Tag: recovery

On Kicking My Own Ass, or Where the Hell I’ve Been

This blog has been pretty quiet for a while now, except for the sound of crickets. Little crickets. Little crickets that occasionally cricketed in my direction before sighing and going back to sleep. The quiet was a change for me. For most of the life of this site, I posted fiction or nonfiction at least once a week. I knew my blogging would slow as work on my collection progressed, but I didn’t anticipate the absolute halt. In hindsight, I probably should have. But then, I didn’t realize quite how hard I’d be kicking my own ass.

The ass kicking has taken a lot of different forms, most of them positive but, as in the way of all ass-kickings,  very often challenging. One of the biggest was the collection of linked short stories that I’ve been working on for the better part of a year, and which is finally going to release with Go Deeper Press Tuesday (!!!)

Roadhouse Blues started off as one thing and ended up being something else entirely. I’d been wanting to do a longer project for a while—nothing too serious or, you know, likely to kick my ass, but good and interesting all the same. Something that would explore a fluid variety of sexual experiences. Something I could be proud of and really happy to have done. So, that’s how the project started – as a fun creative challenge. Hooray! Terrific! All according to plan so far.

Then I started digging in, and the stories got more personal—never autobiographical, but definitely drawing from the complicated, sometimes murky, well of my own emotional landscape. That’s when my blogging started to slow down.

At first, I went from posting every week to every couple of weeks, because the collection was time consuming and so is my real life work. Then posts started coming even more sporadically because, hey, this workload is kicking my ass but what the hell, let’s see where it goes.

By the time Eroticon London rolled around in March, I hadn’t posted in ages. Since then, the only thing that’s gone up on my blog has been the notes from the talk I gave there, (which was an awesome experience, btw).

By then, I had to admit something to myself. It wasn’t the workload that was kicking my ass. It was the emotional digging I was doing. I don’t want to make it sound like the collection is full of awfulness and pain. My goal was always to give people a good read, not a horrible slog through horrible things, and, while there are some trigger warnings in there, I’ve stuck as close to that goal as I possibly could. It was more that everything I’d been putting in my posts was going into the stories, and my focus had to narrow to make it work.

The other piece to this, the much larger, harder-to-talk-about piece, is the fact that I’ve been going through a pretty difficult time personally. The writing of these stories has been directly linked to my own process of healing and recovery, so the more I dug into my history, the more immediate the stories became. It was a powerful experience, both as a writer and as a person. Unfortunately, the side effect was that I developed a deep and abiding need to get very, very quiet in almost every other way. Thankfully, I have very supportive, loving people in my life who understood this deep and abiding need, something I’m grateful for to no end.

I don’t feel comfortable making big, fat declarations of emotional commitment to my work—my commitment should be clear in my writing, and, if it’s not, I’ve done a shit job. In this case though, I’ll admit to the fact that this collection required more from me than I initially expected. The ass-kicking I gave myself while working on Roadhouse Blues was much harder than I could have imagined, and all the more valuable for it.

I have no idea how Roadhouse Blues will go over when it releases Tuesday. I have no idea if people will enjoy it, or hate it, or just not even care, and I’m weirdly okay with that. I can’t control how people read it, or if they like it, or hate it, but as much as I want to this book to succeed, I’m also very aware of how important it’s going to be to let it go.

I did what I set out to do. I wrote something that I’m proud of. I wrote a collection of twelve linked short stories that explore sexual fluidity and subversiveness in a seemingly traditional place. I brought everything I had to it and I didn’t leave anything out, even though I was tempted, once or twice, to take a less ass-kicking road. I’m glad I didn’t though. In the end, regardless of how Roadhouse Blues is received, for me, the ass-kicking was worth it.

