Category Archives: Sex

Trigger Warning


Hunched in the seat in the stains of all who came before to- sex crimes division, glass door, bullet proof, sharp black lettering on the wall behind, locked tight with a bell to ring that only rings if you press it for five, four, three, two, one–  look at the file, the tissue box, the bland bench, the white wall, the Duress Button, red and hemi-circle. Feeling oddly little, well, not oddly, you know this ritual, distance so that you don’t cry. The predictability of that feminine display of emotion is extra humiliation under his blue-eyed stare, blue-eyed like him, like- “You’re a girl, it’s what girls do” when you comment on how many messages you have to scroll through to find the evidence, thick, dripping, distant rage flares and dies and you don’t cry. You don’t say a word. You read the blue bubbles like clockwork for the fourth time, hand the phone over, already violated, privacy is nothing now that you gave them username and password and everything you ever said in the name of evidence, of proof, of please for fuck’s sake someone fucking believe me it was real it was real it was real it was-

He hands the phone back and you exit the screen, flip it closed, flip it open again, flip it closed, and open one more time before clenching it in your fists until they ache. Bite down hard on antipathy the way he bit your thighs before you knew when a chuckle precedes “I hope you’re not into any of that nasty stuff like the cutting, disgusting what we get in cybercrime,” conversational like his revulsion at your being isn’t something you can taste behind your teeth.

Recounting it takes the taste and slips it into narrative, this you know, this you do well. Absence again, watch his face carefully blank as he types what you say, intentionally getting details wrong for later, when he prints it, and you have to read and correct, like critical thought is something anyone can do. Her name doesn’t have an e. That’s the wrong date. Yes, he was naked. No, I slept on the couch. Yes, they knew I was there. No, I didn’t tell them.

He’s typed it all like it’s jealousy. They’re dating again. You try to correct him. They post photos, together on beaches, smiling like he didn’t do it and she didn’t know. He amends some sentences, but the story reads the same. He’s not sorry. You’re exhausted. You don’t try again.

“You have to understand” You have to understand, you do understand, you knew before you made the decision opened the door stepped through and spoke, “That most people on a jury will think like me, they’ll see this-”

Gesture at the file, the statement, flicking through earlier he let slip the photo of her, the closest one, who in one breath said It’s not your fault if he took the bait and in the next said well you brought it on yourself-

“- And they’ll think that you got what you were asking for, it’s what you were talking about after all.”

No it wasn’t no it wasn’t no it wasn’t what about this do you not fucking understand

Sharp smile, practiced, your voice is strained and you hate it. “Well I have to try anyway. Someone else might get hurt.”

He looks at you like you’re lying, and again you feel filthy, and somewhere far away the rage burns in a small glass bottle, growing dimmer.

You go home and have nightmares for the 14th night in a row.


Sorry for the silence- Notebook Tidbits


Let me get inside your head,

Let me introduce you to want, to lust,

To the grotesque and the carnival,

To the blood and the hunger and the flesh.

Let me give you the taboo,

The safety in indulgence, in risk;

Here in words everything is sacred,

Everything is true and honest and

You will not be judged.

Let me lead you where you will not go,

But have always wondered,

“What if?”

My mouth is full of snakes.

I would throw myself to the tracks beside but it would take one half of me, and harmonic though my ribs may be I feel that is too harsh a price. With ropes upon the earth I hold my tongue and wait; bright green-yellows and gentle whites guide the eyes and hold them stable herein without and basic… Still they watch, they wait for this chassis to break, crack open and spill the world ultraviolet.

Silence descends. I will find my way back.

They exchanged “I love you” against each other’s lips, catching the words with tongues and pulling them back into their mouths to be inhaled like smoke.

It infuriates me, the way she breaks me open like a lotus, a rose. Every night she stifles my complaints with kisses, and with her touch bids me forget, lost beneath her gaze. Always the same routine; the sex, the paint, sleep and then she is gone in the morning.

A water box in a glass box with a fish in it, I don’t understand what I’m looking at.

I don’t want to go in. I don’t want to go in!

