Nest

Dried grass rustled beneath our feet as we stepped down into the hollow.  Overhead the blonde roots made a deep, vaulted ceiling, studded with mushrooms and textured with moss.  Still cold from the rain outside, we huddled.   The space was warm, and soon our shivers dissolved, and our clothes began to dry.  Although there was no torch or fire in sight, a golden light bathed the hollow.  The light seemed to come from the roots overhead. Nestled into the dried grass, we fell fast asleep, holding each other in a spooning embrace.

We slept for what seemed like hours.  I do not know whether we made love, or dreamed that we made love, or both…but I do know that my body became a rigid crescent, and that her body enfolded mine…and that her softness nourished me, and that my blood surged within that softness.

Later, Sailor’s body became hard…and she shuddered, and cried.  Afterwards we were both soft together, our cheeks hot, our bodies locked tight.

Then we were conscious, and our clothes were dry again, and soft against our skin.  We sat upright in the hollow, and stared into each other’s eyes.  As we did I felt an echo of the surge I’d felt before.  My body was hard again, and I knew that I had held my potency.

Sailor smiled.

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Stockings

After a moment she closed the drawer…slowly, gingerly.  She laid out her things on top of the dresser.  Then she bent forward, stretching to put on her stockings.

I closed my eyes and listened as she put on her clothes.  When I looked again she was standing in an evening gown, taller than I had ever seen her, her hair swept back.  Diamonds sparkled from her clavicles, her ears, her wrists.

She placed her phone in a pocketbook on top of the dresser. She snapped the pocketbook closed and turned around.

“Go back to sleep,” she said.

(Back Door:  Enter “Exquisite Stillness” into the search bar.)

Haley Minwood

Sailor lit a cigarette.

We were sitting on the stained concrete back step of The Palisades, a cheap motel in Calvert, Oregon, which is actually a cluster of trailers and a couple convenience stores way out on a state road that cuts northeast across the desert toward the turn in the Columbia River, just north of the Oregon-Washington border.  The first few hours of hitching and hooking our way up to Washington were long for me because I didn’t know the landscape…  Miles of power conversion stations and convenience store litter mixed with yellow-gray tumbleweeds.  I’d never seen so much beige in my life, stretching from the roadside to the rim of the sky.  I kept waiting to see the blue-green color of fir trees, the dark color of a deep river, lush grass, a change of scenery.

“It’s going to be desert all the way up,” Sailor said to me between drags.  “Washington’s desert on the east side, too, part of it.  We’re gonna turn hard for the east, though, at a certain point…get us up into the mountains.  Harlin won’t follow us up there…and then we’ll be free.”

I picked a cigarette from the pack Sailor waved in my direction.  She lit it for me.  As she leaned over toward me her jean shorts pulled away from the underneath of her thigh and I saw candy-stripe underwear hugging to her crotch.  A strand of hair fell out from where she had it pulled back into a loose bun.  She moved it back behind her ear with her fingers.

“Try to get your cigarette where the fire is, honey-bear,” she said, almost smiling.

A wave of embarrassment passed over me.  I pulled hard, exhaled, made a big deal of getting lit up.

I tried to flip things.

“Sailor,” I started, exhaling, “Is that your real name?”

“It’s real if that’s what I answer to, right?  Why, are we on television?”

“What’s the name printed on your birth certificate?”

Sailor nodded ever so slightly.  “Haley.  Haley Minwood.”

“Hm. That’s kinda good.  Why did you change it?”

“My parents had money.  A piss-ton. A fucking pipeline.  Dividend income.  Trust funds, nine digit shit everywhere.  That means you have two real options…anything else would be half-assing it.  You can either have a pert, square-cut little girl-scout pussy, nod yes and be good and go to law school on daddy’s dime…or be a Lindsay Lohan snatch, a spoiled, take-the money-and-run little trust fund druggie pretender bitch.  Both bad.   Doesn’t matter how fine your relationship with your parents is.  If you come from wealth, and you’re interested in personal integrity, annihilation of the entire construct is the only option…  The only way to author a biography that has any stock or guts.  Cut yourself loose.  No insurance, no phone calls to mommy, nothing.”

She French-inhaled, looked at me with narrowing eyes.

I leaned forward a little, tapped some ash out onto the ground, took another drag.  Sailor let one knee sort of loll out to the side, so now the gap between her jean shorts and candy-stripe underwear was in plain view.  She was wearing one of Harlin’s old dress shirts, and some of her hair had slipped inside the collar.  She’d left the first three buttons undone, so I could see where the silky piece of hair touched down on her collar bone, where the big tendon stood up when she dragged on her cigarette.   When she leaned forward to ash her cigarette I could see her breasts, the way they were cupped by her bra, which was just a little big for her.

I pulled my head up, and looked into her eyes.

She was waiting for me to do just that.

I said, “And this all adds up to your choice of name in some way?”

“Yeah.  Because I can’t stake myself on anything.  I’m a lost soul.  Out to sea.   And Sailor sounds like a good name for a girl who’s all about her own skin, which is what you’re thinking about anyway…not listening to a word I’m saying…”

 

(Back Door:  Enter Skinny Haley into the search bar.)

(Front Door: Enter Sideways into the search bar.)

