sticky sweet santa

All Ive been eating is breakfast--I painted the window at the cafe today, and was sent home with paperbags full of fancy croissants, my dinner a ham and camembert croquette w a cup of coffee. Many, many cups of coffee, all fixed like cake, creamy n sweet. It must be the season. I painted a winterbound forest with leaves of gold and irridescent ice crystals branching.....well, I'll send u a picture I guess. People really like it...and kids like it and I'm meeting lots of parents and artists and crazy parkie characters, of which I get to be one, it seems. The barrister is a girl a voice as sweet as the piercing bleat of a toothache: past the pleasure of cadbury fruit and nut at night for an entire summer, to the pain of the edge of one single grain of sugar. She is quite lovely and was one of the first to buy a print from me, she bought one I liked best. I'm glad, today she shared her pho with me and made it soooooo delicously, with leaves of basil and cilantro and a squeezed lime wedge. mmmmmfood. The cafe carries sacriligiously fat slices of lasagna, and lemon meriengue pie. Delicious, amazing....I keep expecting this to be about sex but all I can think about is food. Breakfast food.

Yes, I will not be embarassed to admit I ate lasagna for breakfast for an entire season in my 19th year...!

true story

The cop was still pretty, young, before corruption fattened his vice. Slim lined jaw bone and blonde--indeed only just turned 29.

It was halloween night and my costume was all hidden by a short black coat except for the sparkled edge of skirt and cancan that I admit, might be considered a cocky length for an Alice in Wonderland, but through the looking glass things got a little warped.

I was wearing tall socks and babydolls so I might of looked a little young, but I was of an age w him and a little unnerved by him slowly almost hesitantly pulling up beside me in his cruiser. He didn't say anything for a moment only looked at me while I thought of the various illegal things Id hidden about my person (in my alice apron- mushrooms in one pocket to make things large, some litlle purple pills to make to me grow hugely and a few hurriedly rolled joints to massage reality back to size again.) i leaned down, my eyebrows raised.

He said ''Goodnight''

"What's up?" I answered, immediately feeling like a hooker, in the traditional pose-- leaning into his window, cold air sifting into my tutu above stockinged legs. I straightened up and stepped back and he stuck his head towards me.

"Ah. Nothing. Just driving around. So, how're you doing?"

I was....nonplussed...nervous? Well yeah...but what was this? Just 'driving around'?

"I'm waiting for the flippin streetcar" amending the regular blue streak that usually accompanied any mention of the public transit in my world and then feeling like maybe I was not being nice enough. I felt oddly powerful, and tall, standing in my blueblack candykid baby dolls, him jammed in his car with all his equipment shadowy armor crowding him in, the only light his blonde armycut, his radio, his gps.

He was smiling a little and said "Well, it's late you know"

It was saturday night--maybe 1 o clock, I nodded soberly and said ' yeah, fucking transit.'

Really, I'd seen the streetcar zoom past me three at a time on my way to the stop, and he said "well, are you going far?"

I shook my head-- "a party".

"I mean, Where? maybe I could..." he said

I laughed. "You'll give me a ride?"

He was acting very suspiciously and I did feel like maybe I'd made my skirt a little too short and the ribbon in my hair was a tad too jauntily tied. I'd painted red spots on my cheeks in a litle fit of drama and felt my own blush sizzling beneath them.

"Well round first street and elm" thinking I wasn't going to have heat drive me to my rave, wait. can a cop give u a ride?

He shook his head and said seriously "O, I can't then, it's out of my jurisdiction'

I almost laughed, THEN I almost made fun of him, but like I said I was sober.

"O, you're a local cop'

He nodded, "I like this neighbourhood" he said.

I kept having to lean into his car to hear his answers and everytime my skirt rose a little over my thighs, I felt like he saw, like he heard the tulle rasp and rumple. He was very handsome and he told me his name was Pavell. Is this how cops usually bust you for...something?

He gave me a good looking over, I caught his eye at my thighs, just at his eyelevel. I was standing on the sidewalk and could see into his lap. He kept peering at me, heavy seconds between his answers, me trying to be so cool, but a little offended he was making small talk, what was this?

"So...ah. what's the problem, officer?" I asked, leaning in, then standing up.

He laughed. "Well, I saw you here, on your own"

"I hope u don't think I'm a crackhead!" is this what crackheads say to cops? Is this what hookers say? Gesus. maybe the skirt was a little short.

"Nonono," he laughed. "you were just standing here and it's late, and I saw you and you attract attention, standing there alone....and I'll just wait with you."

"For the streetcar?"

