FRAGMENTS





1.LOST IN A FIELD SOMEWHERE


Where are you at> screamed the non sequitor out to the thick grass and beyond. The pasture grew not mowed by human machine or animal jaw. The scream was a synaptic fault, the dark belly of the blink is no place to be heard. It was an absurd scream which, if any one but the non sequitur had heard it most would have ignored it the way one ignores the scraping before the attack. One wishes it would just go away like the problem’s solved a half hour later on the reflecting screen, the transubstantiation of all things good and fair in society, the cultural norm. But as it spouted and lay down, disappearing in the deep grass, there was no threat. No threat. No effect. The scream was absurd because of not having an active listen and response beast in ear shot to make anything of it. There alone inside, at the point from which it exuded, the non sequitor was effected. His search had been fruitless, a potential to be endless. The wallet was gone.

She was all hard thin lithe with soft brown eyes twitching at the lid but soft. She was willing, oh so very willing, and simultaneously she was fighting. A magnificent friction. Since he fucked her in the field two or three hours had passed. She was passed out in her dorm bed, small and quiet, an occasional sigh at a beatific vision hidden. He had walked into the dawn away from her bed in pursuit of the lost wallet. He had left behind her beautiful young face and long blond silken hair to grab hold of the hard black leather containing the little bit of cash he still had. As much as he had been letting the tide of time and life rock him along, he had been tethered, however obliquely, to that small black fold of leather along with the steel circle holding his key which he had also lost. There was no hope. The girl sighed. The non sequitor smiled.





2.THANKS FOR THE MAMMARIES


I was looking to have a show. Tom, my ever dependable photographer, was hooked in. He got me talent. And what a talent she was.

Lori sat smiling her cute but twisted smile up at me, shaking her head to clear away the blackened brunette hair strands. Her breasts were large and soft and pale beneath her black see-through blouse. She was on display for portraits to be made by Tom.

I explained the basic concept, a multi-media road show epic poem related to the Fall of the House of Usher. Her brown doe eyes went dreamy. She was hooked. I was too, to her.

Next time I saw her was at her apartment Uptown. It was an efficiency, and she slept on the floor on her futon. Not then, but in general. Then she was sitting on the futon as couch. I joined her and enjoyed her conversation. I enjoyed her free nature. She was relaxed and exposed. The place her hands were, between her outstretched thighs, might suggest a discrete masturbation. We were intimate yet conversational. She gave me a tour of her art: masks bent and shaped and colorful bracketed to the walls.

I invited her to my place a couple days later. I got her comfortable. I made her relax with my hands rubbing her body from head to foot. She was naked under the towel, lying on her front and then her back on my cushioned black and besheeted massage table. It was a long seduction. It resulted in a full recline on my bed with me between her thighs naked and pulsing and piercing her. The hole was there waiting to be pierced. It gave itself to me. She kneeled and rested her arms up the bed. I stood behind her and pushed inside and rapidly pumped into her. She loved the position and I too enjoyed the friction. I loved the length of pleasure I could give her. I enjoyed her soft white posterior and the curves up to her chest. I enjoyed the dangling breasts. But I missed the frontal attack where I could capture her in my arms. Every thrust from the front seemed to matter. But it was from the backside that she was most comfortable. I should have thought it was good. I was the master performer, the performance artist, and she was subservient to my vision. Such is blindness of the ego that I couldn’t embrace the proper pleasure course. I was confused. Intimate soul exchanging and sex are separate pathways to ecstacy. She wanted sex and that first night it’s what she got. She was comfortable with it. Spasming between the cheeks of her ass, I let loose my seed. And it was good. But I was rude. Did she come? I don’t remember. Did she?

We never again embraced on my bed. It was on her floor. I was between her thighs and rapped around her torso. I fully displaced the space inside her all the way to the back with no more room for the displacer. It still had some displacing available. It was too much for her so I held back. What was inside her was enough. The outside too, where I dampened her large soft breasts and her taut nipples with my tongue, where I witnessed her soft white flesh perform a pleasant tummy twist. The pleasure was so excruciating I had to let loose inside her inside the condom I wore. She loved it. Not the brevity, but the intimacy. She loved it, but she wanted sex. Not love. Companionship and not true love. Not for her. Not for me. Would it be for me if it was for her? It wasn’t for her. Did we get along? Was there a free flowing conversation? A confluence? We were close and intimate and comfortable and then there was the cloud. I wasn’t all whole yet and am still not. I wasn’t listening. Interior monologues or images made me forget to concentrate on the marvel of togetherness. Lest one forget one’s participation in the world, one must let go of all that isn’t happening especially when in the presence of sharing the space of one’s love with another’s.

I was not her image of who she wanted to be held by for a time beyond a couple weeks. Or the fact that her father had died after a brief sickness was simultaneous and associated with our sex. Was I taking advantage or was I enjoying our shared desire? Que sera sera. What will be will be according to one of the two connections which wishes for disconnection. Your wish is my command. Disconnect. I miss her flesh. Her flesh is rich in memory.

