Archive for the ‘ Parallels ’ Category

Enamoured of Death, Misshapened Joy

A: How was it?

B pauses for a full minute before saying anything.

B: I called him up after a few days I’ve been in Firenze, and he sounded surprised to hear from me. He was having a few drinks with his friends that evening and invited me to join him then. Of course I agreed. Had a hard time deciding what to wear, etc. and had a harder time finding the place. But that’s beside the point.

I always thought it cowardly to meet someone when you’re meeting your own group of friends…but anyhow I went in anyway. It was noisy and dark and crowded and I felt a bit frightened. Luckily he spotted me and called out. I think he must’ve had his eye on the door. Our greetings felt really fake amidst all that noise and laughter and I began to feel very isolated during the round of introductions. He had his girlfriend, M, there. His friends were the sort that did not make any effort to make you feel comfortable with them, but I tried. I felt so young in that crowd. A couple of drinks. During that time he and I did not talk much. I mean, I could clearly see I was not being included in their conversations and felt rather left out. But that was ok, I was there to see him, I did not care about anything else. So I went out to have a smoke in the cold and sat on the bench outside. He joined me a few minutes later (When somebody joins you outside, does he feel obligated to come out to find you, or he sincerely wants to be alone with you, but just didn’t have enough courage to ask?). Offered him a cigarette and he said, ’No thanks, I only smoke roll-ups.’ ‘For fuck’s sake,’ I said vaguely, and he took it after a moment’s hesitation. Passed him my book of matches.

’Why do you smoke so much?’ he mumbled quickly, as if to cover up his narrowness by chiding me.

I let out a short laugh and looked at him. ‘Why do I smoke so much?’ I asked him.

’Why, because…’ and he started to ramble on about some phallus complex. ‘…But I don’t know when it comes to you,’ he ended, and looked at me with a prying gaze. I looked away.

’What else?’ I said, when he stopped, hoping that it sounded friendly enough not to sound like a challenge or a taunt, but not too friendly to show that I wanted to smirk at his idealisations. He continued to gaze at me, so I looked back at him expectantly. It was a full minute before he said anything else.

’You know, I could never touch you,’ he said very quietly.

I felt emotion seep into my eyes and looked quickly away. A great silence ensued. I was slowly sinking into the bench. I’ve never sat so still, nor felt so engulfed in my skin. Felt like my inner workings somehow stopped and left everything in the lurch.  The cigarette burnt out to its end with the ash still hanging in one piece from the butt clamped between my dead fingers. He was on the brink of saying something, of breaking that poignant silence where unasked questions pushed in urgently at the edges on both sides, when he was interrupted by the opening of the bar’s door. It was M.

’What are you doing out here in the cold?’ she asked and shivered dramatically. Again I felt that hostility. The question sounded like, ‘What are you doing out here with her?’ It was broken, that moment that connected us. Not it felt like I was the one intruding upon them. Dropped the cigarette onto the ground and crushed it with my shoe.

’Hey guys, it’s getting late. Think I’ll go off now,’ I said, trying to sound cheerful. I stood up to go. ‘Hey, it was nice meeting you and all, M.’ and prepared to walk off. ‘I’ll walk you home,’ he said, also standing up. M. immediately cut in and offered to walk me home instead, since it was mostly his friends inside. I wonder what she was so worried about. Did they talk about me before? Both of them stood arguing for awhile. ‘Hey, hey, I’m good on my own, it’s not so faraway, don’t fuss over it, I can walk home on my own,’ and rushed away. ‘Bye!’ I shouted and quickly turned the corner. I stopped. I could hear my heart beating in my chest. When the bar door opened and shut and I heard the footsteps fade, I slowly released my held breath and slid down the wall.

The next moment I was sobbing hard, my knees pressed tightly against my chest. Suddenly, I heard footsteps approaching and thus tried to remain motionless, my tear-stained face hidden from view. It stopped beside me. At the back of my mind I thought this passer-by was going to throw me loose change and mistake me for a beggar, so I looked up. I saw that it was him, never expected him to come back for me, stood up really quick and started walking away briskly. I was angry that he had seen my tears. He merely caught up with me and matched his long strides with my short fast ones. I shut him out. I could feel him trying to push into my sphere but I shut him out completely.

He was still there when I unlocked the front door to my rented apartment. ‘Can I come up,’ he said, and followed in after me. Climbed the steep flight of stairs in the darkness to my room. He shut the door quietly. Without removing my coat I moved to the window and lit a cigarette. I heard him moving in the background, removing his coat. The silence was deafening. It was quite a bit until I felt him drawing closer to me, whereupon he slowly removed my coat, and gently but firmly slid his cold hands underneath my shirt. I gasped silently. His hands moved lower, encircling me, and unbuckled my belt and undid my pants with a sure hand. My pants pooled to the floor when he slid his hand down the small of my back into the arch of my buttocks, all the way across them, down into my lower crevices. I felt myself respond, but I did not want to show it. My underwear went next and he pressed his body against me. I realised he was naked. He propped his leg on a chair nearby, hooking my leg on his. His fingers touched my wetness and I dropped my cigarette, swallowing hard.

