Saturday, 13 February 2010


Cold, drizzle streaked darkness outside; inside - alone, in warmth, enfolded by a yielding leather sofa. I'm reading Nabokov's remembrances of a St Petersburg childhood. In drowzy concentration, I fear loss of substance, feeding a hunger to absorb the soothing certainties of another. Obsessively I scribble notes, spidery diagrams - transferring memories, staving off a relentless advance of sleepy forgetfulness, brought nearer by velvety black ales. Baulking at the void of a cheap, crisp white hotel room, I linger here in the pub, and merge, for the time connected, adrift, afloat, in the warm swells other's gentle conversations, swathed in warm dark crimson.

A father and daughter enter, and I break the surface; surfacing. We three are alone, in returning isolation, on a brittle, glassy surface. They bring tension - disquiet. And fascination. Settling on nearby leather chairs, the woman faces me. He's directed away from me, and I see only the back of his head. Red raw neck through sparse spiky white hair. They're each skittering along plains, which clash and buzz, occasionally intersecting along unstable fault lines.

"Fook MP's expenses; fook the postal strike; that's yer fookin' mother for ya. Fook her"

"Yes Daddy".

There's an alluring macabrity to her. Thirty-something - coquettish - pouting - voluptuous curves. Her dowdiness propels her towards a seductive seediness. Submissive. Inviting attention. Inviting. I feel arousal. Anticipation. Her high heels, nineteen-forties high heels, whiplashes her body into curves of burlesque fetishness. Black stockings, black suspenders, a short clinging black skirt. It rides, as she slides, back into the crimson leather folds.

Her father gulps wetly, noisily, at his beer. He's huge, grizzled, cantankerous - a big man, with calloused, horny hands. Splayed, flayed. A large square head, his jowly angry cheek, veined dark purple, in spidery lines.

I've been scrawling spiky observations in my notebook, and become aware of my growing arousal; a warm, limpid engorgement. She has sensed me writing, and we share a growing eroticism. She absorbs me with angled glances, and I her with a steady gaze.

With an expression of knowing innocence, wide eyed, she slowly she swings her legs up, resting her calves on her father's lap; and stretches; toes point; heels dig; her back arches. With half closed eyes, and a shadowy pout, she languishes...

And absently, carelessly, he strokes her legs, upwards. "Fookin' loosing the war, we fookin' haven't got an army no more. The fookin' cunts. "

Slowly she drops one leg to the ground, and languidly her legs spread; slowly exposing the soft whiteness of her thigh, crossed, etched, by tight black elastic straps. And so, though in a molasses dark dream, inevitably, the slow fall reveals the moist curves of her cunt, through dark, tight, glistening curls. Lips lag in slow parting, overcoming their clinging moistness, revealing an inviting, deep inner darkness. She gazes with dark, empty eyes, through the reflective surface of round glasses: she basks.

An eternity passes, erotically charged, my cock straining. I lean forward to abandon my notebooks, and then she too leans forward, with slow snake movement. Her hand reaches, and fingers curl around her father's near empty pint glass: "Can I drink the dribble", she whispers to me.

"There's fookin' nothing in there but a dribble. Fook the tories; fookin' worked hard all me life; You're not fookin' listening to me."

She leans back, pouting, disturbed, "Yes, I am Daddy".

He grunts, and pushes her leg to the floor, and her thighs close. Frowning, she slowly draws up her legs, resting her chin on her knees. Surely her father must be part of this performance. Again her wide eyed gaze; then her lips part, her hands wander across her exposed thighs, pressing, kneeding her flesh, revealing herself, creeping, fluttering. Parting herself, she probes, exploring; and I'm certain I can hear her wetness.

"Fookin' time to go."

Commotion. Reluctantly, she rises, and faces me. An end - but, my own last private performance: back arched, pushing her belly, she pulls her skirt down over her hips, her thighs, eventually over the triangulat space defined by her engorged lips. He holds up her coat. She slides in one arm, then the other, into red satin lined sleeves, and slowly writhes into her coat.

"Yes, it's time for bed", she says. A last deadening, lingering stare. The tip of her tongue hovers in wet darkness.

"Are you fookin' coming or what?"

"Yes Daddy". She frowns again, then turns, and leaves.

Friday, 12 February 2010


Marlene Dumas: Jule-die Vrou (1985)