:: creation
:: slipstream
:: big idea
:: the mute
:: suburbia
:: the myriad confusions in life
My tongue darted around the opening of her vagina. Tongue touched lip, touched clitoris. I had the hungry desire of someone in need of self-affirmation. I found it in her anus.
She was prostrate and asleep in a bed the other side the wall.
I felt sick. I felt aroused. I felt alive.
We had guzzled vodka, and smoked blow all night and well into the morning. My body trembled uncontrollably; a husk caught in swirling autumn winds. She disentangled her legs from around my neck, bolted upright and pushed me back. My body cascaded into the tattered black leather sofa. Her hands flailed at my button fly. Her mouth received my lazy erection. She sucked on my phallus, willing it to life; she stroked the shaft and gnawed at the “v” shaped underbelly of my bell-end. But, the infidelity in me had become limp through vodka and guilt; there would be no crying over spilt milk that morning.
I left her, we may have kissed, we may have averted each other’s gaze. I entered the adjoining bedroom and led next to her. I wondered if she may be able to sense my guilt, or feel the palpable rush of excitement that soared through my veins, even if blood didn’t. Oddly it never occurred to me that she might recognise the smell of another woman’s cunt on my lips.
She didn’t: not the morning after, not the week after. So I told her.
It ended. It started. Chapters opened and closed with binary logic. The pain seared through my mind, my brain ached, I found the off switch and on screen the green and black matrix sizzled, faded and died. There was a brief afterglow, a ghostly halo that lingered for a while, discernable but nebulous: without form or purpose. But the pain of the retina burn, the incessant maelstrom of emotions that confused a thousand histories with an infinity of futures would dine on my soul for millennia, black hole fashion.
I would read some where, some when, that the search for fundamental particles; the building blocks of all creation was a bluff. For we are all made of time machines. On a deep subatomic level, we are packets of infinitely compressed and contorted space-time.
Looking back and looking forward, I would and will take solace in this counter-intuitive world, where cause and effect have no discernable, predictable correlation. I rage against the pain today as yesterday; I remain a quantum proposition: a being capable of every shade of light and dark, and a few more exotic luminosities incomprehensible to your juddering simian mind.
Look back, review these words, skip a page. Pain. Monitor.
Expiration.
all words and picture (c) 2005 stephen thomas