To the Artist's Page                 To our home page

To Luke Buckham's previous piece     To Luke Buckham's next piece

the light that is mine

tarantulas of sunlight crawl across her breasts, both of which are beautiful, harnessed in some sort of low-cut green top. she looks stoned, languorous, deceptive, contradictory and horny sitting there in my huge armless chair in that green top and her leopard-print underwear, and we eye each other across the room as i eat a huge plate of improbably large broccoli spears, with an entire jar of cheddar cheese sauce splattered like a one-tone Jackson Pollock painting across them. her pained feline eyes look filled with tiny flakes of mica, seem to change colors as they flash judgmentally at me, and i can feel the gossamer strands of my blond hair floating in the air as my scalp stiffens and my head pounds with desire that almost brings me to tears. i didn't used to want her this way, i think, trying to force the broccoli into my rumbling stomach. the first sight of her naked frightened me more than aroused me, all impossible curves, the body of a cherub, slightly chubby and rosy, all unreasonably extended curves that somehow allowed her to keep her balance. after a few months together, feeling the soft things nuzzle me in the shower and falling asleep face to face drooling on each other, waking intermittently and fucking until the windows of my cold apartment were fogged by our effort and our bruised midsections smelled like lobster & freshly husked corn, i had grown to love her body almost as if it were an opposite-gender version of my own. it's natural for a young guy to be scared of those thin blue veins that you can see through her breasts, of the smell of her when she's menstruating, of the possessive looks she clamps on you when you say you're going for a walk alone, scared of her strange alien nipples, her intimidating, ragged cunt like an sightless anemone when you first touch it.

i drop my plate on top of my typewriter and we attack each other, rolling first from one side of the room to the other, groping each other's crotches hungrily, occasionally rolling over some kind of hippie mattress that i occasionally try to sleep on that matches my drapes because it is white and bare and i have no drapes. we finally stop for a moment on top of the heating duct, which luckily isn't hot enough to burn us. we are both naked now, and i go down on her because she is suddenly trembling with new vitality and i need to. she pushes her hips in rhythm at first, and then i hear her sobbing. is that good? i ask. no, she warbles, turning over onto her cute little potbelly and giving me a glimpse of her ass, which is the best thing i have seen since i was born. i...i'm so stupid, she continues, and i raise myself to the level of her other mouth, panting slightly and numb-tongued. what's wrong i ask, and after a few minutes of pleading with her because i have to know everything about her thoughts or i won't sleep, she finally responds. i feel like an idiot, she sobs, because i should be over it by now, but i'm not. what? i ask, hoping i sound gentle rather than desperate. my grandfather used to do that, she finally intones, and it's hard sometimes for me to get it out of my head. i close my eyes for a moment, as if they were butterfly wings and when i open them they will reveal new networks, new patterns, of striking, healing colors, and wonder how to process this, realizing with horror that i have withdrawn my arms and she is no longer being held. then i open my eyes and force a smile that unexpectedly turns real on my face, drooling like a heathen because my mouth is still numb from lapping at her. i leer at her and say, do i look like anybody's grandfather to you? she tries bravely to smile but can't. if i have to handcuff you to the bedpost, i assure her, i am going to eat your pussy tonight, is that understood? you don't have a bedpost, she giggles weakly through the dregs of her tears, and i go down on her ferociously, enjoying the way the clitoris swells tinnily under my tongue, drooling profusely on her thighs because i'm new at this and not sure yet how to prevent myself from slobbering on her, and soon she begins to moan, as i chafe my half-erection on the thin rug and make strange infantile noises, my head clearing, glad to be going down on a girl who wears fishnets almost every day & smokes constantly. i raise my self to her other mouth and we kiss very hard, hoping to eradicate the taste of cigarettes and pedophiles, and we orgasm very violently together, moaning i-love-yous and letting tears of relief crowd our eyes, oozing together as i once again assure myself of what sex feels like, although i will forget again in a moment, as we forget momentarily after every session.

we won that day.

now she's in another part of the country, and i'm alone here on my lunch-break leaning against a brick wall and staring at every car that goes by, seeing neon gas-station lights, thoughtless people doing thoughtless things, and thinking that we are both suffering now, suffering almost as much as we did when we were lovers, and none of these things can touch me, one of these mole-faced rednecks could belt me over the head with a tire-iron and i'd be okay, none of these abstractions can hurt me, because she hurt me first. i know these words have been flogged threadbare by endless insulting pop songs, but...

i loved her, and i will scream into my pillow tonight, because i still do.

To the top of this page