The show though no total success was enhanced in its mystery by the object she created for it, a head and torso half naked and half covered with eyes.





3.FLOATING AWAY IN ITS PLACE


The other was with her at last at the last meeting of her and the other. Caught away, months into the summer vacation, thus months away from the College and dancing, from the toning flesh of continuous working on the ebb and flow of virtual space exploration bodies shafting through and landing smooth and flinging out to the audience exhilaration communicated at the height of a body’s power. Absent from continuous movement her body settled over her big frame loose and cool and soft and slick with sweat. She was self conscious about the flab but the other loved her all the more for it. A real flesh creature and the other in the boat at the slip barely hit by the ebb and flow of the bay seen above to be shallow and full of docked boats. Her and the other found spaces inside. Spaces narrowed gradually until the place where the other found her narrowest of passageways was in a bed set inside a wall, a last minute edition to the little space available to be altered in such a way. The other entered her and exited her saying goodbye. To her it was a relief.





4.CHAMPAGNE TITS


IN THE FLICK FLASH of brilliant night at a quiet street in deepest darkest Soho cradled in the depths of the cramped car his mouth measured her champagne glass tits for size and found them just right for a mouthful. Her rigid nipples tickled the back of his throat. The play of soft white tummy flesh surrounding the detachment from birth. Detached from the chord that first brought light to this sighing squirming creature. Was it for him to continue the long line of umbilical chords? Was he there to create another creature who will create another and so forth? He was there only to fondle the sealed up tear from her birth mom who’s navel once had the attachment of a mother who’s umbilical had a similar scar to the one on the mother from whom she emerged and etc. He fondled it and the curly hair beneath it and the lips beneath them and found the birth hole and fondled the hole and it was a hole for pleasure. A panoply of singing pleasure. A horn of plenty of pleasure ascended into her hips. He seeded with his tongue the liquid energy fruit whose nectar soon spread across her body, reddening her chest and her cheeks. He seeded her with the tool for seeding, the manufacturing balls and the delivery system. To deliver nothing to the egg, no gestation, no delivery. Pumping out across her navel and across her petite diverting breasts, the feeding from before birth and the feeding potentially of after a new life is born from her from below his spurting seed which did nothing to make such a thing happen. The cooling sticky liquid was an explosion of celebration celebrating lively flesh body and the pleasing of meeting and playing at the stimulus that played them to procreate but was denied most pleasantly.

IN THE FLICK FLASH of passing cars they were reminded of the attachment their attachment had distracted from where they live, their life, and the people living around them with a frequency of moments of attachment which meant they knew them. Except for the deep invading intimacy at the center of their dance there together in the tight car parked in the darkest Soho street, they did not know the other. Strangers exchanging a quick strange moment in their lives, saying hello and goodbye within the same embrace. Within the same gesture.

The seed is an occasional bloom of memory, a surprising derelict weed with a sweet imagined odor and flavor when plucked every few years.





5. BLACK & WHITE IN AMSTERDAM

It was her bar.  It was her life.  It was her time.  It was her moment.  It was her meaning.  It was her intention.  It was her decision.  I was just visiting.

Once a week she worked out her body she told me and it showed tight under the stretched fabric.  That and her steady waitressing.  Her dark and sleepy eyes stared into my dark absent eyes and she told me she had no interest in holding hard and long to a love affair.  She had emptied herself of it; a multi-year love for which she had moved on and moved out had decided this.  We lingered searching for a brief affair within the dark oracular communication of pupils.  We fought for the moment to be eternal, making love in the ether between our eyeballs.  My mind’s hands stroked her firm breasts, described the firm and soft flesh of her waist and pelvis and thighs and legs and back and back to her thighs and inside to the warmth of her passion at the apex, at the juncture, at the proof of her passion for me.  My mind’s thumbs gently framed her soft tired cheeks, stroking out to the temple and caressing her, relaxing her, loving her.  My mind’s fingers slid through the tangle of her long dark hair, untangling strands, uncomplicating love.  It was a slow and loving fuck as she eased down onto my hardness.  Our naked thighs pushed against each other as her nakedness rode mine on the wooden stool of the Black & White in Amsterdam .  She rode me.  I was just there for her pleasure which pleased me to no end.  No result for this mind fuck except for the fact of its momentary existence and our wish to explode it to cover a lifetime.  It was perfect for her.  Unattached, but completely in love.

Maybe it was the marijuana, a magic cloud of sublime intoxication persistently performing convectionary curls throughout this typical Amsterdam bar which enflamed this brief oracular love affair.  Or maybe it was the inevitable meeting, two souls meant to be joined, however briefly, as one, which alone caused the explosion.

Whatever it was, it was memorable and eternal, that brief Sunday night conjunction in her bar as I passed through.

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