sacrilege

with apologies / thanks to Fleabag s2. 

Attempting sleep is useless. I throw my blanket back, cross my arms against myself and creep down the corridor. The stone is cool and smooth beneath the soles of my bare feet. Down the high hallway of identical cells, I shove my shoulder against the heavy wooden door, and briefly sink into drifting fog aglow in moonlight. The air is wet, the grass is luscious and bends beneath my careful footsteps. Across the yard to the empty chapel, and I shut its door, step slowly down the aisle lit in long beams of light from the silver shine through tall windows. Alone, alone, alone. 

Christ’s suffering body hangs above me as I reach the altar, the table from which we receive communion, and I light three candles with the matchsticks hidden in the table’s drawer. Descend again, sit on the front pew, and close my eyes, attempting prayer. 

Almost at every hour of the day, I know where she is. When I was on kitchen duty this afternoon, scrubbing potatoes, she entered from the garden to fill a glass from the sink and I smelt cloves and the creamy scent of her skin, and the harsh dirt that remains beneath her fingernails, no matter how much she washes. Though she did not speak I knew she moved past me, her scent slipped like smoke curling around me, then exited once more; I looked to my right where the sun pokes through the windows, the ones which open to the grapevines growing over the terrace where we receive the vicars and rectors for dinner in fine weather. I looked down to my task again, hands wet, starchy, red raw. I felt her shadow pass over me.

She watches me, I know this. I no longer ask God to take this away; the lust that unfurls through my limbs is not unlike the Holy Spirit, the wind that blows through you, lighting up each cell in the desperation of wanting. Sometimes I smell her behind me in prayer, and the sense of waiting on the divine gets tangled with the desire that heats my blood.

A clatter at the rear of the dark church whips my head back from somnolent thoughts; it is after curfew, Mother Superior will chide me, novices have no right to move freely at night and I stand, I turn, I was just going to bed -

Her eyes glow in the gloom. It’s Flor. She walks slowly toward me, a ghost, a spirit, a vision.

I have only seen her without her habit once; the spiked growth of her shaved head shocks me again. The cool voice, Please. Don’t mind me. Stay.

I follow her order, turn back to God, to the Christ that hangs bloodied with a crown of thorns, and sit and close my eyes, miming. Her footsteps come closer. And then her warm body is beside me. 

What to do with this beating heart? I am calamity and terror. The scent of cloves enfolds me. The hand she places upon my thigh is firm. I open my eyes, turn to her, whose own eyes are black before her lids flutter close and she pushes her mouth against mine. 

I have longed for this, tangled thin sheets in my cell, bemoaned the wandering of my mind as Father Donal preaches on Sundays, but never could I guess the soft texture of her tongue, its flickering insistence, the hot tension of her mouth, the exploration that grows more urgent as I turn my chest to lean against her body.

You’re shivering, she pulls back, and her gaze flicks over my face as she strokes my hair. Oh! she clicks her fingers as if something has just occurred to her. She stands with the swiftness, the pouncing, nimble energy that I love to watch, but leaves me for a moment to push open the door to the sacristy. My pulse thuds in my ears, I return to my body, the goosebumps on my bare arms, my aching, cold ankles. One of the candles has gone out at the altar, so I rise again to the sanctuary, find the match, strike it, watch orange flare in black, set it to the wick. 

And then her breath is on my neck, and she lays something heavy and musty-smelling around my shoulders.

I look closely at the fabric and gasp. Father Donal’s vestments! I look up to her in shock.

Don’t worry Evie, her voice lilts in tease, We’re just borrowing it for a while.

She looks at the open drawer beside me. We are between the altar’s communion table and the back wall of the chapel. Iconography surrounds us and her arms are around me. She cocks an eyebrow. Would you like to take communion?

Beside the matches are a box of communion crackers, and a half-full bottle of wine. I know I am not supposed to answer, I just watch her face, her sly smile, and my pelvis leans into her, she presses back in return, until we are pushing against each other with the cosmic force that parted the Red Sea. 

Kneel. 

The priest’s robes around me, I get down on one knee, and then lower the second to the wooden floorboards, my eyes locked on hers. She slowly takes a wafer from its box with a plastic crackle. The deep voice becomes a whisper.

The body of Christ, broken for you. I hear the slow, deliberate draw in of her breath. Open your mouth, Evie. 

I realise I have been biting the side of my cheek and release it, opening my jaw. She presses the thin wafer onto my tongue. I catch her finger with my lips before she pulls her hand away, and suck its tip. Her breath catches in her throat, a sharp sound in the dark empty chapel. I release her finger, crunch the wafer, swallow. Her eyes glow, and I want to rise, I feel pulled to her, but the ceremony must be completed. 

Carefully, with a scrape of heavy glass on wood, she pulls the bottle from the drawer and uncorks the wine. Open, Evie. I do not need to be told but I like the command all the same. This time I place my hands behind my back, lean my head up with my lips open as far as they can go; she holds the bottle above my head, and she tilts its base up, inching it higher, higher, and I lie in wait below her, she is patient, careful, waiting for the crimson liquid to run from the green glass; her own lips move again, as she utters blood of Christ, spilt for you, and a groan bursts from my chest, and the wine pours in a thin stream, into my mouth, onto my tongue, filling my tastebuds with sharp tannins, I swallow then choke a little, cough, wipe the spatter-spray from my cheek, and she takes a mouthful from the bottle’s neck, slams it on the table, and then her mouth is on mine, her body is on mine, I’m sorry, I’m sorry baby, she croons, we fall to the floor, she straddles me she is above me, her hands on both sides of my cheek, I’m sorry baby, I’m sorry baby, the insistent, needing whisper, the blood of Jesus in my mouth in her mouth with spit with desire with flesh. 

