After dark.

He breathes into my ear "Meet me at the pavilion," and hands me on. It's hard to keep our gazes from falling into complicity after that; he stares boldly past my shoulder and I have to look away.

When I can finally leave, my hands reek of other men's sweat. In the cool night air I dash a towel down my neck and between my breasts. He's long gone; I can see him already resident across the park. His panatella's plume gives him away.  We inhabit a strange, atonal world.

His mouth is aromatic and acrid and mint all at once, falling like hunger on my bare neck and repeating the freckles on my shoulders. "What took ye so long?"
"Small talk. Driving arrangements. Divesting myself of obligations. You know."

He ought; he's a shirker by nature, an escape artist extraordinare.
"Oh, all that making nice. As if you care. Sorry, Ah'm just nicking out for a smoke -"
"And you never come back."
"Precisely."

The streetlight glints off his shyster's grin, dapples the blond with white highlights. He's an angel to my dark devil. Give Nick something to sell - anything - and watch the dollars come rolling in, the women not far behind. 


He grabs the nape of my neck and kisses my forehead with the paternal affection of a lion. "Mmm. Salty. You musta been workin' hard."
"You can talk!" 
I pluck the damp shirt away from his skin and he shivers theatrically. 
"Please, Miss, can we 'ave a break? Can we 'ave a drink? Jeez, Miss, you're workin us too hard!"


I rope my towel around his neck and pull him close, kissing him just to shut him up. It's too easy to undo the buttons down the front of his shirt, and his skin is cool in the night air, smooth and rippling down to his jeans. He's at the gym the days he doesn't dance, and it shows. 


"You wouldn't know working too hard if it pinned you down and sat on you!"
He winks. "Yes please. I've been thinking about that all this time."

Still working hard.

Seven-day weeks at the moment; not a lot of downtime. However, there may have been a lull yesterday in which I caught up with the ex of my teenage years.

There was a second where he looked me in the eye and said quietly "I'm not sure I ever knew you." This, from the guy who gently stole my virginity by degrees, who coaxed forth my first orgasm. We pushed our youth-drugged selves so far together, decadent and unashamedly hedonistic... and a decade later he decides he never knew me? 

I should be clear: we weren't just about sex.

This boy and I never ran out of things to talk about. We never stopped dreaming up ways to rule the world. We'd be awake at four in the morning still drawing, writing, creating, dreaming. 

I thought I told him everything, but perhaps he wasn't listening.

There was another second, just after I said "But of course! You find adoration irresistible!" when I thought he was going to lunge across the table, hands clawing for my neck, and we would break each other. Again. 

He began - "How DARE you?!" and only quieted when I - apparently unpeturbed - reached for my glass of red and sipped demurely.

Wrongfooted because he couldn't deny it, and oh, how he stumbled, trying to climb back up.

I'm not entirely sure, but I suspect the suggestion of my toes sliding lasciviously along his inner thigh may have upset his balance a little. He schooled me altogether too well.

We left. I drove: that too a blast of nostalgia, back to the days when I had a license and he didn't.

Back at his flat, I knew what was coming. The cliche just slipped out. "Would you like to... coffee?"

"That's so kind of you, but really I must keep going."

"Sure?"

He asked for it.

"Actually, I'm meant to be somewhere... now, pretty much."

Confusion, loud and clear.

"I thought.... J's away? You said.."

"Yep. He is. And I have somewhere else to be."

Suddenly he realised; the immaculate hair, my perfect scarlet mouth and kamikaze heels weren't for him.

"Bye, darling. It was so nice to catch up. See you again soon."

I left a pale brand on his left cheekbone and drove away humming.

Stupid boy. It was never for him. 

It's just not always for someone else, either.

Country roads.

We've only been in the car a second when I sweep my skirt up over my thighs. My pale skin glows wanly in the spattered fluorescence of street lights and the dash display's dim radiance.

He takes this as an invitation, pressing his warm palm to my skin; I'm clammy from our brisk walk through the chill air after dancing. I flick him off and he returns his hand to the gearstick, very slightly affronted.

Damn these seatbelts. Doubling in half to undo my shoes is too hard; instead I prop my feet up on the dashboard. Leaning forward, I work the straps of each shoe gently through their buckle, replacing each naked foot on the dash as I'm done.

"What are you doing?"
"Taking my shoes off. What are you doing?"
"Driving."
"Ah. Good man. You should keep that up, you'll go a long way."

He shakes his head reprovingly at my terrible wit but I score a smile.
Shoes removed, I embark on stage two of my programme.
Lifting and twisting my hips very slightly, I manage to latch my forefingers under and around the top of my pants and pull down.

