If I go I am never coming back, never
again I will set my feet on this earth. I’m
a good boy, not a criminal, not Kema.
I have done nothing wrong.
Not for love? Kema?
Never. That’s it.
So you’re saying pride is more
important than love?
I’m sorry?
Alors. tu penses que, pride, fière, c’est
plus important que l’amour?
I’m a man, a real man, how do you say, not
macho, big tough. I want for you
and your girls, not to be, not to, tomber.
Je nes laisse pas jamais tombé.
Jamais. I will write everyday. I want to know
everything what happens. I need
to know. When I come back only you,
you are the first person
I want to see. No one. Only you
and your girls. I have something
now, plus de musique, I have
a girl. At Content Connection I say, I have
a beautiful girl. I am lucky. Every day
we write. You will not forget
Kema.
When Kema touches my heart at the back
of my throat, he laughs even though
I choke. Maybe it’s because
I have less practice. I’m alone
a lot. I want my hair to fall across
a man’s chest, his fingers
to rub across my lips. I want him to bruise
my lips with his kisses, sweep my hair across
his thighs, his chest his neck his
face his cock. I want to stand
at that scissor-sheered edge, to feel I would
travel to remote territories for this man Kema
from Martinique. That’s all
that I want. Is it asking too much?
Do you think?
Copyright Janice Colman 2008
Friday, November 28, 2008
Thursday, November 27, 2008
The Forests of Rousseau
His body like a dense shadow broods
over her restless sleep, she shifts
and sighs, within the tide of her sleeping
breath, she worries whether
her heartbeat rivals his sullen resolve,
whether she can sing unscathed within
his seething mass, pulled toward such blazing
light, she has been warned about mirages, the aftermath
of longing defeated. What if
she dresses for rain with galoshes
and an old coat, hoping for eventual sun, perhaps
a sand dune. What if he is all
there is; she is forever thrashing through
his body always murky as sunless
skies prevail. What if she
wanders forever searching upon
disconnected lines and love
taunts grotesquely, her heart
remains weary, she forgets
how daylight feels, its colors
caressing, what love felt like, how
a catch in her throat could steal
her breath away. What if
she grows roots, water flowing darkly
through, and although you might think
she has been replenished, the truth
is that water seeping so far below the earth—
once she cultivated a plant quite alive,
lush even though times were not. Every morning
with great care she watered
the shrub with its random
white bulbs, believing they might
grow old together except
the excess of fluids eventually
drowned the plant which had reminded
her of the forests of Rousseau. She feels
a kinship toward the plant with her daily ritual
of tears and wonders about clichés, the romance
and inevitable truth within, she shifts
aside one sleeve and then another, always
another. He speaks of fallen angels, while
all she sees is the artful dodger with wings
and a cape.
over her restless sleep, she shifts
and sighs, within the tide of her sleeping
breath, she worries whether
her heartbeat rivals his sullen resolve,
whether she can sing unscathed within
his seething mass, pulled toward such blazing
light, she has been warned about mirages, the aftermath
of longing defeated. What if
she dresses for rain with galoshes
and an old coat, hoping for eventual sun, perhaps
a sand dune. What if he is all
there is; she is forever thrashing through
his body always murky as sunless
skies prevail. What if she
wanders forever searching upon
disconnected lines and love
taunts grotesquely, her heart
remains weary, she forgets
how daylight feels, its colors
caressing, what love felt like, how
a catch in her throat could steal
her breath away. What if
she grows roots, water flowing darkly
through, and although you might think
she has been replenished, the truth
is that water seeping so far below the earth—
once she cultivated a plant quite alive,
lush even though times were not. Every morning
with great care she watered
the shrub with its random
white bulbs, believing they might
grow old together except
the excess of fluids eventually
drowned the plant which had reminded
her of the forests of Rousseau. She feels
a kinship toward the plant with her daily ritual
of tears and wonders about clichés, the romance
and inevitable truth within, she shifts
aside one sleeve and then another, always
another. He speaks of fallen angels, while
all she sees is the artful dodger with wings
and a cape.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Garth and his Redwood Cock
I was going to strip and spread my legs, nothing wildly enticing--just pissing out my anger at Garth the investment strategist who has been my lover on and off these past twelve years. So I put on Last-FM to help ease the flow. I wanted to listen to something ragged, maybe Amy Winehouse. And up flounced "Kala," a track by Ali Ibrahim “Farka” Touré to which you can't be fist-flinging angry; instead you settle yourself in a gentle sunny spot with your name sparkling in the sand, and you open your arms, wide wide, embracing even your enemies. Which is not such a bad thing, given the world's political and social climates, and aren't the two intertwined like an old married couple who have been together forever, bickering every waking moment. Winter takes such perverse pleasure in striking out the tropical sway from warm weather lovers.
Damn! Firstly, in all our years together, the man has never fucked me plain old missionary style. And hell, to feel his cock which is redwood thick, but not as long as Jimmy Bob's indigo wonder - there's something about wrapping your legs around a man's back so he can plunge his way to the end of your cunt and beyond, to the heart. I gasp every time in delight and wonder. Thing is Garth weighs 428 pounds. OK, he's 6'3" but when he lies down, his stomach is a low-lying mountain and when he lies on top of me, it feels like there's a solid ocean between us.
Bottom line is he wants to borrow three thousand dollars from me. A man who refuses to part with his comforting girth, who has labeled my mentally-ill daughter "an abomination on God's earth," who sits with his balls sliding out his old flannel shorts as he pictures millions flowing in from his state-of-the-art financial site, whose son knifed him in the shoulder and has yet to apologize, and who was bashed on the head with a metal motorcycle helmet and taken down (not out) by a local pusher pissed off at the same wayward son. The mammoth ex-bouncer with an Artic heart fell to his knees, his measured builder's strut replaced by a game leg that capsizes without warning.
But I've got the sweetest heart. A home to bees and needy folk. Garth wanted to borrow three G's and I said no. I didn't want him to depend on a broad twenty-two years older than he is. There is that entitlement thing in abused children who make it through to become men with pricks and cascading balls, such as Garth's. I'll do it. Spot him three bank-fresh notes. Although I wish he'd wind his way to my part of town once in a while, whirl me around for a night on the music town which I adore, and keep me company when my Caroline sits talking in diagonals or not at all.
He's the center of his universe, Garth is, and he believes he's destined for greatness. And perhaps he is. Life seems to take such detours; it's hard to know what route you're on or where you're headed. And so my only guideline is the old lady rocking and rocking. When you stand before her, she smiles graciously (like the magnificent Katherine Hepburn or maybe Jessica Tandy) at you, her younger self. That's the time - when you're standing there in your bare-and-nakeds and asking her, "What would you do?" and she slips her life-long crochet shawl around your shoulders and tells you. Straight out. You only have to listen.
Copyright Janice Colman 2008
Damn! Firstly, in all our years together, the man has never fucked me plain old missionary style. And hell, to feel his cock which is redwood thick, but not as long as Jimmy Bob's indigo wonder - there's something about wrapping your legs around a man's back so he can plunge his way to the end of your cunt and beyond, to the heart. I gasp every time in delight and wonder. Thing is Garth weighs 428 pounds. OK, he's 6'3" but when he lies down, his stomach is a low-lying mountain and when he lies on top of me, it feels like there's a solid ocean between us.
Bottom line is he wants to borrow three thousand dollars from me. A man who refuses to part with his comforting girth, who has labeled my mentally-ill daughter "an abomination on God's earth," who sits with his balls sliding out his old flannel shorts as he pictures millions flowing in from his state-of-the-art financial site, whose son knifed him in the shoulder and has yet to apologize, and who was bashed on the head with a metal motorcycle helmet and taken down (not out) by a local pusher pissed off at the same wayward son. The mammoth ex-bouncer with an Artic heart fell to his knees, his measured builder's strut replaced by a game leg that capsizes without warning.
But I've got the sweetest heart. A home to bees and needy folk. Garth wanted to borrow three G's and I said no. I didn't want him to depend on a broad twenty-two years older than he is. There is that entitlement thing in abused children who make it through to become men with pricks and cascading balls, such as Garth's. I'll do it. Spot him three bank-fresh notes. Although I wish he'd wind his way to my part of town once in a while, whirl me around for a night on the music town which I adore, and keep me company when my Caroline sits talking in diagonals or not at all.
He's the center of his universe, Garth is, and he believes he's destined for greatness. And perhaps he is. Life seems to take such detours; it's hard to know what route you're on or where you're headed. And so my only guideline is the old lady rocking and rocking. When you stand before her, she smiles graciously (like the magnificent Katherine Hepburn or maybe Jessica Tandy) at you, her younger self. That's the time - when you're standing there in your bare-and-nakeds and asking her, "What would you do?" and she slips her life-long crochet shawl around your shoulders and tells you. Straight out. You only have to listen.
Copyright Janice Colman 2008
Monday, November 17, 2008
Ass Fucking (Naked Words Excerpt)
"Where's Angie?" I asked. Her brother Tommy shook his flat crew cut, "My mom and dad aren't letting her come over anymore cause you pull down her diapers."
"They were falling off, stupid, I was just pulling them up."
"That's not what I saw," Tommy said.
"Get off my land!" I said.
Tommy climbed to the top of the slope and spread out his arms.
I ran to the screen door, "Ma, I told Tommy to get off our land. It's my land, too, isn't it?"
"My father's coming," I said, because Tommy's father had the spikiest crew cut and Tommy was always saying "yessir" and "nosir," and not much else.
"If you set one foot on my land, I'll shoot you," he yelled while he skidaddled down the slope and flagstone path leading to the front.
"And if you set one toe on my land, I'll skin you alive and you know where I'll start. And better not leave your window open at night, neither."
Gary, who the whole time had been sitting his sister's Dale's balcony and practicing his Mississippi John Hurt licks, let out a wild whoop. The truth is I was a freak. Every time Tommy's baby sister climbed the hill in our back yard, I'd be there yanking down her diaper. Then there were those kleenex-up-the-asshole games with his sister Dale and my flashlight "Story of O" daily bedtime reads. No one on my list of eleven premarital fucks ever suggested ass fucking, except Philippe who adored sodomy though not with me. As it happened, I was a bodybuilder and forty-eight and living on Nina Street with Garth in a bachelor basement apartment with a ceiling too low for him to walk around full blown upright, when he first shoved his prick up my asshole. Garth weighed four-hundred-and-twenty pounds and I guess if he were lean, he'd have weighed three-seventy-five. "I've been dreaming about this for twenty-eight years," I told him, as he rammed away. I didn't tell him I'd been practicing since I was five.
