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Monthly Archives: June 2012

Blind Love

The first time I felt you, we were in a crowd, drinking. We were deafened and caressed, by music and laughter, smoky air brushing my cheek,  a kaleidoscope of smells, sweat,  perfume and earwax and leather and many other things it would take me too long to tell. It was dark.

You spoke into my ear and I felt your sharp hair tickle my lobe like a forest of needles.  Your voice hummed right through me, vibrating from my skull to my thighs.  You said – I forget what you said, I hardly heard it, instead I heard your longing, your uncertainty, your braggadocio. I smelled that you were a little drunk, on vodka and orange, and that you hadn’t washed in two days, maybe three. I smelled also that you worked outdoors, the grass and birdshit still clinging to you, fresh from the mower. I felt you tremble with embarrassment and faint hope. I said, my garden’s a mess. You laughed. How do you know?  you said. You’ll see.

The next time, you pulled weeds as I lay in the warmth of the morning and stretched and smiled. You sang Michael Jackson and your voice cracked on the high bits and you laughed and threw blades of grass at me that landed on my upturned face like butterflies. When you were finished, you got us lemonade from the fridge and held it to my lips, cold and sweet, and then with your lemonade lips you kissed me, with your grassy, sun-warmed, sugary tongue you stroked my mouth, with your hand you oiled my leg with cool man sweat.  Then you stopped, your hand on my breast, burning me.

I put my hands to your jeans, over the stiff hot cloth, up to the zip, read it like braille, came to the full stop of your belt buckle, ran a finger inside, where your skin was hot and smooth.  I sat up and raised your shirt and sniffed at your stomach and chest, tickling my nose with the rough hairs, almost long enough to plait. You held my head and stroked my hair till it pulled.

I felt your underarms like soft piles of moss, the bones of your chest and neck framing your heat-prickled skin, your beard fur all the way down from your ears, your lips that bit my fingers as they passed, your hair long and a little matted from sweat and twigs, your back like a long bow, back to your belt and the curve of your dick, a branch bent and ready to spring.  You knew what I wanted.

You unclasped it, let it drop. I listened to you opening yourself up, like a present for me.  I shut my eyes and opened my mouth and held out my head, and it was like your kiss, only fuller and richer. I tasted you, I heard you liking it, held your butt as you moved and swayed, felt every centimetre of you under my tongue, felt your roots trembling, felt your thick wetness already collecting in my mouth.

You said, pull up your dress, can we? And I said, don’t talk while I’m eating, and you came with a rush and a shake like a wet dog, all over my nose.  And you said, oh I’m sorry, and I just laughed, feeling the sticky sap caking in the heat, and put my arms around your neck, and hugged you down to me.  You were my fragrant, flowering, thick-trunked tree and I wanted to plant you in the middle of my messy garden, to grow with me in the lovely darkness.

Friday Fictioneers

Here is a belated entry for Madison Woods’ Friday Fictioneers. Although it’s not Friday!  Here’s the general idea, as set out by Brainsnorts:

Every Wednesday Madison Woods posts a picture prompt to challenge writers to create a 100-word story or poem or anything that works for you.  then post your work on your blog.  additionally, on friday, you go back to her site and post a link to your blog entry in the comments on her friday fictioneers post.

This is the picture.


I need to do a wee!

You should have said before we got up here.

I need to do a weeeeee nowwwww!

Al-right. Do it over the side then.

I’m scared.

Well hold on till we get back.


Alright then. I’ll hold the back of your jumper, like this, and you just stand over there – that’s right – and point it out that way –

Just point and shoot, alright? How hard can it be?

What if someone sees my pee pee.

We’re 500 metres up in the air. No one’s going to see your pee pee.

How about God?  God can see everything.

You ARE God, darling. Now hurry up and make it rain, and then let’s get back to heaven.


Sex, Politics and Hotmail – Chapter Two

A Tale of Two Women and their Push Up Bras

A stupendously silly novel about a couple of menopausal women trying to get laid and or keep their man and get elected to Parliament.

THE STORY SO FAR….(Chapters One and Two)

Feckless but lusty Rose and too-rich-to-bitch Olivia haven’t seen each other for ten years. Now they’ve finally caught up – by email.  But things have changed. For a start, Rose is divorced – but why?  And where does sultry toyboy Wayne Sexton come into it?


If only?

So it WAS sex.

Fuck yeah.  Mainly, like, not getting any.  Can you believe that?  A MAN who doesn’t want to have sex? Yes they exist, Virginia. Don’t fuck with them.