"What are you doing now?"
"Well, I'm trying to take my underwear off. What are you doing?"
"I'm trying to drive."
"I can see that. Do you think you'd like to stick to the speed limit?"
Dividing his attention between my wriggling and the road, he's forgotten how to accelerate.
"You're undressing right next to me and you want me to keep driving?"
"Mm. Otherwise I would have asked you to pull over."
"Hmm," he half growls.

I put my feet up on the dashboard, pulling each foot free of my lingerie as I do so, and he sighs. A certain aroma has become apparent. Leaning forward, I work the straps of each shoe gently through their buckle, replacing each naked foot on the dash as I'm done.

Of course, this puts my thighs uncomfortably close up to my torso, so I recline my seat a little and settle, one hand behind my head.
He glances over and I feel the car's speed drop; a hundred to eighty just like that. Oh. My skirt's still rucked over my hips, but now I'm naked on the leather seat.

"Oh. Is this bothering you?"
"Mm."
"Oops. Sorry."

I stretch and yawn, cartoonishly. My right hand finds it's way to his lap, my left gets distracted by mine.
When I run my fingertips down through the short, soft curls of baby hair my scent releases and he moans.

"Oh. God. You can't do that. I am trying to drive, woman!"
Lucky it's a long, straight road. Surely half his brain can stay focused on not turning the wheel.

"So I shouldn't do this, either?
My clitoris is already alive, wet pulsing forth over my inquiring fingertips.

He bites his bottom lip and flicks the indicator on, braking hard and pulling onto the gravel shoulder. "What are you doing?"
"Oh! I'm sorry. I thought I heard you saying 'Please, J., pull over!'"
"Nope. Not me."
"Oh, I think you'll find it was you. Definitely you. And now I'm pulled over, so..."

Liar.

When you left, I wasn't sure. But you paused and looked back and I saw the salt begin to crystallise in your pores.
(This is when I knew. You paused. You stopped and checked and estimated.)
I saw the shine I had taken for a sparkle was just deceit before the rust set in.
(Because you thought I'd fight harder for diamonds than for paste?)
How long have you been lying to me?
(What made you think I cared?)
Being taken does not make you more attractive. Splintering your time does not polish your veneer.
(You are a commodity. Don't delude yourself otherwise.)
I want to regurgitate you from my pores. I want to excrete your sound and and press my self back into the crevices I let you invade. I let you fester.
(I want, I want, I want, this is my five-year-old self rebelling. Demanding. She will have her way.)
I invited you.
(And so you have to play nice.)
I was duped and guilted and beguiled by the gilt.
(And by god I hate you for the duping. I hate myself for the guilt. I should have bitten harder and cracked you open and broken my teeth.)
I will not love you more because you are loved less.
(Don't come to me to make up your deficits.)

Costume shopping IV

I) is here, (II) is here, (III) is here, and (IV) is now here. Don't forget to grace me with evidence of your presence. 


His calm fingers circle back to my spine and pluck the laces symmetrically, taking up the slack and gathering in my waist. There's a look of peace on his face, as I glimpse it over my shoulder. Our banter, the play of us together is compressed and fed through his hands until I'm tied up, the back closed, and he turns me gently to see the whole.

I look stunning. The ivory gives my skin a peachy glow, my waist is pulled in to twenty-four inches - small enough that Matthew's hands almost meet as he finds some excuse to press a wrinkle out here, check the fit there.
"So, Miss Ellie. What do you think?"
"I'm not completely convinced..."
"Is it the color?"
"No, I quite like the color." I do, too.
"The style? I thought a gentle hourglass would be best, given your natural shape, but there's a straighter cut - "

He ducks to shuffle through the pile at my feet, and I take advantage of his drawing away to reach behind and unhook my bra, dropping it blatantly on the pile in front of his nose. Freeze.
"That's definitely better. The black lace was just clashing."
There's a sudden little hunch to his posture, like I just winded him.

We are both, perhaps, weighing up the dynamic in this room.

Matthew moves first, reaching out to my naked breast and palming it, feeling my pale aureolae quicken and gather beneath his heat.

What can I do but keep leading? I lean into his pressure and my hand finds the back of his neck, compels his mouth to mine, succumbs to the grasp about my restrained waist.

We kiss like drowning, sudden flirts and peeks into the other's eyes, trying to glimpse and understand their driving ecstasy.
He crushes me to him until my knees buckle and I want to swoon, to succumb, to faint away and be revived to more of this sparking momentary glory.

When I crumble to my knees he collapses with me, murmuring prayers and excuses. I'm not interested. Navy shirt cast asunder, we are skin to satin to silk, and I pin him to the plush floor like a denuded moth. He rises up and I push him back down, the heel of my hand grinding into his mouth, where he nips and groans his want.
"Wait. Close your eyes."
He obeys.