First version. I ask him what he might like. I lie naked on my side like one of Matisse's models and chat aimlessly on his new high bed, my arm draped carelessly around him, hoping he'll kiss me. In our beginnings, we used to spend all morning in bed. He would lie, his curly and sometimes shaved head pressing on my stomach, and confide to my belly while I outlined the circles of his hair, clockwise and counter clockwise. These days he’s hell bent on counter clockwise. He wants to talk about the relationship. "It’s not that I don’t love you or that I don’t want you,” he says. “I just don’t like being with you. I don’t like the way we’re heading. Romantically. I think I should tell you this although maybe it means something that I keep trying. My patience is running a bit thin." He says he has these mixed feelings. He can’t tolerate me, but he loves sex with me.
“Why would you choose to share such information when you’re planning on fucking a woman? I mean you have your fucking arm around me for shit’s sake and I’m lying fucking naked.”
“You see, I can’t even talk to you.”
Fuck you fuck you. I hold my index finger in a staunch up-yours while visualizing climbing off that egotistical bed and leaving him there, alone on his raving mattress. But I’m quiet. If I speak, I might cry; there are too many words and recriminations welling up alongside all the tears. Finally I say, my voice tuned tight to stop sad notes spilling, “Well, perhaps we might be fucking friends.” Begging really, which he doesn’t realize. “Perhaps we might just be friends without romantic expectations who fuck.”
I know Garth isn’t good for me. He’s a closed man who cannot hold or wrap tender arms around me. He lies deadpan, all tangled up in my words and emotions. Garth hates constraints. He's like a superhero: tie him up and in the next instant he breaks free. But I figure if he would ass fuck me, I could lock him in.
He tells me to take a shower.
“I have,” I say.
“Now."
He says he won’t ass fuck me if I refuse. It’s for my benefit, he says.
His twelve-year-old son is in the other bedroom. I walk in the dark, my body, maybe an arm or a thigh, banging against a wall, the back of a chair, a doorway. I’m like that. Lacking direction it seems, when actually I am right on.
Next Version
I take a shower. Focus the spray on cunt and ass, using soap on top, and carefully, not in. I comfort myself with feather whispers and turn off the tap. There's no towel, so I put my jeans and shirt back on, returning with my breath just skimming the surface and some self-depreciating thoughts as to who I am and why the fuck I'm playing this. I tiptoe into the room and close the door. Why the fuck doesn’t he have a lock? Thoughts can be great time-fillers. There should be a lock. I take my clothes off and set them down, noting location and order: jeans, shirt on top, right side of the sofa, depending on which way you’re facing and isn’t the world like that.
“On your knees.”
“Where?” I ask, although I know. I lean my elbows against the beige leather love seat he keeps in his room, both for the look and the lack of space in his living room which also serves as his office. He has lube in his hand, some new kind of quick all-purpose moistening lube called "Dew" I bought at the Ex’s soft core, overpopulated sex fair with my drummer Mark in mind. I had him in mind, you see, because he was this new flame and I liked him. He was this moderately cool man who said "Baby!" every time I called, like he'd been waiting all his life to hear from me. So I thought we might fuck; I figured I'd do anything he requested which is always a great thrill for both sides. Now I have this new lube and it’s in the palm of Garth’s giant hand. Life is strange.
The truth is that I brace myself and that I'm afraid. I press my head down, my forehead touching the cool leather of the couch, my teeth grab the flesh on my wrist, leaving a souvenir with my top front teeth angling inward. He squeezes wet lube on my asshole and his middle finger and wiggles two fingers up my ass. I’m cold-hearted scared and that’s the straight dope.
He kneels directly behind me, his cock and balls brushing me, and presses in. The flats of his hands cover each side of my hips. I've written poems and had a few published about his massive hands soft and warm on my hips. When I’m home I think of his hands, the look and feel of his cock, his fuzzy orange pubic hair, and the shape of his eyebrows. One of his calves is the size of my thigh. His leg is a side quarter.
“Relax. That’s it. Relax,” he says. He has a gentle side.
“Rub your clit," he says, which I do, although, shit, I am so stressed out that all the rubbing in the world won’t stop the pain from his cock at its half way mark.
Still he keeps pressing in, talking to me in his low rumbling voice.
“It hurts honey,” I say, “Oh honey, it hurts.”
“Sh,” he says, "sh sh."
He pushes, and rests and whistles, and then he's at it again. At times I say nothing or I gasp softly and then he stops, but stays his ground. “Ssh shhh, almost there. Soon.”
I can feel the end of the earth, the edges of the flat earth, I know I’ll fall off and all I can think about is his cock and my ass and it hurts damn it really does, but I’m doing this for him so I can forget who I am and why I’m here. Ass fucking with existential motives. Finally he reaches that point where there is no crossing over. The line just stops. He’s familiar with the space just beyond that line where I fall in love with him all over again and he feels at home and free. So he settles in, deep, filling me up. Even though I cry out a few times, he stays, adding more pressure until I utter a high flying sound and a sigh, because he's in me, jamming all the way up my ass.
“Stay!” I cry, “don’t move, stay!” and he listens.
“Tell me. How you want it.”
“I said tell me how you want it.”
“Harder. I want it harder,” even though I don’t, not yet.
And then, because I know he's waiting for more, I say quietly, “Hurt me.”
At first it hurts like hell or heaven depending. He grabs my tits, squeezes my nipples between his thumb and index finger, and pulling my hair so my head flings back, rams fucking hard in, but I don’t care; he's screwing me up the ass and I want him and that’s all there is. See, I just want to belong to him─his cunt, his ass, his tits, his mouth. I was a member of Voice of Women when I was eleven, but this is how it is between my Garth and me. I do it because I love him, although sometimes I'm filled with hate so big, it feels like a ball of wire twine stuck at the back of my throat. He says one day he's not going to have to use any lube, that's how wet I get when he slides his finger or cock up my asshole. Except he says penis instead of cock.
Encore:
I take a shower, aiming the water jets downward. There is no towel, so I stay wet, put on my clothes, and tiptoe back to the room. His room is dark. “Kneel against the sofa,” he tells me and leaves the room. I place my clothes on the floor beside the leather sofa: black pants, then black muscle shirt, mismatched socks. I arrange myself on the bed, bending my legs, one hip curved, and an arm flung to the side in a careless pose. I hear the door handle. When I think of Garth, his head touches a sky that's cerulean blue clear through and through. His presence fills the door frame.
I kneel by the leather sofa, my forearms on the pillow seat, and I wait. He brings something over from the bureau, and whistling all the while, he slides a hand along my flank. “Mm,” he says and squeezes cold lube near my asshole. I have bought this lotion, some lubricant with spectacular qualities, and have given it to him. He’s going to enter all holes, he says, and I ask him if he includes nostrils and ears in his plan.
“Of all things,” he says, “I love to fuck you in the ass.”
“Talk to me. Tell me about the first time, how it was the first time I fucked you this way.”
“I was scared,” I say.
"I wanted to belong to you."
“It really hurt.”
Garth presses his cock into my asshole. “Easy, easy now," he says.
He has wonderful, big hands. He slides his palm down my back, along the line of my ass, the outside of my tits.
“Relax,” he says. “Tell me about the first time. Remember what you did. What did you do with your hand? Do you remember?”
“I touched myself."
“Where?” he says and I say "Here."
He asks because he wants me to say it, to hear me talk of sex and fucking. “My clit,” I say. “I rubbed my clit.”
“And are you doing that now?”
“Yes.”
“What?” He presses his cock further into my asshole.
"I'm rubbing my clit," I say.
“Good,” he says, squeezing more lube onto his prick and opening up my asshole with his fingers.
I'm afraid, scared shitless, with his prick at my ass's door, and the thing is I love being afraid and doing it anyway.
Reinvented with spacing, although I cannot breathe . . .
I take a shower. Focus the spray on cunt and ass, use soap, on top not in. In is for later. I close the water. I put my jeans and shirt back on, return with my breath held.
Shit baby doll what the fuck you doing in a dark earth hallway, what the fuck you doing getting your ass ripped wide open? I tiptoe into the bedroom, close the door, wishing for a lock. There is none. Thoughts weave easily through fears, settling a reassuring hand on my forearm. The sky shifts from a grey haze to softly glowing yellow. There should be a lock. I take my clothes off, placing them deliberately: jeans, shirt on top, at the right side of the sofa, depending on which way you are facing. And isn’t the world like that?
“On your knees,” he tells me.
“Where?” although I know. I kneel down and lean my elbows against the sofa. He has the lube in his hand, some new kind of quick all-purpose moistening lube I bought it with him in mind. I had him in mind because even after one decade, I love him. He’s a cool man in his way, so I thought we might fuck and he could do anything he wanted. Now I have this new lube he’s holding.
“Talk to me,” he says, “tell me about the first time I fucked you up your ass.”
“I was scared.”
"And you thought?”
“I thought, I thought I’m yours, you know, belonging to you. I wanted to belong to you. And I thought, that if you ass fucked me, that if you wanted to, anyway you chose, then I would. That’s what I wanted.”
He presses his cock against me.
“Sh, sh,” he says “gently now, just easy.” He places one large hand over my back, pressing me down, and slides his other hand along my back, ass, tits.
“Relax,” he says, “tell me more about the first time. Do you remember what you did with your hand?”
“I touched myself,” I say.
“Where?”
“I rubbed my clit like I am now.”
“Beg,” he says. “If you want it, you have to beg.”
So I say please and please again and thank you. He wants words, scenes in sharp colour, while my scenes are in black and white and the camera’s hand held. He pulls my head back and his cock brushes against my asshole.
“Please hurt me,” I say. “Pull my hair. Hard.”
“Good,” he says, squeezing more lube onto his prick, and using his middle finger, up my ass. He decides not to be gentle.
“It hurts honey,” I say, “oh honey, it hurts.”
His cock stretches and fills my asshole. We’re from two different countries, Garth and I, and he’s pumping away in a language I don’t understand although I nod yes, yes. And then he comes to that border, that halfway mark and barrels right through. I think I’ve come to the end of the earth. I grasp its flat edges and I just know I’ll fall off. And then I stop thinking. Which is what I want. I brace myself oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck, press my head down on the seat of the sofa and bite hard into my right forearm. The bottle cap pops and he spreads cold lube around my asshole. He wiggles his finger up my ass. I’m afraid and that’s the truth. He positions the tip of his prick against my asshole, leans his body over mine, and covers my hips with his hands.
“Relax.” he says. “Rub your clit.”
He presses in while he talks to me in his soft rumbling voice and I cry out again “It hurts, honey. Honey, it hurts.” He’s just so cool and even. He stops, stays, pushes his prick in a bit deeper and croons “Soon, soon, almost there.” Which sounds sexy as all hell. I figure I’m at the end of the earth, right at the edge, and you know, if he’d ask me, I would jump clear off, right at that moment because he’s reached that point of no crossing back and the line just stops. Only there's a space past that line, such a sweet place where I fall in love with him all over again and I’m home and free.
I pull my breath up into my throat and heave it out nice and slow because he’s in me, all the way up my ass and I’m fine and loving his being there.
