I can feel you here. Clasping my finger like a warm wet slide slip. The end of my finger is glossed with clear slip shine. Just one finger digit. The longest finger digit. The probe, the fire poker. I let it lie in the mouth just between the lips for the longest time. Not moving or twitching, just lying relaxed as if spent. Liquid runs down the inside of my hand and under the cuff of my shirt.
Your belly ripples like sand and your mouth opens with little fish gasps. Ah, ah, ah. Count the beats and later count the stiff slip strokes. You cannot move because you cannot. Red colours your sex and elastic lines parallel flesh.
The graffiti said 'Leda loves Swans' outside the window rain grey mists. Until the complimentary paint ran. Paintings were turned against the wall. Canvas shadowed with blue light. Drawing books were closed for the same reasons. We both know. Not many do. How does a shower of gold come?
There is a hissing echoes that counterpoints exactly with your breath. The start of an Asian instrumental perhaps. Bells, there are ding a ling bells. Of course this is romance. A nub glistens in context. Someone enters downstairs. I enter up.
It was fashion that gave us Intricate Tantric and the perfumed pleasured garden in the times of innocence. A time of complimentary.
The plumbing made its wet chest cough and the trains rattled to a beat Leonard Cohen yeah man.
So, I explained what was wanted and you listened for a while before boring yourself with your little reed flute. A little voice was soft and high as you reached the top C. I drew bodies as this landscape bed and once, I explained, had known a girl who had made pictures out of her own pubic hair. Cushioning against the wall and Curly and Soft were their names and the elements were alchemical on this list of elemental choices.
It was Sunday and it was righteous. Lesson began in how to draw. We will push you naked into wet natural made paper and highlight the resulting with candle smoke. You will draw shape extraordinary.
The rain continued on the windows and I pushed through the felt velvet cushions into the reason for being there. With a target hole in the felt that you could be felt through. The shadows of pendulous on the wall tipped so delicately with points to be made at this time and no other. I pushed my finger all the way to the point.
Art is the high priest of communication said the man who called himself the beast. Speak was said as I awoke still hard inside you, our legs wrapped together. You slept on so I drew a rose and a meadow flower. Unmoving so as to stay inside. This is the whole of the law he said and wept he said copious tears the cloth, in half. Where do you think I drew these things?