I place my hands beneath her nightdress, smooth my palms up from her thighs to her hips to her waist, noting the roughness of her skin, I am despair and she is the answer, the impossible terrible answer, I keep reaching, reaching, to close the excruciating gap between us, and she unbuttons my own nightdress, her mouth is no longer the controlled discipline I have seen in the sunlight in the vegetable garden, consulting with the sisters, her nighttime mouth is wet and messy against my ear, my neck, my collarbone, my nipples, unruly licks and swallows across the rise and fall of my body; she moves herself out of reach of my exploring touch and kisses and kisses down and down and down, when her face reaches my pubic hair she nestles her face in, rests a moment, moans long and deep, and then her tongue flicks and flashes, and my hips buck, and she pushes into me with her finger, no - fingers, or - I cannot tell but it is a riot within me, and while her hands are busy she rises to lean over me, watches my agony intently, her face close, her breath hot and wet on my cheek. Behind her head, high above, I can see up Jesus’ loincloth, if we were to experience a miracle and his divine blood were to drip down it would land upon this unholy scene and make a sacrament of us both.

She sits with her back leaning against the communion table, her legs flat on the floor, and under the guidance of her hands I lay across her lap, and with a measured hand she slaps the round cheeks of my ass, and the sound rings out, sings out like my voice did during hymns last Sunday, the sting cuts through the gloom of the chapel, and I gasp-moan with every smack, and she is inside me again, God knows what she is doing - He does actually, He is watching us right now, right now, right now, but I mustn’t think of that, no, no, I mustn’t think of that - she is furious in her determination, the vigorous hurried push-pull of her elbow rocks both our bodies together, my face is red with the receiving, what is happening, what is happening, what is happening, I’m an animal a beast I’m splayed across her lap I could piss or shit my legs are jelly my will is lost I’m at her mercy and as I near the edge of the cliff my whole body tenses and I grab her left arm, the arm that is not inside of me, I grab this arm with my claws and I bite down with my sharp teeth and as I fall from the cliff’s height I take this arm with my animal claws and grip on with all that I am and with her flesh still in my mouth I tremble and shake for hours, I shake for days, for weeks, holding on to her to anchor me here in this world. 

The air quietens. Her insistent, knowing fingers slow, then stop. She turns the length of her body and comes to lay beside me, and when her face is close to mine I can see perspiration on her skin, and we smile in some shared triumph, and she shifts onto her back. She lifts her arm to show me the liquid that covers her fingers down to the knuckle, glistening in the candlelight. My mouth drops open. 

That sly smile. She nods, kisses my forehead, and I catch the creamy scent of her skin, the underlying aroma of soil. She circles the liquid on my nipples, and they contract in the cool air. I shift my hips, and realise that my wetness has also spread to the blanket beneath us. 

The robes! I jerk to sitting, squinting in the fuzz of the candleglow, patting to see the extent of the damage.

I twist around to her, and she is laughing quietly at my furrowed eyebrows, her back arching with the pleasure of it. She pulls me back to lie beside her, strokes the dark hair around my face. Sorry baby, she says, still chuckling. Sorry baby. 

xx

feeling good? buy me a coffee.

the canals II

We would survive but without touch, without skin.

- Paul B. Preciado, Art Forum 26 Mar 2020

Loneliness drifts through my apartment like mist over a river. In the kitchen, bright yellow downlights; the loud, lively industry of steam and oil and the fan over the oven. I fry a thin portion of supermarket salmon, splash hot water over four demure sticks of asparagus, cut dill to sprinkle over boiled potatoes, chopped into neat cubes. But not too many - trying to cut down on carbs in the evening. House arrest means some people get an extra spare tyre. I refuse to fall victim to gluttony. 

The sky shrieks violet as I finish my meal, knife screeching on ceramic in my empty kitchen. The light changes through the windows of the conservatory. When the fading sun throws a final piercing orange, I pull on my running shoes, leaving my dirty plate at the table, cutlery askew. I’ll have to be quick. 

I’m not even 200m from my house before the first checkpoint. Two women in hi-vis jackets, walkie talkies, belt of weapons on their hips, take in my lycra top, my pumas, my adidas pants, and accept the costume of the night jogger. I nod at them, bouncing past in jovial cadence, and they each raise a hand in return. I think one of them could even see me leave my front door, so they don’t need to check my proof of address. I breeze past them into the night. 

Cross the main road, down the hill, onto the path by the canal. The rhythm of gravel crunch. The swans are settling now, white floating on black water, beak tucked in wing, wrapping into themselves to prepare for cold wet slumber. I hear a rustle in the reeds, and slow down, spot two shadows together; not in an embrace, exactly. In the secret place, he reaches across to her, cups her chin in his hand. Whispers low, whispers deep. 

For some it is enough to breathe the same breath. Others like the classic treatment. But after many months removed, forcing desire underground, it is difficult to launch into full body contact. You’ll find that more and more people are after a gentle whisper, a soft touch. 

