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The Ghost With Auburn Hair
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
THE GHOST WITH AUBURN HAIR
Well, today is another gray and rainy day in this town. Kind
of makes you think that life is nothing but a succession of
shadows and gloom, dark clouds and chilly winds, interspersed
with the promise of a little sunshine now and then to maintain
enough of a fiction so everyone keeps going. Gray and cold. Old
and fray. Wet and chilly. That's how the day looks. That's how I
feel. That's what this day makes me feel if I'm immersed in
reality.
Good thing that I still can dream and fly. And it's always
harder not to wander away. To warmer places. To sunnier places.
To places in which I can be whoever I dream of being. To places
in which I can meet the woman I want at will.
If I look through the window I can see her walking. Funny
thing. I haven't seen her face, ever, and yet here she is:
smiling, saying nice things in a voice that's caressing me, full
of sweet overtones.
"Hi. How are you?" "You look as if you need a break. Would
you like to have a cup of coffee with me?" "Well, we can go to
this coffee shop, close to my place" "So, what are we waiting
for? Let's go"
And all of a sudden, we are neither in this time, nor in
this town. We're somewhere in the middle of a dream, looking at
each other, sipping Capuccino and talking of our lives. We're
frozen in time. Words coming and going without a finish line.
Words coming and going, dancing with the music of our eyes,
following the rhythm of a more intimate connection. Here we are:
the first man and the first woman, repeated ad infinitum. The
first blood and the first heart beat. Always the same and yet
always new.
Her face is changing with the slow movement of the moon.
Her words are wrapping me with the laces of rainbow. Her
eyelashes are hypnotic. Her mouth is more than tempting and this
is not a coffee place, this is a forest and she's casting her
spell. I look but I want to see. I see but I want to dream. I
dream but I want to have. Her words are falling and they sweep
me.
I've played the game of seduction many times, but every new
look, every promise of flesh anew, every new whisper of the
garden of wantonness washes out my old sins. It's me, fresh,
again. It's my skin without memories, without owners, without
repeats. I'm a virgin one more time. Did I say that it's funny?
Well, it is. I haven't seen her. I know nothing of the space her
body occupies in time, the space that her contour steals from
the air. The space that her eyes cut from the light. And yet
she's making me dizzy with needs that I never knew I had. I'm
Adam, I'm Tao, I'm Gilgamesh and Ra. Sex is being born with me.
Sex will die with me. Sex is her name. She is the night that
holds me and nurtures me. She is the night that will bury me.
Sex is her name.
Suddenly, we are not in the coffee place anymore. We're in
her room. And there's music being played from some old record.
Her body strokes mine as we try a few languid, lazy dancing
steps. As in a Humphrey Bogart's movie, I hold her, feeling the
softness of the naked flesh of her back. I hold her and feel the
warmth stream of her breath in my cheek. She's in my arms, devoid
of a will other than the will of feeling. I softly lick her
earlobes, to taste the sweet flavor of her fresh skin. I feel
the voice of lewdness growing in the back of my neck and
traveling throughout my body. I sense the pinch of desire nesting
in my groin. Possession is the name of this painting. Lustful
strokes from an old Dutch master's brush. How can I want her so
madly, so deeply? I need to melt in her. To be in her. Doesn't
she see that I'm hurting? And my only relief can only come from
her wet flesh, from the deep of her sex, from her scented juices
and oozing tissues.
But I don't want to surrender to this single urge. I don't
want to retreat after a burst of heat. I want to revere her body
and soul forever. I want to explore her every cleft and nook with
my lips and my tongue, and my fingers and my bones. I want to
knead her muscles with my avid hands, pursuing the harmony of
relentless passion. One hour, and another, and another, until
time goes away with its sad-filled rhymes. No. I don't want to
abandon myself to orgasm. I want to keep the feelings flowing,
unstopped. I want to lay the fabric of pleasure at her feet, as a
magic carpet that will take us to ancient Bashra, in the domains
of Haroun-al -Raschid or Scherezade or Al-Manzur. Traveling in
thin air. Swirling, twisting , flowing, softly falling and never
reaching the sands of extinction.
Overwhelmed by our senses, simmering in carnal consumption,
half way between the dream and the reality of our bodies. That's
how I want to take her, that's where I want her to lead me. To
the constellation of her breasts, to the black holes of her chin,
to the heart of her warmer, inner fantasies. I want to be an
astronaut over her limbs, a diver in her pores, a climber on her
hips. I want to melt and become jelly fish in the deep of her
vagina. I want to trace the stars spread on her hair. I want to
suck her sex juices and kiss her soul out of her mouth. I want to
be hers, in her, for her. I want her to take me. To swim in my
veins. To join me. To come to make a splash in my blood and in my
semen, in the fluids and essences of my being, in the fluids and
essences of my thoughts.
And then I dream of death striking, taking us exhausted,
satisfied, wholesome, full of pulp and languid tissue, to the
island of void.
Now, there's no room. There's no coffee place. There's no
love left. Just a gray, rainy day. Just a bunch of feelings and
longings. She has no face, no legs, no hands and her spirit comes
back to being a ghost. Sand blown away by a gust of wind. I
haven't seen her, ever. I don't recognize her voice. I don't even
match her self and my desire. There's just rain, cold wind, and
dark clouds. No space. No place. No room. Kind of makes you think
that life is nothing but a nightmare, only bearable if you stop
dreaming.
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