Nightmares
pending publication 2002

Dylan felt desire flush through his body as the woman drew close to him, her gossamer gown draping and whispering behind her, barely hiding the curves of her body.  She smiled at him seductively, her lips so red like blood against the ivory of her teeth that seemed to be made to devour and kiss.  His manhood rose, engorging with blood until he felt his own heart beating against the tender flesh of his belly.  He watched as her gown opened, exposing her full ripe breasts, glistening like full moons that swayed with the cadence of her stride.  Her eyes gleamed like tidepools, sucking him down into their depths.

A moment later her moist lips were upon him, her tongue probing the soft inside shell of his mouth, kissing him so deeply that he thought he could feel his organs surge upwards in his body with the escape of each breath.  The kiss deepened even further, tugging his blood through his body so that he felt only the sensation of her mouth wetly melding with his own and his throbbing manhood swelling aggressively.  He thought of those lips wrapped deliciously around that swollen root, that mouth sucking him deeply into her throat like the feel of the tide sucking waves of pleasure from the core of his being.  He would have exploded if she had not broke the kiss right then and there.
 
 

 

 
The Song of the Soul
pending publication 2002

The ocean lay dark upon the face of the deep.  All still and seamless night—the womb of the unborn, the shroud of the dead.  Nothing—not a breath, not a pulse, nor the opening of an eye.  Only silence was complete.  Unheard.  Unknowing.

The ocean gathered and swelled, expelling the first breath of eternity.  The infinite creation unfurling, like sails upon a ship—a dark velvet tapestry—spilling from the horizon, waves lapping upon the shores of forever and again.  Without beginning.  Without end.

Time that was not time did pass.
 
 

Chrysalis
pending publication 2002

It was Friday night and the streets were lit with blue-Hollywood light and neon all a glow-glow. Cars cruised slowly by, greasy windshields behind which middle-aged men jerked their load into soiled tissue held by sweaty palms.  A slow drizzle fell down stirring up smells of urine, and things dying or dead, shimmering against the asphalt in a perfect film noir mis-en-scene.

Jane stood under an overhang trying to look bored or tough, or both.  A cigarette dangled like a damsel-in-distress from her glossy lips as she pulled her leopard-print coat tight around her and re-adjusted her platinum wig.  A couple of young gender-fuck boys crawled out from under a bridge, hugging hip to hip in a tragic dance as they scurried down the street seeking their Cinderella dreams.
 

Breathless
pending publication 2002

I am perched on the edge of the bathtub balancing upon the tips of my toes, my legs quivering.  I fight to catch my breath, to calm the thunder of my heart.  I gaze in the mirror, half in love with my own reflection.  The sight of the noose hanging loosely around my pale slender throat, a bruised necklace of intimate hickeys or the fingerprints left from a lover's passionate embrace.  I follow the rope's length with my eyes to the top end which is secured upon the wrought-iron curtain rod.  A layer of sweat glistens on my skin, the undershirt I wear threadbare and translucent, so my dark nipples protrude above the austere edge of my ribs.  I am all sharp angles.  Visible geometry of my bones jutting beneath the flesh.  A strange anatomy.

I imagine that I am a demented marionette, my neck twisted at a grotesque angle, my hands pulled by silver threads sewn to my fingertips.  The rope secured above me directs my morbid fate, my tragic dance.  Dark circles ring my eyes, my lips smeared red into a bloody kiss.  But it is all just a fantasy of dust that I cannot cling to for long, and I laugh at the ridiculous beauty of it, picturing it as an underground cult film all twisted and perverted and heroine chic.  Softly in the background Bach's cello plays a strange fugue.
 
 

 
Kissed
pending publication 2002

Her mouth trembled.

Full and lush.  The inside of a plum, its bloody flesh forever bruised.  It begged to be kissed.  To be devoured.  And, how I wanted to rape it with my tongue and leave her breathless.  Screaming for more.  I wanted to kiss her lips until they turned blue.  To ravish them.  To silence them.  God forgive me, but I craved more than you can know.  Darkly.  And, ever so deeply.
 
 

November Snow
pending publication in Spring 2002 - Dancing Skinless

                November took the last drag of her clove cigarette and ground the butt out on the
                heliotrope flesh of her inner arm, next to the chickenscratch-scar of some boy's initials, that
                she could no longer remember the name of.  The pain was exquisite. . .  She crushed the
                heater slowly, taking deliberate pleasure in that one square centimeter of agony, wanting to
                expand the experience so it blotted out all other thoughts.  All her nerve endings seared in
                an onslaught of delirious sensation, mind-warping, explosive.  Her mind was crystalline, free
                from obstructions and she realized that she lived for moments like these, when the prosaic
                routine of life evaporated into the keen revelation of one shear, blinding climax of consciousness.
 
 

Addiction
pending publication in Spring 2002 - Suspect Thoughts

I wrap him in my embrace and lead him out through the throng of warm bodies.  I can feel the heat from him like steam rising into my cold hard body, the rapid pulse at his neck as I rub my lips against him and tongue his jaw, taste his soft boy-stubble and the shiver of excitement that rushes through him like an underwatercurrent.  His hair is clean and smells of cloves and his jaw is firm clenched with anticipation.  He leans against me, intoxicated from too much drink and the rapture he has fallen under.