Suddenly all that mattered was that he was hard and that I was wet. Could I have loved him then? There was only this way…I wonder now…I leant back on him and he bent down to put his lips to my neck. Sat me on the windowsill and came into me. I shuddered and searched his face. It was a mask of darkness and just the right amount of attention to make you not suspect. Could he have loved me then? This was the only way…

He moved, and I came for the first time, with him holding me over the window ledge, moving against me, moving against the world, and I felt him come too. Making love to me for all to see…

A: He left, didn’t he…

B:…Yeah, but without a goodbye, which could be good, because it could mean that we’ll be seeing each other again. Or not, because I still don’t know what to make of it…

~22nd. November 2007



B. of D.: He called me back, disguising his intent by asking me several nondescript questions, and then some that caught me off-guard. Of course we started talking, and something unspoken passed through the sound waves between us. A book order, then he asked me if I would like to go out and have a coffee sometime this week. A weakening in my knees, and then I said yes.

He was almost exactly as I had imagined him to be: sexy, black glasses, dark brown hair… carefully-selected slate-grey slacks and simple t-shirt, pointed, worn-in leather shoes, scuffed on the right wing-tip. A tasteful watch on his left wrist. Intelligent eyes, quick-witted in a sure, calm manner. Very Charlie.

We laughed nervously, but he was brave and started off the conversation with my book order. The rest was forgettable, because everything converged into one point in time. It was when we discovered how late it was getting and was winding down the evening with a last cigarette. He suddenly noticed the ink-stain on the knuckle of my left hand, looked at me quickly and seized it almost compulsively, and unhesitatingly brought the knuckle to his mouth, sucked on it and tasted it for awhile and declared out loud the exact brand and type of pen I used. He immediately appeared contrite and apologised for his slip in decorum. I didn’t know whether to laugh or shout, and did both, suddenly realising how attractive he was, this bookseller of mine.

~21st.septembre 2007


I am by nature a voyeur. I used to, for a time, watch this girl in her window. I’d turn off my light as she did hers, before going to our respective windows, she smoking and watching the night come one, and me watching her watch the night.

We are almost directly opposite each other, but she never sees me. So for her I remain sadly but gladly non-existent.

The girth of her windows span one side of her room, so I have unobstructed view of the room’s interior. It was dangerous for me, getting to know her this way. I even almost fell in love with her, but didn’t, because I know she is incapable of love, or should I say, my kind of love, but that’s another story.

To admit, I had purchased a pair of binoculars and guiltily watch her move about her room. So far I’ve discovered that she is meticulous and neat in sporadic bursts, going about suddenly with the need to clean her entire room, she discards her articles of dirty clothing on the floor and she loves to read and write. She can read for hours on end, with that dreamy, engrossed look on her face, her legs splayed comfortably and carelessly across the bed.

But I have never spied on her when she is changing her clothes. She has this bad habit of almost always forgetting to draw the curtains when she changes, and thinks that turning her back against the windows would make a difference. The moment I realise she is about to change I always lower my binoculars. I don’t know why; it’s not that I don’t want to look. I admittedly do, but I can’t. The only glimpse I’ve had is her naked back glowing like a white unlit candle from afar.

~22nd. June 2006

Touching God

He was sitting in the chair a distance away from the bed, eating an apple, and watching me, as I lay naked, and perhaps, spent.

Or perhaps not, unless one thinks masturbating is having sex with God;

i.e.: the act that decontextualises or isolates an

Individual’s sexuality or gender; involving;

quarantine pleasure that can only be achieved

by oneself upon one’s organ; thus; COMMUNION with

absence, or with oneself.

He appeared to me one night, while I was just about to begin my pleasurable isolation.

“I am God,” he said, and I immediately felt like laughing, for he sounded terribly ridiculous. Funny, but I don’t remember feeling afraid with having a strange man in my bedroom.

He took on the injured air of a pompous pigeon that had his wings clipped.

“I really am God!” he said, louder this time.

I sat up. I don’t know why, but that action seemed to appease him and he smiled.

“So… ‘God’,” I said, “Why did you choose to appear to me, and at such a moment? You surely don’t expect me to believe who you are, do you?”

“I. Don’t. Know.”

“Don’t know?”

“Well, I see you were going to pleasure yourself, and I felt compelled to watch.”

“You are allowed to?” I replied stupidly.

He did not answer me, and turned.

At this point in time he took off his crown of thorns; tiny stag antlers, they looked like to me; and started undressing. When his robe slid from his body, I felt a dull shock as I registered the lack of any sexual organs, or nipples. His chest was smooth throughout the whole length of him, right down to the separation of his legs – unfettered by any protrusion or crevices. I could not relieve myself from staring at the blank space between his legs.

“I… I want to have sexual intercourse with you, as I have watched humans do.”

Once again I needed to resist the urge to laugh. It was a good thing he hadn’t a beard.

“But how? And why me?” I said incredulously.

“With this,” and out from the air he plucked a camera, like some cheap magician.

He looked at it with deep affection.

