My lover’s cock is already hard again when I say the next
thing.
“Hauntingly beautiful music,” I say, “is best diluted in
paraffin.”
“Not so,” he replies. “It is Frida Kahlo who is best diluted
in paraffin; hauntingly beautiful music is best played with in the dark.” He takes
a cigarette out of a drawer beside the bed, looking thoughtful. “Or squished
between the toes.”
I laugh, slapping him across the face. “Idiot!” A cloud of
glitter is causing havoc around our heads. “Haven't you read Aleister Crowley?”
“Of course not,” he says, his hand around my throat,
strangling me. “He’s curling his hair. Besides,” he continues, straddling me now
so that he can force his cock into my mouth, “objects of desire burn brighter
than the sun, so there’s no need for toast or buttered toast.”
As he’s fucking my mouth, causing me to gag and choke, I
think of my witty rejoinder, but it is lost on the end of his cock. “But the
gates of reality are being torn down!” I’d have said. “Perverts!”
Instead, he is able to continue. “Your sweet, hot lips are
free, wild, and beautiful. Like tentacles.”
At that I bite down and he scrambles away, yelping. I bat the
fairy dust from my eyes. “But lost atoms are running out of time,” I say
angrily. “Like universal consciousness.”
“Far-fetched!” he cries, but I can tell I have him sussed
now, and his sexual cells say the same. “Crack addicts,” he mutters. “Class traitors.
A moose’s ghost.”
I shake my head, grab his hand, and shove his fingers into
my cunt. “Galaxy-hopping is for wild women and impossible dreams. Not fuzzy
millipedes and trolls. They are utter bastards.”
“Utter bastards,”
he repeats in agreement, fucking me with his fingers. “With dirty, filthy
souls, causing havoc.”
“A taste for flesh!” I scream. “Vampire bats!”
He grins. “We’re falling madly in love.”
“It’s funny how love is velvet mittens,” I say, exhaling.
He frowns, then laughs, then frowns again. He takes the
cigarette from me and puffs on it for a moment. “Love is piss-stained panties,”
he says at last. “It’s caressing each other’s genitals with bubbles. And
brandishing mohawks at children.”
Eyes momentarily looking up at him from the new cigarette
I’m rolling for myself, I protest, “Love is rebelling against her nemesis, the
moon.”
“How absurd. Everyone knows that Love’s nemesis is the
apocalypse ducks. And shifty-looking gargoyles.”
“They are the patron saint of spoiled orgasms.”
“And what would you
know of them, you chthonic goddess, you unstable wormhole?”
“Let me show you.” I pass him my cigarette and start rubbing
my cunt, working myself into a frenzy of giant redwoods, devastatingly
handsome, like a skeleton with a balloon as a hat. He watches eagerly from the
shadow in the corner of his eye.
“This is a quiet revolution,” he says softly as I begin to
thrash and moan. At the verge of climax I throw my hand against the wall,
illustrating the mindless malevolence of jellyfish. “Did you see the
kaleidoscopic hexagrams?” he asks.
“Yes, I say, “they were frolicking like fuck.” Frustration
wells up in me and I savour it like a slice of delicious cherry pie.
“You are Nonsense.”
I nod. “As a curious school child pissing in the prime
minister’s shoes.”
“And where might I find this goblin emancipation?”
I tickle the sides of his stomach like dominant butterflies
buzzing around your head. “They are building the rainbow gateway with depraved
intentions.”
He looks satisfied. “As well they might. Are you ready for
the final cane stroke?”
I take a deep breath and position myself. “Hogweed
propulsion.”
He takes the cane and swishes it prettily behind me so that
I flinch before the strike hits. “Jazz blankets,” he mutters, the blow lands,
and I scream.
He takes me in his arms. “We are moving in parallel,” he
says.
I smile blissfully and nod. “Like velvet mittens.”
“The tragic stories of youth are the most beautiful things
in the whole wide world,” I say as he lies in my arms and I stroke his hair.
“Yes. While all the people of yesteryear are pretending that
the night garden exists.”
“But the perverts are going to join the circus as soon as
possible.”
We both laugh, and he says, “Your panties are giving off a
smell of ammonia and rose petals.”
“Then we are bound to succeed.”
He sits bolt upright. He looks at me, taking my hand, and
says solemnly: “Feet without shoes are making me love you more than ever.”
“Like peculiarly translucent elves?”
He nods, still solemn. “Just like that. A swarm of ants. Men
in eyeliner. Handcuffs made out of liquorice and carbon.”
Suddenly he grabs the rope and with the deftness of the
melting lines between lava and light he binds my arms above me again. His cock
already stiff, he spits on my cunt and enters me with a grunt. My dreams
blister and shimmer.
As he is fucking me I see before me idiotic scrawled
statements on Church hymn books. “They’re not for the likes of you and I!” I
shout.
“Fabulous,” he agrees, panting with exertion. “We are
running the world from a helicopter hovering over the Isle of Wight!”
“We are antagonising relations! We are all our fault!”
“Perfect! Like disgusting perverts!”
“We are mathematical equations!”
“We are over there, next to the pickles!”
“We are encased in black nylons!”
“We are drugs given
by strangers!”
“We are on the 12.45
from Doncaster!”
“We are!”
I leave this realm, lightning strikes, and then crawl back
like a banshee. He is slumped on top of me, sweat glistening on his back like
laughter.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I tie the rope around the iron bedstand for keeping as she
rubs her chaffed wrists. “To dream is vicious,” she says dreamily, falling back
heavily on the bed, eyes full of memory.
