Swylce

Musings and Writing of GG Alexander

Archive for August 2015

Savage Writing: Sarah

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This week’s topic was “Swapping Filth” again. NSFW.

___

It was August 17th 1991, when I first laid eyes on the tits of the woman who took my virginity.

It was at a toothless end-of-summer barbecue thrown by my Aunt June, the sort with more potato salad than meat. I was just sixteen and wearing baggy ripped jeans, a plaid shirt with a vest underneath, and my favourite choker around my throat. My hair was probably slightly greasy. I think it must have been about two pm when I saw her? All I remember is that I got my plate and went to the salad buffet to get some chips and dip and there, hovering over the radicchio like some heavenly sign, were her tits. Her denim shirt was tied in a knot under them, and goddamn if it wasn’t like they were wrapped up just for me. The cleavage seemed to go for miles and miles. I stared, entranced, for what felt like an hour when she reached over to my side of the table, aiming for the breadsticks.

I blinked and looked up. She smiled and said something food-related. I don’t remember exactly what it was now, but to be honest I probably never heard it. She had heavy bobbed hair, curled perfectly under at the bottom. After she put the breadsticks and salad on her plate, she pushed her hair behind one ear, only for a huge lock of it to immediately fall back out again.

‘You’re Anne’s daughter, aren’t you? Hi, I’m Sarah.’

She was a friend of my aunt’s. They went to church together.

‘Natalie,’ I said.

We didn’t say much after that. Pleasantries. I wanted her to stop talking and walk away so I could go back to ogling her. Eventually she obliged, but still I drifted near her all day, only to turn away whenever she noticed me, like a skittish fish or an insect.

At one point, I watched as she and her husband talked to my aunt and uncle. Sarah spoke as she ate, and as she lifted a nacho to her lips a dollop of sour cream fell off of the chip and hit her left boob. It remained there for a further second – tip tapering up to the sky – before she swiped it up with one finger and put the finger in her mouth, tightening her lips as she laughed at herself.

That night, in bed, I imagined licking it off of her, running my tongue up her soft skin, untying the knot of her shirt and drowning in what was beneath. I had to press my palm over my own mouth to silence the end of that fantasy.

*

I became her walking bitch. Aunt June said Sarah had a springer spaniel and a pointer that neither she nor her husband ever had time to walk. I offered. She was delighted. I got to see her three times a week and even more in my dreams.

Time painted me a picture of her, a watercolor made of droplets of half-hour meetings that became afternoons and evenings and more.

She would dance about her kitchen to Lionel Richie. She liked modern art but was only allowed to hang the most bland, inoffensive pictures on her wall. She loved Father of the Bride and thanked me for seeing it with her when husband was out of town again. She gave me my first taste of wine.

There’s no point being nostalgic about it. It happened, but it doesn’t really matter now. Here’s how it ends, so you know you’ll be disappointed: it ends when she puts a “For Sale” sign on the lawn the next July and then a week later I see her brown hatchback go by my house and it doesn’t even slow and I don’t even glimpse her silhouette. Her husband was later found guilty of fraud. June stopped writing to her about that time. God’s forgiveness and love, whatever, I guess. I told my girlfriend in college that she was my first because she was nervous. I breathed so little word of Sarah that I almost forgot she had happened.

Here’s what happened:

It was December. I took Bonnie and Lisa in from their walk and my fingers were frozen. Sarah was lying on the rug in front of the fire, laughing at a rerun of The Simpsons Hallowe’en episode. The dogs bounded over to her, and from the way she lost her balance trying to hug them, I knew she’d been drinking even before I saw the bottle on sitting by the hearth.

When the dogs were in the kennels and I returned to her, she was lying on her back with those mini-mountains splaying out to each side of her chest, barely restrained by her pink flannel pajamas.

I sat next to her. If she was only a little drunk, I figured, then she’d tell me it was late and that I should go home. If she was far more than a little drunk – as I suspected – then maybe…well, I’d be able to look as much as I liked…

‘Do you know what’s bullshit?’ she burst out. It was the first time she’d ever sworn in front of me.

‘What?’

‘Everything. Men. White houses. Ironed shirts. I used to dance until sunrise, ride around in every boy’s car, talk about art and novels and the world. Now I’m…this. Never marry, Nat. Don’t settle down.’

‘I won’t,’ I said.

‘Ha, you will,’ she said.

Her knowing, cynical tone – that’s what finally dragged my eyes away from her body. It annoyed me so much that I blurted the truth.

‘You know I’m gay, right?’

She sat upright so fast, she nearly fell right back over.

‘You are?’

‘…yeah?’ I squeaked, wondering whether I would regret it.