“Ah, my Cyclops, my compact giant… My new sexual organ,” and proffered it under my nose. “I can wield it and make it rise to the occasion at any time I wish it to! It is completely sexual in nature, and thus has no libido. When its all-seeing eye opens and I look through it, I am immediately aroused. I have found out over the years that this little instrument is the only one I might use to gain the utmost pleasure. It has allowed me to feel almost human, in the perverse sense of the word, of course.”

He clambered onto my bed like an eager child.

“So, shall we?” he persisted.

“You are crazy!” I shouted, and flung the sheets off myself and stood up. “What sort of malignant inversion is this? God as the Devil? No Devil? Oh you mad sorcerer, you poor disenchanted soul, will you just fuck off and bother some other being dying to have a visitation from God?”

He raised the camera with its open eye to his face and pressed down on the shutter. Click, it went. Click, click, as he shifted here and there.

“Stop it!” I yelled, and tried to snatch the camera out of his hands. “This is totally absurd, you understand? Give me that!” And made another lunge for the camera.

He jumped out of my way like a limber monkey.

“Why are you getting so anxious and worked up like that, wanting to seize my organ? Be good and I might let you stroke it later.”

I fell to the bed in frustration. It was no use trying to reason with… God, for he must think he is the Utmost.

I watched him with his toy, his useless weapon, and for a while I whored for Him, making ugly faces.

I must have fallen asleep, for when I awoke, it was still dark, and he was sitting in the chair a distance away from the bed, eating an apple, and watching me, as I lay naked, and perhaps, spent.

– 27th.Septembre 2005

Rachel W.

(Reference: The Ogre, by Michel Tournier)

A literally HAIR-raising Experience

I never seem to have common enough fantasies of being ravished by a dark knight, or being smouldered in roses on a dinner date by a hot guy… no. I dream of swimming in a huge pool where a guy in scuba diving gear falls down from the sky, whom I save, and then tells me that his helicopter exploded, and I must rip open the suit for he has acquired many cuts and bruises. But there are none. He tries to kiss me and I do not resist. Or being in school uniform and shoes, going to a lounge and meeting a guy who looks a lot like someone I know, just that he has long hair, when in fact it really was really him, but I did not know. I let him read my notebook.

But I haven’t told you the best one yet.

Picture a hairdresser’s shop with those old-fashioned adjustable chairs and mirrors back to back, hair in clumps on the ground and wheelie stools which are used by the hairdressers.  Nothing fancy, just a shop. A functional shop.

I walk into this particular shop, feeling a bit apprehensive at having my hair cut after so many bogus cuts which later made me cry.

A lady in her mid-forties glances up at me while attending to a customer. She is putting rollers in her hair. She turns and shouts to a guy standing at the counter, hip propped on an edge.

I felt myself come alive as I watched him and his slim hips approach me, as if in a dance. I did not dare to meet his gaze straight on. White t-shirt upon black stonewashed jeans. Studded belt. Weathered boots.

I followed helplessly.

Swish of cloth round my neck. My stomach tightened itself in knots. He went away and returned on a stool, legs angled open to move himself across the floor, so suggestive… so provocative. His mouth is level with my ear, I notice.

I look up at him in the mirror and find him watching me. He smiled and I summoned one from the depths of my anticipation. I felt like stroking his long ponytail.

Without letting go of my gaze he reached forward and removed my glasses. For a moment I felt naked, bare, exposed, and I could feel my cheeks heat up. I felt him laugh silently and knowingly.

Slowly he started combing my hair loosely with his fingers, and each touch on my scalp rushed through me like a freight train. It was as if he knew and was deliberately bringing it on; it felt like I was tied up and gagged, unable to return the touch, unable to moan.

Finally he raised his scissors and pin, and started snipping away. I could feel his breath on my cheeks as he went from left to right, his gaze… his nose almost touching my hair… and when he stood up to cut my fringe, I felt the heat emanating from him, his fly brushing my arm, and I felt excited when I confirmed that he wanted me too.

He was done, but I couldn’t care less. He whipped the cloak off expertly and dusted my neck and shoulders. What next? I thought as he stood back to appraise his work. I reached for my glasses and replaced them on my nose. Everything shot back into focus. My desire sharpened when I met his eyes. He came forward in that languid way of his and placed his hands on my shoulders, leaning down and positioning his head close to my ear. I did everything I could to stop myself from trembling.

“Do you want a wash?” He said hoarsely, breath hot in my ears.

Wordlessly, I got up and he brought me to the back of the shop which was sealed off from the outside by a glass partition. He was watching me with those eyes. I was against one of the wash beds, and he came forward, almost predator-like, and trapped me in with his arms pinned on both sides. He still wasn’t touching me. We stood there, so close, so agonising, so close I could hear him breathing.

I reached out and stroked his stubbled jaw and I felt his hand on the small of my back whereupon he pressed me to him, leaned down and kissed me. The hubbub in the shop swamped in my ears. I’ve never felt so turned on in my entire life. We fumbled at closed openings, giggled and shushed each other, caressed, groped and squeezed. No, we didn’t have sex. Yet.

I fucking woke up.

– 28th. Mardi 2005