19 May 2012
Deleatur
Our heroine lies draped across her unmade bed, pen in hand, arm curled around notebook. She is not writing but crossing out words. She crosses them out six or seven at a time, with lines that finish in elegant loops. She writes a few more, then crosses them out again. Her cast wide open window lets cool air blow in and over her body. Cool air on naked skin, she concentrates on the sensation until she no longer thinks Why? Why won't words erupt forth, good usable lava flow of words, unstuck unstilted words, why won't they pour onto the page, why won't they deliver her from doldrums and vapidity and meaningless transience and the ache of nostalgia and the fear of death and doing three more dishes, folding two more shirts?
04 March 2012
Avatar
Denny responded to online personal ads with two photographs: one of his head shot from the side, which angle gracefully understated his double chin; and one of another man’s cock. The cock he had gleaned from the internet; it resembled his own in curvature and skin colour but was, he estimated, a good inch and a half longer, with a considerably more bulbous head.
These pictures, introduced by three generic lines of dubious grammaticality, he sent indiscriminately to any ad labelled w4m. He rarely got responses but didn’t care. He liked to imagine the women who’d written the ads (he mostly didn’t read them) opening up their email inboxes and seeing, jutting up lewdly on their laptop screens, the glorious thick veiny angrily purple cock that he thought of as his, even though it wasn’t.
The women of his fantasies — against their prudish wills, naturally — found this ineluctably arousing. Hijacked by their primitive subconscious, they juiced themselves into a frenzy imagining him fucking them — imagining the cock, his cock, plowing in and out of them; imagining his turgid monstrous cock fucking them while delicate slender fingers reached as if possessed to touch slick cunts, fingers sleek and wet stroking cunts dripping oozing gushing, imagining him, imagining his cock, huge and engorged and majestic.
These pictures, introduced by three generic lines of dubious grammaticality, he sent indiscriminately to any ad labelled w4m. He rarely got responses but didn’t care. He liked to imagine the women who’d written the ads (he mostly didn’t read them) opening up their email inboxes and seeing, jutting up lewdly on their laptop screens, the glorious thick veiny angrily purple cock that he thought of as his, even though it wasn’t.
The women of his fantasies — against their prudish wills, naturally — found this ineluctably arousing. Hijacked by their primitive subconscious, they juiced themselves into a frenzy imagining him fucking them — imagining the cock, his cock, plowing in and out of them; imagining his turgid monstrous cock fucking them while delicate slender fingers reached as if possessed to touch slick cunts, fingers sleek and wet stroking cunts dripping oozing gushing, imagining him, imagining his cock, huge and engorged and majestic.
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