“Stay. Don’t move, stay.”
“Tell me,” he says, “tell me how you want it and I’ll consider it.”
“I want it harder,” I say, even though I don’t, not yet. “Harder, please. Please go hard.”
He starts to move in and out, just a bit at first, and it hurts like hell or heaven depending. He adds more lube and grabs my tits and my hair and he’s ramming real hard. But I don’t mind. He’s fucking me up the ass and I want him so bad. And that’s all there is.
I have to want him first you see, have to belong to him. I am his cunt, his ass, his tits, his mouth. I think when he fucks me hard up the ass that I can’t hold him. But still, I want to. After everything. Still. I am his cunt, his ass, his mouth.
© Janice Colman 2008
"They were falling off, stupid, I was just pulling them up."
"That's not what I saw," Tommy said.
"Get off my land!" I said.
Tommy climbed to the top of the slope and spread out his arms.
I ran to the screen door, "Ma, I told Tommy to get off our land. It's my land, too, isn't it?"
"My father's coming," I said, because Tommy's father had the spikiest crew cut and Tommy was always saying "yessir" and "nosir," and not much else.
"If you set one foot on my land, I'll shoot you," he yelled while he skidaddled down the slope and flagstone path leading to the front.
"And if you set one toe on my land, I'll skin you alive and you know where I'll start. And better not leave your window open at night, neither."
Gary, who the whole time had been sitting his sister's Dale's balcony and practicing his Mississippi John Hurt licks, let out a wild whoop. The truth is I was a freak. Every time Tommy's baby sister climbed the hill in our back yard, I'd be there yanking down her diaper. Then there were those kleenex-up-the-asshole games with his sister Dale and my flashlight "Story of O" daily bedtime reads. No one on my list of eleven premarital fucks ever suggested ass fucking, except Philippe who adored sodomy though not with me. As it happened, I was a bodybuilder and forty-eight and living on Nina Street with Garth in a bachelor basement apartment with a ceiling too low for him to walk around full blown upright, when he first shoved his prick up my asshole. Garth weighed four-hundred-and-twenty pounds and I guess if he were lean, he'd have weighed three-seventy-five. "I've been dreaming about this for twenty-eight years," I told him, as he rammed away. I didn't tell him I'd been practicing since I was five.
First version. I ask him what he might like. I lie naked on my side like one of Matisse's models and chat aimlessly on his new high bed, my arm draped carelessly around him, hoping he'll kiss me. In our beginnings, we used to spend all morning in bed. He would lie, his curly and sometimes shaved head pressing on my stomach, and confide to my belly while I outlined the circles of his hair, clockwise and counter clockwise. These days he’s hell bent on counter clockwise. He wants to talk about the relationship. "It’s not that I don’t love you or that I don’t want you,” he says. “I just don’t like being with you. I don’t like the way we’re heading. Romantically. I think I should tell you this although maybe it means something that I keep trying. My patience is running a bit thin." He says he has these mixed feelings. He can’t tolerate me, but he loves sex with me.
“Why would you choose to share such information when you’re planning on fucking a woman? I mean you have your fucking arm around me for shit’s sake and I’m lying fucking naked.”
“You see, I can’t even talk to you.”
Fuck you fuck you. I hold my index finger in a staunch up-yours while visualizing climbing off that egotistical bed and leaving him there, alone on his raving mattress. But I’m quiet. If I speak, I might cry; there are too many words and recriminations welling up alongside all the tears. Finally I say, my voice tuned tight to stop sad notes spilling, “Well, perhaps we might be fucking friends.” Begging really, which he doesn’t realize. “Perhaps we might just be friends without romantic expectations who fuck.”
I know Garth isn’t good for me. He’s a closed man who cannot hold or wrap tender arms around me. He lies deadpan, all tangled up in my words and emotions. Garth hates constraints. He's like a superhero: tie him up and in the next instant he breaks free. But I figure if he would ass fuck me, I could lock him in.
He tells me to take a shower.
“I have,” I say.
“Now."
He says he won’t ass fuck me if I refuse. It’s for my benefit, he says.
His twelve-year-old son is in the other bedroom. I walk in the dark, my body, maybe an arm or a thigh, banging against a wall, the back of a chair, a doorway. I’m like that. Lacking direction it seems, when actually I am right on.
Next Version
I take a shower. Focus the spray on cunt and ass, using soap on top, and carefully, not in. I comfort myself with feather whispers and turn off the tap. There's no towel, so I put my jeans and shirt back on, returning with my breath just skimming the surface and some self-depreciating thoughts as to who I am and why the fuck I'm playing this. I tiptoe into the room and close the door. Why the fuck doesn’t he have a lock? Thoughts can be great time-fillers. There should be a lock. I take my clothes off and set them down, noting location and order: jeans, shirt on top, right side of the sofa, depending on which way you’re facing and isn’t the world like that.
“On your knees.”
“Where?” I ask, although I know. I lean my elbows against the beige leather love seat he keeps in his room, both for the look and the lack of space in his living room which also serves as his office. He has lube in his hand, some new kind of quick all-purpose moistening lube called "Dew" I bought at the Ex’s soft core, overpopulated sex fair with my drummer Mark in mind. I had him in mind, you see, because he was this new flame and I liked him. He was this moderately cool man who said "Baby!" every time I called, like he'd been waiting all his life to hear from me. So I thought we might fuck; I figured I'd do anything he requested which is always a great thrill for both sides. Now I have this new lube and it’s in the palm of Garth’s giant hand. Life is strange.
The truth is that I brace myself and that I'm afraid. I press my head down, my forehead touching the cool leather of the couch, my teeth grab the flesh on my wrist, leaving a souvenir with my top front teeth angling inward. He squeezes wet lube on my asshole and his middle finger and wiggles two fingers up my ass. I’m cold-hearted scared and that’s the straight dope.
He kneels directly behind me, his cock and balls brushing me, and presses in. The flats of his hands cover each side of my hips. I've written poems and had a few published about his massive hands soft and warm on my hips. When I’m home I think of his hands, the look and feel of his cock, his fuzzy orange pubic hair, and the shape of his eyebrows. One of his calves is the size of my thigh. His leg is a side quarter.
“Relax. That’s it. Relax,” he says. He has a gentle side.
“Rub your clit," he says, which I do, although, shit, I am so stressed out that all the rubbing in the world won’t stop the pain from his cock at its half way mark.
Still he keeps pressing in, talking to me in his low rumbling voice.
“It hurts honey,” I say, “Oh honey, it hurts.”
“Sh,” he says, "sh sh."
He pushes, and rests and whistles, and then he's at it again. At times I say nothing or I gasp softly and then he stops, but stays his ground. “Ssh shhh, almost there. Soon.”
I can feel the end of the earth, the edges of the flat earth, I know I’ll fall off and all I can think about is his cock and my ass and it hurts damn it really does, but I’m doing this for him so I can forget who I am and why I’m here. Ass fucking with existential motives. Finally he reaches that point where there is no crossing over. The line just stops. He’s familiar with the space just beyond that line where I fall in love with him all over again and he feels at home and free. So he settles in, deep, filling me up. Even though I cry out a few times, he stays, adding more pressure until I utter a high flying sound and a sigh, because he's in me, jamming all the way up my ass.
“Stay!” I cry, “don’t move, stay!” and he listens.
“Tell me. How you want it.”
“I said tell me how you want it.”
“Harder. I want it harder,” even though I don’t, not yet.
And then, because I know he's waiting for more, I say quietly, “Hurt me.”
At first it hurts like hell or heaven depending. He grabs my tits, squeezes my nipples between his thumb and index finger, and pulling my hair so my head flings back, rams fucking hard in, but I don’t care; he's screwing me up the ass and I want him and that’s all there is. See, I just want to belong to him─his cunt, his ass, his tits, his mouth. I was a member of Voice of Women when I was eleven, but this is how it is between my Garth and me. I do it because I love him, although sometimes I'm filled with hate so big, it feels like a ball of wire twine stuck at the back of my throat. He says one day he's not going to have to use any lube, that's how wet I get when he slides his finger or cock up my asshole. Except he says penis instead of cock.
Encore:
I take a shower, aiming the water jets downward. There is no towel, so I stay wet, put on my clothes, and tiptoe back to the room. His room is dark. “Kneel against the sofa,” he tells me and leaves the room. I place my clothes on the floor beside the leather sofa: black pants, then black muscle shirt, mismatched socks. I arrange myself on the bed, bending my legs, one hip curved, and an arm flung to the side in a careless pose. I hear the door handle. When I think of Garth, his head touches a sky that's cerulean blue clear through and through. His presence fills the door frame.
I kneel by the leather sofa, my forearms on the pillow seat, and I wait. He brings something over from the bureau, and whistling all the while, he slides a hand along my flank. “Mm,” he says and squeezes cold lube near my asshole. I have bought this lotion, some lubricant with spectacular qualities, and have given it to him. He’s going to enter all holes, he says, and I ask him if he includes nostrils and ears in his plan.
“Of all things,” he says, “I love to fuck you in the ass.”
“Talk to me. Tell me about the first time, how it was the first time I fucked you this way.”
“I was scared,” I say.
"I wanted to belong to you."
“It really hurt.”
Garth presses his cock into my asshole. “Easy, easy now," he says.
He has wonderful, big hands. He slides his palm down my back, along the line of my ass, the outside of my tits.
“Relax,” he says. “Tell me about the first time. Remember what you did. What did you do with your hand? Do you remember?”
“I touched myself."
“Where?” he says and I say "Here."
He asks because he wants me to say it, to hear me talk of sex and fucking. “My clit,” I say. “I rubbed my clit.”
“And are you doing that now?”
“Yes.”
“What?” He presses his cock further into my asshole.
"I'm rubbing my clit," I say.
“Good,” he says, squeezing more lube onto his prick and opening up my asshole with his fingers.
I'm afraid, scared shitless, with his prick at my ass's door, and the thing is I love being afraid and doing it anyway.
Reinvented with spacing, although I cannot breathe . . .
I take a shower. Focus the spray on cunt and ass, use soap, on top not in. In is for later. I close the water. I put my jeans and shirt back on, return with my breath held.
Shit baby doll what the fuck you doing in a dark earth hallway, what the fuck you doing getting your ass ripped wide open? I tiptoe into the bedroom, close the door, wishing for a lock. There is none. Thoughts weave easily through fears, settling a reassuring hand on my forearm. The sky shifts from a grey haze to softly glowing yellow. There should be a lock. I take my clothes off, placing them deliberately: jeans, shirt on top, at the right side of the sofa, depending on which way you are facing. And isn’t the world like that?
“On your knees,” he tells me.
“Where?” although I know. I kneel down and lean my elbows against the sofa. He has the lube in his hand, some new kind of quick all-purpose moistening lube I bought it with him in mind. I had him in mind because even after one decade, I love him. He’s a cool man in his way, so I thought we might fuck and he could do anything he wanted. Now I have this new lube he’s holding.
