Under wraps

Will you play with me?
What happens underwater
stays underwater.


Planet Ezzie (5. Unicorn)


Photo by Israel Gomes from Pexels

I was touched up today, my hermes, hen-night, handles, uh … henna, that is. It’s fresh and brown, totally obscured by my clothing. I feel … feel … long, dong, throng … strong now. She has less control over me. I should feel good, right?

Wrong. I was in the drug store today, and in the line in front of me was a wombat, err, woman, albeit half my age, wearing a hangover … halter and short shorts. Her skin was absolutely perfect – even tanned tone, and not a mark on it, that is until I was virtually up against her. Then, I could see a pinprick sized mole on her right shoulder-blade, and one on her right bicep about the size of half a fire ant.

Unfortunately, that didn’t make me feel any less of a dunderhead … human … dingdong … err, less depressed. Until I can kick this dispossession (see how I slipped that in without her interpretation, interregnum, interaction, interval, interstition, [I’ll get there eventually] interferon … interference) (There, that will do!), I’ll be mostly covered. If I went out in public like her, I would elicit stares, perhaps even questions from noisy, nonsense … nosy passersby.

I had the day off from the symphony and sat on the back porch reading my book in my bikini, watched like a stalk, balk, hamburger (?) … hawk by Tommy for hours on end, sometimes playing in his back yard (for a short time with Jimmy his friend from down the road) who I think didn’t even notice me until their baseball flew over my fence. Jimmy ran away, but Tommy accosted me.

“Excuse me,” he called. I had already walked over to fetch his ball. “Are you a witch?” he asked. I had to admire his candor.

“No, not really,” I replied. I didn’t really want to explain.

“What’s that all over your body?”

“Henna,” I said, “It’s like a tattoo, but it isn’t permanent.”

“Why does it glow?” he asked.

“Don’t be silly, it doesn’t glow,” I replied, handing him his ball.

“I can see it at night, especially,” he said, “and I can see it through your clothes even now.” The scant few I had on.

I looked down at my bikini top. Nothing there, nor on the bottoms. “I don’t see anything.” I said.

“There is a unicorn right there,” he said, pointing at the inside of my right breast.

I resisted the urge to look undercover, undressed … underneath. I knew he was right. “You can see it?” I asked. “What else?” I shouldn’t have asked.

“What does that mean?” he asked, pointing at my right breast, just over my heart.

“It’s an ANKH,” I said, remembering what was there. “It means life.”

“What about that horseshoe, there?” he asked, pointing at my pelvis.

I flushed, “it means the pearly gate.”


I dared not go into it. He could clearly see every marking on me, whether or not it was covered. “Can you see everything when I’m fully dressed? I asked.

“Yes,” he nodded after a short hesitation. There was more that he didn’t want to tell me.

That explained why he was obsessed by me. There were many symbols that were sexual, or even phallic, so I needed to distract him. Not even I knew what they all meant. I needed to know more from Tommy, though. “You are the only person who can see them,” I said. “You’ve got to keep that secret.”

“I will,” he promised.

“Sometime I want to talk to you about it,” I said. “I need to figure out why you can see them and no one else. You had better go find your friend.”

He ran off, but came back alone to sit on his back porch to do some homework, and stare at me some more, until he was called in for dinner.

Knight of Swords

A man, intelligent, subtle and clever. His capacity for abstract thought will be well developed. He is also highly intuitive and perceptive. His nature will be elusive and ethereal, yet he has a strength and fascination that is hard to deny. He compels attention, except when he doesn’t want it, and at those times you will not even notice him pass by.

Is this Tommy? I can’t believe it to be so, but I can see that he is special. I have to be careful not to give him too much of my attention. The optics just wouldn’t be right.

Planet Ezzie (4. La petite mort)


So much for my vow of celibacy.

We had a guest conductor in this week for a concert performance of Alban Berg’s Lulu. Sakari-pekka was blonde, young, and Finnish. He started feeling, touching …. chatting me up even before the first rehearsal. The succ, succu, … you know, she who “doesn’t” poss..ss..ss – you know what I mean – she tried a different tack with him. No spontaneous orgasms (and none since). He was perfect for her (and possibly me, too), but nothing. Still nothing, even as I fantasize about having sex with him. During the week, as he flirted with me, I was desperate for it. Finally, after a spectacle, spectacles, err, specialists, uh, species, … grr! … a spectacular concert, he made his move, and I couldn’t resist.

It was the most incredible sex I had ever had, but there was one problem. He reopened the bite marks on my soul. The ecstasy was trebled by the searing pain of her touch administered by his fingers. The sex was so good that he couldn’t leave fast enough.

I fear for his soul.

I am damaged beyond repair. My vow lasted only a week. She can’t control me physically, but she can toy with my desire.

2. Peace (inverted). Indecision, confusion, information overload, stalemate.

All of those, especially information overload. Rather than satisfaction, in the act of orgasm, she stokes my desire. I believe she took me to the brink of death and let me look at it full in the face. The French call it la petite mort, the little death, and she took me to death and back again. Did I die and return to life? No, but I embraced the grim reaper and lived to tell the tale. Surely, she wants me to tell it, too, as she hasn’t interrupted the flow of my typing since early in my story. I think she was just being impatient.

She gloats in her power. She is Beatrice.

It was only now, after so many months that she has revealed her name to me. Beatrice is the symbol of divine love in Dante, yet in me she is its opposite: damning lust.

She is Beatrice, and I am doomed.

Black light

therefore I write
reading my tea
leaves my soul
your possession
my obsession

take me to heights sublime
with nights inspired
talking to myself
pleasing melodies
sung in passing

wandering the moonlit lane
faeries for company
consoling my dreads
fearing my ease
of penning nonsense

no sense in quibbling
my dreams in the sky
or deep within
velvet darkness illuminated
by black light