--My most potent memory of childhood:
When I was about 8 years old, my best friend, Squeekie, (he had asthma, so when he would become short of breath he would ‘squeek’, hence, the name.) one day, after school, attempted to carve my name into his own arm with a small switchblade.
I never knew blood was that red.—
He looks to be a salesman, insurance most likely. He has that phony 'I won't take no for an answer' smile, and a cheap double knit suit in an odd shade of brown. He leans toward me, elbow on the glass counter, fiddling with his shirt buttons, surreptitiously opening his shirt a bit wider, imposing on me a clearer view of his chest, with sad little nipples lost in a tangle of colorless, brittle hair; all the while loudly proclaiming his unsolicited opinion of which shade of lipstick I should choose. Like I didn't notice the beginnings of the pot belly he is trying to hold in; or the scratch marring the oversized cubic zirconia ring jammed on to his stubby little finger. (Did your equally drab and colorless better half get that on special from the Home Shopping Channel?) His piggy little eyes are gleaming over the possibility of bartering for a quick piece of ass. His pecker is probably as pitiful and droopy as his non-existent nipples.
And he chose me. Like I am picking through the cosmetic counter, searching for the one thing I would like to spend money on, this piece of middle class whitebread rummaged through this entire store, then targeted me to bestow his horny attentions. (Stop in to pick up some hemorrhoid creme along with those rubbers?) They must smell it. It must hang about me like a sickly sweet miasma, or be written on my face. Regardless, they always seem to know. It calls to them in a language only men understand; that a woman's body was once for sale, therefor, still a marketable commodity. Once a whore, always a whore. Well, this twat is now closed; and even if it was attainable, it was for far more than a crumpled twenty dollar bill and a $6.50 tube of lipstick.
My palms are sweaty and the roaring in my head mercifully drowns out his ingratiatingly inane words. I want to hit him. I want to smash his face in, feel his teeth scrape my knuckles; widen that dopey grin in to a toothless cavern, then the whole world can see him for the drooling idiot he truly is.
Simon is behind me, watching from a neutral vantage point. He likes waiting until my emotions reach the fragile border of breaking into action before intervening. I believe he likes the raw aftertaste of my rage. I sense his sudden approach, feel him make his presence known; see the color drain from Whitebread as Simon fixes him in a stare of cold liquid steel. Whitebread looks so silly paused in mid-sentence; mouth open, lips pursed around words dying in his throat, face sliding into a doughy mask. An apology of prior commitments, rushed and barely audible, forced on a sharp exhalation of breath, and he is gone; retreating, suitably cowed, the worn seat of his trousers bagging about his flaccid ass.
Simon embraces me, whispers an obscene suggestion in my ear. I caress the arm encircling my waist, savoring the raised scars over smooth musculature; white designs on sanguine skin, visible only to my fingertips.
--Years later, after Squeekie's family relocated to Georgia, I tried to entice my cousin in to the same act; to prove he loved me as passionately as he professed. Too timid to insinuate knife into flesh, the tree outside his bedroom window was press in to service.
It wasn't the same.--
Why should I be surprised by others’ attraction then ultimate repulsion when it had become such a constant in my life. After all, crowds flock daily to zoos, aquariums, and botanical gardens to gawk and point at exotic life forms, but to invite one into their home? I don't need steel bars or a glass partition to alienate me from the masses. No warning of my aberrant nature need be posted as, like most mindless herd animals, they sense potential danger and feed on their own fears. Oh, the fine lines drawn to separate from those unlike ourselves.
Is this what people do? Mill about like lowing cattle searching for the most advantageous patch of clover? I am standing on the mezzanine of a West Hollywood mall, looking down into the outdoor pavilion at the social bustle below; people meeting, conversing, shopping, eating, in constant motion, pursuing diversions so meaningless to me. It's a disjointed feeling; a feeling that sometimes swells into that question, near spoken aloud in the moist night air. Is this what people do? How strange.
It had been raining earlier, but now it is cool and clear. A canopy of stars above the city lights, and, below, the slivered moon's face shining in the slick sheen of rain water on the red/brown tile. They are so common in their arrogance; their fads and cliques. Don't they realize that their desperate efforts to rise above the mundane negates the very exclusivity they seek? Differences sought are differences lost.
