Author S. K. Nicholas

A girl with searching eyes that know my tricky desires. I try and pretend I’m too old, but it’s useless, for the older I get, the more pointless it feels to be lying. When you’re young, you try and pretend you’re normal; that everything is fine. That life is great. This I once attempted so diligently, but now it seems so worthless. I don’t want others to think I’m okay; I want them to know that I’m fucked, and have been for a very long time. I don’t want a lover who thinks I’m someone I’m not, I want a woman that knows just how close I come to caving in on myself- and I want it to turn her on like a tongue around her nipple. Sometimes when the lights go out, and everything is silent, I imagine fucking her while high on the scent of Linseed Oil. Rubbing oil paints into my gums and squeezing a tube of Prussian Blue over her pert tits, I lift her leg above her head and place three fingers in her mouth. She gags but doesn’t make me stop. It’s cold, but then it’s hot. It’s April, and then it’s August. Her body is less like a woman’s and more akin to a wild animal enchanted by the silent gaze of the moon. It resides in a fountain carved out of ice that melts yet never loses its shape. While smoking a cigarette and pondering the meaning of what her sex looks like, the urge to have a drink grows every minute, but my will is strong. Swallowing ice cubes to a soundtrack of empty beer bottles being tossed against the side of a church, the night grows dark. There are birds, yet they make no songs. There are stars that shine, yet which emit no light. Bathed only in the colours that flash on the TV screen, we merge in an act that resembles something out of a book. Maybe Crash or The Atrocity Exhibition. The more perverted, the better. The darker the ride, the more we come alive in a world that worships sterility.