Go Deeper Press has been awesome and released some excerpt from the collection ahead of time, along with the book’s introduction. If you want to check them out, you can click the links below. Rachel Kramer Bussel was also kind enough to post an excerpt on the Lady Smut Blog, so I’ll include that link too. Thanks! 

from the title story, “Roadhouse Blues”

from (my favorite story), “Marlboro Man”

from “Flash, Pop!”, the story that inspired the collection

Lana Fox’s (super brilliant) Introduction

On Mining Yourself

Black and white pen and ink drawing of a young woman old woman optical illusion for Mining Yourself post by Malin James

Young Woman, Old Woman Optical Illusion by W.E. Hill (1915)

I’ve always loved this image. Is it a picture of a young woman or a crone? Even when I was little, I saw them fluctuate, like a portrait under water, equally young and old. It’s a powerful visual metaphor, one my brain seized on well before I could understand why.

I’ve always split my writing time between fiction and essays. Recently, though, the balance has tipped and I’m  leaning into fiction as I focus on a collection I care a great deal about. That said, project-love isn’t the only reason for the shift in focus.

While there is, inescapably, a lot of me in those stories, there’s a distance in the writing that I need right now. Fiction is, and always will be, fiction, no matter how much of the writer informs the narrative.

The nonfiction I tend to write, especially for this blog, doesn’t have that natural buffer. Everything I write here takes on an inherently personal bent, whether I’m ranting about sexual history calculators or exploring different aspects of non-monogamy. Even when I don’t draw directly from my own experiences, my opinions and history inform those posts to a massive degree. While I usually lean into that level of transparency, my boundaries are higher right now, which makes that transparency hard.

I’m going through an odd time. Things that are fundamental to who I am as a person are shifting and changing, like the young woman and the crone. I grew up affected by a trauma I couldn’t process, and the effects of that trauma unknowingly molded my childhood, my relationships and even my sense of self. Over the course of the past 10 months, I’ve begun to unpack the issues I’ve avoided for 35 years. As a result, my internal landscape is shifting, sometimes quite suddenly. It’s terrifically destabilizing – on some days. On other days it feels great. But the swing between the two is both constant and erratic, so I’m extremely hesitant to write about it. Yet.

In order for me to write well, I need distance and perspective. Venting feels good (oh, so very good), but if I don’t broaden my understanding I run the risk of ranting aimlessly or navel-gazing or, even worse, both. No one likes a ranty navel-gazer so I try not to mine myself until I’ve gained some insight. That’s why I didn’t write about this or this for more than a decade, even though I did (and still do) have plenty to say.

That’s the key, for me, to writing personal essays. While nonfiction takes a thousand different forms, my natural approach is to mine myself for material and (hopefully) create something that connects with a reader in some kind of meaningful way. This often means that the most immediate, difficult or overwhelming situations (the ones I tend to want to vent about) are best left alone until I understand the lay of the land.

At the moment, my emotional landscape is the sort of primordial jungle that guys in pith helmets get lost in. Except for scrawling in my journal, writing about any of it would, in the end, make me feel worse. The young woman and the crone might use the same hand, but they write from different perspectives. Anything I say now will very likely shift given time and emotional clarity. Writing is a way to pin my thoughts down. That’s a hard thing to do when they will very likely change.

Eventually, I’ll put enough distance between myself and this mine of material but, for now, there’s little I could say that would be of use to anyone but myself. I admire writers who produce beautiful, cogent essays in the middle of great stress. It’s a magnificent talent, one I quite notably lack. My strengths lie in hindsight, and hindsight takes time, so I’m leaning on fiction and quiet…at least, I am for now.

4 a.m.

4 a.m.

4 a.m. (Photograph by Malin James)

I have a pretty serious relationship with 4 a.m.

It was 4 a.m. when I realized that God didn’t exist and that my parents were just people. It was too much, too fast for a six-year-old. I felt like an island, floating in the sky.

I was 4 a.m. when I woke up in my dorm room sure that something was wrong. My mom called a few hours later – my dad was sick. I had to come home.

It was 4am when I realized that the only way I could get out of a toxic relationship was to leave the city I loved.

It was 4am when I decided to come back, get out of acting, go to grad school. Maybe try to write for real.

My daughter woke up at 4 a.m. every night and it was 4am when I cried because she was smiling, and I was sick from needing sleep.

It’s 4am when I run to steady my pulse.

It’s 4am when I write nonsense like this.

It’s 4am when the quiet falls like rain, and I imagine slipping through the drops.

