Little Fire Stories
Little burning fires collect around my ankles, crawling up my calf to innocent skin. Small torches, God Help Me, allow flames to scorch off knowing so I can allow in The New.
I prowl for cock online. Not for dates to sit down and interview. I boldly post the dinners don't matter. I'm looking for chemistry, attraction, a bold slap into a sexual circus act, without the animals - carnal completion. The less words the better.
Don't suggest coffee, meeting me half-way or 'what kind of music do I like'?! I want to fuck like strangers! I want to know what you hunger for - what makes you pull my hair, swallow me, devour our humanity until we slither flat and lifeless only a breath and a heartbeat left. Then, maybe we'll exchange names.
"Local Fun Fireman Here" in my inbox with a professional black-and-white photo of his sculpted arms, shoulders, back, his waist in his jeans. Another photo, suit, tie, smile holding a Styrofoam cup. Cute.
"Hi Frisky, my name is Derek- 28 y.o, SWM from LA/OC area. I loved ur pic and profile….wanna chat and see if we hit it off? P.S... u r soooo sexy!"
I write him back my phone number and head to class. Dumping buckets of rain, cars clogged across town, dripping umbrella sagging by the front door, I step inside and collapse on the soft couch. I've become extremely skilled at building the fire, adding wood to maintain the roar of the blaze, feeding its need with stacks of un-shapeable fantasies. I'm mesmerized by tall orange heat and fall prey to its magnetic seduction.
The local fireman rings my cell phone and leaves a message. I don't want to know his name or make him human. I'm sure to get burned. Keep dreaming little nowhere dreams. Add some wood. Eat some candy. Fidget, the nerves.
His arms could hold me, soothe the ragged body mustering through a life, I'd melt messy, pure goop but rather die than release myself to him, he's just another computer fantasy guy, type, click, delete, I need to avoid the pleasure of a personality tricking me...
...distract the memory from penetrating my wall, torturous thoughts drag me back to never forget the silence, the noise, the closeness like love, beauty, perfection, wholeness or the uncertainty, unknown, mystery of what could be a new experience.
By the beach, by the Ferris wheel, by the pier, by the brick building, where I lived happily until I couldn't stop fucking my neighbor. Sparkles of light flicker and seduce from the waves crashing on the sand. Do we pay for our memories? I'd pay anything to leave mine on this gritty beach - but they follow me, whisper warm wishes to come back, crawl down the end of the hallway with bloody rug burn knees, pearls hanging down, strand after strand, beg to stop remembering every drop of sweat that fell from his forehead, every grin, wink, push, pinch, or pull, every crease you counted in its folds, each tiny eyelash that flutters, the intoxicating smell of beach, sand, surf, saliva, the wet blue towel by the bed, the blanket from Mexico, the pillow holding his head, the couch you broke time and time again from grinding each other down into the earth - into the disappearance of each other "to kill the need that never dies." The memories never died either. They just clogged up my hearts arteries and choked the love out of me - one year at a time.
JILL WEISS