When I descend again there is only the satin armor between us.
Naked, he is finely built, slight and unmuscled limbs,  His palms upturn in an awkward apology for his ungainliness. Lightly I play my fingers and nibbling mouth across his torso, his thighs, the marble skin of his groin and the silken sheath until he's dazed by a myriad disappearing touches.
"Open."

I'm nose to nose with him, watching intently as I lower myself down. His hands rise reflexively to my hips but I batten them back down and watch his eyelids flutter in surrender.

I don't get home till eight, and when I open the box I find not one, but two corsets - the original cream and latte beneath the more demure overbust we decided I could wear to a public party.

Between them is a sheet of paper, a name, and ten digits.

Costume shopping III

Hm. Third part. One more to go, I think. (I) is here, (II) is here, and (III) is right below. (IV) should be here tomorrow. I don't like rushing things. 


My black scoop-necked top with sweetly puffed sleeves is lying on the pouffe, and I'm wondering what to take off next, when Matthew returns, laden with silken boning and dripping laces of all colors.

"A few others?"
He almost blushes.
"Well, there're three or four I think you'll really like, and then I found one that might work - all over - but then I thought I'd just bring a few more in case."
"Indeed. Is this all right?"

We both look in the mirror.

Foreground: me. You all know what I look like.

By now I'm wearing a black lace demitasse bra, which cups my breasts without padding them. A black silk skirt runs down my thighs like molasses and kicks gently below the knee, and black leather stiletto-heeled pumps add a good three inches.

To my height.
Sometimes to other things.

In the cherry warmth I am a very naughty Snow White, all alabaster and ebony.

Soft focus behind me: Matthew, still holding a stack of slippery-boned  lingerie.
 His navy shirt is open at the neck and the cuffs are turned back. The irises I thought aquamarine now look violet. His pants are loose, a fifties style complemented by discreet braces.

They'd hang better without a certain break in their line.

He clears his throat, and I realise I've been staring. "Milady."
"Sorry."
What would you like to try first?"
I shrug, and watch him watch me. "You can choose."

He lets the pile tumble and pulls free a creamy confection of ivory satin and trimmed with latte ruffles. It's not something I would ever choose for myself, but that's the luxury of shopping like this. Reinvention. Who am I today, and do I like her?

Matthew pulls the laces loose with practised ease and wraps the stiff fabric around me from behind, smoothing it forward over my ribs. His palms are pleasantly warm; inside hands, groomed and neutered. Involuntarily, my eyelids lower, and I'm enclosed within my body, savoring the sensation of being held.

I raise my arms over my head and let him clasp the eyes over the silver studs, hear each one click home and seal the moment.

Costume shopping II

Look, I'm sorry about this, but you have to read the previous post to get any sense at all out of this one.
Nor is this the final instalment; that should come tomorrow. 


"All in a day's work."

Suddenly we've become conspirators; he shows me to the well-concealed dressing room, right at the back of the showroom. We're alone inside a very decadent chocolate-box, all red velvet and expensive plush.

He surprises me by taking out a small sign and hanging it carefully on the front door. To me, it reads "entrez" in delicate copperplate. I can only assume it tells everyone else not to bother.

"Should I undress now, or are you going to do that for me as well?"I laughingly enquire, as he returns with a tape measure slung about his neck and take the cufflinks out of his shirt, placing them meticulously on the counter and folding the cuffs back in a businesslike fashion.

"Oh, I think I have your measure. So long as there's no - help - in that bra."
I shrug, amused by his choice of words, and look into my cleavage. "Unless something's snuck in there between - oh, an hour ago and now - no. Sorry."
It's three in the afternoon, but he doesn't seem inclined to comment on my slothful ways. Or he could just be distracted.

"And... arms up. Just to shoulder height. Thanks."
"Since you now know my bust, waist, hip and height, I'm Ellie."
He's retreated to the counter to record my proportions, and lifts his head quickly, smiling. "Matthew."
"Am I really all that disastrous?"
"No, no. Just don't want to torture you more than necessary." He taps the pencil a few times on the pad, underlining various numbers. "Look, I don't think I can fit you with any overbust corsets, you'll be - "
he gestures helplessly and I supply, "Overflowing?"

He smirks a little and drums his fingers thoughtfully, holds the pencil to his mouth.
"Mm. Overflowing."
"Maybe not quite appropriate for a party, then."
"Not unless it's a terribly intimate party, no."
"I think something a bit more general admission would be appropriate."
He rips my page from the pad and discards his implements with a flourish. 
"Right! Well, I have a few others you should try."
"Fine. Let's start."
"I'll just be a minute, then."