This is about as un-sinful as a Sinful Sunday can get. While it was taken from above and not below (as per August’s prompt), for me, my face mid-insomnia is pretty damn revealing so I went with it anyway. If you’d like to see some fantastically sexy Sinful Sunday’s, click the pretty lips.

Sinful Sunday

Femme Fatales & Dames

My daughter was sick for most of last week, so I spent a lot of time on the couch, jotting notes on a legal pad. One of the things I scribbled was something I’ve been mulling for awhile – different portrayals of women in media, and how archetypical images of femininity and sexuality can affect a person’s development. On a whim, I made a list (because I freaking love lists) of women that I’m drawn to in film and history. It’s short so I’ll include it here:

Lauren Bacall in To Have and Have Not (1944)

Lauren Bacall in To Have and Have Not (1944)

Boudica (the Celtic queen who led an uprising and killed a lot of Romans after they raped her daughters)

Catwoman (Michelle Pfeiffer’s. Of course)

The female vampires in Bram Stoker’s Dracula

Lauren Bacall

Myrna Loy as Nora Charles

With the exception of Boudica, who is in a class all her own, every woman I listed falls into one of two categories – dames or femme fatales. There are a lot of superficial similarities between the two – dames and femme fatales have a certain energy about them, a sexual assertiveness for lack of a better word, but beneath the superficial gloss they are actually fairly different, as was my attachment to them at different stages in my life.

Femme fatales are the image I was most attracted to as a girl, so their influence wove itself into my sexuality at a pretty young age. Moreover, femme fatales have been around for centuries, while dames are a 20th century phenomenon.  The femme fatale first manifested as a supernatural evil – Lilith, lamias, succubi and vampires. Later they took the form of dangerously sexual and often villainized women, like Mata Hari.

The femme fatale, as  a figure, is problematic. She was, quite literally, created to embody the perceived evils of an assertive (i.e.: predatory) female sexuality, a sexuality that is almost always punished. While I’m aware of that now, I didn’t know that as a girl, so my attraction to this type of woman was fairly simple. Because of that, I’m going to skim the deeper cultural issues attached to the femme fatale (for now – I’ll eventually write a post on it), to focus on her relevance to a younger me.

The Brides, Bram Stoker's Dracula (1992)

The Brides, Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1992)

When I a kid, I was, like a disturbing number of people, made aware of how vulnerable I am. My response to this realization was multilayered. On the surface, I became mousy, quiet and reflexively apologetic. I shrank and made myself as small as I could, driven by anxiety and the desperate need to avoid confrontation. Beneath the surface, however, my real, private self was angry – massively angry, all the more so because I wouldn’t allow that anger to show. By the time I was thirteen, I was a seething ball of sweetness. As my sexuality kicked into gear, I bifurcated all the more, becoming the ideal good girl on the surface, while having violent sexual fantasies in the privacy of my head. That was the year I saw two movies that influenced my sexuality to a great degree – Francis Ford Coppola’s adaptation of Dracula and Batman Returns. These movies introduced me to the femme fatale.

I remember watching the scene in Dracula where the three brides ravish Jonathon Harker. It’s a sexualized assault wherein they seduce and then literally consume him while he writhes in horrified ecstasy.  As I watched that scene, something in me clicked. I wanted to be one of those brides. I wanted to wield my sexuality like a weapon, just as those women did. Of course, they were punished (stake through the heart, beheaded, etc) and, of course, they were subject to the control of the man who had made them, but I didn’t care about that then. What I cared about was that they were predatory women, claiming what they wanted without remorse or apology. It was a revelation to me.

Michelle Pfeiffer as Catwoman, Batman Returns (1992)

Michelle Pfeiffer as Catwoman, Batman Returns (1992)

Then I saw Michelle Pfeiffer’s Catwoman, a different sort of femme fatale, one that I identified with all the more because I felt like her mousy alter ego, Selena Kyle, who was pushed out a window for being too clever. Rather than die as she should, she resurrects herself and becomes something else, something hard and sexual and overtly predatory (once again, the predatory). She goes from being a victim to owning and asserting herself in a way I could only dream of.