"Yeah. well, there's a lot of crackheads about" Great, I thought. where the fuck is the streetcar?

"Oh." All my smalltalk was gone...."thanks"

Well.

"How old are you Pavell?"

"29"

"Ah. the brink. I'm going there next year"

"It's ok, its good, you'll like it"

"yeah...all that serious stuff" I said, waving at his blinking lights and buttetproof vest and caged back seat

"Yeah. serious stuff. what do you say about that?"

"Hahaha," I laughed to loudly, I know, like a nervous maniac. "I try Pavell!! hahaha."

Thinking of the hours I spent mesmerized by cerulean blue cotton, white lace trim and satin ribbon, the perfect shade of seqin gluegunned around the bell of my skirt. High on my thigh I'd whimsically pulled an old white lace garter I'd stolen from an aunt's drawer when I was about 6. another artifact of Alice fallen though the looking glass, underground, in that hidden nightblack part of Lewis Carrol's head.

"Oh look!" I said "the streetcar's here!"

He nodded and said "Maybe I'll see you around, K-, happy halloween"

"Right, you too Pavell, later." Great.

I waved my white glove, waved him off. Walked into the street car smiling, bewildered...did that hotcop just hit on me? or what!

...................................................
The streetcar was only moaning along in inches, I learned up to the radiator at the back and poked my chin out the open window. The driver screeched into her mike "there is a diversion ahead passengers, we will b a few minutes"

We waited. Out the window, ahead of us, I could see a crowd of people standing outside of the local, angels and superheros and Cops and people shivering in scanty costumes walking quickly away from them. The street car grunted onward and through the lit window of the bar, which was usually shadowed and shady, packed. (Where my dealer was going after he dropped off my pot) I saw the bar was empty. I saw Pavell, striding, one hand at his hip, the other swinging forward with purpose.

ah, what can i say today? nothing.
today nothing you would hear as deeply as you did feel it.
silken and loquacious--
this wordless tongue.

with u gone i end up hurting myself a lot more. I don't start off meaning to,
but there's no one around to control the ebb and flow of it. I must be covered in bruises....

I know you know where all the paths are, the special spots, the things that i like.
You know everything, the skin of me that is worn smooth, the skin of me that is cool
from untouch.

You mediator, between the sparking black edges of pain and the fronds of my nerve endings, you administrator-- of touch of torture. You know the eloquent paths of hunger and excess, setting the skin on fire gently with soft breaths till it sparks smoulders raises the flags of flame reaches grows engulfs and subsides, glowing, from the touch of u, the intent.

But I. I am a greedy bitch, empty and left to burn away, the pain i want is etched there already, an itch along my ribs, my ass, my cheek the palm of hand, the inner thigh, an ache about my throat, pangs of hunger rake the most tender places The pain i sense of pressure unmatched, the negative burn of nothing, no one- skin, enclosing me, freefalling though air. Air that brushes me as gracefully as if there was nothing there.

I am a lazy master, a wicked wicked slave, I give what i demand, as hard and mean as i like it, fast and quick and heavy, bitch. I've checked, im covered in bruises b, and sittin here still, scratching words, my hunger unabated.

Marta was quite tall in her stilletoes, they helped her reach the files at the top shelf. She wore stockings and her lipstick was crimson. Her boss was Mr. Isaac Charles and he kept a thin steel chain in his deskdrawer with a hook for the collar she wore- at all times.

When the office closed its doors at 5, Marta quickly undressed herself and continued answering calls, barebreasted, in her panties, nylons, and heels. The clasp at the front of Marta's slim black velvet and leather collar--that was made for the hook of the chain in Mr. Charles drawer-- held a pearl as a pendant.

Mr. Charles would often have Marta bring him a scotch and water around 6 o'clock. He would make Marta set it on his desk, and then kneel at his side with her hands together on his knee waiting for him to be done whatever it was he was doing. Waiting here was a welcomed relief from waiting at her desk and from where she kneeled she got to watch Mr. Charles' movements. He was a panther, every move sure, strong, smooth,--controlled. Lounging as he spoke on the phone, an animal at rest. His fingers toying at the clasp in her collar or stroking her cheek; Marta would look up at him unabashedly in love and lust intermingled.

Mr. Charles had a small room hidden behind a flat door in his office, and Marta would think of all the things that could possibly happen from here to there, when he got off the phone. The small touch of her palm on Mr. Charles knee was always the torture to Marta. Feeling the heat of him through the fabric of his pant. Only that, under her palm--his muscles shifting gently, unconciously, perfectly--and waiting.

Mr. Charles' smell was of oak and unburnt tobacco and as the evening passed it would become deeper and more animal, mixing with Marta's own salt and sweetness.