Me? I try and give people what they want. That’s half the excitement, the dance of unknowing, the interpretation of the eyes - which gets harder as the light fades - the translation of embarrassed mumbles. Besides, when can we actually declare what we need? It is difficult to truly know, much less to ask. 

And there’s not much time, neither, with police idling up and down the streets besides the canals, and they’ll whirl the siren to give us a good scare; sometimes they’ll be on foot and they have a habit of peeking behind the trunks of ash trees, or moving closer to the canal, heeled boots tapping on the wooden boardwalks where we dangle feet over the slimy water. 

It’s always the same rigmarole, the same authority of the flashlight, a c’mon, mates, the exasperation of a school principal tired of the student constantly on the cusp of expulsion. A sort of go on, scram, a dispersal with the wave of the arms. So you get up, you go your separate ways, you go home. 

But there aren’t messers in sight, yet. 

I see a silhouette coming my way. We approach each other, steady steps. I reach out an appealing hand to her, she grasps my fingers lightly, experimentally, momentarily, yet doesn’t slow, and as we pass each other she shakes her head slightly, biting her lip. Well, even that miniscule contact gave me enough electricity to send me shooting off into the night. 

Sometimes I spot a looker across the waters, a pang of disappointment in my chest. For the bridge is too far and even if I were to double back to pursue, somebody else, some other body would likely intercept them before I got there. 

A shadow rises from the waters, momentarily confusing me - it’s not warm enough to swim - but it’s just a swan, pulling at underwater weeds with its sturdy, muscular neck. 

Lonely venus shines to the south-west and the sky deepens to deep blue. It is truly twilight. I see a figure up against a tree. Is it her? 

Last week, I’d seen the girl up closer to the pub and the bike racks. Her dark, full cheekbones gleamed and we’d leant against a brick wall covered with graffiti, beneath a row of flats. I was wearing a singlet top - the air is getting warmer and these nights can be real soft, sometimes. Breath shaking, she trailed her index and middle fingers along my wrists, my forearms, my biceps, my shoulders, up and down, again and again. Painting enchantments on my skin, sending jolts from surface to buried nerves. I closed my eyes and relented to her feathery touch. Sure, she was much closer than two metres, we were at risk, we were fools, all of us along the banks of the canal are fools. But she didn’t get any closer. Arms’ length. Even at that distance we cherished our closeness. 

Since then I’d thought some things I’d like to say to the girl. They wouldn’t quite be true - but they would have elements of truth to them. And if that is her in the dark, then finally I can -

It is. I remember the soft tangle of her hair. But she’s not alone. A woman kneels before her, looking up, eyes round above the mask covering her mouth and nose. From beneath the material strung across her face, she sings a song of devotion, holding my girl’s hand, stroking the heel where the thumb meets the palm. 

The girl doesn’t notice me as I walk past, or refuses to. Just stares down at the woman before her, eyebrows knotted, lips pulled tight. A cop car pulls past but they are lost in the shadows, and still, it is going too fast, some police don’t take this task seriously. Maybe some of them understand, maybe they’re out here themselves on their nights off. 

Tonight isn’t as warm as when I was with the girl, and my skin is covered. Nevertheless the wind pushes through, making my wrists ache. With a rush of pounding feet two real joggers fly past; I didn’t hear their approach and am startled by their pace, their rhythm, their vocal breath. I stop, disturbed, watch their bouncing white shoes disappear into the black, listen to the fading sounds of their panting. Their path widens as they avoid something on the middle of the footpath. I quicken my pace.

There. Further down, black hair lit by orange streetlight. He is sitting cross-legged. Somewhat reckless - maybe it’s his first night. At least he’s making it clear. He wants something. There’s no one else around. 

At the two metre line - none of us need the guideline anymore, we can all estimate pretty accurately, there've been enough strangers’ dirty looks at the supermarket - I stop. I put my hands in the pockets of my adidas pants. Smile. A dog barks in the distance. 

He doesn’t smile back. But he is receptive, eyes wide. He puts a hand out, asking to be pulled up. A mallard, head shining green, watches us from where it floats on black water. I can smell his cologne, mixing with the scent of cool algae. 

I grasp his hand - the transgression of skin - and lift his weight, pull him into the shadows’ shelter. In the solace of the willow tree, long tendrils surround us, drip and dangle over the water. 

Hey. 

Hi. Want a can?

Some people prefer the ease of alcohol, weed. I push back my hood, shake my head. I am scared, too, but am better at hiding it. 

His back is against the tree. The cold wind blows, the orange streetlight flashes through the sway of the willow branches, revealing ‘remember me’ scratched crudely into the trunk besides his face. He throws back his head to drain the drink - I glimpse his shaved throat, the jump of his adam’s apple, the cruel glint of his pierced septum - drops the can and the plastic bag from his fist, swallows, looks up at me.

I just want a hug. Please.

The distant dog howls. I’m taller than him, so fold my arms around his shoulders, while he slowly encircles my waist. It is awkward, he is new. It is never not strange, adjusting to the feel of another body. We begin to rock, slowly, from side to side, and a mm escapes his lips. It startles him, I can tell, so I adjust my arms, add a new movement, begin to stroke greasy, thick hair. I am sure he can feel me hard against him, it always happens instantly pressed against the heat of flesh, but I will let him lead, I will let him decide how far we will go. 

I say all the things I want to say to the girl, say all the things I want to hear from her and all the others before her and before the checkpoints and closed doors and two-metre rules, all the things I want to say to the sky and all the things I wish I could say to myself. He shifts against me, settles into my arms, and the whisper streams from my tongue, a spell wrapping around our bodies, pouring and pouring and ending with this final word: beloved. 