For me, the femme fatale represented overt, rapacious sexual freedom. More to the point, the archetype was a picture of the violent reclamation of sexual agency that I desperately needed. As a result, my early relationships were fraught. I was angry and deeply hurt, and I wanted to make other people, especially men, hurt too. I was a toxic mixture of hollow weakness, rage and simmering sexuality and, as a result, I did a lot of damage, both to others and to myself.

Enter the dame. The definition of the word “dame” varies greatly, so here’s what I mean when I use the word. A dame is a woman in full possession of herself. For me, Lauren Bacall is the ultimate dame – smart and sexy, cool under pressure, holding her own in every situation. Whereas femme fatales seduce on instinct, dames watch. They play power dynamics like hands of poker. They make moves, but only when they’re ready. Femme fatales are about carnal impulse. Dames are about control.

By the time I entered the The Reconstruction (the period in my early twenties that directly followed my inevitable breakdown), the archetype of the femme fatale had welded itself to my sexuality so, rather than uproot it, I tried to explore it in a healthier, less aggressive way. I needed agency, a sense of autonomy and power. I enjoyed the slightly wicked, predatory streaks in in my sexuality and I didn’t want them to go away, I just wanted to be in control, wielding them, rather than letting them wield me.

Bogie and Bacall (1944)

Bogie and Bacall (1944)

Around that time, I went on a Lauren Bacall binge. Even at eighteen, Bacall was something. Paired with a man over twice her age, she held her own so well that when she cocks her head and teaches Bogie how to whistle, you know he’s the one in trouble, not her. Even when he holds her jaw as he kisses her, you get the sense that she is allowing it because it pleases her. She is a fully present partner, owning her half of that kiss. That’s why their chemistry is so insane – she’s right there with him every step of the way. Now, that’s a dame.

So is Myrna Loy, though in a very different way. As Nora Charles, Loy was unfailingly charming. She had such a light, funny social grace that it’s only when you really pay attention that you see her gently maintaining the upper hand in nearly all of her interactions. She’s at the top of the social curve, not for any overt reason but because she’s open and confident, so confident that she literally has nothing to prove.

Myrna Loy (1926)

Myrna Loy (1926)

The difference between the femme fatale and the dame is the difference between what I aspired to at two very different stages in my life. I needed the agency and self-possession represented by both, but beyond that I wanted control after I had so thoroughly lost it. I wanted calm where there had been chaos, perspective where I’d had none. I wanted measured looks and unflinching gazes and dry observations and crooked smiles. I wanted to relax and finally be myself, without apology or aggression. So I embraced the dame and subconsciously rebuilt myself in a different mold.

It would be easy to think of the these figures as constructs – personas that were / are separate or laid over my actual personality, but that would discount the fact that for many people, personalities are fluid. We all have baseline characteristics – compassion, cruelty, extroversion, introversion – but different people bring out different qualities in all of us, just as different events change and shape who we are. The femme fatale and the dame are that for me – responses to events that shaped the woman I became.

Iconic figures are complicated and how we related to them is even more so, but for me, they were a mirror, not only into what I was, but into what I wanted to be. They were something to pattern on while I explored and found myself. I didn’t (and don’t) try to be predatory or sexual or wry or watchful. At various times, in various circumstances, I just am, all while maintaining the priority of trying to be an essentially good person. I will never be fully rid of the anger, but because these two different versions of feminine sexuality resonated so deeply at pivotal times, they allowed me to stop being the apologetic mouse with the target on her back. The femme fatale took me too far to one side, whereas the dame helped me find my natural self.

Erotic Fiction: Resurrection

I wrote this story nearly two years ago and submitted it to Best Men’s Erotica 2014. I was very new to the genre then, and it was only the third piece of erotica that I’d ever had accepted. Though Burning Books Press very sadly closed its doors before the anthology could be published, I’ve got a real soft spot for this piece. I hope you enjoy. xx.M

Resurrection

Laurence Olivier, Vivian Leigh & Leslie Banks in 21 Days Together, dir. by Basil Dean. Image courtesy of The Red List.

Laurence Olivier, Vivian Leigh & Leslie Banks in 21 Days Together, dir. by Basil Dean. Image courtesy of The Red List.