Very funny.  So – Wayne Sexton.  Did you two…you didn’t, did you?

Oh yeah.  Wayne.  Look I’m not making any excuses – alright I’m making frigging excuses!  Thing is, like I said, I wasn’t getting any at all from bloody John, every time I put my hand on his leg he’d move over the other side of the damn couch.  Talk about not this fucking year Josephine, try next century.  So anyway one night I went out to Shirl’s place for a barbecue when John’s working late and who should I see but Sexy Sexton himself – and Liv, he hasn’t changed a bit!  Still got those sultry black eyes and those tight jeans – you remember?

So I say, hey Wayne, remember me? We used to be at school together! And he looks me up and down – I was wearing my black fake leather pants that night – and says ‘Oh yeah, sure do!’ in that slow flat voice of his, “how could I forget that mini-skirt.  Wendy, wasn’t it?’.

“Rose, actually.”

“Oh yeah right, ROSE!  Didn’t you used to hang round with that la-di-da Olivia chick, the one who was always marching around trying to sell land rights for gay whales or something?  She was fuckin’ smoking!”  And yeah, Liv, he really did say that.

So by that time I was feeling pretty pissed off, naturally, so I say, ‘How about you, Wayne? Girlfriend? Wife? Sheep?’.

‘Nah, all on my lonesome,’ says Wayne, giving me the old under-stare, ‘guess I’m just hanging out for the right woman….”

Well I pretty much wet my pants on the spot with lust!

So we have ourselves a drink, and then some more drinks, and then Wayne says let’s split and go down to the Sports Bar in town, so we do, and we’re sitting there staring at each other and I can’t think of a single frigging thing to say except like, is that thing in your pants for real? when suddenly he grabs my left tit and says, I always thought you were a bit of a goer at school, so what’s changed, baby?’.  Turns out, nothing much.  Four in the morning, I get back home to John and he’s lying there with his eyes wide open in the rattiest mood ever, stiff as a board and not in a good way.

‘So where’ve YOU been.’

Well I could have lied and said, I don’t know, some shit or other but I thought, why the fuck should I! If you wanted it you should’ve put a cock in it.  So I said, I’ve been screwing this guy I used to know at school and he’s a ten times better lay than you ever were mate.

You can guess the rest right?

Oh dear. And WAS he ten times better?

Nah, he was fucking hopeless.  All mouth and no style.  Plus he was pissed as a newt and the damn thing wouldn’t stay up, but that didn’t stop him, just kept going at it anyway like he was trying to hammer in a nail with a wet sock.

It does seem rather a pity.  You and John seemed so good together.

Yeah I know everyone thought we made a great couple – sort of like beer and chips – it’s all very well for them – they got to come to the party, they didn’t have to sleep with the frigging host!

You know what though?  I never really liked him now I come to think of it.

Oh Rose! You did SO like him.  Don’t you remember how you used to insist he was ‘mysterious’ and ‘broodingly handsome’ – I think you must have got that out of some Harlequin Desire novel you were reading at the time.  Don’t you remember that? Oh well, suppose not.

Mysterious? Broodingly what?

You’ve got to be kidding! That must have been a slip of the tongue.  More like secretive weirdo.  You should have seen his collection of housewife porn! It wouldn’t have been so bad but what pissed me off was he actually had a hot housewife and what did he do with her? Fucking nothing!

Anyway chicks always get that wrong about men, don’t we, that ‘if only’ thing we do?  Like when he’s sort of quiet, you think he must be really intelligent IF only you could just get him to open his mouth– and when he just turns off the light and rolls over every bloody night, you think he could be a real stud IF only you could just get him going.

Those two bloody little words IF ONLY must be responsible for more broken marriages than a cheap ho.

Nature is fucking with me!

Uriarra Crossing – favourite local swimming spot!

Nature is fucking with me.

Swimming, cold-as-grit water gets up my nose.

She says, anything gonna bite us in here?

I say, no, not in a river

The water’s too clear.

Then a big fly comes bomber-like and sinks

Sixteen inch stilettos in my thigh.

Still, I’m not gonna die.

Looking for gold

Knee deep in the stinging stream

A rock rolls on my foot.

I shout, shit!

She says what mum?

I say nothing much, wipe off the blood

Nature’s just scored another hit.

Introducing the Magnificent, the Talented, the Blogolicious!


Star on the Forehead is possibly the most MULTI person I’ve met (in cyberspace).  She has:

LOTS OF AWARDS – 16 of them to be precise!

She dates!

She eats!

She reviews books!

She writes poetry!

She volunteers!

