It was mostly a ploy to get him to say "fetish."
Him: It's so weird that every girl goes through that taking pictures of feet phase. Why?
Me: I don't do that anymore.
Him: There's no use denying it.
Me: I can try.
Him: You can try ... I'll just pop my head in to job interviews and other important first impressions and say, "You know she used to take pictures of her FEET??"
Him: Then mouth the word "fetish."
Me: FUCK YOU!
That night, I cried over the sink, so my tears would drain neatly away.
It was perfectly round, twice its usual size. Its colour was a pale, buttery yellow so savoury I had a wish that I could taste with my eyes and see with my tongue; and so delicate that it made the white light of the streetlamps look neither pure nor clean, but stark and garish. Racing west, I saw it sank lower and lower, and so low I thought it would certainly smash into the earth, and extinguish forever.
GIRLS WITH MONOCLES!
I was sitting in the streetcar, absent-mindedly glancing over my fellow passengers, the majority of them happening to be male, when the realization hit me. I was surrounded by cock.
Cock swathed in two (or one, for the commando man) layers of cloth, cotton or linen or denim or corduroy or silk or leather ... but it was all material immaterial to me. Warm, soft, relaxed, silky cock tucked comfortably between each man's legs in the car, none of them quite thinking about it, so natural and ordinary was the possession of such beautiful, tantalizing objects.
This was a fascinating development.
I willed myself to look innocent, so sure that if I didn't, one of them would notice my face, point an accusing finger at me, and cry out, "She knows! GET HER!"
In Jarhead, when the group of sweaty, overheated Marines ripped off their clothes amid crazed screams of "field fuck!" and began humping and grinding in a simulated gay orgy on the barren desert plain, all to the sweet, humpin' strains of "Gonna Make You Sweat", it occurred to me at that moment, that at some point, my mind must have had quietly ceased watching the actual film and deftly spliced in a spool of my most cherished daydreams instead, just as a surprise.
Let us live and love,
not listening to old men's talk.
Suns will rise and set
long after our little light
has gone away to darkness.
Kiss me again and again.
Let me kiss you a hundred times,
a thousand more, again a thousand
without rest, losing count,
so no one can speak of us and say
they know the number of our kisses.
- Gaius Valerius Catullus, "Vivamus mea Claudia."
As I board the streetcar, I glance around, to see that the only other passenger is a TTC officer, dressed in full grey and maroon regalia. There is a protective white wrapper over his hat -- probably for the rain earlier in the day. He looks at me with clear, light eyes; they stand out against a tan incongruous with a cool April evening. Voices crackle from his radio.
2. As "Americana" defines itself as artefacts of American culture, "Gloriana" consists of the artefacts of my culture.
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