Whisking a drape across and enclosing my velvet cocoon, he's gone to some netherworld of storage and I start to undress.

Costume shopping

This is my fiftieth post; I'd appreciate your feelings on direction for the next fifty. I might not plan my adventures around your ideas, but I might write about them differently. So, what do you want? Think carefully. 

Our eyes meet above the slick counter with a jolt, and I know.
It's going to be one of those transactions.
The type that used to end with ten scribbled digits but now necessitates a careful negotiation with the electronic device of one's choice.

He's self-conciously raking hair off his forehead and bracing himself against his rampart before he asks; "Looking for anything?"
"I need a dress. Actually, I don't need a dress at all. I need something to wear to a birthday party."
"What kind of birthday party?"
"An extravagant one. My sister and I take it in turns to celebrate; this year's my turn and I asked everyone to be bold - which means I have to be the boldest of them all."

He laughs a little and rocks a hip thoughtfully. "So you want to be the centre of attention?"
"More like I will be the centre of attention, so I'd better be worth looking at!" I've been running my fingers along a rack, drinking up the bird-of-paradise colors, but I flick my eyes to him and catch him appraising me. He knows. He doesn't look away.

I make his examination easier, swinging my handbag off my shoulder and stepping away from the rack, one hand on hip. "What would you recommend?"
A swallow. He's a little nervous, now. The smile's not sure how seriously I'm asking.
"Really. I need some suggestions."

A sliver of trust. He makes up his mind and begins to approach. "The obvious choice would be something Cleopatra. Bind you up in cloth-of-gold, find an asp."
"It's my birthday, not my funeral."
He's walking around me. Seeing the blunt cut of my hair, running his eye down my minimalist black ensemble.

"Gothic?"
"No."
"Flapper."
"With this bust? I don't think so."
"Burlesque. A corset, frilly knickers, a little french - kick."
"You may have to show me exactly what you mean."

He bites a lip thoughtfully. "I have a couple of corsets, and the sample sizes will fit you, but most women want to wear them with a full skirt."
"Are you trying to tell me you don't have the requisite - undergarments?"
He nods, pensively.
"Right." I wrinkle my brow for a second and look thoughtful too. "Well, I won't tell anyone if you don't."
"Do you want to try them, then?"
"Yes. But you'll have to lace me up. I'm terribly out of practice."

Dismemberment

In that city we took each other apart.
Carefully I lifted your cheekbone in my shattered fingertips.
You sliced away my spine and locked it up tight.

I peeled away the gangrenous, stinking flesh under your carapace
and dropped it into formaldehyde.

We both marvelled at the iridescent gleam of alcohol and corruption, a knotted mass hanging behind glass. I remember the feeling of lifting it up beteen us, setting it down, watching it slosh and settle.

Backing away and seeing it for the dead, twisted mess it was.

When you pulled my long leg bones from their sockets I felt free. Pop.

Pop.

Now you would have to take care of me. Now you would carry me.
Now you would take me places.

But then I sliced through the muscles of your arms, right down to the bone.
I watched the tendons twitch as you tried to move your fingers and mouth the platitudes and save your skin.
 I plucked them to hear their pitch and watch your pain throb.

And we stuttered about, mistrusting and watchful, assessing the blades, fingering the crusting blood and putting our fingers deep inside the wounds.

Amazed at our capacity to suffer.
Amazed at the tearing and rending and bitter bile leaking from our pores.

On the third day you brought out a packet of sharp, shiny-biting needles.
I found thread.
Together, we huddled, sewing our wounds tight, sorting and scraping and refitting back the pieces.

We did the best we could.

After the photo shoot.

**This will probably be better if you read this first.

We collapse into the bed, fresh sheets and salt, crisp cotton and toffeed skin; he is golden and sculpted where I am white and undulating.

The backs of his hands carve my bones out from my skin and reach through me, leaving fingerprints on my ribcage.

I wonder if each layer of my bones has it's own indelible whorl, the men who loved me and marked me concealed inside.

Our torsos cleave together, our thighs are meshed and cooperative, and this melding is a kind of steady communion, two skins fusing and pushing together and through all our barriers.

The awkward hours evaporate. We have only minutes, moments, seconds prised and prized from life running through my fingers like draining bathwater.

We are fused and rocking, breath streaming over damp skin and sighing away. I ride the clench of his glutes and feel the tender clamp of their superolateral attachments; dimples of vulnerability hidden in the hardness.

His face opens and closes, dropping the mask and shocking in it's strippedness. Were we always so vulnerable to each other?

The sand still dots his hairline and he clings, head resting against the thud of my heart. I am breathless. Terrified.