Planet Ezzie (2. The P-word)

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I’m not dis- dis- dis- … I can’t type it. I am not p-0-s-s-e-e-s-s-ed. Not by a succubus. Anything but. Definitely not. Not!

Wink, wink, nudge, nudge. Underneath, undercover, underdressed, undressed, … understand?

She is like a light rain, literally in a certain way. She clings onto me, but can’t enter, due to the henna. She cannot force my actions, but she can prevent some. Sometimes, I can find a world, err, workaround. I have never been particularly sensitive to the spirit world, but I can sense her. She is a go- god- godd- … an annoyance. She does things to me that are out of my control. She surrounds me with a light rain of post-coital sweat, leaving me teetering on the edge of arousal. Wet on the surface, but not drenched. I orgas … wait … orgasm at the slightest provocation – just thinking about it, seeing something sensual, like a kiss, hand-holding, a love scene on the telly, being touched – not every touch, but when I least expect it. (Hold on … I’m OK now.)

4 of SWORDS. Truce.

Over the past several months, I have learned to live with the constant itch to have sex. I have decided on a strange form of celibacy, having orgasms several times a day, but no relationships. Someday it may happen, but I’ll put it off as long as I can. And I dream – wild dreams – wild sex dreams – naked wild sex dreams (she loves it when I say that).

She has particular tastes. She likes tall blond men, and I’ve noticed that my hair bleaches much more easily in the sun – almost immediately. I’m quite blond at the moment. Blondes proposition me on a frequent basis, and if I touch one, either intentionally, but especially by accident, it is a certain orgasm. She also likes to be discussed. Notice that my typing is fluent, as long as I’m not resisting her. It’s appeasement at the moment.

I’ve been appointed assistant personnel manager of the orchestra. That means more contact with my colleagues, physical as well as figurative. I’m spending more time with people, and accidental contact is more likely. People that don’t get me or understand me are attracted to me. They hate, yet they adore. They would elect me President if I spent too much time in public. This dis- dis-, you know what I’m referring to. It does that. I’ve been dispossessed, but not repossessed, she hangs around me, but I am definitely not, you know, the P-word.

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Out of the Frying Pan, chapter 1 part 2

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Startled, Lena found herself standing in the middle of a mirror-like lake. The report of her only shot seemed so anticlimactic, as if it had disappeared before it left the gun. That single bullet would never have saved her, but her attackers were gone, as was the office … and the stench was worse than before, now more like rotting flesh than dust and fresh blood. The sun burned black in a night sky devoid of stars. In the distance her lake, which was only an inch deep where she stood, was lit by 12 pyres, each 144 feet high. She didn’t know how she knew that, but she did, from deep in her being.

The lake itself wasn’t water. It reminded her of mercury, but her movements made no waves. It stuck to her toes like an opaque chrome paint, as if she had mirror-plated her feet. If that weren’t strange enough, it had dissolved her shoes and stockings on contact, yet it left her skin untouched. Dazzled by the pyres, she couldn’t see past the surface of the lake, just reflections of the black sun in the black sky and herself. Still confused, she reached down and dipped her hand in. Like her feet, the liquid coated her fingers, dissolving the fine hair on the back of her hand. It was odourless, so the stench had to come from beyond the pyres.

She dabbed her finger on her tongue: no taste, or rather, it tasted like her … like her after a hard night with Ben, her ex-boyfriend, salty and sweet at the same time, like a light post-coital sweat. She couldn’t feel the silver dot on her tongue, yet she knew it was there, confirmed as she bent over to look at her reflection in the pool. Not thinking, she wiped her hand on her skirt, which dissolved as she touched it.

Stooping over, Lena dipped her hand in the water again. The floor of the pool was smooth and hard like glass. Her hand disappeared into the opaque liquid. It was warm, like blood.

Why that metaphor? It was the same temperature as her body, a slightly raised 98.7 degrees Fahrenheit, exactly.

How could I know that?

The liquid didn’t drip from her hand as she lifted it out. It was as if it became part of her.

At the centre of the pool, she felt safe, but she couldn’t stay there. Equidistant from all points on the shore, she estimated a half mile walk in any direction, provided that the pool was only an inch deep all the way. As there were no identifying features on the shore, she chose to walk towards the rising sun.

How could I know it was rising?