“Talk to me,” he says, “tell me about the first time I fucked you up your ass.”
“I was scared.”
"And you thought?”
“I thought, I thought I’m yours, you know, belonging to you. I wanted to belong to you. And I thought, that if you ass fucked me, that if you wanted to, anyway you chose, then I would. That’s what I wanted.”
He presses his cock against me.
“Sh, sh,” he says “gently now, just easy.” He places one large hand over my back, pressing me down, and slides his other hand along my back, ass, tits.
“Relax,” he says, “tell me more about the first time. Do you remember what you did with your hand?”
“I touched myself,” I say.
“Where?”
“I rubbed my clit like I am now.”
“Beg,” he says. “If you want it, you have to beg.”
So I say please and please again and thank you. He wants words, scenes in sharp colour, while my scenes are in black and white and the camera’s hand held. He pulls my head back and his cock brushes against my asshole.
“Please hurt me,” I say. “Pull my hair. Hard.”
“Good,” he says, squeezing more lube onto his prick, and using his middle finger, up my ass. He decides not to be gentle.
“It hurts honey,” I say, “oh honey, it hurts.”
His cock stretches and fills my asshole. We’re from two different countries, Garth and I, and he’s pumping away in a language I don’t understand although I nod yes, yes. And then he comes to that border, that halfway mark and barrels right through. I think I’ve come to the end of the earth. I grasp its flat edges and I just know I’ll fall off. And then I stop thinking. Which is what I want. I brace myself oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck, press my head down on the seat of the sofa and bite hard into my right forearm. The bottle cap pops and he spreads cold lube around my asshole. He wiggles his finger up my ass. I’m afraid and that’s the truth. He positions the tip of his prick against my asshole, leans his body over mine, and covers my hips with his hands.
“Relax.” he says. “Rub your clit.”
He presses in while he talks to me in his soft rumbling voice and I cry out again “It hurts, honey. Honey, it hurts.” He’s just so cool and even. He stops, stays, pushes his prick in a bit deeper and croons “Soon, soon, almost there.” Which sounds sexy as all hell. I figure I’m at the end of the earth, right at the edge, and you know, if he’d ask me, I would jump clear off, right at that moment because he’s reached that point of no crossing back and the line just stops. Only there's a space past that line, such a sweet place where I fall in love with him all over again and I’m home and free.
I pull my breath up into my throat and heave it out nice and slow because he’s in me, all the way up my ass and I’m fine and loving his being there.
“Stay. Don’t move, stay.”
“Tell me,” he says, “tell me how you want it and I’ll consider it.”
“I want it harder,” I say, even though I don’t, not yet. “Harder, please. Please go hard.”
He starts to move in and out, just a bit at first, and it hurts like hell or heaven depending. He adds more lube and grabs my tits and my hair and he’s ramming real hard. But I don’t mind. He’s fucking me up the ass and I want him so bad. And that’s all there is.
I have to want him first you see, have to belong to him. I am his cunt, his ass, his tits, his mouth. I think when he fucks me hard up the ass that I can’t hold him. But still, I want to. After everything. Still. I am his cunt, his ass, his mouth.
© Janice Colman 2008
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Lists
My mother kept lists. She had three calendars: a week at a glance, two days at a glance, and one day in grand detail. Even when my sister shoved her into the Waldorf straight from the Montreal General where she was treated for pneumonia and where my father had died the year before─“get me out of here you swine” he had screamed over and over until they gave him more morphine. He wasn’t against the morphine, he just wanted to die at home. “It’ll be easier,” my sister said, “trust me, I know her mind inside out. She won’t have to make decisions.” Which is when my sister, her telltale witch’s nose transformed into a sweet young thing, efficiently sorted, carted, and sold off my mother’s stores of her sixty-three-year married life. The only thing left for my old mother was the making of her lists.
In between pages she’d place articles for future review or to mail. Sometimes I’d receive plain brown envelopes in the mail with health tips. Nothing to dash to my bathroom floor and perform a sweetly seething rubbing-off to. Over the years, I’ve stopped and started at least one-hundred-and-twenty daily or weekly calendars. I arrive at this figure by multiplying a minimum of three calendars a year from the age of twenty until my current sixty. At first I’d select a pen with just the right flow and colour to fill in particulars having to do with name, address, phone number, and emergency numbers. And at the back, with the same smooth pen, I’d rewrite contacts and phone numbers.
I don’t want to say I’m a failure in the date book department. My mother was meticulous. Her date books were her memoirs. I always saw her writing lists, her books over-flooded with articles she felt were newsworthy. And I realize now she was my model. My own stash of papers fills a six-by-four-foot closet off my living room writing area. I see my life as an assortment of lists with various headings: houses, lovers, gyms, trainers, training partners, housekeepers, psychiatrists. I organize headings, sub-headings, shuffle, restructure, add, delete, rename. But I think houses will always be the main header. Twenty-one all in all. The subheadings saved me. I could go deep-sea diving in them, plan excursions, and create even further subdivisions, do the breaststroke through them, feeling ripples skim my chest, thighs, ass, the back of my thighs. Those subdivisions often migrated and became headings. I could deep-throat a heading and surface alive and shining.
More from Edinburgh Road:
Abie lies under our green Pontiac which is propped up with two steel girders. He’s replacing the transmission with a refurbished model, his legs reminding me of the underbelly of dead fish. “I’m a good man to have around in an emergency,” he calls out and I believe him.
“The cats are escaping from their jackets,” he says. “You need to add more grommets.” He’s doing a study on sleep deprivation and he’s going to be published and of course, he’ll continue with his masters. And the thing is these cats are hooked up to a treadmill that keeps going and going and they can’t sleep and I’m making canvas straitjackets for them. “Are you sure you should do this?” I say. “This is top level research,” he says and shows me Russian abstracts he’s photocopied. He takes me to a lab where he shows me white mice. “This one is mine,” he says and lifts off the cover. “Just keep blowing on him,” he says, “and he won’t jump out.” I carry and blow and blow and then I’m screaming, running around the table, “He’s on my head, he’s on my head,” and Abie’s laughing like a wild man.
Coyright Janice Colman 2008
Technorati Tags: memoir,Colman,writer's blogs,Wordslut
In between pages she’d place articles for future review or to mail. Sometimes I’d receive plain brown envelopes in the mail with health tips. Nothing to dash to my bathroom floor and perform a sweetly seething rubbing-off to. Over the years, I’ve stopped and started at least one-hundred-and-twenty daily or weekly calendars. I arrive at this figure by multiplying a minimum of three calendars a year from the age of twenty until my current sixty. At first I’d select a pen with just the right flow and colour to fill in particulars having to do with name, address, phone number, and emergency numbers. And at the back, with the same smooth pen, I’d rewrite contacts and phone numbers.
I don’t want to say I’m a failure in the date book department. My mother was meticulous. Her date books were her memoirs. I always saw her writing lists, her books over-flooded with articles she felt were newsworthy. And I realize now she was my model. My own stash of papers fills a six-by-four-foot closet off my living room writing area. I see my life as an assortment of lists with various headings: houses, lovers, gyms, trainers, training partners, housekeepers, psychiatrists. I organize headings, sub-headings, shuffle, restructure, add, delete, rename. But I think houses will always be the main header. Twenty-one all in all. The subheadings saved me. I could go deep-sea diving in them, plan excursions, and create even further subdivisions, do the breaststroke through them, feeling ripples skim my chest, thighs, ass, the back of my thighs. Those subdivisions often migrated and became headings. I could deep-throat a heading and surface alive and shining.
More from Edinburgh Road:
Abie lies under our green Pontiac which is propped up with two steel girders. He’s replacing the transmission with a refurbished model, his legs reminding me of the underbelly of dead fish. “I’m a good man to have around in an emergency,” he calls out and I believe him.
“The cats are escaping from their jackets,” he says. “You need to add more grommets.” He’s doing a study on sleep deprivation and he’s going to be published and of course, he’ll continue with his masters. And the thing is these cats are hooked up to a treadmill that keeps going and going and they can’t sleep and I’m making canvas straitjackets for them. “Are you sure you should do this?” I say. “This is top level research,” he says and shows me Russian abstracts he’s photocopied. He takes me to a lab where he shows me white mice. “This one is mine,” he says and lifts off the cover. “Just keep blowing on him,” he says, “and he won’t jump out.” I carry and blow and blow and then I’m screaming, running around the table, “He’s on my head, he’s on my head,” and Abie’s laughing like a wild man.
Coyright Janice Colman 2008
Technorati Tags: memoir,Colman,writer's blogs,Wordslut
Friday, November 14, 2008
In the morning my heart
breathless beneath the pressed
pillow beside me, eyes
shoved between my big toe and
the next or hiding under my grandmother's
hand-me-down bunion, hands
squarely folded under
a Zeller's white quilt that could
crush any soul except mine, "Hurry hurry " as
pieces grumble, shift and slide, while
my cunt stark out refuses to budge, taking
a non-violent stance - you have to speak
kindly to a cunt lest it snap
open and devour, so I say
please, offer promises of forbidden
delight, possibly Turkish; it lifts
one eyelid and I know I'm on the right
track. A cunt can be lonesome, withdrawn, although
she gets out daily and I translate the world in terms
she can understand so in that dank dark
place where she lives, hope in the form of light
might filter in. A cunt needs
rambling conversation, requires water, some
form of (any) love allowing
it to lay down winter roots and shoot
up in the spring, this thirsty cunt cut down
before winter while still
eager to converse with the sun, I worry
even when all my parts finally
cooperate as I sit sipping
homemade coffee brew, and my heart
swoops down to my cunt, setting down
with her a speck, gently swinging on this late
autumn veranda before which
body parts strut to work. Sometimes
a man smiles or waves, but all the while
I am thinking a cunt without
a heart might be more at peace.
Coyright Colman 2008
breathless beneath the pressed
pillow beside me, eyes
shoved between my big toe and
the next or hiding under my grandmother's
hand-me-down bunion, hands
squarely folded under
a Zeller's white quilt that could
crush any soul except mine, "Hurry hurry " as
pieces grumble, shift and slide, while
my cunt stark out refuses to budge, taking
a non-violent stance - you have to speak
kindly to a cunt lest it snap
open and devour, so I say
please, offer promises of forbidden
delight, possibly Turkish; it lifts
one eyelid and I know I'm on the right
track. A cunt can be lonesome, withdrawn, although
she gets out daily and I translate the world in terms
she can understand so in that dank dark
place where she lives, hope in the form of light
might filter in. A cunt needs
rambling conversation, requires water, some
form of (any) love allowing
it to lay down winter roots and shoot
up in the spring, this thirsty cunt cut down
before winter while still
eager to converse with the sun, I worry
even when all my parts finally
cooperate as I sit sipping
homemade coffee brew, and my heart
swoops down to my cunt, setting down
with her a speck, gently swinging on this late
autumn veranda before which
body parts strut to work. Sometimes
a man smiles or waves, but all the while
I am thinking a cunt without
a heart might be more at peace.