And amid all this fervid activity, Star has been kind enough to give ME a Sunshine Award.  This blog has yet to feature a Sunshine Award so I’m grabbing it with both hands and running away with it, FAST.

The rules of the Award are to pass it on to ten people and then tell the world ten things about yourself.  Ten is a lot but here goes:

Adreyo’s Poetry.  I mean, how good is this!

Most human beings
Live too far away
From the tunnel
That leads
Out of Blunderland.

Kylemew, who has a dirty mind but a very engaging grin.

Thypolar’s Life Uncensored.  Struggling through trying to learn life’s lessons – aren’t we all.

Interesting Boredom.  Try, it’s very moving.

Southern Wild, who is my idea of a sweet southern belle (not being from the US myself I don’t exactly know, but…).

Tutankhamon, who features some seriously gorgeous music (and women)

Peanutbutter Stilettos, on the joys and sorrows of being young (which I’ve mostly forgotten now)

Text History, because she writes SO well (and is awe-inspiringly literate)

Banana Wolf.  He/she writes these little playlets and they are, like, SO funny!!

Oh and Shorty and Sparky. They’re a very liberated couple but I find their relationship very sweet and lovable.

So now, ten things about me.  Only, that would be boring. So how about ten things I’d LIKE to be able to say about me.  In the words of that person who’s going to deliver my epitaph or is it eulogy or whatever – well take it away Pagan Pastor Pratt…

And in conclusion, I’d just like to say a few words about this remarkable and yet humble woman –

  1. Rose was the perfect parent! In fact, people base whole Books on her parenting style. Dr Spock, move over.
  2. Rose met this fantastically sexy, intelligent, good-hearted and heart-warmingly faithful guy at the age of 49 and they’ve been together ever since!  Vladimir, would you like to say a few words?
  3. I’ve never met anyone quite as eerily beautiful as Rose!  Then again, I’ve lived on the top of a post in Mullumbimby for the last 50 years, so…
  4. Rose’s gifted son Mr F found the Elixir of Youth.  He gave all of it to her dogs and cat, who are now living happily ever after.
  5. Unlike most people’s noses, Rose’s grew smaller with age, and stopped growing when it was a retrousse button of stupendous cuteness.
  6. Rose does not have any superfluous hair. Except on her head.
  7. Rose was (or so I’ve been told, er, hrmmm) a simply superb lover.  Whole issues of Playboy have been devoted to praises of her blowjobs, and there are still men wandering about dazed but blissful after just one night of fevered lust with the Goddess.
  8. Rose was of course one of the world’s greatest novelists and essayists, a sort of divinely inspired combination of Emily Bronte and Truman Capote.  Her fame will never die!
  9. I never heard a mean word drop from Rose’s ruby lips.
  10. Rose just LOVED eating her fruit and vegetables.

Sex, Politics and Hotmail – Chapter One

A Tale of Two Women and their Push Up Bras

A stupendously silly novel about a couple of menopausal women trying to get laid and or keep their man and get elected to Parliament.


Chapter 1

“You’ve won the bet!”

Rose and Olivia haven’t seen each other for ten years. Now Rose has found Olivia on Facebook.  What’s changed? And what bet has Olivia won?



So here we are..after all these years

So here we are!  After all these years!  How ARE you? And how’s John? And what is this bet you keep referring to? Do tell!

Ok. The bet. Here goes.

Do you remember when we were sixteen, and your mum had just fucked off with the sound engineer from Blue Hills, and I was onto my fourth stepmother – well, we wrote out a Manifesto, and in it we said we were going to do things differently – you said you were never going to get married, because you were gonna become prime minister and you wouldn’t have time to bother about men – and I said I was going to get married as soon as I could and hang out with the same guy for the rest of my life, like, you know, one of those sweet old couples you see at the bus stop?

And I used to stir you and say shit like “You can’t be prime minister if you’re a LADEE”, cause you always sat like some kind of princess in class with your knees glued together and never swore or anything  – and one day you got jack of it and said “I bet you’ll end up divorced like your mum, because that’s what happens to children of divorce, it’s all about ROLE MODELS!”  And I bet you I wouldn’t – I was so romantic then! – and anyway at the time I was planning to marry that Wayne Sexton, who had long dark hair and dreamy eyelashes and called me a dumb slag.

And we wrote it all down in a Manifesto, cause you said I’d forget for sure and there was ten dollars riding on it and you wanted your money.

Anyway I was cleaning out the spare room the other day and guess what I found? The frigging Manifesto!

I miss you Liv!  Do you still want that ten dollars?