The risk isn’t mentioned. Everyone knows each person has the power to infect. A kiss could be a harbinger of suffering, a caress the killing stroke. But we do what we must. In the shadows we touch the angels of death to feel, for a moment, the memory of god. 

xx

feeling good? buy me a coffee.

riyadh

the crown prince of saudi arabia woke at eleven. the smell of him painted the house of shadows, i knew him by the scent of him, coconut, sand, hashish, long fingers of perfume languidly trailing from his open bedroom door.

the crown prince of saudi arabia, voice of black smoke, reading arabic poetry on the long table, viscous tendrils of unknown words curling up to the grapevines, singing and twisting into the blue catalonian sky. 

the crown prince of saudi arabia had ethereal vision, squinting through marijuana haze to see the dancing ghosts in between the arching, creaking trees, their supernatural response to the wind pulling her fingers through their arboreal hair.

the crown prince of saudi arabia had glinting chocolate eyes, long elegant fingers that always clutched a camera, watching, witnessing, seeing through a dark glass screen, seeing skin, seeing bone, seeing soul. he watched with the heart of a child who still knew the breath of god, he watched with the mask of the executioner.

the crown prince of saudi arabia said it is terrible women cannot drive, that the earth is raped for our prosperity, but did you know in summertime the air above the desert shimmers, and we rest in the shade of the reverent palm trees and watch the swallows dip and fall. my nieces twirl and laugh in the sand and i gather them to me and together we make beautiful pictures. he smiled with a chipped front tooth, and his glinting chocolate eyes and raw child’s heart meant there was nothing to forgive.

in the kitchen i mixed flour and sugar, aniseed and cloves; the heat of the oven, the ritual of the priestess, and each of them paid their due: the prince of Kurdistan stood close and said delicious, the prince of Cuba bowed and preached light, the crown prince of Saudi Arabia grinned his broken-tooth grin and said nothing, but still black smoke lingered and coconut perfume curled around my waist.

in the house of shadows i left my door ajar, and as i let my robes fall from my shoulder i sensed sweet coconut, and though he would never let his elegant fingers brush against my breasts i knew the glinting eye was at the door, seeing, seeing, so i lay open to the seeing, i let him see my skin, i let him see my bones, i let him see my shadows, i let him see my ghosts. 

xx

feeling good? buy me a coffee.

rotterdam

*** content warning: slapping ***

The hairs on my wrist are dark. I look at the point where they disappear into the rolled cuff of my rumpled red-and-white-checked shirt, marvel at how much we hide from the public world. I push my quarter-full cup from me - the coffee has long gone cold. Its saucer scrapes low, slow on the wooden table, and I look to my notepad, scrunch my nose, look up to witness the world around me. 

It has ticked over after-work time, and it’s getting tight in here with bodies on the bench, the communal tables, strangers’ knees touching, elbows entering the sphere of personal space of the other. The volume of the cafe has risen, and is warmed by the heat of bodies. 

Though it’s only five degrees outside, golden light pierces through the window, lighting jovial women removing thick coats at the door, old men leaning on the counter, grey hair sprouting from ears but dressed nonetheless with dapper elderly style: maroon suspenders on crisp white shirts and golden buckles. Shouting in the raised energy of the room. They don’t have to work, but they can sense the jubilation of those pushing open the creaking doors for a glass of wine now the office day is over, and their cackles increase. 

Three younger men with identical haircuts push away from the bar, sipping the white head of pints in concert as if puppets on a single string. Elegant legs cross on stools, painted nails and thin fingers clutch glasses of white wine. Clothes, hairstyles, manicures; appearance masks what lies within. Above the cacophony, curling brass lamps watch the rise and fall of people as they have for decades, witnessing each day’s identical rhythm: morning’s quiet, the anxious rush of lunch, sunset release, and the inevitable decay of evening. 

I return to the scrawled sentences on my notepad, then push my fingers beneath my golden wire glasses and rub my eyes. Words don’t make any sense anymore. And I’m distracted by my distance from the communal throb. My freedom - writing in cafes, submitting work to editors from afar - means the collective movement of the employed is unavailable for me. I watch a river full of fish, flowing together; it is impossible to drift with the crowd. I cannot enter that water. 

The cold ceramic cup grasped between my large hands, I throw back my head, drain it. Sucking at the leftovers of pleasure. I sigh and shake my head. To have a beer or…what? Go home? Stroll along the canals while the sun still holds weak power? Watch the buzz of the streets and feel both heartened and even lonelier? 

Swearing beside me interrupts my self-pitying reverie. A blonde woman throws her laptop on the table beside me. Fuck you fuck you fuck you! She pumps her fists at chest level, and the childish enactment of fury amuses me. A momentary revelation of what we usually prefer to hide. Are you okay? I ask, and she looks at me with burning eyes, taking in my wrinkled shirt, my three-days-past-tidy beard. As if my suggestion of assistance is an infringement on her personhood. Her eyes are blue. I smile, put my hands up in surrender, and it works. My laptop won’t turn on, she pouts, then slumps forward, leaning her elbows on the table, pushing light-caramel hair from her face. She indulges in some more swearing with closed eyes, then looks at me with a sheepish smile on her face. Her fringe is stuck up at odd angles. Her cheeks are red.

