On Dancer!

Seeing the girl chained to the tree brought back memories. Survival had come at a cost. Crack insulated me from the dreams, but the scar seemed as black as my mood this Christmas Eve.

My blade still felt warm as the minutes ticked away. Although nothing like revenge, reenactment freed me. She wouldn’t suffer the same fate as I. The fire reflected in her fresh blood twinkled as her life extinguished. I was finished here.

More Late Night with Ezzie Dryar (1. Bound, contains swearing)

I’m b-b-b-back blogging, stuttering, in my typed turd … turkey … Tourettes again.

Allen had visa problems, and marrying would have complicated my green card. He’s back in London, and I haven’t seen him for a couple of mouths, moths, err … months. He was good at writing, but his work got in the way, and my work did, too. I’ve never been bound in chains before … um, bound to an orchestra by contract before, and I miss the freedom. It will be June before I can get any time off to go back to London.

I might as well just say it. I’ve slept with someone else. It just happened, and it didn’t mean anything. I’m such a ship, shift, slut … uh … shit. He was a trumpet player who was on trial … with the orchestra … for the principal sport … spot. I was out of his hotel room before the sun rose, and he was on a plane back to Pittsburg before the sun set – no phone number, no email, nothing.

I feel dirty. Allen and I never agreed on a date for the wedding, and I was beginning to wonder if we would. Now, I know that we won’t. If I didn’t love him enough to stay halibut … celibate … exclusive, it won’t happen now. I’m up late nights again, thinking things I shouldn’t, mostly about sex, to be completely honest, and that isn’t a good thing. I boiled up into a frenzy. The trumpet player, Mark, Mack, Max – whatever – and I were talking, and I asked him if he wanted to go for a fuck, err, walk.

He chose the former, and I was unable to say no. I hope I’m not pregnant. (I shouldn’t be, and I shouldn’t be blowing … flogging … egging … blogging about it.)

Calm down, Ezzie.

My tarot is calling me again, so I’ve drawn a card tonight.

QUEEN of Cups (inverted): Is that me now? – dreamy, imaginative, yet not willing to take much trouble for another. She’s much affected by outside influences.

I just can’t say no. I’m doooooooooooooooooooooomed.

Distraction

A light rain dribbled from the sky, drenching my hair flat against my cheeks, but it didn’t touch hers. Her chocolate locks floated gracefully as she walked, dry as could be, like her clothes, the few that she wore, lacy like underwear, barely covering her. I was told it was a bikini, but I knew better. She was modelling Ann Summers or something. Only her skin betrayed moisture, like a cool sweat emanating from a heavy workout. Sexy. The snappers loved her. They ignored me. Why? Because, well maybe I don’t look like I’m gagging for it, maybe I am, but I put on a relaxed, detached facade, carefree (hardly), and well, I just don’t do cameras. She obviously does.

I didn’t even know what she was doing there, on a hot, sultry day by the lakeshore. I was running, but I finished just as she walked up. Even if it wasn’t drizzling, I would have been a pool of slick sweat and damp running-wear. I probably had less on than she did. (It was over 90°.) But I wasn’t modelling underwear.

“Excuse me,” she said, as I propped myself up next to a bench. “Would you mind holding this for me?”

She didn’t wait for my answer, thrusting a net wrap into my hands. Now she was certainly wearing less than I was! Snap, snap, snap, the photographers plied their trade. Some kind of photo shoot. They loved the sheen of her naked skin. Oops! I forgot to mention that she proceeded to hand me her bra (more snapping) and then her panties. The photographers crowded around her. Snap, Snap.

She was about my size, although perhaps more buxom. Why did I stay there?

I couldn’t leave, and the snappers conveniently left a corridor between us. Somehow, I was the focus of her attention. Jealous, I was, of her perfect skin, pouty lips, floating hair – not her legs. After years of putting on the mileage, mine still attracted admirers. Her abs? Mine were equally toned, with perhaps a little better muscle definition. What I really hated about her was that she was probably twenty years younger than me.

And then she said, “Now it’s your turn.”

“Who, me?”

“Of course.” Again she didn’t wait for me to act. Her hands were tugging at my vest, pulling it over my head, and one hand snaked into my pants. “Oops! Pardon me. I didn’t mean to be so forward.” That was her, touching me in an intimate place.

Soon she was pulling my pants down – shoes off.

Snap, snap, snap. Thirty cameras trained on me now. She was beautiful. She kissed me, and held me, and fondled my breasts.