A fish tank is a vivid warning in my dissociated state and crossing from the park outside to the park inside brings me to a one-way vacuum door. How cruel it is to show us freedom, a world outside without the bars, the noise, the nurses, the beds without heads and doors without doorknobs.

“It’s only a follow-up.” He soothes and clutches my agitating hands to his chest, gentle though I know he clenches his teeth because I have scratched him again.

Have I been speaking out loud, how does he know? Will he leave me here- oh god the doors are open and in this tiny room the air is stale and sterile- will he come back when it’s all over? I cling, and breathe, and bite my tongue. He understands.

We have to wait for the door to open again, nurses, beds, and hospital gowns down the walkway behind the walls. My fishtank breaks open with a whoosh and he leads me forward, gently smiling, a shine in his eye, reassurances that are yet to fade.

I glance back and the door slips closed, nary a fish within the box now that it is within the bowl.

Tidbit: Flesh


I love the rampant destructive eroticism of this world.

Only humans could look at their existence and see the beautiful in the obscene, purity in excess, completion in termination. Excellence in grotesquery.  Sadomasochism is inherent in every thought and movement and we spend our lives studying ourselves, learning what makes us tick, wondering why something provokes awe while another provokes disgust, and often, why the two emotions can be connected to the same object. Religion is as perfect an example of self-torture as any, depicting intense suffering as holy salvation. The concept of revelry in excess applies still to the denial of all but the necessary, an excess of puritanism, an excess of resistance to temptation. Likewise, spiritual wholeness can be found in loss of control and release from the concept of ‘too much.’

No other creature is as immaculately drunk on its own senses as a human being. No other creature seeks as tenaciously to complete and understand itself. No other creature will hunger so voraciously for the suggestion of perfection, and no other creature is as willing to gently hold death as a symbol of the unknown. It is a fascinating, awkward, gibbering philosophy, and I adore it.

When I found her, she was curled upon a decrepit garden bench beneath a streetlight, glittering pink heels hanging from two crooked fingers as she stared in wonder at the stars above. Her white gown was filthy- green and brown grass stains, all over her knees and shoulders and, I guessed, her back- and hitched up over her thighs, revealing flashes of threadbare Hello Kitty underwear as she kicked her toes up in the air. Her thighs and knees were smeared with hour-old blood, but it did not seem to bother her. She was unaware of me. The faintest tones of a broken lullaby drifted from her lips, accompanied by the sickly sweet aroma of vodka and vomit that never failed to turn my stomach. I continued to near her regardless, fascinated, entranced by her messy copper curls, her brilliantly painted neon-pink nails. She seemed to vibrate with the effects of a party drug I was unfamiliar with.

“Don’t you know it’s dangerous to be out here alone?” I threw out my voice as clearly as I could manage it, still a few paces from her bench, pressing my hands into the pockets of my jacket as she lolled her head to the side. Her eyes glittered as she struggled to focus on me in the dark. A dizzy grin spread across her face, gaze finally locking on my form, carelessly free and heavily drugged. I swallowed rising bile. She was more than a little drunk. I could forgive her that; I was more than a little thirsty.

“Thass what I came here for.” She barked a mirthless laugh. “I like the danger. M’names Lucy. What’s yours?”

“I try not to give my name to girls who court danger.” Melody. My name is Melody. I bit back the words in favour of self-preservation and walked a little nearer, offering an apologetic smile as I entered her little hemisphere of light. She was even more intoxicating up close. “May I sit with you a while, Miss Lucy?”

Her grin spread wider and her cold, clammy fingers found mine before I had even lowered myself onto the seat. “Be my guest.” She purred, resting a foot on my lap. “I don’t bite. Much.”


Her skin tastes like salt.

My tongue points behind my lips and as I bend my head to place another delicate kiss along the sharp edge of her hip, that dainty place between thigh and belly, I can taste her; clammy and smooth and salted like a fish. Her legs twitch slightly under my hands and the faintest of giggles erupts from her cherry-flushed lips. She sighs with relief. I smile. My fingers pull a cup of ocean up along her ankle, right up her calf to her knee, letting it slip back into the vast abyss in tiny transparent rivulets.