There is a man in a room. He is sitting on a hard-backed wooden chair, one arm held diagonally across his chest. His palm is pressed flat against the opposite shoulder, as if he is trying to keep it in place.

A woman stands behind him. It is her room, her flat, hers and his friend’s…no, not his friend’s. It’s her flat alone. A distant image of shrapnel and a cockpit full of flames tries, briefly, to surface, but it finds no purchase and drifts away. In any event, this room, this flat, is the only place he knew to go.

The woman, his friend’s sweetheart, now his widow, is tall and lean, a bit underfed. She holds a pair of scissors in her hand and is shearing off the man’s dark, lank hair, which has grown to unaccustomed lengths since his capture and release. Just past the collar. This is an estimate, of course. He hadn’t worn a collar in months.

Lift, snip, lift, snip. Her nimble fingers are gentle, as if she is removing layers of harm with every cut, revealing the man’s once untarnished future as she reveals the column of his neck. He is surprised by her gentleness. He’s known her only as his dead friend’s wife; competent, distant, impossible to know. He himself is impossible to know. He understands how one becomes this way, and doesn’t begrudge it in her.

Snip, snip, snip.

She lays the shears on the table in front of him. Its only other contents are a paper-thin towel and the cracked, oval mirror that he’d made himself confront the moment he sat down. A ragged ghost had stared back at him. Dead eyes. Not a man to know. At least now, with his hair cut short again, he looks more like himself. Himself as a corpse. He smiles, a cold stretch of lips over teeth. He’s seen plenty of corpses look worse.

She runs her narrow hands through his new-cut hair, sending stray, brown tufts floating to the ground. He is shocked by how good her fingers feel on his scalp, how unexpectedly erotic. He presses his hand harder into his damaged shoulder, reminding himself of his nearly useless arm and the treatment that had rendered it so. She is his dead friend’s wife. He doesn’t want to intrude. But his skin begins to hum as she moves across the room.

She returns with a mismatched set of shaving things, retrieved from a tiny cupboard above an even smaller sink. The straight razor is old. The soap cracked and dry. She dips the brush into a bowl full of water, before massaging the soap in disciplined circles, coaxing a respectable foam from the long-forgotten cup.

“These were Ben’s,” she murmurs.

He nods. He cannot picture his friend. He’s lost the knack. It’s always shrapnel and fire. He can’t picture what isn’t directly in front of him. He can’t picture much at all. He tries and the failure disturbs him, so he watches her instead. He can only see half of her reflection in the glass. It stops at her collarbones, a few inches above her breasts. She is lean and spare. Almost boyish. The mirror has been leveled to center his image, so that she can see him while she works. Something in his stirs. He wants to see her face.

The thought surprises him. He finds himself imagining her eyes, divining their expression through the angle of her shoulders, the hollow of her throat. She always had serious eyes. Grave. Even on her wedding day, in the courtroom, when he’d stood next to Ben. So serious. Too serious. Not his type. Not then. But now her gravity draws him. He craves those dark, sad eyes. He nearly turns to look – nearly, but does not. She places two fingers on his jaw and steadies his head, as she touches the brush to his cheek.

The shaving soap smells clean and good, so good after weeks in the filthy, dark hole. He inhales once, and then again, thanking a deity he no longer believes in for razors and soap and women who wield them well. She leans past him as she sets the cup aside, giving him the barest hint of her scent. Flowers… lilies? Her breast brushes against his good shoulder as she draws back. It is small and firm, the nipple taut beneath her blouse. His body responds, automatic and intense, a reaction he hasn’t had since his capture.

During his imprisonment, sex had ceased to exist, replaced by more immediate concerns. In the beginning, he had maintained a heroic defiance. Gradually, defiance had given way to the animal will to survive. Finally, all that had been left was the hope to die well. Sex served no purpose in a truncated life, so his body had shut the whole operation down. And so it had remained – until the moment her blouse brushed his naked shoulder, shocking his system to life.

He wants to see her face.

