Life is a Scream.

Despite the warmth, there were goosebumps all over my spine. I guess you could say it was the best domination I had ever had. If I’d been about three feet taller, thirty pounds skinnier, and with roughly the same amount of audacity, I might have even considered modeling for the endorphin rush alone. I was clad only in bright red “fuck me, but not before a drink first” panties and a bra, my breasts lolling obscenely out the front as I lurched my chest out in an exaggerated pin-up girl pose. You know, if pin-up girls had dykey haircuts and a litany of bruises all over their neck.

She smirks at the bruises, and I hold up my coverup. “Let’s keep them,” she says, “They might come in handy.”

She didn’t even touch me, and I felt exposed, in front of the warm light. The Dancer and I may not be sexually compatible, but she knows how to make me feel both comfortable and cold, both in control and violated, which may be why she chose such an extremely apt photo shoot for today—her project is simple. What’s your dream? Control. What’s your dream? Submission. We could go back and forth. Or we could just do both. First, she has me strip naked, clad only in lingerie and a lipstick pout. My hair is tousled and I’m on my hands and knees for an hour, making scared faces, happy faces, aloof faces, sexy faces, in a matter of seconds, adjusting angles, shaking, bending my elbows, fucking the camera with my tongue and gaze—

She puts her thumb close to my lips, quivering to the same frequency as I.

Our eyes lock.

She smears the lipstick and gets back behind the camera, and I am in another world.

The Violent Femmes’ “Why Do Birds Sing?” blasts in the background and now, I am on the other side, ravishing my invisible form, evident in the wrinkles in the tablecloth and the lipstick thumbprints on the table. I place my real hand on my invisible thigh and sneer. I am wearing a fitted suit and red tie, channeling my inner Patrick Bateman and brandishing a rolled-up newspaper. When she renders the photo in the dark later on, it will appear as though I am spanking myself. Two sides. No choice. I do not know which one of myself I am spanking—perhaps the grinning, naughty femme, or the girl in shock? She tells me to sneer and grip the air where my thigh would be, and the photo comes together.

When I get dressed, I am filled with the same brimming euphoria as when I left the Brazilian, the same giddiness as when I kissed the Connection behind the frosted glass front door of my apartment. Stepping into E’s apartment, kissing her on the thighs. I leave with slicked back hair, light-headed and frozen on a memory card in time, torn between getting and taking. She figured me out. And she didn’t even touch me.


Far from home…

The Brazilian emailed me this morning, around 3AM my time. It embarrasses me to say that I was excited to see a note from her, only to read that she was sorry for disappearing but was actually back in Brazil. No explanation. No sentiment, no information, no punctuation. Ah, to be the hook instead of the hooked, but that’s how these things work. Perhaps she will be back, perhaps not. In the meantime, my sights are set elsewhere.

However, there is always the melancholy settling of paths not taken, days diverted. I read it again while in the Metro, pausing to listen to my favorite band play the Hatikvah, a lusty, melancholy rendition tugging at my heartstrings and my throat. My eyes never left them, even as they welled slightly with tears. A woman spat as she walked by, because there will always be someone to plunge their fist beyond the beauty of simplicity in familiarity, but I was so far from home that I did not care.

So far, and yet it brought me close, hugged me to its form of dewy grass and a youth unmarred by potential.

“As long as… A soul still yearns… And… An eye still watches…”


French Connection

She came on Wednesday and didn’t leave until Friday, and in those 40 hours, she bathed in the moonlight and took me for a ride and now I taste like cigarettes and Lapsang Souchong. The last twelve hours have been incredible. We started talking three days ago, on a whim, online. The world is truly small, for all of its twists and turns. It is small enough that you can travel the world, leave for 4,000 miles away from all that you know, and run into someone who lives in your hometown.

We fucked to the playlist that I’d made, the songs perfect and nasty and sweet to hear in the back of my mind as she topped me. Her sweet demeanor hides an audacious, cruel lady below the curves and the smiles. She said she’d never slapped anyone before, but she could have fooled me. Before the end of Bad Company, she was on top of me, telling me to lie down and shut the fuck up, pinning my hands to the bed and unbuttoning my shirt with her teeth, smearing lipstick on my Thomas Pink and I didn’t even care.

Twenty hours ago we were romancing each other over the phone, or rather, testing the boundaries of our sex drive through a chintzy throwaway phone keyboard. “Wipe your mouth,” she said, “I know you’re drooling just thinking about me,” throwing me over the edge and leaving me hanging as I caressed myself, thinking of her. When we met, she made it clear that she wanted to tease me, taunt me, but when she pressed me against the front door of my apartment and bit my lip, all bets were off. She took me on the bed, her hand on my throat and her teeth on my neck, grinding into my body like we were fused together. I came three times, once from her fingers blooming inside me, once from her biting my neck as she thrust into me, and once from a slap to the face and a finger in my mouth. We have known each other for three days and she is already seeing inside of me.

Her ability to ease out of cruelty is almost more delicious than the shrewdness itself, whether a whisper in my ear and a tug at my hair or simply sprawling on me after sharing a post-coital cigarette, I in my daze too delirious to hold it to my lips, holding a mug of tea in her hands and caressing my breasts. She touches in layers, each step leading to the next in a delicious, erratic pattern, and I can’t help but ask, beg for more.

We share a Gauloise as I walk her to the Metro, her bright red dress flashy, but free of wrinkles as she kisses me on the stairs, rolling my lower lip between her teeth. The sky is dark, the sun just emerging. She is smitten with me and tells me so, my French connection, and I walk back on air, winking at the waiter of the 24-hour café and dancing up the stairs.

They say our names seal our fate, she says.

I call her the French Connection.