Gingerly, she stepped forward, not making the slightest disturbance in the liquid. Another step, then another. After a few more, she increased her pace, becoming confident.

Before she knew it, she had stepped off a ledge, stumbling into the pool. Swimming back to the platform, she hoisted herself back up and took stock. The gun was gone, her clothes were gone, and her hair. Somehow she knew that would grow back, eventually, but metallic. With a long lean athletic build, she had never had problems pulling the blokes, but now she was naked … and chrome. What would they make of her now? Instinctively, she had closed her eyes but had taken a mouthful of the liquid, so the inside of her mouth matched the rest. At least it hadn’t killed her.

Lena sat on the edge of a platform one molecule thick, in the centre of a bottomless lake. Both the platform and lake were perfect concentric circles, as the chrome liquid spread through her veins … Aba, that was what it was called … her awareness expanded. She had taken the Aba’s colouring inside and out, except for her eyes which had become as black as the sun.

Aba was her blood, her life … and she knew that she could even breathe it like air.

What have I become, and how did I get here?

“Hell-fire,” she repeated into the dead air. It was a word used often in sermons by her grandfather, an old-fashioned country parson. If you were bad, you were banished to Hell, to be consumed by Hell-fire. It seemed a strange choice of words to use in a moment of reckless abandon, seconds before certain death.

“Am I dead?” she asked aloud, but she already knew the answer. She felt more alive than she ever had. The Aba comforted her, or she might have gone crazy already. Aba’s post-coital taste overpowered the stench of rotten flesh that surrounded the lake, named Aba of course, and she would soon have to brave this strange world, naked and unprotected other than by her Aba skin.

Is this hell? Am I a bad person? Lena had played loose with her body, having gained a reputation for being an easy lay at university – she didn’t care – but she hadn’t done anything outrageously evil, no killing or stealing. Was living naked to be her punishment? Was this the second circle of Hell? A top student as well as an accomplished athlete, she had only taken a job at Transdex Holdings to pay the mortgage on her London flat until something more interesting came along. That was ten years ago, and she was still waiting.

“My name is Aba,” she said, as the liquid finished assimilating her body.

No, we were one all along, since the beginning of time.

That confused her. Her insatiable desire for sex had stemmed from her need to be like Aba – the smell, the taste – to be home. Where was home?

Hell-fire, or more accurately, Helfyre.

Poor fortunate soul

‘Poor fortunate soul,’ he said, walking on without turning. He was tall, simply dressed in a black dress shirt, new black jeans and cowboy boots. He smelled of leather. It was an odd way to say it. I was intrigued.

I wanted to follow him, but that wasn’t my job. I could sense something in him, like, yes, he was a bible-basher, possibly even clergy. I could have read his mind if I cared to. There wouldn’t be anything in it of use. His was a simple mind, benign but filled with dogma. He pitied me because I smelled like the street. It had been three weeks since my last shower, and two since I had slept on a bed.

My wings were a little worse for wear, but he couldn’t see them. I was just someone to be pitied, and the way I was dressed, he probably thought I was an addict or a hooker, or both. I was just poor and had a job to do. The problem was that I didn’t know what it was. When an angel takes human form, they have amnesia. At least I can remember what I am and who I am, except maybe not who this body belonged to.

Pamela? That’s what feels right, but a gaze in the mirror shows me I’m Asian, maybe Chinese, light-skinned and petite. I speak English, though, with no accent – well, an Oxbridge accent. I must have gone to a posh school. I’ve spent the last of the 20 quid I had in my pocket. No purse, and not much more than that little zipper pocket in the back of my black ¾ tights. On top, my white lacy camisole leaves little to the imagination, and it is a little tired, in truth very tired. I could pass for 14, but this body is more mature, perhaps 20. I wouldn’t mind a pair of shoes.

My real name is Anekirja, Neki for short, and I’m an angel. What kind of angel?  I can’t tell you that. I am here to give a gift to someone. What gift or to whom, I don’t know. I’ll have to figure that out and soon.

The original owner of my body is dead. Up or down, I don’t know. It isn’t relevant. All I know is she is clean (though not now in the physical sense), and that is all that matters to me. This body has a time limit, or shall I say is in extra time. Aside from the bruises I awoke with, it is healthy. This body was raped not long before I appropriated it. I am sad for the trouble that she left this life in. I don’t know what caused her death. I am not allowed that information. The fatal blow has been erased, so that I may live.