I’m not sure what sends electricity from my chest to my palms, my ankles. Is it the vocal disruption, the expressed anger in a tight public space? We spend so long being appropriate, quiet, repressed it can be difficult to say what we truly mean. I like her un-silence, her voice, her anger made plain. You can shout at me, I smile, if it will make you feel better.

Sure, we had a few drinks. Somehow, I edged closer, I felt the warmth of her body respond, she leant towards me, not from her shoulders or hips, but the core of her stretched like a cat to the sun. I walked my bicycle next to her as we weaved through Friday-busy streets, people going to dinner, leaving the office late, the retribution of the weekend, where we make space for absolution, then transgression, or perhaps the other way around. I only kissed her at the door to her building, and she didn’t taste sweet like I’d imagined. There is a bitterness to her tongue. Perhaps it was the coffee still on her lips. 

Our clothes are off, so fast, neither of us under any illusion. She draws back the velvet curtain that separates her bed from the rest of the studio apartment. Do you always throw your laptop around? I push her down, lie on top of her, kiss her. With a swift move, she rolls my shoulders and straddles me. She shrugs, smiles that sheepish smile again, and her eyes are a deeper, darker blue. I know there is something there. I want to plumb those depths. Give it to me, I think, watching her full, milky body above me, letting my gaze trace from her face to the curve of her neck, the heavy weight of her breasts, her beautiful large nipples, my erection straining between her legs, and out loud I say You can hit me if you want. She pretends to be horrified, or caught off guard - maybe she is. Experimentally, lazily almost, she raises an open palm, allows gravity to pull it down. The first slap sings out, lands well on my jawbone. I hear it, more than feel it. I smile at her, and shift my hips and with my hand guide my cock to enter her, and she grins, she settles the weight of herself upon me, she eats me up, her mouth widens in the pleasure of it, moans. She pulls her arm back again, and I brace myself, and the force is larger this time, pushing my head to the side. She increases her rhythm, begins to bounce. I reach up to put my hands on her breasts, barely get my thumbs to circle those brilliant caramel nipples, before she places a palm on my shoulder and pushes my chest, forcing my torso back to her bed. 

Ah-ah, she waggles a finger at me, playful, pouting. 

Yes ma’am, I grin, and she laughs, rears back. Then rolls off me, and I feel cold and lost for a moment without her. Until I hear her voice.

Take me from behind. 

I get on my knees above her, and after I enter, I curl around her body. Reach to stroke her clit. Tentatively, finding my way. Show me, I whisper, and I’m sure my voice is wet in her ear, I can’t keep a handle on myself much longer, I don’t want to hold it in, it’s not the coming, the ejaculation, that I’m afraid of, but the self-containment, the regulation of self that I want to release release release. No more public persona. I want to spit and drool, I want to groan, ugly, I want her to climax without thinking what she looks like sounds like. I want total. utter. surrender. 

She takes my wrist, adjusts my angle, shows me how to flick my finger insistently. I keep the rhythm of my hips, and let her guide me, put my wet mouth on her neck, lick and kiss as if she were water in the desert. After some time she whimpers and I push into her with committed rhythm and increasing force, she whimpers, she mews, heightens, heightens - and groans deep. An animal. Yes. That’s it, that’s the sound I want. That’s the sound. That’s it. No regulation, no appeasement. I heard echoes of this in the shadow of her cafe swearing: utter expression. Utter release. 

Her shuddering lengthens, and her moans lower and soften. I pull out with a kind slowness, and she collapses, pants, recovers herself for a minute. Individually, we recollect our selves within. Then she tilts her face to me, a smile again, it is tentative, but she is cooking something up. I can tell. 

Lie on the bed.

She puts her left knee on one side of my face. Her right knee on the other side. We rearrange limbs. Fold in to each other. And she lowers herself onto me, and I lick and probe, work with my tongue. Mmm, she rocks back and forward, and I grab her hips to follow the rhythm. Then she tilts her hips forward. I can tell where she’s going with this. My tongue follows, my hands spread her cheeks. Her moans become guttural. 

And then suddenly, she pulls away. I’m not sure if she’s used to being the boss but I know she’s having fun with it. I’m only happy to comply. She stands, naked; the roundness of her belly, her full breasts and wide hips, she is glorious. She can’t say it, but I know what she wants to do. I climb off the bed and kneel beside her. She slaps my cheek, once, twice, and she’s getting braver with it. It stings. get angry, I say, feel what you were feeling earlier. let it out. She hits me a third time, and this time it rocks my body. I wonder what my beard feels on her open palm. Is it a different texture than if I were clean-shaven?

I’m panting now, and lean forward on the floor, look up at her darkly from all fours. Her eyes are thunderous. She takes my hand. Come here, she lays her back on the bed, opens her legs to me. Her vulva is wet, slick, entrancing, and, hypnotised, I move into her, within her, and she bends her knees, tilts her hips back - when I tremble she strokes my face. I’m not sure if it is retribution, absolution, forgiveness - perhaps guilt - but her hands are soft and trail my shoulder blades as my fast breathing subsides. 

At the door, I shrug on my jacket and kiss her goodbye. It is hours since we left the cafe. Yet still, she tastes of bitterness.  

***

xx

feeling good? buy me a coffee.

the canals I

My mouth aches. No, it is not a pain. It is an absence, an emptiness, a vacuous throb that originates deep, and tries to exit the body as an exhalation. But the wanting remains in my mouth, a sadness I cannot swallow, and so the insides of my cheeks pang, my jaw holds a memory of opening and closing, my tongue wants to move and explore; my lips tingle.  

