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| | lundi, décembre 20, 2004

Two years you said of being alone. Two years of one night stands, how will that change you? How have you changed me?
We need a lot of trust. Trust without guts.
I went to a clairvoyant yesterday and after she had laid out my cards I asked her for some.
"You've been stealing from your partner, haven't you?" She laughed.
She could see right through me.
"You're trying to build a fortress on a vulcano, dear." She went into the back room and I heard her open a drawer. She muttered. "It's been done, though. It has been done."
When she returned, redheaded and a bit sweaty, she gave me an on old and dirty plastic bag. "Here you go, this is all I can miss right now."
Outside I looked in the bag. It was filled with flakes of skin. Thousands, maybe millions of yellowish and transparent pieces of human skin waste carefully dried and flattened.

| | dimanche, décembre 12, 2004

The enigma of the dead woman's body is not yet solved, but meanwhile you can enjoy a new ( and complete) story at www.dykesandthecity.com.
Click here to read the story "Madrid".

room to let

| | jeudi, décembre 09, 2004

Who wrote the story? It’s hard to tell. I never thought of a beginning or and end until she came to visit me. I was staring out of the kitchen window when she rang the doorbell.
I do like women in uniform. You laughed at it sometimes and you’d call out "Oh, god, how can you find that attractive. A god damn uniform."
I know it’s only appearance. But that’s what makes it fascinating. You long to know what’s underneath. And I don’t mean purely bodyworks. The individual. Behind silver buttons and ill-fitting trouwsers. Worn-out shirts that show your bra when you forgot to put a t-shirt under it.
It was late when she came round. And she wasn't alone. A big police bloke followed her like a dog, writing down everything we said into a small notebook. She apologized for disturbing that late but they were doing a second round of interviews in the apartment block with regard to the dead body. She stood near the window in the kitchen looking out and asked me where I was the night of the murder.

| | mercredi, décembre 08, 2004

Claire and Sarah had been a couple, not long after Sarah had started her career as an investigating officer. Claire had asked her out for a drink one evening and after a few glasses had boldly seduced her. Not quite what Sarah had expected. It had been her first time with a woman.
They had been together for a few months, but Claire was factual, intellectual. She liked long silences and quiet evenings at home. After a while Sarah started going out alone, looking for thrills, challenges, competition.
She needed to live on the edge. She loved darkness and felt most alive between 2 and 4 a.m. It had been just a small click in her head one night. She was hanging out a the wrong bar, drinking whisky cola to drown an edgy feeling of uneasiness. Flirting too much. She went home with the blonde tart sitting next to her. At 7 a.m. in the morning Claire had called. "Where are you? I just woke up and you aren’t in bed?"
She hardly remembered anything about the night, except that the sex was lousy and she had been uncaring and rough. She never could handle hard liquor very well. It turned her into a destructive egomaniac.
Claire had come to get her. It was awful and embarrassing. The smell of sex all over her. And all she could do was trying not to vomit in the car.
Claire hadn’t said anything to her for a while. Then: "You have to leave. I can’t handle this. I wish I could, I’m sorry."
The whole thing had made her so sad. Still did.

"So why are you telling me all this about Claire, Sarah?" Marie Rose looked at her with her terrible questioning shrink look and Sarah snapped out of her reverie.
"I don’t know." She stared at the carpet and the legs of Rose’s chair and felt even more embarrassed.
"Maybe I’m just feeling lonely."

| | jeudi, décembre 02, 2004

Her body was undiscovered territory. I knew from looking into her dark eyes that underneath those layers of clothing her olive skin was burning to be touched.
She kept kissing me slowly, tongue and lips thick and wanting and delicately searching an answer. We were already establishing a rhythm and every time her delicious tongue slowly slid into my mouth I could feel desire flowing into me like lava. Through the pit of my stomach and lower still down between my legs.
She dragged me down onto the bed, moaning a little when I answered her kisses with long thrusting movements.

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