What had I walked into? A risque nude, lesbian photo shoot?

Smack!

Tripped on a branch and almost fell headfirst onto the path. Must pay more attention while I’m running.

Pull the plug

Someday they will flip off the machine that keeps me alive. For most, a near-death experience lasts only a split second – or as long as it takes for the doctors to defibrillate them. Either their experience becomes permanent – they die – or they come back to life raving about a bright tunnel of ecstatic light.

I have been in a coma for sixty days, seven hours, 24 minutes and 8 seconds, give or take a few tenths. My family has kept watch over my lifeless body the entire time, and I thank them for it. But they should give up – my body has. I will never walk again, even if I do regain consciousness – well, I am conscious, but my body doesn’t betray it. The doctors talk as if I’m not here, while my family pretends that I can hear every word.

They say when someone goes blind, their other senses become more acute. What happens when someone loses all their senses? They have a near-death experience. In only a second or two it can seem like a tunnel of light, but for an extended period, it can be pure ecstasy. I can see through my closed eyes, hear with my non-functioning ears, feel with my disembodied body … and my memories become more acute. I can feel every one of them as if they were happening right now – and the best thing is that I can play them over and over, changing them to suit my fancy.

I am aware of every second; and I even know whether the sun is rising or setting. It is a light, cool evening rain outside right now, and I feel every drop as it explodes on my naked, disembodied skin, at 43 drops per second. Each one caresses me like the tip of a lover’s tongue, first the impact, and then the stream down my body as it obeys gravity, picking up the essence of my salty sweat. It’s a clean summer rain, since the showers earlier in the day have left the air fresh with positive ions.

Between my dead legs is where I can feel it best, as the droplets cling to my pubic hair before beginning their journey southward. I love that journey especially, as I can break down every sensation to the hundredth of a second. It reminds me of Richard for some reason – he was not my first lover, but much more memorable. He was into oral sex, and he loved to explore my bush with his tongue, especially when it was untrimmed. He drooled as he roamed, and it dribbled down my pelvis like reluctant raindrops, clinging to me as to a branch. That’s a real memory, not one I’ve enhanced.

Richard had an amazing tongue, now even more amazing as I savor every millisecond, every twitch of those wondrous muscles, and finally every excretion as I orgasm. Surely you think I should use past tense there, but I orgasm even now as I recall it – not down there in the dead part of me, but in my head, and it is every bit as intense as the local physical sensation was. That sensation is interpreted by the brain, and although the doctors don’t see it in their scans, my brain is in overdrive.

His other appendage, where I bathed him with my saliva, was less effective. It reached deeper into me, but he tried too hard to please me and never relaxed enough to make it pleasurable for both of us. He said he could taste my orgasm; I could certainly taste it later while he tried unsuccessfully to make me pregnant. Maybe he was disappointed that I never tasted his – of course, I tasted his semen during foreplay, but never stuck around for the full flow. That wouldn’t happen until a decade or so and two lovers later, by accident. It was like eating oysters without the wine chaser – too salty by half.

The doctors have just told my family again that I am brain-dead, yet I feel my husband Jeremy’s sweaty palm holding my hand. He’s crying – he’s been doing that a lot lately, and I know why. They are pushing him to give the word. Then the doctors can slice me to bits and parcel my organs out to needy people who still have a chance to live. He’s still holding on to me, unable to let go, sensing perhaps that there is still something happening within my skull.

It’s been too long since we last made love, much too long. I can remember it in my supercharged state, but can he? Can he remember what I felt when he traced my spine with his forefinger? Did he feel me shiver? I can still taste the garlic on his tongue from dinner and hear his desperate breathing. He didn’t do oral – the proper appendage served me just fine. But not him that day. His thoughts were somewhere else, as they often were back then, probably on his job, or his cricket team. His over-active mind was always in the clouds. Now those thoughts are in his hand, where skin meets skin, life meets death. He wishes our last carnal memory was a happier one, and more recent.

Why is it that in my final days all I can think of is sex? I should be thinking of the afterlife, pleading for forgiveness of my sins, and praying for my immortal soul. Instead, I cling to life, because sex is life-giving. Maybe I’ve never had children, but the act of love gives life to the lovers, and that is worth clinging to.

When they do finally pull the plug, I shall draw out every last millisecond in ecstasy, my final act of love.

Unfinished Business

Hank placed his fingers on the planchette. He had to find where Jake hid the loot.

“Jake, are you there?” The medium intoned.

“Yes,” was the answer.