Coyright Colman 2008
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Jimmy Bob and the Kid
I'm not sure whether life clogs up the nostrils, damming them up and slogging in filters, or life and love just open the flow of mucus, green gob all grange and dank. Maybe both. See Jimmy has left me. My Jimmy Bob McFarlin, tall man, walks slightly hunched over, rectangular glasses so chic and cool. He used to say we'd be two rickety old people swinging on a rickety old swing in the country, watching grandchildren, and we'd kind of glance at each other and grinning toothless we'd hobble to the bedroom, fixed over on the first floor.
He comes from that bitch called the US of A─let’s put it all in small letters─the us of a. He’s impatient with anyone whose brain is like pink cotton candy; he despises line-ups and makes comments like “it’s just my luck to be here now." Before Jimmy appears, everything’s all quiet and serene, but when he places his size 15s on the war path, extras materialize from under the front desk, from behind the life-size silver urns, swinging in from the streets─all push in line before Jimmy, who is really coming across like an AMERICAN.
But while Jim, he calls himself Jim and yeah shit he has a right to─seems like every Tom Dick and the H guy have a brother or uncle or pa named Jimmy and then Bob. Jimmy Bob. My Jim thinks he’s different, while he’s wearing his telltale madras shorts and orange baseball cap. Also I think possibly a button-down shirt with short sleeves. Buttons at the points of collars, sneaking in at the back of the collar, buttons in the middle of each front pocket. I figure Americans like lots of buttons that have no function but to stand out looking all ornery.
Meanwhile Jim is saying he loves me. He just zooms right in to my face staring at me goggle-eyed, he’s kinda weird─once Caroline and I took our Jim to High Park's restaurant. You gotta drive no more that 20 m.p.h., so that’s a long time to spend in the car in the company of a loon. I bet he was thinking that about Caroline, as he answered all her questions with pertinent details and a good measure of verbal respect. Like "I beg to differ" and telling her she sings like Ethel Merman when all she wanted was to sing "Over the Rainbow" in her special high voice. Anyhow we’re leaving the restaurant; Jim’s feeling sick to his stomach (it’s his old hate punching him from the inside out). We walk from the back with its server-serves policy to the front pay-at-the-counter section, and I see the small head of a baby in a high chair. The mother is sitting on one side of the table and she’s leaning forward talking and laughing with a man and woman directly opposite.
The baby turns round and I see this is a mongoloid baby. So I look again and I’m thinking there is something wise in the boy’s face, an intelligence in the eyes like an old man. Jim follows me, and I follow Caroline, and then Jim starts laughing his loud ha ha ha, just slamming his laughter, bashing it against those four bodies at the same time
“Why were you laughing?” I stop outside on the bottom step.
“You’re not going to like it,” Jim says.
I walk on ahead. No way am I going to look back, because then I would see his face and forever link it with this moment when he chooses to show his dark side. Because he knows, really he does, that he’s got to set something up so that we leave him, and he says, “I was laughing because the kid was a mongoloid.” I’m about to put one foot down on the stone path and it stops mid-air. Even Caroline hears. “Because he’s different?” she says. “Are you afraid? Like I’m different? Is that funny?”
"I was laughing at my own response," he says to me and not to Caroline.
“Amounts to the same thing,” I say.
And that's when things started to go wrong between Jimmy and me.
Copyright Janice Colman 2008
He comes from that bitch called the US of A─let’s put it all in small letters─the us of a. He’s impatient with anyone whose brain is like pink cotton candy; he despises line-ups and makes comments like “it’s just my luck to be here now." Before Jimmy appears, everything’s all quiet and serene, but when he places his size 15s on the war path, extras materialize from under the front desk, from behind the life-size silver urns, swinging in from the streets─all push in line before Jimmy, who is really coming across like an AMERICAN.
But while Jim, he calls himself Jim and yeah shit he has a right to─seems like every Tom Dick and the H guy have a brother or uncle or pa named Jimmy and then Bob. Jimmy Bob. My Jim thinks he’s different, while he’s wearing his telltale madras shorts and orange baseball cap. Also I think possibly a button-down shirt with short sleeves. Buttons at the points of collars, sneaking in at the back of the collar, buttons in the middle of each front pocket. I figure Americans like lots of buttons that have no function but to stand out looking all ornery.
Meanwhile Jim is saying he loves me. He just zooms right in to my face staring at me goggle-eyed, he’s kinda weird─once Caroline and I took our Jim to High Park's restaurant. You gotta drive no more that 20 m.p.h., so that’s a long time to spend in the car in the company of a loon. I bet he was thinking that about Caroline, as he answered all her questions with pertinent details and a good measure of verbal respect. Like "I beg to differ" and telling her she sings like Ethel Merman when all she wanted was to sing "Over the Rainbow" in her special high voice. Anyhow we’re leaving the restaurant; Jim’s feeling sick to his stomach (it’s his old hate punching him from the inside out). We walk from the back with its server-serves policy to the front pay-at-the-counter section, and I see the small head of a baby in a high chair. The mother is sitting on one side of the table and she’s leaning forward talking and laughing with a man and woman directly opposite.
The baby turns round and I see this is a mongoloid baby. So I look again and I’m thinking there is something wise in the boy’s face, an intelligence in the eyes like an old man. Jim follows me, and I follow Caroline, and then Jim starts laughing his loud ha ha ha, just slamming his laughter, bashing it against those four bodies at the same time
“Why were you laughing?” I stop outside on the bottom step.
“You’re not going to like it,” Jim says.
I walk on ahead. No way am I going to look back, because then I would see his face and forever link it with this moment when he chooses to show his dark side. Because he knows, really he does, that he’s got to set something up so that we leave him, and he says, “I was laughing because the kid was a mongoloid.” I’m about to put one foot down on the stone path and it stops mid-air. Even Caroline hears. “Because he’s different?” she says. “Are you afraid? Like I’m different? Is that funny?”
"I was laughing at my own response," he says to me and not to Caroline.
“Amounts to the same thing,” I say.
And that's when things started to go wrong between Jimmy and me.
Copyright Janice Colman 2008
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Interlude with Garth
“I hope you know this is what millions of men fantasize about.”
“I didn’t know that you had a million of men wanting you.”
“Yeah, well now you know. Millions, plural. World wide.”
“I’m honored then.”
“And so you should be.”
Garth’s balls have really shrunk. He’s six feet three inches tall. Over four-hundred pounds. A man that size has big balls. When he lies down, each ball spreads over to the adjacent thigh. Usually I have to open my mouth to its fullest to engulf one ball and then I maneuver in the other. I figure I must look like Louis Armstrong at his most inspired.
Holy shit. In the fucking light, it’s a real turn off.
The night before, “So, you’re sure you’re coming over in the morning.”
Yes.” (I wasn’t sure.)
“Alright then.”
In the morning my back hurt. A stabbing pain shot down to my ankle. He told me to lie on the floor and realign my hips. If I had listened to him and hung upside down, I might be better by now. But what did he know anyway? He phoned back to invite me out to lunch. I accepted which was unusual for me especially at mid-day.
He took me to Swiss Chalet on Bayview Avenue. During the meal he made some comment about Jews.
“What did you say?”
“I said . . .”
“What? You said what with a Jew whom you just happen to fuck sitting right in front of you?”
He said that once again I had ruined both a perfectly good meal and his intentions. We hardly talked as he drove me back to my rented condo. Later, I worried that he might still be angry, so I called him at his office and asked ever so politely if I could come over, it would please and thrill me and so on. Then we had that interlude. Actually I was glad I did it. I was tired of crying. He could feel I was dripping wet right through my jeans. He didn’t even need to use lube which he kept in his top bureau drawer at home anyway. A day later he admitted it had been such a turn-on, although with him you would never know it. He’s such a closed man.
His balls had really shrunk.
After The Interlude
Garth calls at 7:26 a.m. I’m concerned about his balls.
“But how do you know they’ll grow back?”
“They’ll grow back.”
“Yeah, but how do you know?”
“I had a kid, didn’t I?”
“But that doesn’t mean they’ll grow back. Except if you know from past experience.”
“I do.”
“What? They got this small?”
“Smaller.”
“Oh my god, you’re kidding!”
“About the size of raisins.”
“Shit. You must have freaked out. You gotta be kidding.”
“Nope. I was really worried actually.”
“And how long does it take them, to grow back I mean?”
“About a month.”
“Well, that’s a relief. Cause they’re about half size now. Will they get much smaller?”
“Not much. I have only four to six shots left.”
“That’s good to know then.”
“I actually phoned to ask you how you’re feeling today.”
“Fine.”
“Really?”
“Uh huh.”
“Not sore at all?”
“Nope.”
“I’m surprised.”
“Yeah. Well so was I. I sure as hell wasn’t expecting that.”
“To tell you the truth, neither was I. It just happened. Did it feel OK, towards the end?”
“Well, I was scared, you know, because I didn’t think that natural was as effective.”
“You should’ve trusted me. I was watching the whole time, to make sure.”
“Easy for you to say. I thought I was going to be split open like Catherine the Great. You think spit works just as well?”
“Where do you think they imitated the synthetic from?”
“Wow.”
So when did it start to feel good?”
“When you said, 'Stop fighting me.'”
“You were wiggling around so much. I couldn’t aim properly to get it in.”
“It was fucking scary. You used to be proud of how little you had to use, remember. I never thought that you’d be using nothing at all.”
“Neither did I really. So you’re OK?”
“Yeah. Except my throat is sore.”
“Interesting.”
“Damn straight!”
“You sure they won’t get much smaller? I miss them, you know.”
“You’ll have them back. Don’t worry.”
“If you say so.”
“And if you put this in your book, I’ll fucking kill you.”
Garth gets off on ass fucking without lube. I get off on a dare.
“I didn’t know that you had a million of men wanting you.”
“Yeah, well now you know. Millions, plural. World wide.”
“I’m honored then.”
“And so you should be.”
Garth’s balls have really shrunk. He’s six feet three inches tall. Over four-hundred pounds. A man that size has big balls. When he lies down, each ball spreads over to the adjacent thigh. Usually I have to open my mouth to its fullest to engulf one ball and then I maneuver in the other. I figure I must look like Louis Armstrong at his most inspired.
Holy shit. In the fucking light, it’s a real turn off.
The night before, “So, you’re sure you’re coming over in the morning.”
Yes.” (I wasn’t sure.)
“Alright then.”
In the morning my back hurt. A stabbing pain shot down to my ankle. He told me to lie on the floor and realign my hips. If I had listened to him and hung upside down, I might be better by now. But what did he know anyway? He phoned back to invite me out to lunch. I accepted which was unusual for me especially at mid-day.