I am lonely. I am very, very lonely.
And out of this boiling sea of ordinary rose Simon. The surging tides part and there he was, looking up at me; looking directly at me with eyes like mirrors, reflecting my hunger.
Simon. Just breathing his name is like an anticipatory sigh. He is moody, he is dangerous, he is sexy. I don't usually use the word sexy--but, sensuous or erotic doesn't have a hard enough bite. He is not handsome, in fact, from some angles he can seen decidedly homely; not ugly, just a little off. Nose crooked and a bit too long, a not too considerable overbite made more noticeable by prominent, slightly askew canines; and eyes dark and cold and impenetrable as raw obsidian. Until...until...the veil lifts, then he would smile that smile that others might see as a sneer, but I know denotes genuine pleasure; pulling me in and bathing me in that pleasure until I near drown. Black hair hanging in a pale face as he bends over me. I want to taste his sweat. I miss him. The need is so strong it is like a sharp physical pain down to my soul. Or, at least the soul I had when he was mine. Now, I am empty, and only this constant longing reminds me I am still breathing and not merely a walking corpse waiting for the last bit of withered flesh to fall from my bones.
Simon was my doppleganger, my inner demon made flesh; and I was his blood and breath, his reason for existence.
He slept on bare bed springs--where he obtained such an archaic piece I have no idea; and the time it must have taken to strip the covering down to the steel bones! His skin is a road map of cuts, bruises, welts. I trace them, memorize them, know them, with my fingers, lips, tongue, body. My dreams are filled with the sounds of creaking metal and straining rope; whispered pleas we both know are meaningless, and knots pulled so tight they must be cut to release his bruised wrists and ankles. And I tell him in ways only two of the same understand:
This is necessary. I need you to feel my pain and desperation, even if only for these bare few moments; merely a taste of the purgatory of my previous life before you found me. So, I will double, triple the torment, and you will drink deeply. My love, because you crave this as much as I.
I sleep on the floor, on a feather bed mattress overflowing with pillows. Comfort is very important to me. Wrapping myself in clean sheets and soft bedding I create an island of private pleasure only those of us who have once laid their head upon dirty concrete could appreciate.
It is near sunset. Even through the blinds and tightly closed drapes I know the sky is fading in color and the air is cooling. I am between sleep and awake; aware, but ready--perhaps a bit too eager--to slip away, back into morphia, where I can loosen the last restraints binding me to this mundane world. I hear Simon leave his bed. I feel his approach and prepare to accept his body next to mine. Instead, he settles his weight on the mattress edge, silent, unmoving, for what could be bare seconds, yet seemed like hours. A light touch; fingertips tracing the arch of my brow and down, under my jaw to rest where my pulse beat so dangerously close to the surface. He knows my throat is not to be touched and I will react with instant revulsion. Which I do, violently thrusting away the same hand I usually hold and kiss, at that moment hating him for his blatant disregard for my fears. Ducking his head, Simon gazes at me from under sleep tangled hair, trying to look ashamed over his thoughtless (but deliberate) act.
"I have something for you," he whispers, coaxing my one hand into the two of his. Something smooth and hard is pressed into my palm. Something sharp and lethal. Caressing the gently curving handle, highly polished and enameled in purples and blues, I unfold the blade, admiring the gleam of the edge honed so keen as to be near translucent. A straight razor.
What is it to be? I ask. Lace and leather; rigid stays and ribboned garters, or sheer, loose and flowing. Just skin, he replies; powdered, perfumed skin.
I bathe and apply make-up, taking mine own sweet time as there is no time when Simon plans our little rituals. I return to bed well after midnight, hungry in both gullet and groin. Simon is already in bed; sitting upright, cheek resting upon raised knees, hands clasped behind his thighs, patient as ever, clothed in naught but bare skin. He raises his head slowly, knowing the effect of his hungry eyes and Cheshire Cat grin, and reaches for my hand. A gentle touch at first, barely sliding over my smaller, more fragile knuckles, then firm around my wrist, yanking hard, throwing me down upon the bed; me, landing on my back, him crouched panther-like over my vulnerable splayed body. His long hair trails over my face, forming a dark curtain above us. I concentrate on the slightly crooked nose I love so much hovering above me.