“Where’s the gold?” Hank asked, sweating nervously.

“What about my half?” the board answered.

“You don’t need it.”

“Your price is …”

“What?” Hank begged.

“Revenge,” answered a ghostly voice.

Hank turned pale, but before he could ask another question, the table spun aside revealing Jake and his six-gun.

Survival Instinct

No, this won’t go in the Annethology, but it’s one of my favorites, written on the eve of my birthday, which is not tomorrow, but in June – in the heat of the summer … well, a few days before the official start of summer. June is my favorite month – not too hot or cold, just right. (That’s me Goldilocks … err, Burgundilocks? I can make them golden if you want.) Too bad it’s February. Hold on!

 

 

Breathe. Yes, now. Keep breathing.

When the mirror crystallized back into view, I found myself back in my familiar body, albeit flushed and sweaty, but still panting.

I couldn’t stop panting.

A drop from my chin splashed between my breasts. Was that sweat, or had I been drooling?

I rolled off my calves, which stung as blood returned to them. Pain, sweet agony! Sweet bliss!

Breathe!

The tips of burgundy hair around my ears dripped with sweat. I must have been at it a long time. I couldn’t read the clock reversed in the mirror, but I was too exhausted to turn my head, too tired to wash my slimy right hand, too depressed to blow out the candles, even though there were only four of them, one for each point of the compass.

I was alone in my circle, still struggling for breath after making love with my reflection.

How long had I held my breath? It’s something I do when I get close, and when I get close to getting close, and maybe even getting close to getting close to getting close to a false alarm. A minute, two? Then relax and try again. Gulp some air. Go for it. Gulp and try again. How long? How many times?

Dizziness usually accompanies the bliss, and I can’t reach that height with a man. They have no stamina. Probably not with a woman either, but I wouldn’t know. If they’re like me, they wouldn’t have the patience. How long?

Deep breath now.

I wiped my hand on my chest and spun my legs around in front of me. I wished there was more and that it didn’t dry so quickly. Corn oil never quite did it for me. I can feel them again, every inch, and the intensity of sensation matches the pain. Every muscle aches with exquisite agony – both of me, but my reflection is left-handed.

Wipe that grin off your face.

I couldn’t help it. I used to do it all the time, but I’ve limited myself to once a month in a circle at the time of the full moon. Only the Goddess could watch me then. Abstain and then do it right for the most intense pleasure. Take an hour or two. Lick your fingers. Well, I don’t always do that, but sometimes I dribble saliva down the front of me and pretend it’s his … yes … his … mmm.

Pepper. That’s the smell of my sweat, but not like after a run. Athletic sweat smell is more like ammonia. Post-coital sweat is peppery, like a pepper sauce on a lean sirloin.

I’ve stopped thinking of him on nights such as tonight. It happened too quickly. Besides, why should I waste my passion on such a loser? Now I take my time and think of my own pleasure. That’s where the mirror comes in. I keep myself to myself. Yes, that’s selfish, but I’ve been by myself for long enough. Why not share? Share myself with myself.

At the height of oxygen deprivation, it is almost as if I inhabit both my body and my left-handed reflection. My instincts will take over if I go too far.

Breathe.

I occasionally pass out, but not tonight. That’s a survival mechanism, automatic to my body, almost as necessary as what I’m doing for my soul on this night.

Survival.

I couldn’t live without love, even if it was self-love. Yes, people love me, my family, my friends. I even have several admirers. They all seem to want to chat over the internet – I’m so virtually beautiful and so good in that invisible virtual bed. I do have real admirers, too. One, I think, even loves me.

I don’t think he would understand. I don’t think many would. It’s a sin in their Christian world. In my Catholic world? I don’t know what I believe any more. The Pope and I don’t see eye to eye at this moment in time, and the last one wasn’t any better. Dare I wait for another to come around to my way of thinking?

Instinct. That is why I have to do it.

I’ve stopped smiling. It’s because I’ve started to think of the outside world. That’s so depressing and why I drew this circle around me. I’m here in the world of my own making, performing an act of love, sitting in my own fluids, on my floor of my spare bedroom in the house that I own.

I’d start over … but that’s not allowed. I’ll pencil my next date into the calendar in my head.

There’s the smile, cheeky girl … cheeky girl with the long thin legs and tiny breasts. He always wished my eyes were blue, but I’ll take the hazel I was given. They change with the light, my surroundings, my mood, and not unlike my hair, but that comes in a bottle. Gemini live for change. Hey, what day is it? Tuesday! Tomorrow’s my birthday. Thanks for the lovely present, Reflection.