He took me to Swiss Chalet on Bayview Avenue. During the meal he made some comment about Jews.
“What did you say?”
“I said . . .”
“What? You said what with a Jew whom you just happen to fuck sitting right in front of you?”
He said that once again I had ruined both a perfectly good meal and his intentions. We hardly talked as he drove me back to my rented condo. Later, I worried that he might still be angry, so I called him at his office and asked ever so politely if I could come over, it would please and thrill me and so on. Then we had that interlude. Actually I was glad I did it. I was tired of crying. He could feel I was dripping wet right through my jeans. He didn’t even need to use lube which he kept in his top bureau drawer at home anyway. A day later he admitted it had been such a turn-on, although with him you would never know it. He’s such a closed man.
His balls had really shrunk.
After The Interlude
Garth calls at 7:26 a.m. I’m concerned about his balls.
“But how do you know they’ll grow back?”
“They’ll grow back.”
“Yeah, but how do you know?”
“I had a kid, didn’t I?”
“But that doesn’t mean they’ll grow back. Except if you know from past experience.”
“I do.”
“What? They got this small?”
“Smaller.”
“Oh my god, you’re kidding!”
“About the size of raisins.”
“Shit. You must have freaked out. You gotta be kidding.”
“Nope. I was really worried actually.”
“And how long does it take them, to grow back I mean?”
“About a month.”
“Well, that’s a relief. Cause they’re about half size now. Will they get much smaller?”
“Not much. I have only four to six shots left.”
“That’s good to know then.”
“I actually phoned to ask you how you’re feeling today.”
“Fine.”
“Really?”
“Uh huh.”
“Not sore at all?”
“Nope.”
“I’m surprised.”
“Yeah. Well so was I. I sure as hell wasn’t expecting that.”
“To tell you the truth, neither was I. It just happened. Did it feel OK, towards the end?”
“Well, I was scared, you know, because I didn’t think that natural was as effective.”
“You should’ve trusted me. I was watching the whole time, to make sure.”
“Easy for you to say. I thought I was going to be split open like Catherine the Great. You think spit works just as well?”
“Where do you think they imitated the synthetic from?”
“Wow.”
So when did it start to feel good?”
“When you said, 'Stop fighting me.'”
“You were wiggling around so much. I couldn’t aim properly to get it in.”
“It was fucking scary. You used to be proud of how little you had to use, remember. I never thought that you’d be using nothing at all.”
“Neither did I really. So you’re OK?”
“Yeah. Except my throat is sore.”
“Interesting.”
“Damn straight!”
“You sure they won’t get much smaller? I miss them, you know.”
“You’ll have them back. Don’t worry.”
“If you say so.”
“And if you put this in your book, I’ll fucking kill you.”
Garth gets off on ass fucking without lube. I get off on a dare.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Abie Fucks Me Over
Abie really loves fucking. I like fucking all right but my nervous breakdown has wrestled me to the ground. I look at Abie's shoulders and the way his arms hang out and down, and I think here is a man with solid shoulders who hugs me like a humping dog. Besides I'm starting to like this little house. The first time I sleep over, there are two plump pillows on Abie's single bed. "I told you my parents are cool," he says. We lie down and he starts his vaudeville routine: french kissing, fingering tits, nipple twisting and squeezing (my bald Uncle Charlie used to pinch-and-twist my cheeks and I never liked that much either), then he Frenchy kisses me, I Frenchy kiss back, he rubs my crotch, I sway in time. It's like dancing - he leads left foot forward, I respond right foot back, only this time his cock leads which is less complicated since I'm not much of a dancer.
"Wait, I say, "I have to tell you something."
"Go ahead," he says reaching into my panties and twitching my clit like a hyperactive kid fiddling with a light switch.
"Stop," I say, but he keeps on rubbing and squeezing and pressing himself against me.
"I said goddamn it stop, get your goddamn hands off me."
"O.K. O.K.," he says. "Easy now."
"I just want you to know it's all an act."
"What's an act?"
"This. It doesn't feel good, I can't come."
"But I feel you inside."
"You feel yourself inside. Damn you, I said I can't come. I mean who the fuck are you? It's a dribble that's all, just a fucking dribble."
Abie sits up and looks at me, his low brow wrinkling. " But I'm in the top two percent," he says, because he comes, wakes up in the middle of the night for a second helping, building up for thirds and fourths by early morning. I think the workers topping his semen supply are overworked - no union there. I'm a union organizer's daughter setting up a picket line where it counts.
"Hey, it's like anything else, it takes practice," he says. He lies on top of me and kisses my neck below my left then right ear, “I love you, you know that, love you.” I know he means it, but like any mama's boy, he listens to his cock.
I'm listening with my eyelids forced shut to ease the passage of his words. I figure I can transport the essence of his message directly from his mouth to my cunt, no stop-overs, no detours. I'm trying to focus, clenching my eyes shut like I’m constipated and trying to take a shit when I catch sight of my mother.
"Oh my god Abie, I see her." I grab his solid shoulders. "I see her up there. She's coming at me. Hold me. She's coming down! Oh god I can't stop her! She's coming for me."
"Who's coming? Janice, who is it? Tell me who it is."
"It's a witch. Holy shit, the witch, it's Mummy. Her nails, she's going to rip at me with her nails. Cover me, lie quickly on me, she's coming closer, oh no, I can't, she's laughing. Oh Abie, her nails!"
I'm clutching on to the bony knuckles at the back of Abie's shoulders, and he spreads himself over me, offering up full-body protection. He soothes me with his kisses and sings soft songs into my hair.
"I can't breathe," I say, twisting my head out from his turtle shell.
Meanwhile, his prick is poking around like a divining rod. "Listen, my sweet, there's no witch, no mummy, only you and me. Only you and me. Let me come inside you."
"You think it’ll help?”
“Yes,” he says, “definitely.
All night he stays inside, sometimes just his cock’s cold tip slips in, other times the whole damn thing grabs space like a kid hogging the blanket, as I cringe from my mother and the witches. Even when I tell him how I hate him and bite his shoulders, he holds me. Then I lie and say I love you too, and I rub against him grinding my hips which he takes as an invitation and zooms right on in. And all the while I'm thinking─in the end you'll go like the rest of them, you'll speed off in your Daddy's Pontiac and maybe I'm at the door waving and smiling my after-sex smile or I'm out there running after you, dust circling my ankles, my bathrobe coattails flying. "Stay," I'm calling, "stay, just one more,” and I lean against the doorway with your salt still on my tongue. The fuck was on me. On the house. But the next time you gotta pay. Next time. Although you know you'll never see me again. I won't be the same next time. Hold me, hold me close. I don't know where I'm going. Let me look at you. Kiss me, oh kiss me again.
Coyright Janice Colman 2008
"Wait, I say, "I have to tell you something."
"Go ahead," he says reaching into my panties and twitching my clit like a hyperactive kid fiddling with a light switch.
"Stop," I say, but he keeps on rubbing and squeezing and pressing himself against me.
"I said goddamn it stop, get your goddamn hands off me."
"O.K. O.K.," he says. "Easy now."
"I just want you to know it's all an act."
"What's an act?"
"This. It doesn't feel good, I can't come."
"But I feel you inside."
"You feel yourself inside. Damn you, I said I can't come. I mean who the fuck are you? It's a dribble that's all, just a fucking dribble."
Abie sits up and looks at me, his low brow wrinkling. " But I'm in the top two percent," he says, because he comes, wakes up in the middle of the night for a second helping, building up for thirds and fourths by early morning. I think the workers topping his semen supply are overworked - no union there. I'm a union organizer's daughter setting up a picket line where it counts.
"Hey, it's like anything else, it takes practice," he says. He lies on top of me and kisses my neck below my left then right ear, “I love you, you know that, love you.” I know he means it, but like any mama's boy, he listens to his cock.
I'm listening with my eyelids forced shut to ease the passage of his words. I figure I can transport the essence of his message directly from his mouth to my cunt, no stop-overs, no detours. I'm trying to focus, clenching my eyes shut like I’m constipated and trying to take a shit when I catch sight of my mother.
"Oh my god Abie, I see her." I grab his solid shoulders. "I see her up there. She's coming at me. Hold me. She's coming down! Oh god I can't stop her! She's coming for me."
"Who's coming? Janice, who is it? Tell me who it is."
"It's a witch. Holy shit, the witch, it's Mummy. Her nails, she's going to rip at me with her nails. Cover me, lie quickly on me, she's coming closer, oh no, I can't, she's laughing. Oh Abie, her nails!"
I'm clutching on to the bony knuckles at the back of Abie's shoulders, and he spreads himself over me, offering up full-body protection. He soothes me with his kisses and sings soft songs into my hair.
"I can't breathe," I say, twisting my head out from his turtle shell.
Meanwhile, his prick is poking around like a divining rod. "Listen, my sweet, there's no witch, no mummy, only you and me. Only you and me. Let me come inside you."
"You think it’ll help?”
“Yes,” he says, “definitely.
All night he stays inside, sometimes just his cock’s cold tip slips in, other times the whole damn thing grabs space like a kid hogging the blanket, as I cringe from my mother and the witches. Even when I tell him how I hate him and bite his shoulders, he holds me. Then I lie and say I love you too, and I rub against him grinding my hips which he takes as an invitation and zooms right on in. And all the while I'm thinking─in the end you'll go like the rest of them, you'll speed off in your Daddy's Pontiac and maybe I'm at the door waving and smiling my after-sex smile or I'm out there running after you, dust circling my ankles, my bathrobe coattails flying. "Stay," I'm calling, "stay, just one more,” and I lean against the doorway with your salt still on my tongue. The fuck was on me. On the house. But the next time you gotta pay. Next time. Although you know you'll never see me again. I won't be the same next time. Hold me, hold me close. I don't know where I'm going. Let me look at you. Kiss me, oh kiss me again.
Coyright Janice Colman 2008
Thursday, November 6, 2008
She Held Me in Her Eyes
I tossed and turned all night:
The baby is sleeping on his back in the garage, the garage door full open. The floor is concrete, fresh white and so clean you could spread out a Sunday lunchtime tablecloth on it. "Janice," I say, "call me if he cries, will you?" He is sleeping after all.
He flips over like a leaf, summer to autumn to winter to spring, never lingering on one season. I tuck the edges of the blue blanket under the carriage mattress, so the blanket lies smooth and tight, and with my tip of my saddle shoe, I slip up the brake. The carriage is driving on its own─one two three down the driveway. Four five─ a head as small as a doll’s takes wing toward Van Horne Avenue, soft white shoes disappear under black rubber wheels, fingers flattened like Thursday’s dough under my mother’s wood rolling pin. I open my mouth to scream, but my heart freezes over like the deepest lake in the coldest winter. I walk to where the head lies, to the hands lying flat and still on the pavement, the feet sitting side by side, and I turn the baby onto his back as he had been before the carriage decided to make a break for it─away from that house and the sad lady in it. I fix the head so it sits like a pumpkin on his body, fix the feet so the toes point out ever so slightly, and set the hands just beyond the line of the his wrists, curving each finger just a little. Then I take a deep breath of air as crisp as fresh sheets flying on the line, and I walk, one double-bowed shoe in front of the other, into the house.