He waits, teasing me with silky ends and hot breath. I can tolerate no more. Raising my hands to his face, I work my fingers in to his hair, gently massaging the white scalp beneath until his eyes close. He knows what is coming and anticipates, yet does not prevent. Winding thick handfuls of glossy black around my pale palms, I pull, hard, forcing his lips to mine in a crushing kiss, drawing his tongue deep inside my mouth. Simon complains so often that I never reciprocate; that I won't, also, taste the back of his throat. No, I won't. Not one sweet inch of his body is unfamiliar to my tongue, but his mouth is too much like penetration, and I prefer to leave that to him. A woman is the void to be filled, and I am greedy. Very, very greedy.
Now, there is no complaints as we breathe the same breath; as I suck on his flesh, tasting faintly of the gingered fruit we had after supper and the fennel toothpaste used to mask. Groaning softly in his throat, he rolls off me and over on to his side, pulling me so close a bare whisper could not slip between us. Twining my freshly shaven leg around his furry one, I open myself up to him, so he could feel my moist heat build against his belly; an I, his more insistent desire ascending the inside of my leg. My favorite position. Simon's mouth and hands upon me, his cock stretching my folds, a delicious hair's breadth from disappearing inside. I like the thought of his erection growing against my thigh; slowly unfolding, reaching upwards, eager to rest his impudent head in welcoming flesh. Heat seeking heat.
I hear music rising and falling just below his skin; sighing soft rhythms from his heart, and his blood sings the melody. I feel swollen, drunk, drugged, and he can do with me what he wills. I like what is happening to me, this is the closest to heaven I have ever been; that is, if I believed there was such a place. I don't. But I am too well acquainted with its counterpart. Once, I would have crawled across the floors of Hell on broken knees for a pill, for a needle, for this sensation; for this sanctuary. Yes, sanctuary. I feel wanted; I feel desired; I feel safe. I am safe.
He pulls back. The razor is in his right hand, held delicately, expertly as a surgeon his scalpel, an artist his brush; the thumb of his left on the curve of my lower lip, caressing the slight indent, gently coaxing my mouth open, just a bit, just enough. Again, he waits, making me anticipate, perhaps--as his cruel streak is wont to do--wanting me to beg. But mere words could never, ever, hope to express my desperate need for him. Only my eyes, painfully open to my most hidden, the spasm running down from my womb to nip at, wetly kiss the tip of his cock, and the long shuddering breath exhaled was the language adequate to reassure, plead with him to continue. Growing serious to the task at hand, Simon's smile fades, eyes hardening to overcast grey. This is the most difficult part, the first taste; which I will refuse, repulsed by my weakness and his seemingly limitless desire to please. I tense, pressing my burning face in the worn velvet pillow beneath my head; what happens next I don't wish to see or acknowledge. Moving quickly, Simon slices a neat furrow into his thumb, pulls my head back around by the hair and forces my jaw apart with two fingers--like he was administering medicine to a stubborn kitten--and rubs the bleeding digit over my tongue.
Sweet, sour, salty. Skin, blood.
I suppose this silly piece of theater is to ease that tiny bit of shame still polluting my conscience. The taint of a lifetime of force fed socialization is difficult to shed, no matter how hard the resistance. Simon carries no such shame, not cares about any morals save his own; his love for me and from me, and disdain for the narrow conventions of the outside world were the only emotions worth nurturing.
Methodically slitting each finger, he offers to my waiting lips; caressing his arms from shoulder to wrist, my tongue worrying the tiny wound as if I could coax more than the frustratingly few drops. Tasting what truly flows from his heart, I wonder at my hesitation.