For lunch, I ate a cheese sandwich (the sourdough, freshly baked; the cheddar, from a dairy in West Cork that was delivered last week) some carrot sticks, hommus, a mandarin, two caramel slices; my belly is full, but my mouth is empty once again. I ate it in the garden, rested my bare feet on the soft overgrown grass, and two robins twitched and played on the lawn before me. Over the fence next door I waved at Jamie, mumbling to himself and lifting blocks from one side of the yard to the other. Sylvester came running from the kitchen, stripey tail vertical in determination, to pounce at the robins. Despite his jubilant vigour he was unsuccessful, and watched them fly into the tree above with an endearing alertness, eyes wide, ears back. It was a wholesome scene, and the sunlight filtered through my body, through the prism of my very being, casting dancing rainbow light within. But the scene was a little too wholesome. My mouth is still empty. 

And so I pulled on my jeans - “outside clothes” - ran an apathetic hand through my hair, and pushed open the front door. Despite orders, the streets are alive. On thin pavements strangers and I attempt the social-distance dance, smiling tight-lipped at the ground, sometimes hopping onto the road, squeezing up against a fence. And then to the canals, where dogs run and swans are smooth and lazy upon the dirty, glassy water. 

In one arm a deliveroo man holds a package in his hand, his motorcycle helmet tucked in his elbow; he is pacing back and forth before an apartment block, squinting from his phone screen to the second floor above. He would be sweaty from a day’s work. Promising. His dark hair falls around his eyes, his strong brows and noble nose, his lips are full, but they are cracked and dry. I walk on. 

The young mum pushing a pram, eyelashes large and black, extensions probably. Leggings for pants, the wobble of her thighs, singlet top (first sun in weeks!) striding with an air of harassment as her toddler sleeps. Long straight blonde hair, generous breasts, bouncing with her steps. To press my lips to hers would be to taste first the sickly-pink of gloss, and then the cigarette smoke beneath, and then her own secret flavour. 

The woman with long silver hair in a ponytail, practical black pants and an olive puffer vest, sitting at the roots of a willow tree. Hands leant on bent knees, worry on her lined face as she looks to calm water. She leans her back on the sanctuary of the mothering tree.

Everyone I pass, in some way, draws me to them. Some silently recognise my hunger and as we stroll towards each other, minding the state-mandated two metres; our physical bodies keep a nonchalant candour but our invisible selves are dogs straining at leashes. Mutual burning eyes, metered by coy downward glances, the only visual proof of the aching fire within.

The man on a bench, stubborn shirt and tie. Laptop resting on his knees, tapping away as if there weren’t a cool river vista before him. Maybe I could sit atop his lap and let him touch warm skin instead of cold metal. Depending on how long we kiss for, his untrimmed beard could give me pash rash. He would taste of chocolate biscuits and coffee, and would be gruff and irritable, and then playful and warm. 

The dame. Forty or more, probably, with Portobello-style. Thigh-length turquoise jacket, shiny black boots with a heel. Matte-red lips, classic eyeliner, an air of authority. Of taking up space. She and her boyfriend, or friend, or colleague, is in a brown suit, and they walk quickly along the path by the river; surely they are dreaming up a project, negotiating the terms of business. She knows what she’s talking about, that’s for sure, she has no time for nonsense and there is no chance she will be taken for a fool; she steps as decisively as she speaks. She would take the lead in a kiss, yes, this is certain, she would cock a manicured eyebrow and push me up against a wall. As I cross their fast-moving path she notices my hungry gaze and her eyes linger on my face for a moment, yet her determined diatribe does not falter. Perhaps I am too close. 

I stop for a moment, watch teenage swans honk and rush for dominance as an elderly man throws torn bread from a plastic bag. I lean to press an absent palm up against the trunk of an ash tree. 

Wow. Here I was thinking about mouths, plump lips, the taste of breath, slippery tongues, and the hollowness that clutches my throat. But something throbs beneath my fingers. I trace an index finger along the cracks of the trunk, the textured pattern, part of a whole that reaches down to the deep soil, that pushes up to the freedom of the sky. I look around, no one is near, the lunchtime-stroll crowd are returning to their home offices. 

I turn myself fully to the trunk, and rest both hands along its edges. Then sink my torso, my legs, my pelvis, against its length. Life hums against me. I reach down with my right hand, touch my fingertips to its hard strange skin, follow the lines of nature and my hand is slowly stroking up, learning the intimate rivulets, its miniscule canals, inspecting with microscopic closeness the form I have walked past, unseeing, so many times. With one cheek I press my soft face against the scratchy surface, and breathe the breath of the tree. Called by something deep within, I turn my head to face the arboreal power in its fullness, and with all my aching hopefulness, with a gratitude that surprises me, I purse my tingling lips and press their delicate, rosy roundness against the bark.  

xx

feeling good? buy me a coffee.

the lady garden

The blinds rise with a quiet whirr. Sunlight, clear and true from behind the large, frosted window; this is the best light. Mornings the sun pours in generous and kind. She tugs off her trackpants, keeping her fluffy jumper on, rifles through the cupboard. Her pubes are a dark cluster covering her pubis, expanding out to chocolate legs like a forest breaching its limits and she sighs, smiles; it’s been a while. 

