Sydney Rd is Silent

(This is an old one from 2013.)

3AM

I have been struck by a memory momentarily so tangible that the effect is physical. I feel that warmth in my mouth, a strange thing that happens when I am aroused; as if I heat up so rapidly that I can taste it. The other thing that happens, there is no other way to describe it, my cunt clenches.

It might be the remembered sensation of all the times he has fucked my mouth so violently that the back of my throat feels tender the next day. I may recall the feeling of my fist in her cunt, the warmth and the incredible intimacy that comes from being deep inside another creature. Maybe I recall some of the filthiest sex I’ve ever had in a log cabin surrounded by 800 year old fern trees and the cool, dark nighttime of the ancient Daintree rainforest, my mouth tasting of alcohol, his arsehole and the feeling my own piss running down my leg. Maybe I’ll recall the first time I orgasmed in public, surrounded by at least forty strangers, fully clothed and straddling a Sybian, him kissing my neck. Or the man who whispered in my ear “Tonight, you are going to be the one to make me come.”

I tell myself stories about myself and feel that mixture of arousal, agitation and isolation.  Memories I may have not visited in a long time are potent this late at night.

Sydney Rd is silent. The only sound is my computer occasionally muttering to itself, the clicking of my mouse and the hum of the electric heater at my feet. The only light in the whole apartment complex comes from the flickering glow of my monitor. Tonight I watch my porn on mute.

Another Me

(This is an old writing from 2013 that I rediscovered and really liked. It’s a bit dark as it explores the psychological stuff of my relationship with BDSM, you have been warned.)

At his orders, I made another me.

It wasn’t difficult to do. One night I dreamt of her and when I woke up in the morning, there she was. She was perched on the edge of the bed with eyes full of nervous anticipation. Because she was me, entirely me, she knew exactly what I was going to do with her.

I’d always had a desire to own a suit tailored for my short and curvy body and had decided that this would be the perfect occasion to invest in such attire. So when we entered his house I was overdressed in my suit and heavy theatrical make-up, while beside me she was entirely nude, unadorned apart from a collar and cuffs. He laughed when we entered and our cheeks burned red with embarrassment; she felt revealed, I was irritated. “Hey, fuck you! I look great in a suit!” I said and he laughed again.

But it was obvious he was intrigued and so he ordered her to kneel; which, because she was me, she was trained to do. He exclaimed over her uncanny likeness and began pinching her, slapping her to test her responses which were my own exactly but I could tell he remained unconvinced –

until he kissed her, and whereas she had flinched from the abuse, she pushed up into that kiss with the absoluteness of someone in love. I winced to witness myself so exposed and felt grateful for the distance provided by my costume and my other self.

He pulled away from her with dark eyes and I couldn’t tell what he was thinking, nor could she, but I knew she was more afraid than we had ever been.

We had an agreement.

She was to be the vessel upon which we would enact our sickest fantasies – the things he and I wanted done to me, but which were far too threatening to my sanity and mortality. She would experience everything exactly as I would, the depths of depravity and extremes of suffering which I craved but feared would be my undoing. It didn’t matter if we destroyed her, I was her backup copy.

She trembled.

Unable to bear my empathetic understanding of her situation, I did something which I had been curious about but which nobody had ever done to me. This would create a tangible distance between us, her first unique experience that would define her identity as separate from my own and take her somewhere I would not follow. I began to cut into her skin, just above her chest, with a surgical blade I had brought from my studio, still covered in blue pastel dust and fragments of glitter that mixed into the blood sliding down her breasts.

She began to cry, my heart began to pound.

We both knew it now. She was not going to make it past this evening, yet nothing in the world would compel her to leave.

I wanted this.

Dust

Flickering candlelight illuminates silicone tits, shaved cunts, oversized cocks and beautiful faces bespattered with thick cum. The only sound is the gentle buzzing of a bullet vibrator, her orgasm is mute as the sound of her own voice is too jarring in this almost absolute silence.

Approximately five months after they all disappeared, she took refuge in an abandoned adult department store on the main highway connecting Melbourne to Sydney. This made practical sense as it was situated between a Chemist Warehouse and a 24 Hour Gym, so she was able to survive on old protein powders and vitamin supplements. She slept in the office of the sex store on an old mattress, wrapped in faux mink blankets which she scavenged from Kmart before it collapsed.