His head lies tilted like a mournful question. I reset it neat and square. I smooth out each finger and tie the bows of the little shoes. Then I scream and scream and scream.
I can't recognize him when they carry him out. He looks like a boy doll with a proper boy's haircut and little boy bangs. "Where's the neck?" I ask because all I see is a pocket of extra skin where a neck should be, but I hold him close anyway.
I set the bowl on my head and cut my hair right up to the rim. I used to sit on the living room stool while my mother turned each strand of hair round and round, a bobby pin like Cupid's arrow through each curl. “Why, why?” she says, but the ice around my heart is so slippery, the answers can't stay upright; they just fall and slip away. I watch lines grow like weeds between her eyebrows, her hair lying all limp and helpless like cut grass, and I sit down right close beside her. “I will never cut my hair again or push a baby carriage into the street,” I say. After supper I walk straight into my room. I pick up the doll with the red striped dress that snaps and ties in the back, and I cut her hair short short. “Smokey, Smokey," I call in my morning corn syrup voice and dress my cat in Julian’s baby t-shirt, laying him all safe and harassed up on his back in the shiny carriage my grandfather gave me and parade him down Wilder Avenue to Rockland Park. One day I whisper “tch tch tch” as I lift up my bedskirt, peer on tiptoes behind closet shelves, behind books, under my dresses, inside my mother’s hatboxes. I don't cry when I can't find him. On my maple bureau, there's a picture of me on my grandfather’s lap and Smokey on mine.
The phone is ringing. I pick up the receiver even though I know I'm in the middle of a dream and it’s not polite to walk out on company. Abie is calling from Russia. “I’m in Russia,” he says on his voice mail. Actually he’s in Moscow, staying at his Russian girfriend’s three-room apartment. Her daughter and ex-mother-in- law also live there. The apartment has no living room. Abie figures he’s completing a deal, so he’s gone over to Russia. Ninety days ago the manager of his apartment building gave him notice. But he kept thinking his deal was going to close and of course it didn’t, so now he’s in Moscow at Anya’s. “I don’t want movers touching my suits,” he says, “or my menorah or my photos.” I tell him, “I only wish I’d had that choice.”
When Abie talks, I shut my eyes. He gives my heart arthritis, I’m sure. It must be damp in there from so much sadness and crying. It aches; it really does─the left side at the top. Even when he stops talking my chest is still shuddering. Is it possible he’s damaged my heart? “Breathe in,” I tell myself, “nice and deep, breathe.” There was a car I once had that refused to start when the wheel was turned too far to the right; the key would not turn in the ignition. The only way to get that car going was to gently shake the wheel left, right, left, and bring the handle all the down. All the wrangling and cajoling, and the car might start. Might. I need someone to rock my heart. I close my eyes. It’s not that I want to get back to the dream, but I think maybe there’s something significant tucked away in a drawer and if I can sift through dressers and cupboard . . . A butterfly comes to rest on my eyelids and I close my eyes.
There’s no one in the house, no friend to call “hey, would you come over.” No one pops by and I like it that way. It’s only the second day after washing my hair and already it’s oily. I have to wait four days until I can wash it again. And then there are things to organize. I have a list in my pocket. The baby is in his carriage and I think, if I go inside to make one call, leave a message─one minute, maybe less, so I call “Janice, will you watch Julian for five minutes?”
One thing. There’s a man, big, huge actually. Doesn’t talk much. Doesn’t trap me with vile words neither. I watch him cradling my baby in one of his big arms and how Janice tags beside him, her arm raised so she could slip her small hand is his immense warm one. I peek through the hospital venetians. He stands in the middle of the parking lot, looks up and waves which is kind of funny coming from such a large man─the wave of a visiting dignitary. Later when a doctor in white walks in to talk to me, I stand sideways in front of the window. The large man is gone. There is no car in front of the yellow barrier, nor do I see the retreating back of a tall, wide man in a navy blue raincoat.
I was everything to her. Not my sister who was born without a heart. Something kept her alive, but it wasn’t her heart. I think she was just plain mean and staying alive for spite. My mother held me in her eyes until my brother was born. His soft blue blanket with shining borders lay folded in my lap. I held the soft wool to my face and breathed in its sweet country air. And then there it was, all round and full on my mother’s lap while I sat still and quiet in the back.
Ladies bustle from the boy baby’s room to the kitchen. The water pops before the bottles are lowered into the silver pot. I love the bottles and the round flat caps and the way the rubber nipples hide underneath, their tips just kissing the milk.
She rolls down the window and waves. She just slides into her brown velevt coat and goes and when she comes back, she lies in bed in her nightdress. I tiptoe into the room. “Janice,” she says. She’s so quiet, she almost whispers. She never twirls my hair again. She gets tired when she talks to me. Sometimes I’m mean and she gets sadder and sadder. I think she’s like one of the flowers outside, wilted and falling before winter. But when she opens her eyes wide, I hear rich full music streaming from them - voices and instuments twirling. Her eyes are clear and sweet as heaven. I hold my breath to keep the air from rustling. "Ma," I say, "Ma." And her eyes skim the room like bees in a desert.
Copyright Janice Colman 2008
The baby is sleeping on his back in the garage, the garage door full open. The floor is concrete, fresh white and so clean you could spread out a Sunday lunchtime tablecloth on it. "Janice," I say, "call me if he cries, will you?" He is sleeping after all.
He flips over like a leaf, summer to autumn to winter to spring, never lingering on one season. I tuck the edges of the blue blanket under the carriage mattress, so the blanket lies smooth and tight, and with my tip of my saddle shoe, I slip up the brake. The carriage is driving on its own─one two three down the driveway. Four five─ a head as small as a doll’s takes wing toward Van Horne Avenue, soft white shoes disappear under black rubber wheels, fingers flattened like Thursday’s dough under my mother’s wood rolling pin. I open my mouth to scream, but my heart freezes over like the deepest lake in the coldest winter. I walk to where the head lies, to the hands lying flat and still on the pavement, the feet sitting side by side, and I turn the baby onto his back as he had been before the carriage decided to make a break for it─away from that house and the sad lady in it. I fix the head so it sits like a pumpkin on his body, fix the feet so the toes point out ever so slightly, and set the hands just beyond the line of the his wrists, curving each finger just a little. Then I take a deep breath of air as crisp as fresh sheets flying on the line, and I walk, one double-bowed shoe in front of the other, into the house.
His head lies tilted like a mournful question. I reset it neat and square. I smooth out each finger and tie the bows of the little shoes. Then I scream and scream and scream.
I can't recognize him when they carry him out. He looks like a boy doll with a proper boy's haircut and little boy bangs. "Where's the neck?" I ask because all I see is a pocket of extra skin where a neck should be, but I hold him close anyway.
I set the bowl on my head and cut my hair right up to the rim. I used to sit on the living room stool while my mother turned each strand of hair round and round, a bobby pin like Cupid's arrow through each curl. “Why, why?” she says, but the ice around my heart is so slippery, the answers can't stay upright; they just fall and slip away. I watch lines grow like weeds between her eyebrows, her hair lying all limp and helpless like cut grass, and I sit down right close beside her. “I will never cut my hair again or push a baby carriage into the street,” I say. After supper I walk straight into my room. I pick up the doll with the red striped dress that snaps and ties in the back, and I cut her hair short short. “Smokey, Smokey," I call in my morning corn syrup voice and dress my cat in Julian’s baby t-shirt, laying him all safe and harassed up on his back in the shiny carriage my grandfather gave me and parade him down Wilder Avenue to Rockland Park. One day I whisper “tch tch tch” as I lift up my bedskirt, peer on tiptoes behind closet shelves, behind books, under my dresses, inside my mother’s hatboxes. I don't cry when I can't find him. On my maple bureau, there's a picture of me on my grandfather’s lap and Smokey on mine.
The phone is ringing. I pick up the receiver even though I know I'm in the middle of a dream and it’s not polite to walk out on company. Abie is calling from Russia. “I’m in Russia,” he says on his voice mail. Actually he’s in Moscow, staying at his Russian girfriend’s three-room apartment. Her daughter and ex-mother-in- law also live there. The apartment has no living room. Abie figures he’s completing a deal, so he’s gone over to Russia. Ninety days ago the manager of his apartment building gave him notice. But he kept thinking his deal was going to close and of course it didn’t, so now he’s in Moscow at Anya’s. “I don’t want movers touching my suits,” he says, “or my menorah or my photos.” I tell him, “I only wish I’d had that choice.”
When Abie talks, I shut my eyes. He gives my heart arthritis, I’m sure. It must be damp in there from so much sadness and crying. It aches; it really does─the left side at the top. Even when he stops talking my chest is still shuddering. Is it possible he’s damaged my heart? “Breathe in,” I tell myself, “nice and deep, breathe.” There was a car I once had that refused to start when the wheel was turned too far to the right; the key would not turn in the ignition. The only way to get that car going was to gently shake the wheel left, right, left, and bring the handle all the down. All the wrangling and cajoling, and the car might start. Might. I need someone to rock my heart. I close my eyes. It’s not that I want to get back to the dream, but I think maybe there’s something significant tucked away in a drawer and if I can sift through dressers and cupboard . . . A butterfly comes to rest on my eyelids and I close my eyes.
There’s no one in the house, no friend to call “hey, would you come over.” No one pops by and I like it that way. It’s only the second day after washing my hair and already it’s oily. I have to wait four days until I can wash it again. And then there are things to organize. I have a list in my pocket. The baby is in his carriage and I think, if I go inside to make one call, leave a message─one minute, maybe less, so I call “Janice, will you watch Julian for five minutes?”
One thing. There’s a man, big, huge actually. Doesn’t talk much. Doesn’t trap me with vile words neither. I watch him cradling my baby in one of his big arms and how Janice tags beside him, her arm raised so she could slip her small hand is his immense warm one. I peek through the hospital venetians. He stands in the middle of the parking lot, looks up and waves which is kind of funny coming from such a large man─the wave of a visiting dignitary. Later when a doctor in white walks in to talk to me, I stand sideways in front of the window. The large man is gone. There is no car in front of the yellow barrier, nor do I see the retreating back of a tall, wide man in a navy blue raincoat.
I was everything to her. Not my sister who was born without a heart. Something kept her alive, but it wasn’t her heart. I think she was just plain mean and staying alive for spite. My mother held me in her eyes until my brother was born. His soft blue blanket with shining borders lay folded in my lap. I held the soft wool to my face and breathed in its sweet country air. And then there it was, all round and full on my mother’s lap while I sat still and quiet in the back.