A soft finger between the two lips of her vulva, she lowers her hand, notices her wetness. Last night’s dream had been ecstasy again, they chatted until they fell asleep, bright screen lighting up a dark room, and she’d dreamed of breasts as hills, thighs as mountains. Standing over the bathroom bin, she snips with delicate scissors. She’s not afraid of bush, is proud of it even, but prefers ease of access. It’s a sign of encouragement to a partner, she thinks, a beckoning. And she will beckon, tonight, finally.

Wiry black curls fall into the white trash bag below, and she bends her torso, reaching further back, amused by the absurdity of where hair sprouts. What would be acceptable to Elodie? She shakes her head, knows in that delightful all-embracing enthusiasm, her body will be wholeheartedly welcomed. Either way, this ritual of preparation is for her; an act of devotion. 

She must not think of Elodie too much, or her fingers will tremble, and she needs a steady hand. As she turns the shower on, each water molecule glitters for a thousandth of a second in pure white light. Her jumper over her head, added to the rumpled pile on the floor, she steps in when it is warm enough, and she is vibrating, whether with anticipation, falling in love, or the beauty of the light, she does not know. Everything sparkles. 

Pssht! The shaving cream is a false-male stink, but men’s brands are better for the thick hair between her legs. Her razor strokes are careful and measured, tidying only the edges, careful with the creases of her legs. Should she moisturise? There is coconut oil in the kitchen cupboard. She never knows.

She turns herself towards the light, places one foot on the edge of the tub. Runs her fingers over her freshly groomed vulva; it reminds her of a teenage boy dressed up for prom, nervous, straight-backed. Tentatively proud, quietly quaking. 

All this thought of what will happen tonight, all this tender touch, she is swollen, and the warmth is wonderful, she opens her labia to the water. Arches her back. Closes her eyes. Smiles, almost imperceptibly. 

Her phone buzzes by the sink, and her eyelids flash open. It will be Elodie, their conversation resuming. Talking about where to meet tonight, finally. 

Squeezing lavender and geranium body wash on a loofah, she lathers the fragrant soap to generous suds, and circles it slowly on her neck, her shoulders, her breasts, her stomach, the stretchmarks on both. The slippery white is bright against her luscious skin, and she drops the loofah, and uses her open arms to caress her own body, appreciate her shape, swaying her hips, feeling the surge of her own power.

She pushes her pelvis forward, looks down. Pushes two fingers to her lips, opens. Such gorgeous detail in the brightness of sunshine. It really is like a flower, isn’t it, the petals of the lips, the eagerness of unfurling, the pearl of the top of her clit. She imagines the caress of a hot pink tongue, kissing, flicking. Maybe she will ask Elodie what she tastes like. 

Fingertip as firebrand, she traces the clitoral hood, the softness of her inner labia, the entrance to her vagina, aching. And returns to her clitoris, to white heat. Oh, tonight, finally.

***

xx

feeling good? buy me a coffee.

milan

The hallway is endless. I can barely move my legs in this thin, knee-length pencil skirt, limiting my hurried steps. When he opens the door he is already wearing a bathrobe. It is the first thing I touch, the feathery towel, bleached cleaner than anything I’ve ever worn. I don’t yet have the courage to reach my hand towards his skin, so as we say hello I grip the folded collar, run my fingers up and down its elegant softness. Look at his lips.

Veronica, his voice a low whisper, and I fold into his arms, the door is open, my bag at my feet - 

The rattle of metal makes me jump.

Good timing, he says to somebody behind me, smiling wide, opening his arm in a gesture of welcome. A bellboy pushes a trolley, on it a gleaming silver bucket, filled with ice, the gold foil of a bottle of Louis Bouillot poking from its brim. Silver and gold. 

I pick up my bag and enter so the bellboy can follow us. This room is enormous - the bathroom gleaming, bigger than my bedroom. A giant television, a long dining table, opulent aquamarine chairs in striped, lordly upholstery. And in the next room, the bed - king size - looks out across the city as if watching a kingdom. The bellboy sets up besides the grand chairs and the window, through which I can see swallows dip and fall. I am embarrassed by him - he is young, his red lips wet as he unpeels the wrapper with unpractised flair, and he grimaces as he struggles with the cork. 

Salvatore and I wait beside each other, watching, mute - the tension of the unsaid vibrates between us. Pop! The cork shoots across the room, and a purple vase by the door, lit carefully by discreet down light, seems to fall apart. 

Oh! the boy says, his lips open, there are freckles across his nose. I bend to clean up but he protests, his open hand shaking at me, nonono, places the champagne on the trolley with a loud clatter, and exits the room. Salvatore and I laugh, and I turn, press my hips against his, trail a hand from his ear along his jawline. A silver hair or two in the goatee. Those were not there last time. There are likely a few more lines beside my eyes, too. I keep one arm on his shoulder, twist my torso to grab the champagne bottle. Grip its neck with my fist and pour it clumsily into glasses, bubbles spill up and over and it is okay because his lips are on my neck, slow, chaste kisses, restrained. I can hear the whistle of his nose. I can smell beer on his breath. 

We pull apart as the kid returns with a dustpan and broom. A woman in black pants and pink shirt follows him, tutting, directing his brushstrokes. Salvatore releases me to pull a note from his wallet somewhere in the bedroom. When the boy has cleaned up, resentful that we witnessed his humiliation, he sets the bottle and glasses on our table and takes the trolley. Before he exits Salvatore tips him, looks him in the eye, pats him on the shoulder. 

