new wing

I had meant to write a proper review of the new wing. It just opened, and I was eager to see the changes to the old rooms I had wandered through on my own not so terribly long ago. Back then, I loved the gardens, and the hovering guards, who were nonetheless eager to chat as I excitedly rolled back the protective velvet covers to read letters written by Napoleon himself. It felt a respite, on a grey day, I remember. And I hoped for the same as I waited for my turn to enter the new building on a cold March morning.

It was a lot of glass, I recall. You arrived first, and I managed to park, at last, then arrive on time with the tickets. The gardens were still there, yes, and as we wandered around the halls, among the crowds of art-lovers, guards–and apparently all other employees–were far more interested in protecting the artwork itself than in watching over the office space.

Yes, the new wing. It is my face upon the cold tile of the men’s room stall as you reach round my waist to unbutton my jeans and unzip them. Your cool fingers push aside the wet pink lace from my pussy, fingers plunging, pushing, before you yank down my panties, your gleaming cock magically displayed before I notice your pants open, cock quickly feeding my cunt, deep, alabaster, work of art, fuck, yeah I want it, your hot juice shooting deep inside me so quickly before footsteps distract us back into reality.

Stay, you say, wait, and I am here alone, my heart pounding as the door opens again, as I pull my panties back up, zip my jeans, wait, wait. The coast is clear, quick, now, you say, your hips pressed against me, trapping me up against the wall, kiss, as you yank down the slutty blouse I wore today. You squeeze my tits, and I feel my clit jump again, want more. Our reservation is ready in the cafe downstairs.

The pinot grigio is crisp, cool, chatter and clinking glasses in the airy room. I look down to sip the wine, look up at you, your filthy grin. I squirm in my chair, and the stream of your hot come soaks my panties, my jeans, which stiffen as they dry, and we meander more through rooms of virgins and crosses, then out into the street to coffee, to lust, to next time, undress, spread wide, fuck, slow, long, loud, soon.

further thoughts on ashes

And if you were to reach for me…

Would you reach first for my hair on fire, my flesh-covered hand still reaching back for yours?

Would I cradle your gentle head to comfort you, your fears, to comfort me in doing so, so mother-like?

Or would you yank the strands of my ardent hair? Would you pull my head down close, reach to fuse my hand to your own bones as you kiss me, your swollen flesh cock aching, burning, wanting above all once more to lock inside me, to erupt now deep within my molten core?

Would I pull your filthy mouth hot to my breasts, urge you to suck my nipples hard, to bite me, take me, as I push your head closer, my body dissolving even as you melt into me, lust before it is lost, or found, forever? Now, here, even in this moment, this one last moment, would you become me, me become you?

Would I want so much? Would you die like this? Would you die devoid of flesh and body, would you die fucking me? Die in bliss bonding, die in heaven, die in death, together, die in death itself?

ashes to ashes

If we were to die suddenly, on a lovely day in Pompeii, what would we be? What would we become if we were locked in this very moment, left mute in a moment of mass destruction, a moment in time in violence, in an emphatic stop, in truth?

Would we be shackled, ever struggling to flee?

Would we hide, pull our melting tunics to cover our faces?

Would we be left waiting, forever frozen in the expectation of salvation?

Would you reach for me? Would I cradle your head against my breasts one last time as you touch my hand, my burning hair? Hair is ash, flesh is ash, among loving bones, corpses left longing, so long ago, so long.

punch drunk

It must be one of those days, one of those foggy dreamy days when I wish I didn’t have to do anything, but I do. It must be one of those warmer-than-autumn type of days that make me think that the warmth will be gone soon, that the year is winding down now, one of those days when I would happily laze about the floors and wait the way I used to. But I’m not.

But I am feeling nostalgic. When I was living in France, I went digging up a little fanzine that a friend of mine knew. She had written there once or twice, as had some other friends… largely because of a guy named Serge who was one of the fun-loving (at the time) romance language people. Cute title, in that verlan tradition of mixing up words like incorruptible to make inrockuptible, yes very clever. But at any rate, there was that connection, and they indeed loved sex, drugs and rock’n’roll, and I bought the magazine for the time I lived and breathed Paris, literally. Gave all the mags to my friend for her birthday.

Well, flash forward a few years… several years. I found the much larger, much glossier magazine in Montreal, and immediately subscribed. They sent me CDs all the time of things I had never even heard about, not just new things, but all sorts of things–not that it was much of a stretch to find things I had never heard at that time of my life. But I still listen to much of it even now.

So, just last night, pouring myself a nice glass of red wine and thinking of spring, and Paris, and love, I could not help thinking of Helen Merrill’s rendition of “Lilac Wine”. I listen now at times, in my car late at night, on nights that I am not myself drinking, but feeling in a particular frame of mind, and I get all giddy and stargazed. It probably is that side of myself that I try to hide but then, on those nights, it never matters. I simply enjoy the drunken passion as she sings it.

Unfortunately, youtube has let me down in not supplying the version I want to share with you. Jeff Buckley sang this, too, and a lot of people seem to like that version for its vulnerability. It just doesn’t hit me in that same way… I don’t know. Maybe I need violins. But here is one rather artistic video from Doc Martens (yes, the shoes) with Elkie Brooks singing, just so you get the idea of what it is all about.

