I will begin with the most recent turn of events. I will use false names and locations in order to uphold anonymity. I will count backwards in time to try to give you the full background and conception of what I will call: Project Jezebel. This is a social experiment, looking into mankind and his tendencies for one of the last remaining base instincts we still value in our society. Desire. Of course, there are many instances wherein desire is absent. However I shall fold these into the experiment too, so as to provide a full account. Throughout the retelling, I will of course include my own perspectives. Having no scientific expertise, these opinions may be untutored in the eyes of many. I can confirm though, I retain the most naive of perspectives, which are often the most valuable.
Spring slips into summer. Time melts into space. An occurrence in the charity shop fired the decision to break all ties with those men that constitute Project Jezebel. Edrington enters wearing new jeans and suede shoes, his short back and sides are still sharp beneath the peach fuzz that has once again consumed his face. He lives beneath a boat on the seafront, a fact much more apparent upon our first meeting, anorak clad on a park bench. We talk about a writing class where the subject is 'home', and the tri-panel notebook he had acquired for the occasion. Enter Monty: a recent subject picked up in the very same charity shop, a foal in the world of underdogs. Pleading, puppy dog eyes and a knack for churning out information as soon as it enters. Monty asks if I have had any recent encounters, I deny and decide to cut all ties. I tell him so and he leaves, hollering his own abstinence- he will not contact me again but I am sure he will be back.
Later that same evening, on the business end of a hen night, I swung my leg over the wall of the balcony and sat perched. Juan, toking on a roley, reaches to my crotch and pierces the nylon of my tights. Fumbling past cotton and skin he sinks his index finger deep inside me, and withdraws. He inspects his finger with his mouth, smacking his lips. Chilli sauce residue burned deep inside me, left over mole.
He repeats this penetration throughout the evening, commenting upon the consistency and texture. I make little effort to yield to his advancements, nor do I recoil at his touch.
Later, slurring from margaritas and prosecco, he tells me I am uptight. I turn my cheek but do not raise my nose at his comment.
The early hours of the morning brought me an irishman, on the banks of York river. I recognise him instantly as the man I had lusted over a few months earlier. I had entertained the thought of an irish bedfellow during a season of doubt. I had lusted enough to invite him through a faceless correspondence to join me that evening. We had not spoken since though he told me that this choked him with regret. A man will say many a thing to excuse his complacency. He told me he was lonely and had been for a while. I slurred, upon a wooden park bench. He shifted his weight forward with each sentence until eventually his hands were clasped upon my thighs and his lips were locked to mine. We kissed with urgency and onlookers may have believed us to be a young couple caught in the throes of love and defenceless to cupids arrow. He believed the same and was crestfallen when I told him of my newfound chastity. He pulled me into the churchyard and pressed me against a parked van, but he could not find passion there.
I left him, darting across the road to allow the passing cars to part us. He put both middle fingers in my direction, turned and pulled down his pants in a full moon. The moon would be full tomorrow. I returned the gesture and hobbled home wondering why fate wanted to feed me men not raspberries.
Spring slips into summer. Time melts into space. An occurrence in the charity shop fired the decision to break all ties with those men that constitute Project Jezebel. Edrington enters wearing new jeans and suede shoes, his short back and sides are still sharp beneath the peach fuzz that has once again consumed his face. He lives beneath a boat on the seafront, a fact much more apparent upon our first meeting, anorak clad on a park bench. We talk about a writing class where the subject is 'home', and the tri-panel notebook he had acquired for the occasion. Enter Monty: a recent subject picked up in the very same charity shop, a foal in the world of underdogs. Pleading, puppy dog eyes and a knack for churning out information as soon as it enters. Monty asks if I have had any recent encounters, I deny and decide to cut all ties. I tell him so and he leaves, hollering his own abstinence- he will not contact me again but I am sure he will be back.
Later that same evening, on the business end of a hen night, I swung my leg over the wall of the balcony and sat perched. Juan, toking on a roley, reaches to my crotch and pierces the nylon of my tights. Fumbling past cotton and skin he sinks his index finger deep inside me, and withdraws. He inspects his finger with his mouth, smacking his lips. Chilli sauce residue burned deep inside me, left over mole.
He repeats this penetration throughout the evening, commenting upon the consistency and texture. I make little effort to yield to his advancements, nor do I recoil at his touch.
Later, slurring from margaritas and prosecco, he tells me I am uptight. I turn my cheek but do not raise my nose at his comment.
The early hours of the morning brought me an irishman, on the banks of York river. I recognise him instantly as the man I had lusted over a few months earlier. I had entertained the thought of an irish bedfellow during a season of doubt. I had lusted enough to invite him through a faceless correspondence to join me that evening. We had not spoken since though he told me that this choked him with regret. A man will say many a thing to excuse his complacency. He told me he was lonely and had been for a while. I slurred, upon a wooden park bench. He shifted his weight forward with each sentence until eventually his hands were clasped upon my thighs and his lips were locked to mine. We kissed with urgency and onlookers may have believed us to be a young couple caught in the throes of love and defenceless to cupids arrow. He believed the same and was crestfallen when I told him of my newfound chastity. He pulled me into the churchyard and pressed me against a parked van, but he could not find passion there.
I left him, darting across the road to allow the passing cars to part us. He put both middle fingers in my direction, turned and pulled down his pants in a full moon. The moon would be full tomorrow. I returned the gesture and hobbled home wondering why fate wanted to feed me men not raspberries.
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