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| | vendredi, février 25, 2005

Silver screen. yes. Another story (if you like the dirty kind, because let's face that's what most of you want...) at Dykes and the City's Free-for-all-friday. It's called "Shower scene".

| | jeudi, février 24, 2005

Inside it's cold. I can feel a draft streaming along my legs when I close the door.
I enter a small living room. It's still dark. The curtains are drawn. Everywhere I look on the floor, the walls and the sofa against the wall on the right I see carpets. Thick, wool carpets embroidered with the strangest motives of hunters and helicopters and colourful exotic flowers and riffles and baseball caps. Shiny black tattoo-like designs and ancient alchemist's signs on wine red ruggs. There is not a single space on the wall or the floor that's not covered.
Next to the sofa is a big rock, granite. I assume it serves as a table. There's an empty coffee cup balancing on it, cigarettes and a water pipe. There's a table and a rack against the left wall barely supporting all the books stacked on it. Some big and dignified with leather covers and in between and atop of them old worn and torn paperbacks.
There must be a door somewhere. I have to hide.

| | mercredi, février 23, 2005

Run away from all your boredom
Run away from all your whoredom and wave
Your worries and cares

All it takes is one decision
A lot of guts, a little vision to wave
Your worries and cares

Placebo - Slave to the wage

| | dimanche, février 20, 2005

There’s a million questions I have asked her in my mind, but now I don’t know what to say to her. I’m slowing down, counting my steps.
Then, finally she opens the door, carrying a big crate of empty bottles. She curses when she can’t pull the door closed behind her. She tries to swing it shut with her foot but it bounces back again.
She starts towards the street with the bottles. She doesn’t notice me.
A man passing yells at her and she looks up. They know each other. He crosses the street and she puts down the crate.
It’s about 50 meters towards her front door. I do not hesitate.
She’s standing at the street corner and talking to the man, nervously hopping from one leg onto the other. Hands in her pockets. It’s cold. She laughs and kicks the crate with the tip of her shoe.
The grass is covered with ice and I hear it crack under my feet, when I approach her front door. Nobody sees me when I enter. All sounds are muffled in the grey morning weather.

| | jeudi, février 17, 2005

I’m not a stalker, far from it, but I must admit she's been provoking an unhealthy obsession in me. For some weeks now she makes me adjust my routines. For example when I go to work, I get off the bus one stop early so I can walk past her apartment, hoping she might come out so I can see her.
She lives in the apartment block next to where I work. It’s a shithole, a social welfare apartment of the worst kind. The car park is a garbage dump and the walls of the apartments look like they’re made of paper, graffiti tags scrawled all over them at eye-height and a bit lower imprints of dirty shoes from angry adolescents. The whole street is immersed in a feeling of desolation and hopelessness. It must be horrible to live there.

If I’m lucky, once a month on Tuesday, she puts out the empty bottles just when I pass.

She’s blonde, of average height. Her hair is short and spikey. She wears trainers and almost no jewellery, except for a series of earrings in her left earlobe. She's not what you call pretty and not exactly young. I bet she's well in her thirties.

Then why do I feel this urge to talk to her. I'd love to tell her to come with me and go somewhere nice. Away from work and the nasty concrete walls of her mediocre apartment.

I have planned to make contact today, should she come out of the front door when I walk past. Yesterday, before I went to sleep, I swore I would go up to her and look into her eyes.

It's 8:30, as usual, when I get off the bus. With every step I clench my hands into fists in my pockets, hoping she will be there.

| | mardi, février 01, 2005

I’m on top of her, leaning on one arm and moving my hips and body against her so I touch as much of her as possible. Her skin is soft. She’s moving too, close against me. We’re rubbing harder, feeling the skin touching. Pressure shifting. She makes me sigh and breathe hard in her neck.
I know my hipbone is not in the right position to stimulate her well enough. But that doesn’t matter. I don’t want to fuck her straight from the hip. I want to slither along her body, slide into the curves and curl up in her arms. I want to be wet and sweaty and smell the sex.
I want to forget time. I can feel lust crawling under our skin, warm and glowing but making me shiver.

Is it because we fuck without dick that sex becomes such an experience of total freedom, of complete abandonment of everything we know?

I massage her lower back, press my fingers into her spine, where the Chinese believe the power of the dragon lives. Because fire and passion do not live in the heart but there between the kidneys above the pelvic bone: the point from which all movement originates, where energy is released, blocked or taken.

She watches my back. I love her to take me from behind, causing explosions, turning me into a warrior. She feeds the dragon from her hand, sending blood up to my cheeks until they are red and hot.

When I give her pleasure I am her. I do not exist without her. Inside her I am talking. The map of her cave is burned into my mind. I can find my way intuitively. I have explored and discovered every inch. Inside I can dance with her desire and feel what she feels.

When she parts my legs and puts in her finger, we form a perfect circle. We release the power, spreading out in waves one clashing into another, slowly radiating and flowing into irregular patterns. We are making a web of desire. Moving into space, not in a straight line.

She pulls me over the edge into nothingness. Into never been born and never existed. Into we.

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