I've been bad, very bad, and not naughty, as I was prone to being, long ago, well, a couple of years, when I was a writer (one perhaps never stops being a writer, even when one stops writing), but not writing is bad, and if I had any inspiration, that would have awoken me from my doldrums, in the humdrum, bass drum rimshot existence of relocating to a non-foreign, foreign country, to my old country from the old country, forcing myself to look back – look back like I don't allow myself to do when I'm writing one of my streams, wading through my dreams, hoping to find something to stir the deep inner recesses of my obsessions, today writing a thirty sentence story in only a single verbal gush so rabid that at some point you may lose the will to live in your search for a full-stop or a period as we Americans call it, although I hesitate even to allow you a comma or a dash while you dive head first into the mush that I call my consciousness but you might rather think of as unconsciousness or perhaps you are already heading to lalalandwherenospaceslive and where my brain has become a slippery goo that – well, yes, you might not call it a brain – some would agree with you, but not the organization who has calculated my IQ, which is microscopic, in its inversion, while my self is in revision, or perhaps reversion to my old sensual ways – yes, you thought I might never get there – but if you are delving into my consciousness, you are likely to slip into my sub-conscious (if you aren't unconscious already) where that stuff lives, where my soul breathes fire and water simultaneously in the simulacrum of similarity of the sensual to the sexual that lives only an atom's width from the surface of my identity, my being, and my soul, which is probably not all that far from my being or my beginning, or my benign personality, which on a good day has trouble stringing a lucid sentence together.
Sometimes I sit in an empty room with the heat turned up. It helps me relax my aging joints in the dead of winter. I can't stay long, as the light sweat that my body generates means my bum sticks to the varnished floor. I would have brought a mat to sit on, but that ruins the purity of the room, featureless, save for an uncurtained window that overlooks fields to the north.
I leave the light off, so I can gaze out the window anonymously at the silvery moonlight on the frosty grass. If the moon is full, there is sometimes enough light to read my cards. Mostly, I just sit there and be me. Tonight, it is dark, so I left my cards in the bedroom.
Sitting alone in this room, I leave the frozen outside world out there, listening in the silence for the soft beat of my heart. There it is, nice and slow, the pace of an athlete. Leaving my eyes open, I imagine a glow around me, red tonight, for the fire that is ready to burst from me, the fire of passion, or lust, perhaps.
I became a blonde again today, because they have more fun, and I want a part of it. I've been sitting alone on my own too much lately, as it's been too cold to go out, even on my morning runs. Ordinarily, the cold doesn't stop me, but lately it has been wet, too, and as much as I would like to, I can't run on ice. Now we have three inches of snow on the ground. Poop!
Rather … poof! I'm a blonde. Now all the men desire me, and that's what the red glow is for. It's me filling my room with desire until I reach critical mass. I'm calling to them – to you, and you are coming. I can feel it in my centre, molten. I have enough for everyone. Come to me now, and we will share. The walls aren't a barrier tonight, only to keep the cold out. It's Bermuda inside, and I'm here waiting in the centre of my triangle. The room may look square, but I have become the Bermuda Triangle, summoning those I desire, and those who secretly desire me – more, now that I am a blonde again, the spider in her web wanting, waiting.
You are here. You float through my web like a soft breeze, and you are caught, caught in my triangle, my web, my aura. Yes, you are here, and I feel your desire, your need. I'm a blonde-bombshell ready to explode for you because my need is greater, and I must devour you, so you may be reborn, fulfilled. The walls glow like lava now, and I dare not go near the window, lest the neighbours see my naked body. I will stand in the centre for you, still visible, but they will have to work for it, earn it.
I breathe you in, cool, but I will warm you – yes, you are warmed within my womb, your desire entwined in mine, the fuse burning, searching for the powder keg. You are the sweat between my breasts, dripping down, down, towards my red fire, and in it you come to life with white-hot energy, burning off impurities. We are one, liquid gold beyond price, too hot to touch, a puddle searing my varnished floor, and you are freed, spotless, as I wait for the next, for I am blonde, desirous to all and insatiable.
My fuse still burns.
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