Oh my god though!  You mean you and John have separated?  Rose, I’m so sorry!  When? Why?  And of course I don’t want the ten dollars!  God, I’d forgotten all about that – what silly teenagers we were then!

No wonder you didn’t write back! You’ve probably been going through hell.  Was it a long drawn out process or quite sudden?   Do tell me straight away if you’d rather I didn’t ask about it – or of course if you want to talk about it I’m always here.  Fremantle IS rather a long way from Sydney, I have to admit, but there is always the phone.

Has it been very dreadful? Did he have an affair?  You must be feeling terribly upset!  I’m here for you darling. I’m so sorry we fell out of touch, but you know, I often wondered what had become of you, it’s just that….well it’s a long story but it can be so difficult to keep up with people, these days.

Ps I do remember that Manifesto.  I’d quite forgotten that I was going to be the leader of the free world.  How very sad!  Still, I suppose I’m very lucky, really!

Separated nah, divorced actually and I feel great, I feel like I’ve just been to the doctor and had a wart burned off.

Anyway if anyone’s fucked anyone over it was me did it to him.  I wished the bastard would  have an affair – but nothing doing, no one else wanted him no matter how hard I spruiked the selling points – steady income, fixes taps, leaves the toilet seat down – no bloody takers!  But I feel fantastic!

How about you Liv? How’s life as a squillionaire’s wife?  I heard Steve’s doing very well these days out of the seating business –  there’ll always be bottoms looking for a place to park themselves!  Are you still working for that little art place in Peppermint Grove?  Do you have to, like, hostess luncheons for other rich guys’ wives, organize charity balls, stuff like that?  Or do you just cruise around about stopping off at couturiers and having champagne?

As for me I’m still a wage slave, same as same as.  Mum always told me if I wanted to move up working for the government I shouldn’t wear short skirts and tight jumpers – but I never took any notice and look where it’s got me!  Still a secretary – I mean ‘executive assistant’ after all this time, and the boss isn’t even hot, actually he’s a weirdo but that’s another story.

Anyway, how are you and Stevie boy? And little Vickie?

Oh Rose!  A wart? Really? When you seemed to be so well suited, everybody used to comment on it.  However, everyone deals with grief differently, so one reads, and I expect you are just going through ‘anger’ or perhaps ‘denial’?

Mind you, you never said you weren’t getting along!  Well, strictly speaking, you were always going on about what a pain in the bottom John was –  but I never thought you really meant it.  I thought you were just venting, the way women do – you know, my husband’s terrible, oh my husband’s much worse than yours...  But what went wrong?  Was it sex? It’s usually sex, isn’t it.  Especially with you darling.

Thanks for asking by the way, Victoria is well.  Not so little any more – she turned fifteen a month ago, and in fact she is now about six feet – TOWERS over me!  I’m sure it’s the extended breastfeeding the midwife pressured me into – thanks to hippie motherhood ideas we are now all having to put up with giant teenagers! Of course she’s very glamorous – she’s got Steve’s pouty lips and long black hair and she STILL has those eyelashes you could never believe were real when she was tiny – anyway she now spends most of her time at home lounging about looking vaguely disgruntled.

Ps I wonder if Wayne Sexton is still available?  Perhaps you could look him up?

Wayne Sexton!

Well that’s what made me look you up actually.  So…Wayne. Where do I start?

Going South

I get that you like to holiday down south.  You like the way it looks. You like the way it smells. You want to get close to the source of my femininity, the secret of your dearest dreams.

I know you want to please the natives.  You want to hear me scream for more, arching into you as I dissolve into multi-orgasmic bliss.  That’s really sweet of you.

I don’t mind if you visit.  Stay as long as you want. I might read a book while you’re away down there, but that’s ok, isn’t it?

Of course, if the weather is windy, it might be better if you didn’t travel to those jungle-clad climes.  Nobody wants to get caught in a tropical hurricane, now do they.

But to me, your soft, wet kisses and puppy-like lappings are of no particular interest.  Imagine, if you will, the woman of your dreams expending her most passionate efforts exploring, say, the back of your right knee.  Well, that’s how it is for me. I’m sorry.  I wish it weren’t so, for your sake – I know how you love that knee  – but there it is.

It’s not that I’m frigid, far from it. It’s just that cunnilingus doesn’t do it for me.  I don’t want you to cruise down south on a wet raft, singing Caribbean love songs.  I want to be rammed by an ocean liner at full speed, or at the very least, a flotilla of Royal Navy corvettes.

But I appreciate the thought.