The door shuts. We fall onto the chairs, and look out to the daylight city. 

Salut - to waiting so long. We have waited, so long. His eyes are wet, glimmer in the sunlight. I feel a triumph. Perhaps I was not the only one who wept. 

Salvatore, this place even has a chandelier. A chandelier! 

I know, mia amata. This is incredible.

Beneath the new cologne, he smells different. 

Come here. He beckons. I stand, shrug off my jacket, and cross the distance between us to sit side-saddle on his lap. The dark flutter of his eyelashes. I thought, maybe we could go out for dinner tonight, they say the osso bucco is good down the street…

We speak soft and low, whispering memories. He traces the line of my collarbone beneath my thin t-shirt, savours the slope of my shoulder, my arm. A light touch, trailing the rise and fall of each finger with tender attention. The shades of us, cream and caramel, contrasting yet complementary, the silver and gold of the champagne bottle. My face is hot, and I take a swig of cool liquid, bubbles sharp on the roof of my palate, and lean to kiss him. His mouth opens, he tastes delicious, I am greedy. 

What exactly do you have on beneath this robe? I push an exploratory hand through the fold, and gasp at the heat of his smooth skin. Beneath my fingers, I know there is a phoenix on his left pectoral, and a spiral on the round of his right shoulder. I cannot see them but I memorised the landscape of his body long ago. My hands spread over his body with the rhythm of my tongue in his mouth. Adjusting myself to face him, my ass resting on his legs, my knees on either side of him, I reach to the towel belt, unlace it, and grasp the gift within. He moans into my mouth as I trace the shape of his cock, his balls, lightly beneath soft hands, resisting gripping the shaft. Again memory guides my movement. He lifts my t-shirt, and my nipples contract in the cool air. He reverently caresses them with hands moving in circular parallel. The noise he makes, the delight in my body, I could almost - I lean back. Take a breath. 

He smiles, You know I want to take this slow, but… and slides his hands beneath my skirt. As he rises, his eyebrows lift in surprise. You didn’t -

I purse my lips. You know I don’t like to mess around, Sal.

Even - on the plane? What happens if you - he starts to laugh, and the sound, I had forgotten, fireworks are in my chest. Well then, baby, he says, his smile turning devilish. 

He turns me around, pushes the skirt up above my waist. I am wet, I’ve been wet since practically last week, thinking about what would happen today. I was wet as I took the taxi to the airport early this morning, wet through security; by the time I finally buckled myself in I could feel a generous ooze between my thighs and smiled at my secret anticipation. Now, beyond our ghostly reflection, I look over thin streets snaking across colonial buildings, scooters zipping around, the observatory across the garden. His hands rest on my thighs, thumbs circling with increasing pressure. A hand slides to my breast, and he is more urgent now, kneading, pushing and pulling at the same time, his mouth is open against my shoulderblade, opening and closing wetly as he tastes my skin. I lift my hips up and his right hand leaves my thigh to position himself, as I knew he would, and I lower myself onto him as I watch the city from above, I return to him, he returns to me, and I groan through tight lips as I rise and fall, rise and fall, as he holds my hips, guides my hips, as swallows swing through the air. 

***

Did you know my mother was born on the same street as my grandfather? He does not answer, continues stroking my hair, he knows when I am telling a story. And on that street was a pub, a school, a factory, and a place where people took trash. And they burned it. My mother was born in her parents’ bedroom, in a terrace house with no hot water, born to two young people full of hope and fear, and when they opened the window in the summer, she breathed the fumes. 

He breathes out, and I lift my head, see his body on its side, his head resting on his palm, his eyes fixed in the distance. He has gone somewhere, perhaps to the place his mother was born. We are nestled on the sheets of the enormous bed, resting in the lull, in the soft air. There will be no dinner date. I want to stay here with him, in the togetherness of our nakedness, all through the night. 

The father of my grandfather had a beak nose. When my grandfather and grandmother were courting - only teenagers - my great-grandfather pinched my grandmother on the bottom. Think of that! She was only sixteen! 

This is a common thing, he says, running his palm over the arc of my waist. I look for my thin, tall glass on the bedside table, want the coolness on my lips, but we have drained the bottle. If only he knew. If only he knew how common, and how much it hurts. To know that with pleasure comes danger, a woman can never be at rest. I go on. 

From all reports, he was a bad guy - my great-grandfather. He had a wife, my grandfather’s mother, who cleaned the local factory - they made wrenches and metal tools - all her life. Now I am on my back beside him, tracing circles on the faded tattoo of his shoulder. 

He never took his wife on a holiday. But oh, he had mistresses. And they escaped together, they escaped the crying babies, the dishes in the sink, the grey cold, and they went to the seaside on the train. They went to the countryside. He took his mistresses on holiday. 

His eyebrows gather, dark and thick. What are you saying? That we shouldn’t be here? He is looking at me now, intensity burning in brown eyes. 

I roll onto my stomach, and push back my hair to look at him from the side. No. It’s just - I just thought of my great-grandmother. And how she must have waited for her holiday. 

He pushes up from the bed. Walks across the room, his rounded ass lilting with each step. Electricity runs through me, my hands tingle. He pulls open the fridge, I hear the clink of glass. Since the last time I saw him, he has gained weight. I want to touch him again. Memorise his body anew.

***

xx

feeling good? buy me a coffee.