 

 

 

Harlin Coke

So this is me, Narc, talking to you straight up…

That cracker who jacked that Buick and porked Sailor those times in Portland…his name’s Harlin Coke.

Harlin-Coke-the-CrackerDrugdealerFistfighterStonerArtistShizophrenicPimp…  That’s his full title.  Alpha cracker mother fucker with a bad respiration problem.  Said he’d been in some kind of accident when he was working in Northern Cali. He used to hock up plugs right in the middle of conversation; you could here ’em shoot through the tight “O” of his lips, Thpt!, little shuttles of mucus.

Harlin’s the one that pimped out Sailor and me after we left the city and landed back on the west coast.

Out of some sense of parity, I went in for it, too.

Parity…  That means taking it in the ass for cartons of cigarettes.  Once you get all lubed up and stretched out in the shower with a big dildo, it’s not so bad.  I used to do pushups when I got up in the morning…that shifted to the dildo and steam workout once I punched in for the career change.  And I’ll tell you this: it’s the people who fuck you; that’s what makes you sick in the cabesa…

Overweight white guys in their sixties with a bad diet and skin that smells like two-day-old Mitchum and Miller High Life…like fried onions and Chesterfields.  Just take out their penis, semi-hard, and make you work to get it in there, just oil it in, them sweating it out, their double chins all red and folded up, huffing and panting, their eyes all yellow and puffy with their glasses off, like they’re some ghost of The Man that got shucked off by the wayside, still operating with a mandate to fuck everyone…’til the mandate goes sour…starts to rot.  Embezzlement and kiddie porn.  You know what I’m talking about.  Old flabby white guys.  Leftovers from the system.

I used to joke with Sailor about how I would crack up if I ever saw one of those guys show up with a hard, curved bone.  I used to joke with her about how that would actually get me hot…about how I would draw a little face on it with a sharpie and do a puppet play where my hand was the dog catcher and I had to collar a rabid bulldog…    …just before watching the old man bust a milk-rope onto my shoulder.  Then there would be the cigarette afterwards, a Chesterfield; we would share it like two girls at a sleepover…and the old man would do a secret dance with his junk pushed back between his ass cheeks and then tell me he was Dick Cheney or The Reverend Dr. Schueller or something.

It was a weird triangle.  We were always pretending we were friends, like Three’s Company on some bunny-ears T.V. set in a cockroach motel by the side of a desert road in Nevada.  …and Harlin Coke, pimping both of us.  And us, the two hookers, fucking Harlin and each other hard and wet every moment we weren’t doing it for money…trying to burn off the bad memory, change the channel in our heads…

It’s like when you’re so sick you pray for vomit.  Not because you like vomiting, it’s just a needful thing…you’re just sitting there in a panic, waiting for the relief of cutting loose into the toilet with a good load.

(Back Door:  Enter “Motionless” into the search bar.  “Motionless” is the first post made to this page.) 

rated x, part three

…the moment when I am with you…and we lose track of time and space; we rotate and tumble; we become each other; we are sweat and skin; we are liquid; we are ether…

until again we materialize…propel ourselves deeper into the dark, whirling corridors of eyes…

…so that when we sit on the cement grit of my stoop on the other side of that reality…when we drink our coffee, and smoke our cigarettes, me in my jeans and you in fresh cotton…(when the “morning is cold, and bright, like we need it”…)

…when we look up into the sky and watch a skiff of gray cloud…and shiver in the air that sweeps our skin before light rain sprinkles the fabric of our sleeves…

…we know we’ve been somewhere.

(Back Door:  Enter rated x, part two into the search bar.)

(Please note: the quote above is from the music of David Eugene Edwards and Woven Hand,  whose lyrics can be heard in the Wim Vandeykeybus/Ultima Vez dance film entitled Blush.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In Exquisite Stillness

Sailor’s phone buzzed on top of the dresser.  I wanted to know who it was, to sit forward in bed and peer up over the dresser…but I stayed my curiosity, and laid still.  Then I heard the light touch of her naked, hurried footsteps against the smooth wood floor of the corridor.  I laid my head back into the pillow, trying to reproduce the position I’d been in before.  She ran in with a dress in her hand, which she placed down on the dresser, exchanging it for the phone.

“Hello?” she asked, and paused. A man’s voice sounded from the tiny speaker.  Her body relaxed; she sank into one hip.

I opened my eyes completely.  I could see the curve of her spine in the lamp light.  I looked more intently.  I could see that her tattoo was a single picture, although the detail was so subtle, the light in the room so low, that I couldn’t make out the image.

“P.” She said, “I know.  I’m coming.”

She shifted to the other hip.  There was a softness, a sensuality to her movement.  I stared.

Then she didn’t move.  She stood there naked, stock still, with the phone to her ear, listening, in exquisite stillness.

(Back Door: Enter “Motionless” into the search bar.)

Waited

She stood at her dresser, opposite the foot of the bed, and switched on a lamp.  She opened an upper drawer, removed some things, and then walked back out of the bedroom, leaving her phone behind.  As she passed the head of the bed, I saw her back lit briefly by the bedside lamp I’d switched on earlier.  An elaborate, subtly colored tattoo covered most of her back.  Her hips swayed as she walked, and she disappeared into the darkness of the corridor.  A burning curiosity came over me; I wanted to know about her more than ever.  I wanted to know what the image was.  I held my breath, and waited for her return.