April 30, 2015
April 30, 2015
April 30, 2015
Nearing home I took a long-cut
into unbreathed air, wide fields, stars;
my lights lit cow-parsley, spectral and eerie.
It was late and lonely
and I was thinking of William Stafford,
the deer he found on a mountain road.
pregnant and dead with her young still in her,
of what he did,
of what I might have dome.
The dark was vegetal,
I inhaled it
with the breath of small creatures pulsing near me.
Alone by the canyon,
to stop others swerving,
he heaved her with her young still in her
over the edge and into the river.
Clutching a happily handy knife
would I have slit her warm, full, belly,
extracted the fawn,
cut the cord,
wiped its frail limbs gingerly,
placed it on my coat on the car seat,
and lumbered and anxious
driven off to find fosterage?
He chose the sensible way,
modest and human.
Here a soughing wind
softly picks the teeth of the old stone walls;
by the birdless fields on the muddy verge
under Cassiopeia pulsing and silent,
what am I waiting for
standing in the dark,
why can’t I go home?
April 30, 2015
He didn’t have all the details worked out yet, but he was sure he was on the right track. The reason people thought he didn’t count was because he didn’t know the rules of the game. Yes, it was a game–like the games of his childhood. He hadn’t known that, maybe because he’d had to start too young, or too low, he, the son, as his mother said sarcastically, of Louisa and that scum Higgins.
But that wasn’t the main thing. What was important was to conform to the rules, certainly, but most of all, to know it was all a game. If you didn’t know that, you could make things impossible for other people.
The Rules of the Game
April 30, 2015
April 30, 2015
April 30, 2015
April 30, 2015
The ladies are delivered promptly by me. And, from being unpaid chauffer, my role rapidly changes to unpaid porter, as I carry their overnight bags to the house. Debbie, our hostess, a doe-eyed, fifty-something, opens the door. And, after a brief peck at my right cheek, says, ‘Take those straight upstairs, Peedeel, will you. I’ll bring the girls up, and show them their rooms.’
Ever compliant, I do as instructed.
My own room is at the back of the house with a view across the garden. I look out at the tall stand of silver birch trees, the liquid amber tree and the neat stretch of freshly mown lawn.
‘Magnificent, Debs,’ I say. ‘Magnificent as always.’
Debbie and Dee have been intimate friends for years. Debs had led Dee as a teen into early Sapphic experimentation. It was a time when Dee struggled with raging hormones and her uncertain, ambiguous sexuality.
Dee introduces Gabriella to Debbie on the landing. ‘Honey, you are just gorgeous,’ Debs says to her. She kisses her check gently, the merest touch of her lips. ‘I hope you’re going to like it here…’
Next Dee presents Lane. ‘What lovely eyes…’ Debs is full of compliments when introduced to a new female face. As if she’s assessing them, their potential as lovers or one-night-stands. Lane is very boyish, painfully thin. Could easily play the role of a young man.
When I walk out on the landing there’s a young woman coming up the stairs. She’s in a denim skirt, black tights and white blouse. Her name’s Vic, Debs informs me. She introduces us. Vic is short for Victoria, and she’s a school teacher.
‘Peedeel is not part of our festivities,’ Debs reassures Vic who regards me with suddenly cautious eyes. ‘He’ll keep himself to himself while we burn the midnight oil.’
‘Won’t you get bored?’ she asks me.
‘I’ve got my walkman with me,’ I reply. ‘I’ll listen to Mahler.’
‘Are you, uh, okay with that?’ Puzzled expression on her face. She doesn’t know what to make of me, or my presence here in this all female preserve.
‘Peedeel is long suffering, Vic. He’s used to our occasional soirées.’ Debs dismisses me with a wave of her hand, and I go down stairs for a drink. They don’t realise Dee’s promised me an afternoon of delights for tomorrow.
Before its closure in 2008 Debs and her partner (in crime) Cal (Cally E) were like permanent weekend fixtures at Candy Bar in Soho. It was the place to be for grrrls! And originally, back in the day, it was London’s only full-time lesbian club.
Nowadays, the pair tended to frequent Dido’s in Chinatown where the antics of dyke DJ Straplet Stardust are almost legendary. Here, Saturday nights, they can drink their favourite cocktails, listen to the music, or dance with butches, femmes and all grades in-between. Of course, Debs and Cal are part of the more mature, well-heeled club crowd. It isn’t really a place for a quiet pint and a pack of pork scratchings. No, it’s more a place for networking, for meeting like-minded women, and drinking exotic pink cocktails. Which is what they did, regularly.
Today it’s their aim to reproduce the club’s den-like intimacy in their own home. A sophisticated soirée, at least to begin with, not a sweat-fest…That, at any rate, was Debs hope. Cal, on the other hand, felt the drinks on offer would help detonate inhibitions, and transform the evening into a major love-fest! As she so succinctly put it, ‘Get some fresh young pussy in your face…You’re only as young as the pussy you feel.’