Under the stars she shimmers, all bald head and gracefully bony body, a delicious nakedness that has nothing to do with our current nudity. Out here beneath the night sky her bad girl façade is gone, leaving the meat of her, the brilliant and fragile beauty that enchanted me so completely. Something in what we had done calmed her, allowed her a moment freedom from the defensive shell she’d carried with her all this time.

I’m still alive! Tidbit.


It is the autumn of 2012. I am nineteen, naked in the studio of Yelena Konstantinov. It is the first time I have met her in person, and though I don’t know it yet, I am in love.
Yelena’s hand peels carefully from my hip, the only slice of flesh unswaddled by silk, and hovers nervously above her handiwork. There on the faint olive of my skin is an off-white hand print, lined and spiked in the shapes of her long fingers. Even the scar on her palm came through, a slight depression in the paint. A chill sets in immediately and then my skin begins to tighten, the paint already drying in the cold air. I peer at it a moment and then lay down, sprawled and relaxed.
“Stay there.” She flashes me a smile. Cherry lipbalm, shiny white teeth. “You are comfortable?”
“Yes, thankyou.” The couch is surprisingly comfortable, if ancient and broken. A bass cacophony erupts from the aged support beams whenever I move. The silk rustles. I let it brush my lips, watching Yelena’s perfectly shaped ass swing from side to side as she returns to stand by her canvas. She twists and I look away, feigning disinterest.
She begins her work.
Half an hour passes as I lie sanguine on the couch, wrapped in black silk, watching her sketch shapes onto a canvas with an oil pencil. She sings to herself in melodic Russian, a lullaby I’ve never heard, and glances at me through stray strands of her hair. Animal green eyes flashing through a torrent of dark chocolate.
“You are a good model.” She says eventually, standing back from the easel, her gaze flicking rapidly between me and the canvas. She sweeps in suddenly and adds a few quick modifications to the image, and then repeats the process. “Do you do this often?”
“Modelling?” She nods, and I roll the silk against my lip again. “No, not really. It’s not that hard just to lay still for a couple of hours.”
A tinkling laugh graces her lips and dimples her cheeks, lending her body a cheerful exuberance that translates into the painting. Bright colours emerge through the back of the canvas as the light seeps through. Rose Madder, Indigo, Australian Grey. I can see the tubes of paint resting on the splattered table next to her. She paints with great energy, using sweeping movements for lines, scrubbing at the canvas with a rough-haired brush to fill in the white space. It’s almost as if she is dancing with the image, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet in tandem with the movements of her arms. Dust particles drift down from the ceiling, caught in the fluorescent lights dangling overhead. Night falls outside and I find myself getting sleepy, drifting off to the sound of her singing and the scratching of the brush. Euphoria takes me.

Yelena wakes me some time later with a gentle touch, murmuring my name.
“Mary.” A whisper, soft against my shoulder. “Mary.”
She hovers near me, peering into my eyes. I smell turpentine, oil paints and liquid medium, and suddenly I want to kiss her.
Her eyes are warm. Understanding. She beats me to it, grasping my neck, pressing her mouth to mine. Her kisses are hungry, sweet, tasting of nougat and coffee. Her breath is hot. Her fingers are cold.
We roll together and crush the silk, and forget the world outside.

Tidbit: Patient Zero


“In Hebrew, to engage in sexual intercourse literally means “to know.”  This is not just a euphemism.  The connection between erotic desire and knowledge is lodged both in our origin story in the Garden of Eden, and written into the word philosophy—philo, loving, sophia, knowledge or wisdom—a loving of knowledge.”

(From Here)

A Particularly Pleasant Quote


My fondness for themes of sexuality and suffering comes from my desire for true honesty.

I like to see the life inside people, and that’s easiest to access through intense pain or sex.

I like being that honest, and I like to see that honesty in others.

I like to study it and write about it, and think about what it does to the world.

There’s a rawness in it, a  true beauty, and it fascinates me.

Intensity and Honesty