This is all quite nice, but I don’t quite feel that swaying stupor I get with Helen Merrill’s version. But here, perhaps you’ll just have to imagine it. Listen to this, then try.. if you are so inclined.

Incidentally, rumor has it that lilac wine is poisonous. But I think whoever said that was just being melodramatic.


Odilon Redon was not the artist I had gone to the museum to see. I was there yesterday, actually, to look at Degas and his non-dancing nudes (which were breathtaking, if in no other way simply by the abundance of work I had never even known about). More on them later.

The museum, however, is very different now than it was earlier in the summer, and I got lost, thereby wandering into a work (go look!) that I once wrote about back in the days when French literature seemed to matter much more to me than it sometimes does now.

Isn’t it lovely? Or creepy, depending on your point of view. I know that the French Symbolists had a thing for Redon.. purpose of my little talk, actually, as his work was admired by the character des Esseintes in Huysmann’s A Rebours. But Poe liked him, too, and the Symbolists liked Poe, and he liked them, and I even think then of Bataille and his disturbing, perhaps pornographic Histoire de l’œil

Yes, of course I think of this. Much more to say about Bataille, and about French Symbolism, and about Redon, for that matter. I say the eyes have it.

play misty for me

I am lucky to have friends who have me over for dinner and uncensored discussion, enjoyable moments together by the fire. It is all cozy, and in this case nostalgic, though I had never seen the porn film they suggested.

“The Opening of Misty Beethoven” is a classic; that much I knew. But watching it I was transported back to a world when I was young, when sex was a brand new world, when cable television had first come into my parents’ house, and Cinemax showed soft porn like Emmanuelle, the Sensuous Nurse, Young Lady Chatterley.

I ached for the Martini & Rossi adult life. But I had forgotten until last night the 1970s glamour of my fantasies, the pictures in my own mind of real people, naked, that look so different now from the shaved and enhanced bodies I see now. The foundation of my erotic imagination was there, in the scenes of Europe, the conversation, the humor, the sex itself.. ah yes. And a plot. A Pygmalion porn movie.

And yet.. I was an innocent girl next door. I may well have been full of imagination and insatiable curiosity, but I never saw anything like this when I was so young. I never even knew back then that people did some of the things I saw in the movie… All the better to watch now.

Hot. Very hot. A lovely night.

how deep?

Deep love. I am twelve again, and the song is okay. We can dance to this–not dance, but sway, hands on shoulders, sway, standing close enough to touch and not look. This is disco, yes, but not the gold chain shame that will fuel my swerve toward guys with skinny ties and short hair. No, this is make-out music or wishful thinking. It always will be.

I can fuck you. I can hold you, even with a song, and strip off all of my clothing, cradle your head between my legs as you lick me and reduce me to moans. Yes, I can bare myself to you this much, I can.

But this, this night fever, this is something else again. I laugh as I take the record carefully from its sleeve, blow off the imaginary dust and set it down on the turntable. The album is pristine, stored in a closet or a basement for thirty-plus years, never played maybe–a gift, a time capsule. I lift the arm, and set the needle down carefully while you watch me, this ritual of music so ingrained in both of us. It is a holiday, a lighting of candles, a chant we know by heart and not mind, even now, years later.

Adolescent timidity tries to invade my body now, too, tries to overtake my urge to swirl, here, right in front of you. You are the cute guy in the front row, and I have a crush on you. I blush when I catch you turning to look at me, your gaze terrifying because you might really see through me. You smile back, because you saw everything, and you know now. I cannot hide.

It is the same smile now, and I am damp, panting within seconds to this music. John Travolta walks down the street with a paint can. You take my hand, you–you must have been more leather than lycra, too–your cock hard as you pull me abruptly to you, the ancient rhythm pounding, the falsetto unforgivable, and yet we succumb to it. Years later, we find ourselves still resisting that beat, the flashing colors, the darkness. We no longer make fun of the kings and queens in their flashy clothing; we make fun of ourselves as we become what we once dreaded here on a makeshift dance floor. I am tempted to brush your hand away and start laughing, but I make a wish instead and give in.

We are bolder now. You want me. I want you. I know you will watch me as I step back. I let you, let your lust build as I watch you watch me begin to move, not moving my eyes not once from yours. I dare you, and you move in toward me.

I am stripped bare now, my heart pounding not from the effort, but from you, your steps into my steps, the steps I could not take when I was twelve, or sixteen, or even twenty-five. I take them now, we do, and I turn now, smiling, letting you watch me smile and turn and want you.

We are staying alive, yes, alive now more than ever before, alive from head to toe, the body electric, the past and present here before us, naked, the junior high bullies, the knowing truth at seventeen, the nights at home, the notes forgotten, later too, when this music fades, and we are bleary eyed in lost sleep and heartache, the chances in life that miraculously do come again, even now, even better, and my life flashes before my eyes, now transformed somehow as I see we are the same, we are here, we understand. And you are beautiful.

Yes, of course we are alive, and separate, we want, yet fear to want. And it is this, desire, is it not? Is desire ignited by anything more than it is by standing back and letting a breeze catch, looking from some distance and seeing not only skin and heat but context as well?

Deep, I do not know how deep rivers run, much less how deep love runs.

In all of us, in every way, it is deeper than we ever think it can be.