Cake? No. I’ll have a lean sirloin with a pepper sauce. It will remind me of you, of tonight, and of the next full moon.

Are you still there?

“Which service do you require?”

“Ambulance,” I grimaced, still half-heartedly performing CPR while trying to talk. “A woman died right in front of me.”

“How long ago?” she asked.

“Just a few minutes,” I replied. “I’m still trying to revive her. Just a moment …” I gave her a lung-full of air. “Okay …”

“Where are you?” the operator asked.

“Parland cliffs, about two miles north of the lighthouse.”

“It’s going to take us at least half an hour to get to you,” she replied.

“Just a second …” another breath, “What about air ambulance?”

“They’re out on an RTA. I’ve dispatched a local crew from Ridborough. May I just take your name and address?”

“Alice Southall. I live in The Bungalow, Parland Springs. Hold on … Still no pulse. She’s bleeding from her ears and nostrils, and her pupils are blown. I don’t think she’s coming back, and I’m starting to get worn out.”

“How did she die?” she asked. “Did she have an accident?”

“She was just standing there, and then she fell over. That was it.”

“Well, keep up the CPR as long as you can. Leave the line open so we can triangulate your exact position.”

“Okay,” I answered, leaving my mobile phone on speaker.

I pumped, 1, 2, 3, etc., then breathed for her. The more I pumped, the more blood dripped. After 10 more minutes, I was spent.

“Are you still there?” I asked my phone.

“Yes, ETA is 19 minutes.”

“I can’t do any more.”

“Thanks for trying,” she replied. “Sounds like it was a hopeless cause. Still better leave your line open.”

“Okay.”

It was the strangest thing I’d ever seen. I was out walking on the cliffs, and she was just standing there frozen, with her hands to her ears, or more precisely – to her headphones. They were expensive ones, not just your normal ear-buds. She was a pretty brunette wearing a white halter and blue jeans with an iPod strapped around her right bicep. I suspected she was a tourist, out on a power walk with her iPod drowning out the sounds of anything natural.

It was always windy on the cliffs, and only a few puffy clouds drifted in on the morning breeze as breakers crashed on the rocks below. I had never seen her before, but today I couldn’t help but notice her. She’d been about 100 yards away, walking towards me when she just put her hands up to her headphones and stood motionless. When I reached her, she had head cocked up to the sky and her eyes closed. Her lips parted in expectation – in expectation of what, I wondered. Her expression was much like I imagined mine to be as I straddled James on one of our illicit rendezvous. He was married, but as long as the sex was good, I didn’t mind. We’d had an on and off fling for nearly a decade. He was bored at home, and I was desperate – a perfect match.

“Excuse me,” I’d shouted to no reply. “Are you all right?”

The good Samaritan in me couldn’t leave her until I knew she was fine. After a minute, I touched her on the shoulder, and her eyes sprang open. Not even noticing me, she smiled and sank to her knees before crumpling over in a heap onto the path.

Again, I’d nudged her. “Are you okay?” As I rolled her over, her eyes just stared off into the sky, and there was no longer any life behind her smile. I checked her pulse. None. I nudged her harder. Nothing. That’s when I started CPR, and dialled 999.

“Are you still there?” the operator asked from my phone.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Fifteen minutes. Any change?”

“Thanks, no,” I answered, thinking I might have another go at CPR, but it had been almost five minutes since I’d given up, and she was surely brain-dead now, if she wasn’t before. It wouldn’t do much good to revive a vegetable.

I noticed her iPod was still ticking over, and I wondered what she’d been listening to that had caused her to stop so suddenly. Cautiously, I put her headphones up to my ears. Nothing. The timing showed that the track had been playing for 15 minutes, so I backed it up to the previous one. The display didn’t tell me anything useful, just a bunch of numbers.

Again, I put it up to my ears, and immediately knew my mistake. I heard nothing, but I felt James … not the real James … a fantasy James inside me just like I imagined on one of my lonely nights at home … perfect, and perfectly pleasing. I had lost track of the wind, the cliff, everything but this fantasy sex god touching every tender spot of glory. I was in heaven. I knew I’d sat up on my knees – that heightened the experience – and had clasped my hands to my ears, just like that woman had done. I couldn’t move, not until, yes, it was coming, closer and closer.

I wanted it more than anything, more than life itself. With a blinding crack, it came. I shuddered with ecstasy, and then …