The long through-lounge has been transformed. Beanbags and cushions on the floor between sofas and armchairs. Brightly coloured ethnic throws over all the furniture to guard against spills, both alcoholic and human. Mattresses positioned in the huge bay at the front of the room. Floor lamps strategically placed…
‘Cal will be mixing margaritas later,’ Debs says to the girls. ‘But be careful with ‘em. They are formidable, and too many will leave you forgetting who you are and where you live…’
Cal is in the kitchen. We embrace. ‘Lookin’ good, Peedeel,’ she says, holding me at arm’s length.
‘You too, Cal.’ She’s tall, attractive, with short, greying blonde hair. Slightly younger than Debs, she’s wearing black slacks and a tailored white waistcoat over a baggy red shirt.
‘It’s going to be a helluva night…I hope! Fingers crossed.’
‘I put a tumbler and a bottle of Glen in your room for you. It’s your own personal bottle, no sharing.’
I laugh. ‘Thanks, Cal. You’re a star.’
I disappear later as the guests start arriving. My room is en-suite and has a lock on the door so I shouldn’t be disturbed by any curious passersby. I lay on the bed with a whiskey and when the first dull bomp-bomp beat of music rises through the floor, I put on my headphones.
Mahler. His ninth symphony. Magnificent. That last, cataclysmic slow movement, where the music gradually, achingly bridges the gap between sound and silence. Between life and death…When I first heard this as a child, it reduced me to tears. Truly. It’s effect is profound.
Outside a fresh breeze ruffles the trees about the house. Pitch black night. Not too cold though. I decide to venture down to the garden for some air.
Swiftly, stealthily I descend the stairs. Shrill laughter and voices from the lounge. A crowd in the kitchen, full of gay attitude. I slip out the front door and walk round the back.
From the edge of the patio I see into the lounge. The huge picture window is like a cinema screen. The floor lamps inside, draped with silk or some other diaphanous material, cast orange or red light over everything. There are a few couples in the centre of the room dancing, cheek-to-check. No hip gyrating now. Then I catch sight of Dee…
She stands, one knee resting on a sofa. She still wears her sequined top but the wrap-around skirt is gone. A woman sitting on the sofa fingers the damp heat between Dee’s legs. Across the room I recognise Debs in an armchair with Vick on her lap. Vic is totally naked and presses the swollen nest of her genitals against Debs long fingers.
The soirée transcends itself, becomes a margarita fueled orgy…as expected. Naked or semi-naked women throughout the room. Kissing. Embracing. From here I can see without being seen. One woman bending forward on a bean bag, dental dam firmly in place, as another spreads her wide to perform annilingus. My cock is stiff and aching…
I walk across the lawn as far as the birch trees. The breeze does little to cool me. I feel as if every erogenous zone on my body is inflamed. Still, like a moth to candle flame, I’m drawn back to the patio. Back to that view.
Dee is on the sofa now, naked, aggressively scissoring with the woman who was earlier fingering her. Vic is kissing and fondling Debs, her breasts, but Cal is kneeling between her wide spread legs licking Vic’s inflamed vulva.
Lane, naked, titless, is sprawled beneath two women who tongue greedily between her yawning thighs. I can’t see Gabriella but she’s probably in the room somewhere. Part of this insane, fleshy turbulence…
“Look at the red-headed troop of the wrigglers of hips…Pack of bitches on heat…with your eyes lost in white distances.”
How do I feel seeing Dee that way? It’d be a lie to say I wasn’t jealous. Jealousy is this black ugly thing; it blooms like a hot-house flower deep inside. Sight of her sweating and entwined with another is a stain on my vision…Seeing her now, this moment, a moan spilling from her open mouth is like a knife in the guts…
“Take courage, lover!
Could you endure such pain
At any hand but hers?”
My eyes take in breasts big and small, old and young. Nipples like chocolate buttons, or swollen thimbles. Knuckles grinding against tender flesh. Bellies taut and sagging. Faces, some made-up, others not. Slippery fingers penetrating…
I feel drugged. I’m paralysed. Can’t move. This torrid scene sucks me in. Reason has just taken a hike, pissed off elsewhere. Gone feckin’ fishing.
I see Gabriella at last. She’s squatting like a dog. Impaled on a condom covered dildo. Debs rises from the armchair her arm round Vic. Cal is with them, looking slightly glassy-eyed. Vic’s face is flushed deep scarlet, she’s that turned-on, but she pulls away to speak to Gabby.
Now Gabriella rises, tugs herself free. Staggers a little, then helps the woman with the dildo to her feet. They both follow Debs, Vic and Cal out of the room. And I know they are going upstairs. Debbie and Cal’s bedroom. More privacy…And Debs has the hots for Gabby! A fivesome. Feckin’ hell!
I finally manage to pull myself away from the window. I feel like I’m swimming upstream with weights attached to my feet. My last view of Lane, she is on all fours, arse toward me. Her slit is like a small, glistening red wound, dribbling wetness down her skinny thighs. At least three women are closing in on her…
Somehow I go to my room. I pour more scotch; drink it down. I undress, my cock still jutting painfully. Scramble into bed, headphones back on. This time it’s Mahler’s fifth, the glorious Adagietto…Used to such great effect in Luchino Visconti “Morte a Venezia” (Death in Venice). And for the first time in my life, I see my Dee as Tadzio…
Eventually I sleep. My dreams are of Venice, of entwining bodies, of sex. On the Lido I reach for Dee, who in turn reaches for the sun…