Sweet Melissa and Sour SarahPrologue
- 3 years ago
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Epiphanies free porn video
It's mid-afternoon in a rainy street. Five boys tumble out of a city-centre wine bar; they're all of twenty-two years old, and wear the red braces and harsh eyes of currency traders. Those eyes are blurred now with expensive, over-oaked chardonnay, but the harshness remains; and when they see me they begin to whistle and jeer, jeers that turn to indecencies. I match like with like, turning to face them and stopping them in their tracks as, hands on hips, I add my own water to the wet slick of rain at my feet.
-----
I remember what you told me last night about zucchini as I shop for produce in the supermarket. Fondling the firm, shiny-dark-green vegetables in their cardboard trays, the memory turns me soft and hard all at once, and I have to escape for release. I leave my trolley, my purchases, my handbag alone in an aisle to fend for themselves, and head blindly for the fresh air outside. As I lean back against a car in the parking area, the sunlight warm and yellow-red through my closed eyelids, I hear a little-girl voice: "Mummy, why is that lady doing that?" "What? Oh ... I don't know. Come on." "But why does she have her hand inside her buttons? Why is she rubbing her tummy?" "Shhh. Maybe she has a tummyache." "But, but ... why is she smiling?"
-----
She looked at the large dog. It held her gaze.
She saw the recognition in its liquid brown eyes, felt the stir deep in the pit of her stomach, the looseness, and the sudden presence of moisture.
It knew.
She knew.
-----
"Can I call you?", your email says. I think for a few minutes, and then burn my boats. "I'm sorry. Would you be hurt if I said no?" I spin some tale about security, paranoia and broken rules, but in truth I'm ashamed to let you hear my voice, which is way too low.
-----
The queue at the ticket-office is long and slow-moving. The vaulted ceiling of the tall foyer amplifies sound, but no one is talking -- only the click of heels on the marble floor as another theatre-goer leaves the desk and the line inches forward. I feel the heat of someone's glance invade my face, and look down to avoid the stranger's gaze. As I focus on the couple in front of me, I see a dark red line begin to write itself at random down the bare skin of the woman's leg, one heavy drop of first-day blood chasing the other, to drip from an anklebone and form a tiny pool on the veined white marble. My dilemma: to make her suffer the indignity of another's knowledge; or, too late, the humiliation of self-discovery.
-----
I unwrap the skirt I just bought in the thrift store, step into it and wriggle as I slide it up and over my hips. It has pockets, like jeans pockets, and posing in front of the mirror I thrust my hands deep into them. There's something there: the previous owner's discarded handkerchief? No, it's a pair of pants, aqua nylon and lace, dry now and stiffened but once soaked with pee. For any other woman, this would just be gross. For me, the queer, the pervert, the pants are like a message in a bottle from an unknown correspondent.
-----
I remember what you told me last night about zucchini as I shop for produce in the supermarket. Fondling the firm, shiny-dark-green vegetables in their cardboard trays, the memory turns me soft and hard all at once, and I have to escape for release. I leave my trolley, my purchases, my handbag alone in an aisle to fend for themselves, and head blindly for the fresh air outside. As I lean back against a car in the parking area, the sunlight warm and yellow-red through my closed eyelids, I hear a little-girl voice: "Mummy, why is that lady doing that?" "What? Oh ... I don't know. Come on." "But why does she have her hand inside her buttons? Why is she rubbing her tummy?" "Shhh. Maybe she has a tummyache." "But, but ... why is she smiling?"
-----
She looked at the large dog. It held her gaze.
She saw the recognition in its liquid brown eyes, felt the stir deep in the pit of her stomach, the looseness, and the sudden presence of moisture.
It knew.
She knew.
-----
"Can I call you?", your email says. I think for a few minutes, and then burn my boats. "I'm sorry. Would you be hurt if I said no?" I spin some tale about security, paranoia and broken rules, but in truth I'm ashamed to let you hear my voice, which is way too low.
-----
The queue at the ticket-office is long and slow-moving. The vaulted ceiling of the tall foyer amplifies sound, but no one is talking -- only the click of heels on the marble floor as another theatre-goer leaves the desk and the line inches forward. I feel the heat of someone's glance invade my face, and look down to avoid the stranger's gaze. As I focus on the couple in front of me, I see a dark red line begin to write itself at random down the bare skin of the woman's leg, one heavy drop of first-day blood chasing the other, to drip from an anklebone and form a tiny pool on the veined white marble. My dilemma: to make her suffer the indignity of another's knowledge; or, too late, the humiliation of self-discovery.
-----
I unwrap the skirt I just bought in the thrift store, step into it and wriggle as I slide it up and over my hips. It has pockets, like jeans pockets, and posing in front of the mirror I thrust my hands deep into them. There's something there: the previous owner's discarded handkerchief? No, it's a pair of pants, aqua nylon and lace, dry now and stiffened but once soaked with pee. For any other woman, this would just be gross. For me, the queer, the pervert, the pants are like a message in a bottle from an unknown correspondent.
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