The night is brisk and clear and tastes of rain.  He shivers and I hold him closer against me, stealing his warmth.  Above, the moon lays hidden behind the clouds, but I can sense it, feel it pulling the liquids inside of him, tugging the blood to the surface of his skin, feel the thunder of his veins filling and aching to spill.

Sacrificial  Blood
Jan/March 2001 - Suspect Thoughts

I couldn't move. My limbs were heavy with drug and bound hand and foot, wrapped in black leather shackles, warm, organic, attached to the altar by cumbersome chains, arms and legs parted wide. Fear flushed through me, yet not exactly fear without the thrill of exquisite anticipation coursing through the heat and pulse of my veins.

I first heard the movement, a sweeping rhythm of fabric whispering, the soft shuffle of bare feet across the wooden floor, the metallic chiming of bracelets, then the sweet spicy aroma of sandalwood embraced me. I saw her shadow looming above, long hair as dark as a raven's wing, the folds of her heliotrope robes quivering and fluttering open like vagina lips. I caught a glimpse of a rosebud nipple, smooth moon-skin, soft woman-curves, luminous eyes like pools of dark water. Then the beautiful face, so darkly angelic and filled with wicked innocence so I could scarcely believe she was capable of such atrocities, yet fully understood that she was.

A Deeper Shade of Grey
pending publication 2002 - Alison Books

                I squeezed my eyes tight to fight back tears. What had I done?  Scenes flashed behind my
                eyes.  Drinking warm, red wine and kissing warm, red lips.  Soft woman-skin that smelled
                of beach and driftwood and rain.  Drunk on passion, on the mysteries of female flesh.  Had
                I really done all that?  It felt like a faraway dream and the more I tried to think about last
                night, about the texture of her skin and the mewling sounds she made when she came, the
                more I wanted to forget.  I rolled onto my belly and smothered my face into the pillow but
                could not escape the scent of sex and the ghosts of evening past.
 
 

The Garden of Earthly Delights
January 2002 - Penny Dreadful

I sat opposite Pia on a patio of mosaic tiles that overlooked the hanging garden; a multi-tiered assortment of terraces and balconies that spilled a floral orgy of bloody devouring flowers down into the courtyard and beyond that to the sea.  I was filled with drink and the heady intoxication of violent perfumes that filled the humid night breeze.  Earlier that evening she had escorted me on a tour through her expansive vineyards, then later down into her cellar were she had chosen a rare vintage to share with our evening meal.

We had dined at dusk; the sunset blazing like a passionate inferno, then fading to the evening purple steeped with vast shadows.  The color had finally sank out of the sky and the twilight turned a deep-grey drifting with phantasmagorias that stirred the shadows.  Then suddenly, the moon arose beyond the dark landscape of the horizon, flooding the terrace and lighting each trembling vulvoid cluster down to the tranquil water so they quivered in orgasmic delight.

I sat entranced, watching the movement of her succulent mouth still stained by the juice of strawberries as they formed the words she spoke of so passionately.  Words about life and death and love.
 
 

The Hands of Fate
June 2000 - Venus or Vixen

                Daemien looked like a fallen angel, his smooth sculptured features, small cherub lips, a halo of
                blond curls around his head.  He was a perfect  Michelangelo—but that was his great
                deception—for beneath that placid face lay a great brooding darkness.  He wore it all too
                well.  His head was slightly tilted, pale curls spilling over his eyes, his jaw muscles clenched
                in contemplation and slightly twitching.  I could have stood there and watched him forever.
 
 

 
A Swan's Song
1999 - Blood Moon zine

                His hands were gentle as they wandered over her body, touching her intimately, gliding along
                the length of her legs, up her hip to the curve of her waist, up to feel the swell of her breast.
                Jaiden rolled on top of her and kissed her throat, running his hot tongue down her skin.
                It seemed she could not grasp any air and yet the last thing she cared about was the ability
                to breathe.  Her belly was alive with a pleasurable fluttering, as if a cage inside of her
                had been unlocked and one hundred birds set free to swoop and soar and beat their wings in
                all her hollow spaces.  She could feel a hard bulge against her thigh as he rubbed against
                her and she longed to feel his hardness enter her and engulf her at once.
 
 

The Festival of the Snake
Fall 1999 -  Scarlet Letters and May 2002  Amatory Ink

                The snakes slithered over Alethea's flesh, curling around her neck, between her legs.
                They slithered over the tattoo, their colors becoming one with it.  One glided through her
                hair and curled in front of her forehead to turn and look her directly in the eye.  She felt no
                fear now.  Only the power of the Goddess protecting her and rushing in her veins.  The
                snake's tongue flicked out to taste her and she slipped her tongue out to meet it.

                The music became feverish with finger-drums and flutes and tambourines.  The crowd began
                to chant along with the Daughters of the Moon and the Priestess' prayers rose to a passionate
                pitch.  Alethea could no longer hear the words of the Priestess, only chanted singing, the wild
                barbaric clashing of cymbals, droning horns, thundering drums, and screaming flutes.  The
                people undulated to the erratic rhythm lost in an ecstatic frenzy of worship.
 
 
 

manifest | covet | exhume | possess | bleed | breathe
 gaze  |  sacrifice  | writhe  |  stalk | lust | expose
intercourse