole. Both were concerned about their visits overlapping, even by only a few minutes. The seemed to know too much, as though they all discussed us behind our backs.
When it came time for Nipples to leave, I felt an attachment to her, perhaps motherly like the others, but more profound, as if she was someone who needed my protection. I would miss her and contrived to invite her up for Easter break to rehearse her violin piece, if nothing else. Dunrig was at its most vibrant during the spring, with flowers bursting into bloom below the cherry trees. We would have to make way for the tourists, but other than Easter Sunday, the early season was clear, although the Estate staff would be all over the grounds like a rash, tarting the place up.
My annual recital was early in the summer – hopefully I would be five months pregnant by then – but I hoped she could come. Perhaps if I played her piano Preludes, she might be more inclined to come north. Aside from the tourists, June was the most idyllic month at Dunrig. Even the ghosts made themselves scarce unless I summoned them. Nips would like June in the castle.
I missed her already, and she hadn’t left yet.