She pauses, holding the blade lightly in her hand. His face is done, and done well, but his neck remains and for the first time since undertaking the task, he can feel her hesitate. He sees her breath hitch in the mirror, a tiny catch. Then she comes around the chair and kneels between his legs. She is tucked in close, so close that her scent surrounds him, dizzying and female, clean. He cannot look at her, for all that he’d wished to moments before.

Disgusted by this weakness, this shyness, he makes himself meet her gaze. She smiles, and it transforms her. He remembers that smile now. It is lovely. She is lovely – as lovely as war is not. He thinks of college and baseball. He thinks of Ben. He shifts, slightly, in his chair.

“Sorry,” she says. “Necks make me nervous. One doesn’t want to slip.”

She guides his head back and to the side, exposing the angle of his throat. Adjusting her hold on the razor, she proceeds with great care, scraping the bristles and lather away, as his pulse begins to pound. He is sure that she can see it. Anyone could. Her breath flutters over his raw, exposed skin, but he remains as still as he can. His eyes grow distant, to compensate. She murmurs softly as she turns his head, but he cannot hear her through the pounding in his ears.

The razor is cold against his feverish skin. One pass. Two. Three. Done. She retrieves the towel without getting up, twisting her hips and leaning in so her trim, narrow waist is pressed, briefly, against his thigh. She takes the towel and pats his skin, clearing off the lather with a quiet, fractured air.

She lingers on his neck, his jaw, his throat. She flushes a delicate pink, and her breath catches, he could swear. He presses his palm hard into his shoulder, to keep from reaching out. Then she looks away, and he is glad he didn’t move. Perhaps he’d been wrong. He’s been wrong before. She stands and retrieves the mirror.

“Done. What do you think?”

She holds up the mirror so he can look at himself more closely. She’s done a good job. No longer a prisoner of war, but a groomed and respectable man. Familiar. Normal, if one avoids looking at his eyes, or his shoulder, or his near-to-useless arm. He clears his throat and nods, unused to talking and unable to find the words.

Outside the window, behind the curtains, sirens begin to scream. He flinches. Appallingly, he flinches. She puts the mirror back and kneels in front of him again. In his mind, he sees a pilot, outlined in smoke. He sees the letter his friend had written to her, the letter he’d had to send. Her hands, the hands that had opened the letter, drift up his torso now, as if to check his shoulder. It is scarred, deeply scarred, by a wound and its careless repair. The flat of his palm is still pressed against the ugly mess, though a part of him wants her to see it. She has, he knows, suffered damage of her own.

Her fingers drift over his wrist as she places his hand on his leg. He allows the manipulation, torn between the instinct to disconnect and the mounting need to feel her living warmth. She drifts closer, watching his eyes, gauging him, giving him time to withdraw. He knows he should, but he can’t. She smells like spring, like life, green and sweet, but her face is a woman’s face. They are not so young anymore. She is no longer his best friend’s girl. She is a woman of her own. And her waist is pressed against the rim of his chair – an inch from his hips and the erection that announces his return to the land of the living.

Her hands skim down to his scarred, naked ribs. She leans in and inhales his scent, her lips a whisper from his. His mouth goes dry and he angles his head, bringing his face close to hers. He can sees the world in her eyes. He sees the shadow of himself, and he knows he is going to kiss her. But she tilts her head and moves lower, past his mouth, until she finds his pulse.

She pauses there, at the hollow of his throat, and he savors the humid tension that thickens the air between them. Then she licks his thudding pulse, running her hot, nimble tongue over his receptive, newly shaved skin. Decency, pain, and memory are crushed. This room is all there is, this room and this woman and the simple need to fuck her.

He gathers her up with his good arm and roughly pulls her close, dragging her up off the floor. Her mouth crashes into his as they rock, precarious, in the chair. Then they are on the ground, their hands frantic, clutching and pulling, until her blouse rips and her buttons scatter. Tiny pearls on the floor.

They are too desperate to enjoy. He falls onto his back, pulling her with him so he can feel her without thinking about his arm. She understands and straddles him, pressing close before moving her hips against his hard, insistent cock. He arches his hips, changing their angle, while his good hand slides up her skirt and pulls her underthings aside in rough, inelegant jerks. When her sex is bare against his palm, she reaches down between them to unbuckle his belt. Her fingers shake. She is coming undone. She is pulling him apart with her need.

