Nº. 1 of  106

My Trousers Rolled

It's from T.S. Eliot.

I'm from England.


MyTrousersRolled [at] Gmail [dot] com


(Source: stefanerakita, via rosebound)

(Source: noir-absolu, via pinkseachele)

(via sub-lili)

For a Little While Longer

"Can we wait?"

It was a wonder the words made it to his ears above the crash of their collision, twin libidos hurtling towards one another with all the speed and ferocity of a pair of Swiss particles. They slowed down, whatever semblance of control purely vestigial, his wrangling of himself anything but metered. Eventually groping turned to a caress, and the kiss went from French to chaste, if ever such a thing were possible. His lips went from hers to her forehead, and he finally pulled back, lay next to her, a few inches between them like a chaperon. 

"Are you ok?" From another mouth it could have come out insecure, but instead it just sounded concerned. She smiled and nodded, her hand coming up to sample the bristles on his cheek. 

"I’m fine. Just…" She shrugged, then stopped herself. "Not quite ready yet."

The space between them yawned, but he ignored it. 

Biology is a impertinent thing. It raps its knuckles across your skull, tries to hurl you off the cliff. The waters crash and collide with the rocks, but it never stops looking inviting, like the water would be cool against your skin, and the violence of the waves would be a thrill, a balm to the daredevil that seethed underneath your skin. He didn’t want to listen to her, he wanted to take every last part of her and make it his. 

It took a moment for him to realise his hand was still on her belly, fingers dimpling the skin, hovering half an inch above her underwear. It was black, soft lace giving way to the light sheen of satin, and it looked almost mocking, a dare to go further, see if she would acquiesce, give in. 

For a moment, he paused. For a moment, he thought about it, how easy it would be to slip down half a foot, boil her over. For a moment, for that split second, he could almost do it. 

For a moment, he despised himself. 

The hand moved off her, all but recoiled, and he forced his mouth to spread, something approaching a smile. His hand, the other hand, reached up and mirrored hers, lightly ran across her cheek. 

"Of course. It’s just time." 

She let out the breath she’d been holding. 


Hot Dreams

I want to take all of your air. Hold it hostage until I see honesty in your eyes. Affectations stripped away from you like so many clothes to slither off on the floor, ashamed and useless. I want to see the you under you, before you lathered on neurosis and insecurities. I want to see what colour desperation is on you. 

It’s what you want, isn’t it? It’s the idea you flirt with, the one you flutter your eyelashes at, imagine when you lie in bed at night, hand planted between your legs, trying to make something grow. To be pushed, cajoled, urged towards the edge of… whatever it is, a purity of sorts. 

So let’s take away the theatre. Dismiss the audience, sack the orchestra, and send all the other players home early. Dismantle the stage, until it’s just you and me on the wooden boarding, with nothing but each other left. Let’s hear you beg, let’s hear it without the moans, and the little inserted whimpers between every other word. Let’s hear the truth of it. 

You say you want to be afraid, but I’m not sure you know what fear is, not really. There’s a wistfulness to your voice, as if its some whimsical idea that you can entertain of an afternoon, writhe around in until you get a sense of it without ever really brushing up against the reality. You say you want to be truly controlled, totally at my mercy, but I’m not sure you know what you’re saying. 

Because I want metamorphosis. I want change, manifested in you, to watch the transformation from enjoyment to realisation to whatever is on the other side of that. I want you to leave different to when you arrived, take something on to carry with you. I want you to learn, but I don’t know what I want to teach. There’s a black hole between you and me, and I fear it’s sucking us both in. We’ll be crushed. 

Hold a little back. Do it for me. Retain a little control, just a touch, a smidgen, enough that it can be a ripcord if you need it to be. Enough that you can pull me back from the brink, if I stare off that edge so long I start to look crazed. Look out for me, with the corner of your eye, and I’ll look out for you. 

Nº. 1 of  106