His fingertips are soon scored with thin crimson lines. He is now cutting deeper and squeezing out fat glistening drops as deep and sweet/sour as ripe pomegranate; precious red seeds extracted from under scar toughened skin and fed with exacting care to his Persephone, to insure her stay in his Underworld. He caresses my face, wrists, breasts; the curve of my belly and the damp curls beneath; the crease at thigh's juncture, and the tender skin behind my knees, leaving bloody trails he will follow with his tongue. Looking up at me from between my thighs, my one leg crooked around the back of his neck, his face smeared pink with our mingled juices, I think Simon never looked more beautiful. His expression is hard edged, feral, eyes wide and over bright. He smooths back sweat soaked hair, pale red fingerprints streaking his forehead. I want him to kiss me. I want to taste his heart and my cunt in both out mouths.
Instead he leaves me, returning to his side of the bed. I know what he wants. I always know what Simon wants. Straddling his hips, I balance on the balls of my feet, one hand flat on his chest, the other grasping the shaft of his erection, then rolling the purple tinged head round and round the slippery hollow of my vulva, before, finally, sinking down on to my knees taking in his full length and breadth. I love the noise he makes when I do this. And he murmurs something romantic and vaguely obscene, ending in 'hot' and 'wet', then 'slow' and 'please'; his hand firmly on my ass to slow my movements to a lazy, barely perceptible rocking. He looks so happy lying back amongst mounds of pillows, like a contented sultan in the bed of his favorite whore. I reach out to touch his smile. He kisses my palm.
He is still holding the razor, caressing it, kissing it, sucking it; making love to it. Dragging it up and down his outstretched arm; scars, recent and aged, stand out in stark relief. Over pink, purple, and white lines deeply etched travels the shiny blade, to stop at his inner wrist where the blue veins flow so close to the surface; pressing the edge so hard an indent is left in the thin skin before he finally moves on the a less lethal area, and I can breathe again. A gesture made all too frequently; more like seeking permission than the challenge it seems. I often ask my self what I would do if, someday, he makes good this act? Would I stop him? Would I keep him here with me, in gore soaked bedding, prying open translucent eyelids to the dull, sunken marbles underneath as if he could still see and approve of me; kissing his cold, blue lips, still finding pleasure in his decimated flesh even while it slowly rots, until I, too, cease to exist. Then we can sleep forever, together, joined in putrid marriage.
Simon looks pleased. More than pleased, like he will burst out laughing at any moment. He knows the effect his little game has on me and takes evil pleasure in the shudder it gives me. But aren't we all just children on the playground, slapping, pinching, and taunting each other, our sharpest cruelties reserved for our most beloved.
He continues as if the razor was an extension of himself, searching out the most tender, the most responsive places to bestow its attentions. Careful now to avoid the forbidden are of my neck, he caresses around my eyes, my cheek, my lips--and, yes, I eagerly kiss that small piece of silver; allow it inside my mouth, sliding past my tongue, down into my throat. Between my shoulders, down the curve of my back to where his other hand clutches my ass, his fingers a hard bite, imprinting my flesh with the purple/blue marks of ownership; then back up along my side, defining each rib, in to the hollow of my armpit. Following the curve of my breast, he circles my nipple, the drag of the blade growing heavy, more demanding. I try not to breathe as he presses the edge to painfully aroused tip, threatening to split to the tender nub in two. My skin is too tight, my body too full, and my breaths too big; a tiny crimson drop appears at the tip, to be quickly swept away by Simon's tongue.
Using two fingers he spreads my nether lips, exposing where we are joined; and the razor is near. I feel the metal sliding in, on the right, between our swollen flesh. Was the blade up or down? Was the sharp edge pressed to him or me? I could not tell, the possibilities filling my head with roaring wind, freezing me in place. An upward movement, following his own ascent into my body. And I feel it...feel it...feel it...the unforgiving hardness of honed steel and essential man; and I am pierced, impaled, rent by flesh and thorn. I cannot move. I dare not move. I can only allow it to happen: Motionless, helpless, the threat of impending orgasm close, yet still distant; dancing just out of reach, teasing from the periphery. And he watches while I suffer, listens while I beg, silent, unmoving, his body, at this moment, a mere means to my end. He is merciless, his thumb finding my clit, torturing the abused little pearl between his calloused touch and rigid shaft, fresh exquisite agony forcing me over the edge. I am cold, cold, so cold; and Simon my Simon is so hot and hard and beautiful. Ice is blossoming in my belly and I am breathing fire; my teeth are chattering and I weep tears of salt and blood and honey from my eyes, nipple, and cunt.
