Several Loose Strands


“When will you let me take it?” I ask.

Placing her feet on the ground, she lets out a muted yawn before wiggling her toes. Looking at them the same as she does, they remind me of juicy little piggies getting ready to go to market.

“Not now, if that’s what you’re implying. You’ll have to wait a while longer before you get the satisfaction of demeaning my womanhood.”

“I’m not demeaning anything,” I say, “I’m merely capturing you at your most beautiful—at your most honest.”

“Yeah, right,” she fires back, “that you can use to help fuel that weird fantasy life of yours.”

It’s true that I have a fantasy life, and it’s true that it’s weird. Most of the time, my fantasies are more real than my days, and the more wood I collect to keep it burning, the better. Without it, I’m nothing but an empty vessel like the rest.

“What are you thinking?” she asks while grabbing a comb from the drawer before brushing it through her hair sending several loose strands to the floor.

“I’m not sure,” I say, which is a lie, but also the truth. I don’t tend to have many thoughts, just feelings I can’t put into words. There was a time when these feelings ballooned inside of me, causing me to suffocate, but now I have little ways of getting them out. Sometimes it involves putting one word after the other on a sheet of lined paper. If I’m lucky, and I put the right words in the correct order, I make a tune that makes things okay, and if only for a while, the world and my mind seem to reach a better place. Other times, it’s a far seedier affair, and I tend to keep the reasons close to my chest.

“Well, obviously, I needn’t ask what you’re thinking about judging by where you’re looking.”

Without realising, I’m gazing between Meeko’s legs, and although we’d not long fucked, my thoughts are once again returning to that special area of hers.

“I guess I can’t blame you for being how you are, but every now and again I wish you would be more tender—show me some compassion instead of treating me like a giant womb.”

Her words reach my ears, but I don’t really hear them, for the longer my eyes focus on the fleshy lips of her sex, the less grip I have of the world around me. I see colours and the vague outlines of shapes, yet there’s no structure, just an invisible storm raging a mere slither beneath the surface. Most feel it but never comprehend it. The day I first became aware of it—the day I met Meeko—the door was torn from its hinges, and there’s been no way since for me to ignore what’s on the other side.

A Journal for Damned Lovers UK

A Journal for Damned Lovers US

Anthology UK / Anthology US

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