I awoke amidst some bushes in Hyde Park in London. I don’t know why she was there, but I do know she had enough time after the attack to put some of her clothes back on. I never found the rest, nor a pair of shoes. She must have been dumped there.

I spent the first week wandering the park, using the Serpentine to bathe. I couldn’t find my mission, so I’ve branched out. When I need to eat, I sit on a stoop and beg until someone moves me along. I’ve found the best way to beg is to not say anything. My Oxbridge wouldn’t quite hack it anyway.

‘Spare a few pence, m’love?’ That’s better, but my unfortunate visage works the best.

Considering my attire, I’ve been propositioned several times, and even groped. Angels aren’t good with sex. We usually can’t decide on our gender in a meaningful way, and that is problematic. My body is female, lean, a bit sexy, and smells like a toilet. I must do something about that soon.

He didn’t even drop a few coins for me. That man in the black shirt. I don’t know why I keep thinking about him. If I decided I was female, I might have fancied him. This body definitely did. This body wants to wrap itself around him at a cellular level. It’s not the first time it has felt this way, but this is the first time I have acknowledged it.

He’s gone. I should have run after him when I had the chance, but what would I have done? Sold my body for a meal? My angel-self would have recoiled.

He’s married. My perfect recall … yes, I have amnesia, but not only am I inclined to perfect recall, this body had it, as well as perfect pitch and synesthesia. I’m not used to that. It’s difficult to ignore the colours every time I hear a pitch. She was a violinist, I’m sure. She had an old bruise under her left chin and callouses on the fingers of her left hand, perhaps also a hint of tendonitis in her left elbow. So, to continue, my perfect recall sees a gold wedding band glint in the sunlight.

‘Can I get you something?’ a voice asks. I hadn’t seen him approach. He had a guitar case slung over his shoulder.

‘Just a few pennies for food, guv?’ I didn’t ask for more.

He dropped two shiny new pennies on the pavement in front of me. Talk about literal. He didn’t walk on, though.

‘Are you sure that’s all?’ he asked.

I looked up. He was stocky and slightly unkempt, with red hair and possibly a three-day beard. ‘I can’t buy much with 2p,’ I answered with my normal accent.

‘Is this enough?’ He held out a tenner.

I didn’t know what to say. He was generous. I liked him. I liked him a lot. I shrugged my shoulders. Was this him? Had I found my mission? What did he need? What could I give him? My body tingled with anticipation, surely an over-reaction.

‘Anything,’ he added.

Outrageously, I said, ‘a shower?’

‘Sure, come with me,’ he answered, holding his hand out.

The alarm bells should have been pounding. Sex. He wanted to take advantage of me. I couldn’t read his thoughts. Surely, he was the one. He was clean. I could smell his shampoo, even through my pong. His red dress shirt and blue jeans were, to be kind, comfortable. I took his hand and stood up.

More tingling. I’m sure he was the one. Too much tingling. I’ve never felt as nervous as this.

I followed him silently for about ten minutes before he stopped at an unmarked door next to a music shop. ‘This is it,’ he answered, fishing out his keys from his pocket. He opened the door and I followed him upstairs.

We stopped again in front of a door, 2B, which he unlocked. ‘Second door on the left,’ he said, pointing down the hallway. ‘Should I put your clothes in the wash?’ he asked.

‘Err, um,’ I hesitated. ‘What will I wear?’

‘There’s a robe hanging on the hook. It’s clean.’ His flat was in better order than he was, sparsely furnished but clean and tidy. His hi-fi took pride of place and was probably the only thing in the room that was expensive. ‘Would you like some eggs?’ he asked. ‘I haven’t got much food. I’ve been away.’

‘Anything,’ I replied. As hungry as I was, anything would do.

I showered and emerged wearing his white bathrobe, and nothing else. The tingling was becoming unbearable. Was my clock running out? He placed two plates of scrambled eggs and sausages on the table with orange juice and took my clothes, careful not to breath too deeply, and put them in the washer.

I sat across from him, literally shaking at the knees. I devoured my entire plateful before he had eaten two bites.

‘You don’t recognize me, do you?’ he asked.

I stared at him hard.

‘Neki?’

I couldn’t see anything familiar. ‘How do you know my … name?’ He couldn’t possibly have known me as Neki, surely Pamela, or something similar. I was very good at guessing the names of the bodies I possessed.