Simon carefully withdraws the razor, clean and bloodless, slick with my cum. I am drowning in opiate tremors; his touch is tender and comforting in my fragile state. He is talking; it is only muted sounds, words I cannot distinguish, only my name and his tone, his own urgency becoming more apparent. It is his turn to know the meaning of 'please'. Reluctantly, I leave his embrace, both inside and out. He lies back. His arms slip away and I rise, his still erect member slowly revealed, flushed and glistening, finally released with a liquid sigh. Now I am empty, yet feeling quite full.
Crouching down between his splayed legs, I reach for him, cradle his sex to my cheek, the violent odor of cock and cunt rising, filling my senses. I brush my lips over the succulent head, tasting the last remnants of my pleasure caught in the crease. My mouth teasing, urging, inflaming; my hands holding, squeezing, pressing his full length back against his stomach, exposing the underside where red/purple veins visibly pulse. One in particular, thick and twisting like an ancient tree root, studded with irregularly spaced pale knots, precisely the size and shape of my incisor's bite. The vein hums against my lips, forcing more sweet blood into turgid flesh already near stretched to the limit. I pause to look up at him. Over quivering belly and heaving chest, he, now, is helpless to me. The tip of my tongue worries an especially large callous, just at the base, nestled in the shallow curve where penis meets scrotum; my favorite one, formed and nurtured through constant wounding. He regards me with liquid eyes, no words possible past useless lips, his hand raised in what could be in supplication, but the gesture carried an entirely different purpose.
A tiny spark, candlelight caught on silver. The razor is drawn across his chest. A neat, long slice, so perfect, so straight, from just under where his ribs fell away, across to his opposite shoulder. He groans with the pain and effort, a slick sheen of sweat breaking out on pale skin gone deathly white. He buries his face in the crook of his arm, and my teeth find purchase. I pay no attention to Simon's sounds and movements--which experience tells me is considerable, we both are always so battered and bruised afterwards--only the final pulse surging from between my teeth and the warm seed seeping through my fingers.
Blood and sweat and semen pooling in the concave surface of his stomach; garnets and pearls, velvet and satin, wine and bread. This is so much more than the meager portion meted out through tiny slits in fingertips, this is closer to the source. A lacy veil of bone between me and the wellspring, where all is held eternal. Within the salt, within the copper, within the musk is emotion beyond words; all the love, all the desire, all that I need and want swims in these two vital fluids mingling on warm skin. I have no shame now, drowning in my hunger; the odor and taste of life possible and confirmed filling my mouth and nostrils. I am sure I am a horror as I lick and suck and bite, pulling the cut wider, mercilessly milking the last few drops of cum from his exhausted organ, so greedy am I.
Simon lies quiet as I finish, lost in music only he can hear. Simon once told me that when he cums, a desolate angel whispers in his ear and his soul goes dancing in her consumptive arms. He claims that is when he first saw me, in a vision during masturbatory afterglow, long before our actual meeting. When he comes back to me (and I count the seconds, suffer the minutes) I will bathe him and tend to his fresh wounds; more scars to add to his resume of plenty. Food, drink, music, silence, kisses, bites; whatever he requires I will provide, because, right now, at this moment, he is still with me. And, Maybe, if dawn is not too near, we will have along, slow fuck. What we did before was making love, anything other than that is merely fucking. Regardless, it is love.
Somewhere, somehow, despite all the soap, shampoo, and ointment, I will detect the opaque perfume of Death. I want him to stay in my bed. I want to hold him close so I may kiss his sleeping face and feel his naked body; the skin flushed pink and near raw with vigorous scrubbing, as if I could wash away the stench of the inevitable. Even in his heartbeat, so strong and sure beneath my head, I hear the rustling of seductive wings. Death's Angel is a better lover than I.
Soon, I will be draping the mirrors in gauzy black and burning red candles and sweet rosemary in all the windows. Remembrance fades too quickly.
I will be alone again.