Marta would wait and secretly flex her thighs against each other, or rub her nipples against Mr. Charles' pantleg, growing impatient as her senses warmed her. Mr. Charles jaw was strong and his eye was sharp, and Marta knew he could tell what was happening to her. He wouldn't even turn his head, Marta would straighten her back and become still again.

When she was very good, and waited. Mr Charles would close the file on his desk, or hang up the phone, and have a sip of his scotch, watching Marta kneel. He would rub her bottom lip with the tip of his thumb or wrap his fingers into the slack of Marta's collar and smile. He would tell her in soft low tones how lovely she was, what a good little bitch.

The sound of Mr. Charles top middle drawer was an interesting thing: when heard in the middle of the business day-- that particular heavy rumble with the shivery chinkings of steel link somewhere within it-- Martha would immediately grow a little damp, butterflies would swoop through her belly, her mouth would fill with sweet water...For, hearing it in this moment, Marta is more than a little damp and she smiles and tilts her chin up in anticipation of Mr. Charles hands moving against her throat, slipping the hook at the end of the cold and glinting leash into the clasp of her collar.

webcam

I'm not sure u're reading this--i don't know who else is either---but what if you do.

Look, you can see me.

Love story

I live under a bridge. It is not bridge built over water but a bridge that carries the track of the trains across a main way into the ghetto. The train reams across my shoulders and shudders my bones, the shadows keep the concrete cold against my back, my teeth chatter in delight and my toes have grown the dirty blue black of the dribbles of water that seep slowly through the stone cracks when the winter ice melts, and freezes, melts, and freezes.

This hole is as ugly as me. I could stay here forever.

The people hurry along, walking along a small path precariously pushed up against the lumpen sewage of traffic. I see the tops of their fragile heads and their paddle feet beneath them. They are puerile and fleshy as earthworms and I only pay them mind to spit pigeon shit upon their shoulders.

Nothing has caught my attention here for a span of time I will only describe as Past, because today I saw her. She unfolded herself from a crack in the sidewalk with a elegance the would make a mantis judder. She, of dust and gumb and sidewalk matter. She, as a dry stick, a grimy wrapper, a fastfood straw paper rose. She she she! O! She is as ugly as me!

and again, this time from the bottom

I wasn't even going to tell u about dirty itch, b....but I did--just like every other time, you crept inside me head and found my letters.

Remember that summer night, you stole my journal, you had read it! and then, audacious! made me sit there while you read out parts of it to me--you horrible boy, torturer. Because all that time, i was writing secret sexy things about you...and trying to b your friend while I couldn't take my eyes off u, ur shadows, that edge to your hand, the way your shoulders were wide and your waist so slim and brown like three cream coffee. You can't expect to walk around with your tshirt gone, your pants falling off you, the divot of your hipbones perfect tracks for my tongue and expect me not to lust after the friend that i loved. Lala. you know it, u are my best.

What did you want anyway? Snooping around my documents, finding much more shocking than u were looking for, im sure. the most decadent thoughts i had, so full they were laid on paper. They were read out loud, and tore the most masochistic holes in me.

Then u knew that I would take it all, every twist and tickle and thrust and torturrrre. Every thing u gave me i took. what a good little bitch Well here they are again, my friend: a dirty secret a dirty wish a dirty girl scratching letters 'gainst a dirty itch.

casting spells

ive always wanted to woo you thru words, I know my words are powerful and pull at the knot in your gut. I know that even though you can hold me down against my will and take whatever you want, whenever you want, if you want....I still have my fingertips there, against your tightest nerve, the basest button, the black against white, my light against the dark, in your head.

I went to get my ankle x-rayed today. When I entered the room it was as a womb, warm and gently spot- lit, table and slick frosted x ray machine--like altar and supplicant. I took off my boots and the technician crinkled his eyes at my soccer socks which he allowed me to keep on. He made me put my foot here and here, point my toes in line with his, bend me knee, step up here. the table was covered with white linen and i was posed with precision, back arched, leaning upright, hands behind me, legs bent knees pointed at the far wall, ass torqued into the light. Point your toes. curve your arches. i'm sure i looked a treat. When I came off the table, standing at its side, still in the light, I could see my hair, reflected in his glasses, each curl the outside lit in gold. He dropped his pen--3 times! at my feet, bowing under me, hopped up on caffeine and glowing in pale blue like an angel.

dirty b, you are selfish, if I found another master he would take me, and let you b. you still torture me from all the way there, quarter of a day away. You would torture me dirty b, and not call me yours?