‘I can’t remember anything,’ I answered. ‘Nothing more than the last three weeks. I had an accident.’

‘You had a date,’ he said, flatly. ‘We had a date.’

I hesitated. He knew my body from before. This was awkward.

He reached his hand across and touched mine. I almost jumped out of my skin. I flushed, and Pamela’s body (for that was surely her name) reacted in a way that I just couldn’t understand.

‘Neki,’ he said, almost as if he could read my mind.

‘I really don’t remember,’ I pleaded.

‘It’s Mikael,’ he said. ‘We made a promise.’

‘How do I know you?’

‘We met about four weeks ago. We have one chance and that is now.’

‘I don’t understand.’ Nothing was coming to me.

‘You don’t feel it?’ he asked.

I nodded nervously. My body was overruling my mind. It wanted him.

‘Don’t resist. I am your gift.’

‘What?’

‘Anekirja, I am your gift. You deserve one after all these centuries. Let go and enjoy.’ He held my hand firmer.

‘I don’t understand.’ What I understood couldn’t possibly be happening. I was a Gift Angel and I was being gifted something repulsive to me.

‘Something you need,’ he insisted, reading my thoughts. ‘It will make you better. You’ll understand.’

I bit my lip. My body so craved his.

‘Let go.’

I couldn’t restrain myself any longer. I leapt so quickly that my robe slumped on the chair that I had vacated. The ecstasy that followed only later became clear. Pamela and Michael had died at the same time in separate incidents, both having intended to pledge their undying love over dinner that evening. Mikael (that’s the archangel) and I had been sent to make that happen, although it was more for me, as it was intended to teach me to love, to understand the meaning of human love and physical need.

Both had been granted extra time to deliver their promises through us.

Only time will tell if I remember this lesson.

aperitif

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obsession, that’s what has taken hold of me for the past 24 hours, 24 frustrated hours at the end of many frustrated days of not writing at a time when I have time to write, but as I’ve mentioned in my blog, my rentboy muse is crumpled in the corner foaming at the mouth, poisoned by my cynicism, too dead to be revived by passion, especially in my passionless current state of affairs in spite of this obsession with lucidity, thanks to one of my new WordPress followers by that name, or shorter, just Lucid, who is an artist and stream of consciousness writer, like myself, but different, where hers is more circumspect, from the same inspiration as her art, whereas mine flows freely from my sex, with no periods to dampen the flow, just commas, when I surface for air, rarefied by exertion, real or imagined, yet (hopefully) wet and slippery just the same, but hopefully not the same as before, like my first Beckett stream, and not as repetitive as the miles I run, running from my writer’s block and trying to build up enough passion to revive my rentboy, musing about my devoted readers who haven’t heard any new utterances from me like this in a long time, and may not again for a while, since I am supposed to be doing other things, licking my fingers – I’ll say that again – licking my fingers, why, because of the chocolate on them, rather than something else you imagined in your smutty mind, yet knowing my mind to be of the same ilk, you were justified in thinking it, so I’ll say it again, that I’m licking my fingers, slowly, a single digit at a time, just for you, dear reader, so you can imagine whatever you wish or want or like, because I don’t pull your strings, rather I give them a little nudge in a certain direction for you to take over, do what you want, perhaps what you need, what I might need in this convoluted mind of mine, which is perhaps not unlike yours, as we may be one, coexisting in the same mental space, inhaling the smell of – you know – or you can guess, and in it we become lucid in a higher state of being, of consciousness, where the everyday anxieties can’t, or dare not touch, yes, I’m still obsessed, but I’m hungry, and the chocolate was just an aperitif

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Hora, the black heart

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[1] The whore perverts all things.
What she thinks is love is mere folly,
A folly she passes on to boys that catch her eye.

[2] Hora is the bane of man,
Thief of the soul,
Reaper of the weak.

[3] Naively, she plucks Cyrus’ son
from the pyres, and ruins him –
ruined like all men born of woman.

[4] Hora is the fall of man,
The evil temptress,
The black heart of womanhood.

[5] Blinded, the son of Cyrus is enslaved,
Lost in her false beauty and wicked heart.
He will serve her until the end of time.

[6] Hora is the seed of fancy,
Stealer of sanity,
Phony redeemer of her sex.

From The Book of Cyrus, Songs of the Tioch, ch. 1, verses 1-6