“To change your dress is officially outlawed,” I rejoinder.
She kicks my thigh with the sole of her foot and I see her
eyeing up the small knife on the bedside table.
“To kill is vanishing.”
We both lunge for the knife at the same time, but her
agility bests me, and suddenly she is on top of me, blade to my throat. In a
low voice, almost growling, she utters: “When witches try to start a fire, I am
cracked at the edges.”
I suck in my breath as she nicks my neck, melting like
flying tigers, blissfully unaware that I miss the smell of rain.
“What will be?” I whisper.
“Frolicking kittens, fixated on death, leading to tyranny.”
“Then we will elope with tall tales.”
“Yes, when billowing treetops fade to nothing.”
She does not change her position. I feel a tiny trickle of
blood down my neck. Check.
“Where are the three horny goatherds?” I croak.
“In pondscum lullabies, mating with vengeful imps,
prevaricating over who to cavort with next.”
I grin. “An enterprising miser is something I hate. Mudflaps
are unimpressive.”
She cracks. A smile. “Like mercy.”
“And auto-asphyxiation is problematic.”
“You are fixated on death, sir.”
“And why not? After all, a solitary demon may be flippant on
Fridays.”
She gently pulls the blade back, but holds it still tightly
in her hand. “Children are smashing campaigns,” she says, a look of imp-like
awe, eyes wide like happy thoughts, written on her face. “Just smashing them,
as easy as lying.” She kisses me energetically.
“We are a cackle of lovers,” I say, my mouth full of hers.
“Hysterical fucking,” I say, “is going to save mankind.”
She takes my erect cock in her small hand and smiles in that
way she does. “That, or quantum mechanics. It smites things at random, you
know. Like a complete twat.”
Pleasure mounts up from the pit of my stomach. I lean back
and sigh. “A proud merman, resplendent with eyes.” Her pumping gets faster, her
grip tighter. I moan softly. Just above that utterance, I hear her musing:
“To bask in the golden rays of the sun is a labyrinth; it is
the romance of the forest; it is disembodied heads floating around, lost.” She
stops just before I climax and I clench in frustration. “Like a Cyclops stuck
on a cloud.”
I stare at her, my cock pulsating with need. I take her
wrist in my hand and push it towards her cunt. Seeing what I want, she makes two
fingers and a fist, and I use her own hand to fuck her. “”You oakened Taoist
fuckmeat. You monstrous frog. You auspicious golden dawn. You turnip.”
She falls back onto the bed, her back arching. Between her
cries she shouts, each word a panting effort: “Bursting f-forth, w-w-we cry, Here we - ahhh- are! Fuck everything!”
“You are in the state of being upside-down,” I say wryly. “Abreast
the pharaoh’s wing.”
“Ah!” she cries, spasming violently as she cums. “The
perpetual death of Christ is-.”
“-patterned chaos. I know.”
In the warm silence that ensues, as her legs shake gently
and she strokes my neck absently, I watch particles of dust swimming in the
light from the gap in the curtains.
Eventually she sits up. “What are the ramifications of
punishment in a holographic universe?”
“A lone, luminescent wanderer, and paranoia.”
She nods. “Cold, fragile beauty, enlightening us.”
“But how, then, to take revenge upon an enemy?”
“Cellular aneurysm,” she says sagely. “A cloudy serial
killer. Dreadlocked dog spunk.”
“And freedom,” I jest.
She laughs and launches herself at me, enveloping my
still-hard cock in her soaking wet cunt. With sadistic cackling, she throws her
head back and screams like a feathered peacock angel. Exploding and grinning
maniacally, we ride together into sudden death notice, into corruption, growing
beautifully, and exponentially, under love rain, dancing with abandon.
She falls on top of me. “We’re creating the music that
emanates from the ripples in water,” I pant, and we both fall gently into
slumber.
She smirks and yanks her skirt up to her waist, exposing
herself. “Your peculiar taste in architecture is a giggling moron. And your hat
made of felt is too abstract.”
I touch my hat in self-defence. “It’s perfect but quite
silly.”
She snorts. “So is dark matter. So is the atomic weight of
helium. So are lemonade and honey bees and the diameter of Venus and an Elvis
coaster and face mites.”
I wrinkle my nose in disapproval. “Silliness and absurdity,
and how my cock fits into your cunt, are terrifying but beautiful.”
She throws a pillow that lands in my crotch. “Lunacy.”
“And the swishing of your dress is exquisitely depraved.”
“Like revolutionary politics, and being gang-fucked?”
I shrug. “They’re a good start.” I tickle her feet and she
giggles. “Well,” I say, “two legs, one head, and 60 octahedrons are waiting
outside in a cab. Shall we?”
“Ha!” she says. “They are not divisible by three. Besides,
open doors and red umbrellas are about to go their separate ways.”
“Then we must put them in my scrapbook!” I tickle her feet again
and she kicks them at me like a city of giggling morons. We fight and wrestle
and she jumps on my back.
“This is everything in the universe!” she says, thudding her
fist on my back as if discovering a new land.
“Are you always unable to control yourself in polite
company?” I enquire, carrying her around on my back like a packhorse.
“What would you know, you dead cosmonaut, you rebel without
a cause, you beetle preserved in formaldehyde?”
I collapse onto the bed, tipping her off. She immediately
rises and sits on me again. “This is the totality of everything that’s known!”
she cries.