He feels the pulse of her, the wet, gorgeous heat of her as he moves his hand so she can rub herself against his naked cock. And then he is in her, thrusting and stroking as she clamps her legs around his waist, pulling him deep, deeper than he would have thought possible, if he’d been able to think at all. He rolls her onto his back, his arm and its limits forgotten. She is strong and full beneath him, and he is blind, lost in her scent, her throaty cries, her slick female heat.

She arches against him, scratching his back and clutching at his shoulders with her strong, desperate hands. Pain lances through him, but he doesn’t care. He loves it, embraces it, bares his teeth and tears into it as it shears through a wall of numbness and despair. He braces himself with his good arm as she buries her face in his neck, murmuring his name. Not his rank. Not his alias. Not God or the devil or angels or saints. Just his name. Then she comes, violently, shuddering in his arms.

He savors it and savors her, feels himself reborn in her clutching, perfect warmth. A second orgasm catches her, close on the heels of the first. It is more than he can bear. After months of stress and pain, he follows her, carried along by the joy of this woman, the only person left who knew him before.

When it is over, they lie on their backs on the floor, panting, unable to move. He feels shattered and restored. A cage inside him has broken – if not the last, then the first. She watches him, hair tumbled, lips swollen, eyes dark and serious. Grave. With an effort, he moves his ruined arm and touches her pale face, and through the numbness in his fingers, he can feel her dampened skin. She smiles her lovely smile and gets up off the floor.

She takes off her slip as she looks at him, rosy and full, not too skinny after all. Kneeling, he rests his head on the edge of her hip and inhales their mingled scents. Then he stands, and she strips him, revealing him in his entirety, scarred but whole. He kisses her, slowly this time, pressing his hips to her hips, his chest to her breast. Then they cross the room to her tiny bed, while sirens wail in the dark of the world.

The Second Letter

I have sent you the letter that I want to you to see. It is practical and wise, full of smooth, measured lines and things that are best for us both.

I am now writing you the letter that I wanted to write. It is not smooth. It is not measured. I am writing on my skin, down the length of my leg and up again, higher and higher, to my warm, wet cunt and the hollow places that you kissed. I will start at my hip and scrawl, “To my Love,” on that curved, hard bone. I will write of the silence my tongue couldn’t fill; of the ugliness and  envy I swallowed just to keep your taste in my mouth. I understood your responsibilities, your conditions, your life. I embraced my confinement in a small, lush room.

I was your escape you said as you kissed my thigh. It was creamy and white when you did—not smeared with ink, but clean and sweet, a tactile expanse of improbable trust. Your words poured into my skin and diffused, filling my cells with your precise, exacting love. Alchemy. Magic. I became an extension of you.

You cast a spell with every lick and bite. Every time your fingers drifted between my thighs, in bars and restaurants and cafes and streets; every time you found me wet; every time you sucked my breast through my thin, cotton blouse, I lost an inch of myself. More ink on my skin.

You love me, you love me.

Your words seeped, slow and profound, until I lived for your teeth and the thrust of your cock. I became an arching back, a curving neck, a gaping, needy cunt. I was a response to the words you scrawled on my skin with your rich, invisible ink—a room, a haven, the bottle and the djinn, a pretty little box….

I have sent you the letter I want you to see, one written by a woman who no longer exists. Now, in the quiet of my lush, little room, I cover my skin in my very own ink, thick and black, from my pen. Once every kiss is covered and every lick and bite obscured, I will wash the ink away in a claw foot tub—the one we shared last Spring in a hotel I won’t name, because the distance between then and now hurts.

You are in me and on me. Your name is in my bones. I will soak and scrub until it dissolves, and the water and ink go cold. I will write until I am calm. Because I am not calm. I am not calm. I am not calm, my Love. I am the product of your words.

Want to hear me read it? Click on HERE for the audio version.

And lastly, thank you to Happy Come Lucky, whose image inspired this story, and to Exhibit A for hosting the Sinful Stories Competition and for selecting this story as the winner.

© 2017 Malin James

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