She plastered the walls with photos from porn magazines. These had provided her only company for a very long time now and so all her notions and memories of the flesh and actuality of humanity were replaced by these remnants of sexual ideals. Now when she tries to recall the faces of loved ones, she can only see platinum blondes with heaving breasts or the hairless abs of gay porn stars.

In an attempt to pass the endless time and cope with the suffocating boredom, she masturbates. There is a good supply of batteries and a huge variety of vibrators for her to choose from and perhaps this is the real reason she chose to take refuge here; in this dream world full of pleasing shapes and bright colours, these objects of escapism and pleasure are the antithesis of what lays outside, the opposite of the barren landscape where the sunlight is a hazy silver through the smog and everything is coated in that grey, omnipresent dust. Sometimes it rains but the water tastes like ash and the dust turns to mud.

Night and day are entirely devoid of the sounds indicative of life, no cars, no birds, no skittering feet or buzzing flies. There is nothing but the hollow wind, the unconscious creaking of old architecture and sometimes, a sudden and violently loud crashing from crumbling plaster and collapsing steel as buildings no longer maintained have begun to deteriorate.

There was a time she was convinced that she could hear music, too faint to pick out the tune, like a radio that was very far away. She spent what she estimated to be a year, judging by the passing of the seasons, searching for the source of this sound. Every single day, she would explore the empty, used car lots, discount grocery stores, TABs and dusty McDonald’s but the sound never got closer, it always existed just on the periphery of her perception so that it began to feel like psychological torture.

One day, in an abandoned retirement home, she found the body of a cat. Shaking violently, she stared at the corpse in shock; it had been a very long time since she had seen evidence of any other living creature. She had seen no people, plants or animals for years, had never once found any bodies, bones or remains of the life forms she was sure once existed in abundance. The only indication that life had once prevailed were the cold artefacts, the photos, buildings, objects and the powdered meal supplements she survived on.

Yet here was this dead cat, utterly emaciated with a thin trickle of blood coming from its mouth. Tentatively, she placed her hand on the corpse and her ears began to ring. The cadaver still contained traces of heat, whispers of a recently ended life which sent a burning, intolerable pain throughout her body. And so she ran. After that, she ceased her searching and believed the music to never have existed.

She doesn’t venture out far anymore. The grey dust falls thickly over everything now, the highway is covered in a blanket of the dust so thick that it goes up to her thighs in some spots and when she walks, clouds of the stuff are stirred up so that she chokes and coughs relentlessly, her throat burns and her eyes weep. Day by day, the sun seems further away, the difference between night and day is becoming indistinct.

Atrophied and weakening, she struggles to keep down the protein shakes and only drinks them every other day because, years old at this point, they are lumpy, flavourless and as colourless as the dust. Her skin is ashen and withered like a woman four times her age.

She still masturbates, though her orgasm is mechanical, sexless and she hardly notices when it happens. Sometimes she still imagines she can hear music but she can no longer conceive of why that might be significant. Idly, in a mental fog that grows thicker as every day passes, she wonders what will expire first, the vibrators, the batteries or her.

Her

Her skin looks as if it is stretched taut across her frame but when you touch it, it is almost too soft, as if under the thin layer of epidermis, she is made entirely of spreadable cream cheese. She smells a little like bubblegum and a lot like bleach.

Your touch causes her eyes to flutter open and they are green marbles, her mouth widens into a grin made entirely of teeth. Now she looks like she is laughing maniacally but no sound escapes her body apart from the wet, sucking sound of her hand disappearing into her cunt. Thick, fluorescent orange fluid seeps down her thighs and if you looked closely, you would observe the liquid is populated with water beetles and mosquito larvae.

Now you hear a noise like a thick bolt of cotton being slowly torn in two. This is the sound of her ripping herself open; starting from her crimson cunt she tears her skin along her centre in a perfect line right up to her scalp.

Then, gripping at the middle of her torso, she pulls herself open like a jacket which she steps out of and allows to fall unceremoniously to the ground. She is now muscle, sinew and veins, the colours are all pinks, purples and that fluorescent orange. She glistens in the clear, cold autumn sunlight.

Her exposed insides are as sticky as tree sap and a light breeze soon causes her to be decorated in brown leaves, old feathers and dead insects. She is no longer laughing, instead she seems calm and disinterested, an animal that knows you’re not a threat and therefore has no concern for you. She is rubbing her clit and staring into the distance.