Ladies bustle from the boy baby’s room to the kitchen. The water pops before the bottles are lowered into the silver pot. I love the bottles and the round flat caps and the way the rubber nipples hide underneath, their tips just kissing the milk.
She rolls down the window and waves. She just slides into her brown velevt coat and goes and when she comes back, she lies in bed in her nightdress. I tiptoe into the room. “Janice,” she says. She’s so quiet, she almost whispers. She never twirls my hair again. She gets tired when she talks to me. Sometimes I’m mean and she gets sadder and sadder. I think she’s like one of the flowers outside, wilted and falling before winter. But when she opens her eyes wide, I hear rich full music streaming from them - voices and instuments twirling. Her eyes are clear and sweet as heaven. I hold my breath to keep the air from rustling. "Ma," I say, "Ma." And her eyes skim the room like bees in a desert.
Copyright Janice Colman 2008
Monday, November 3, 2008
Sex in '65
Melez simultaneously slides down his pants and underwear. I do the same and lie down as twigs scratch my ass and legs. I spread my legs. Melez sets himself on target and pushes. He presses against me and tries again.
“Melez,” I say, “maybe you’re not exactly in the right place.”
He fingers me.
“Nope. I’m in the right place all right. You’re just too small.”
“What?”
“I said I think you’re too small.”
I lift my legs in the air. “Listen, push harder, “I say. “Don’t worry about me, just push hard.”
Melez pushes, grunts and shoves.
I’m losing confidence. He’s smart all right and I love his profile—but when a girl gives a guy permission, lays it out there all wide and willing—“We’re going have to stretch you,” he says.
“You can do that? You think we’re going to make it tonight?”
He looks down, his eyes deep and brown glowing. “It’s going to take a week,” he says. I put my head on his bare strong shoulder. He wipes my eyes with his lips and pats down my matted hair. I’m learning about tenderness and loving it.
“Don’t you worry, one more week and you’ll be ready.”
I straighten myself up, tucking in my jersey front, sides and back.
“And Janice . . .”
“Yes?” I say.
“I love you.”
**************************
I enjoyed stretching. For one week, Melez fingered me.
“You’re ready,” he said one night after he’d wiggled five dove-tailed fingers up me. Melez poked in and out, slow and easy and then faster. I held my breath the whole time—I was like a novice swimmer just learning how to do the crawl. I wanted my life to be a wild fuck, free soul floating wild and home at last. I guess I saw cock to cunt as a lifeline—I was struggling in the deep end and fucking was going to be a life line pulling me to shore.
“It’s something you’ve got to learn, like walking or driving a car.”
I wasn’t reassured.
One night as Melez’s cabin mate, Martin Segal (whose voice never changed and who later became a double-chinned Conservative finance minister) lay asleep in the cot just two feet away, I lay flat pressed on top of Melez, his prick shoved up me as I grinded against his pubic hair. “Harder, harder, hey, don’t stop,” I said. I had a feeling this was an important moment—sun shining southern hot, its rays spreading like water rippling or a sand dune, skimming up to the surface, outward to my thighs, along tensed legs to pointed toes, breasts filling and swelling, skin all soft and velvet. I was hot. It was, we were, and then it was over, the tide slipped away. I wanted to hang on and ride the wave, and then I started grinning. I was gold-digger screaming happy. Marty, moralist virgin, yeshiva voyeur, woke up five minutes after I left which the following morning Juan remarked, “was impeccable timing.” I spent the rest of the summer on Melez’s wheezing cot, dancing on his cock and waving at Marty.
At the end of the summer Melez, shifty-eyed with promises of writing and weekend furloughs, hopped on a bus back to Buffalo. I had locked onto my north star which I’ve been following it ever since. After that summer I would bring my boys downstairs to the den and fuck them while grinding on top or beneath— it’s all about friction. Nothing hardcore screaming—I was just bent on the climb, reaching the top and planting another coming flag.
Copyright Janice Colman 2008
“Melez,” I say, “maybe you’re not exactly in the right place.”
He fingers me.
“Nope. I’m in the right place all right. You’re just too small.”
“What?”
“I said I think you’re too small.”
I lift my legs in the air. “Listen, push harder, “I say. “Don’t worry about me, just push hard.”
Melez pushes, grunts and shoves.
I’m losing confidence. He’s smart all right and I love his profile—but when a girl gives a guy permission, lays it out there all wide and willing—“We’re going have to stretch you,” he says.
“You can do that? You think we’re going to make it tonight?”
He looks down, his eyes deep and brown glowing. “It’s going to take a week,” he says. I put my head on his bare strong shoulder. He wipes my eyes with his lips and pats down my matted hair. I’m learning about tenderness and loving it.
“Don’t you worry, one more week and you’ll be ready.”
I straighten myself up, tucking in my jersey front, sides and back.
“And Janice . . .”
“Yes?” I say.
“I love you.”
**************************
I enjoyed stretching. For one week, Melez fingered me.
“You’re ready,” he said one night after he’d wiggled five dove-tailed fingers up me. Melez poked in and out, slow and easy and then faster. I held my breath the whole time—I was like a novice swimmer just learning how to do the crawl. I wanted my life to be a wild fuck, free soul floating wild and home at last. I guess I saw cock to cunt as a lifeline—I was struggling in the deep end and fucking was going to be a life line pulling me to shore.
“It’s something you’ve got to learn, like walking or driving a car.”
I wasn’t reassured.
One night as Melez’s cabin mate, Martin Segal (whose voice never changed and who later became a double-chinned Conservative finance minister) lay asleep in the cot just two feet away, I lay flat pressed on top of Melez, his prick shoved up me as I grinded against his pubic hair. “Harder, harder, hey, don’t stop,” I said. I had a feeling this was an important moment—sun shining southern hot, its rays spreading like water rippling or a sand dune, skimming up to the surface, outward to my thighs, along tensed legs to pointed toes, breasts filling and swelling, skin all soft and velvet. I was hot. It was, we were, and then it was over, the tide slipped away. I wanted to hang on and ride the wave, and then I started grinning. I was gold-digger screaming happy. Marty, moralist virgin, yeshiva voyeur, woke up five minutes after I left which the following morning Juan remarked, “was impeccable timing.” I spent the rest of the summer on Melez’s wheezing cot, dancing on his cock and waving at Marty.
At the end of the summer Melez, shifty-eyed with promises of writing and weekend furloughs, hopped on a bus back to Buffalo. I had locked onto my north star which I’ve been following it ever since. After that summer I would bring my boys downstairs to the den and fuck them while grinding on top or beneath— it’s all about friction. Nothing hardcore screaming—I was just bent on the climb, reaching the top and planting another coming flag.
Copyright Janice Colman 2008
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Expoding Bits and Pieces
Married life is a bad trip: our apartment building looks like one of those concrete store-it-yourself facilities. I stand at the far end of the corridor in front of apartment 807. This morning I asked him, “Are you sure this is a good marriage? Is this how it’s supposed to be?” "Sh," he said, "of course it’s a good marriage. Don't be silly," and then he held me. My head rested on his neck like a duck asleep on its feathers and I thought finally a place to rest, a warm body on a winter’s night. I’m learning to love him in hugging bursts, in quiet longing, and then all the time aching, but sometimes my heart feels like a safe that's been sprung and looted.
It’s after eleven. I leave a note on the bedroom door. “Please keep the darkness away. Please don’t put the light out.” And I sign it, “Yours,” even though I don’t belong to anyone.
Abie wakes me up in the middle of the night to wish me Happy Anniversary. “Come on, come on,” he says, putting his green terrycloth robe on my shoulders. On the bathroom mirror, there's a foamy "I love you" written in capitals. Abie is a capital-letter, underlining, and exclamation-point man, and I, I’m a National Film Board animation. As soon as I take shape, a limb reaches out, twisting and transforming. I’m a devil and an angel─sort of a metaphysical hermaphrodite.
“Oh,” I say, “Oh.” And I start to cry. I guess he’s used to my crying─I don’t save my tears for fancy occasions─he carries me to bed just like you see in the movies, possibly French or Italian with subtitles, and he kisses me, my neck, ears, and that space between my eyes where the world stands still. He lifts himself and lies full weight on top of me and rams in. I wrap my arms around him, tightly, so he can’t see my eyes unveiled and barren. And then he cups his palms on my ass, pushing it up, down-up and down like he’s priming an engine, and it’s true, he is.
He pokes his finger up my asshole. “Move it,” he says. “Move your ass.” He knows I need friction. I squeeze my eyelids closed and all the while I’m playing this old blues song in my mind, hush now baby come home baby, find your way home, until the brush of a snare drum grazes my thighs, and the back of my cunt like a camera shutter opens, closes, opens, closes, opens, letting in the pearl white light. The sun radiates. That’s what it is. I’ve got the sun in my cunt. Not the whole world in my hands; I’d tremble and drop the damn thing. I’ve a cunt full of world, exploding bits and pieces like there's no tomorrow.
Copyright Janice Colman 2008
It’s after eleven. I leave a note on the bedroom door. “Please keep the darkness away. Please don’t put the light out.” And I sign it, “Yours,” even though I don’t belong to anyone.
Abie wakes me up in the middle of the night to wish me Happy Anniversary. “Come on, come on,” he says, putting his green terrycloth robe on my shoulders. On the bathroom mirror, there's a foamy "I love you" written in capitals. Abie is a capital-letter, underlining, and exclamation-point man, and I, I’m a National Film Board animation. As soon as I take shape, a limb reaches out, twisting and transforming. I’m a devil and an angel─sort of a metaphysical hermaphrodite.
“Oh,” I say, “Oh.” And I start to cry. I guess he’s used to my crying─I don’t save my tears for fancy occasions─he carries me to bed just like you see in the movies, possibly French or Italian with subtitles, and he kisses me, my neck, ears, and that space between my eyes where the world stands still. He lifts himself and lies full weight on top of me and rams in. I wrap my arms around him, tightly, so he can’t see my eyes unveiled and barren. And then he cups his palms on my ass, pushing it up, down-up and down like he’s priming an engine, and it’s true, he is.
He pokes his finger up my asshole. “Move it,” he says. “Move your ass.” He knows I need friction. I squeeze my eyelids closed and all the while I’m playing this old blues song in my mind, hush now baby come home baby, find your way home, until the brush of a snare drum grazes my thighs, and the back of my cunt like a camera shutter opens, closes, opens, closes, opens, letting in the pearl white light. The sun radiates. That’s what it is. I’ve got the sun in my cunt. Not the whole world in my hands; I’d tremble and drop the damn thing. I’ve a cunt full of world, exploding bits and pieces like there's no tomorrow.
Copyright Janice Colman 2008
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