She gave me a deep, wicked smile.

‘Thank God.’

In later days, she would tell me of her days at college flipping between girlfriend and boyfriend, of the eventual triumph of parental pressure, of female lovers crying down the phone.

But what she did, right then, was kiss me.

Don’t think I’m a prude, or that because I was nervous I hesitated. She kissed me, not the other way around – but then I ripped that pajama top from her so fast I probably set a record. I ran my hands over her tits – sweet Jesus, they overfilled my palm – and I couldn’t resist, I trailed my tongue across every inch of them. And when she slipped her hand between my legs, and it was better than every fantasy I’d had about her, I knew – like no other time we fucked in the next six months, like no other night of my life since – I knew that I was in heaven.

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Written by G.J.

20/08/2015 at 9:49 pm

Savage Writing: Blithe

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She took the 7.56 tram to the Queen Elizabeth memorial hospital on the 4th of August, and that was the day she sold her eyes. She remembered it vividly, even years later. She had crushed her ticket in sweating palms. The tram conductor found her out that day – that’s what happened – she had been showing the same ticket all month, and August the 4th was the first day the tram conductor actually checked the date on it. Yes, she had handed over the £2.50 she had brought for lunch, she had hoped that after the surgery she would be too nauseous to want to eat. That was the day they took her eyes.

Not that she hadn’t planned it for months. WANTED: GREEN EYES – HIGH PRICE. That’s what the ad had said. Those were the words that sprang out at her that night, when she was clutching her stomach to try to press away the fear. Before the words, it had felt as if a car was parked on her shoulders and was growing heavier and heavier and wouldn’t stop until it turned her into ground beef. After the words, the weight lifted, eased, until it felt as if she was only wearing a thick fur coat. She had green eyes, with perfect vision. She took a selfie in the bright light of her bathroom, sent it to the agency, and was snapped up in seconds.

They gave her the first payment at the first appointment, and that was enough to keep her afloat for a month and a half.

‘Good, healthy green eyes,’ the doctor said, shining light into her this way and that. ‘Your buyer has brown’ – always brown or blue, green and grey eyes were the rare ones – ‘and it’ll look very different. Are you prepared for that?’

Doesn’t matter how I look in the mirror as long as I can eat, she thought.

‘Of course,’ she said, with a confident smile, her customer smile, her please-don’t-get-me-sacked smile, her please-give-me-another-month-and-I’ll-pay-the-interest-I-swear smile.

Would she meet the buyer, she asked.

‘No. They don’t usually meet the sellers. As popular as it is to buy rare eyes, there’s still a certain queasiness about the practice. I know many prefer to treat it as if we simply change the colour of their birth eyes in the surgery. When people buy it for others as gifts – fathers for their daughter’s eighteenth, that kind of thing – they often prefer to mask the truth entirely.’

She signed a raft of forms, exempting the agency from any liability should the surgery go wrong, exempting the buyer from any liability whatsoever. As if she had the money to sue anyone even if it should go disastrously wrong. She’d rubbed her eyes self-consciously as a momentary wave of terror passed by, as she imagined what it might be like to be blind.

Blind people definitely count as disabled, she said to herself as reassurance. They probably got more money a month than she did.

‘You can back out at any time,’ the doctor said. ‘Even on the day.’

‘Do I have to pay back this money if I do?’ she asked.

He had blinked, as if she was the first person who had thought of it.

‘Yes, I believe you do.’

Her chains were set, then. She walked out of the doctors and went across the road and bought a massive slice of pizza and the grease dribbled all over her hands and she nearly choked for the luxury of it, eating such a huge slice at 3pm instead of working for ten hours on a stomach pumped with caffeine.

On the 4th of August, she entered the hospital. At the pre-surgery consultation, the nurse asked if she’d eaten anything that morning. She laughed. She had paid off her second credit card last night and was still high on the happiness.

While she sat in the waiting room, not long before she was called to get changed, a woman walked by. Her age was undefinable – at some angles she looked eighteen, at others thirty-five. Her lips were plump, her eyebrows were angled, and her teeth gleamed snow-white as she smiled and talked to the nurse beside her.

‘I thought, you know, “Jack’s bonus has come in, he’s already done everything for Valentine’s Day, so what else can I ask for for my birthday? I know, I’ll get the eye thing that I’ve been wanting to do for ages.” My mate Lily, she’s had it done and she’s got these stunners and I’m well jel, and I’m sorry but I can just tell that the green’ll go better with me than it does with her – though hers are a brown-green mix, she couldn’t get a pure green one – she’ll be so upset with me when she sees me. I hope I won’t have to be out for long, though, I’ve got lunch with Jack just after – I’m hoping I’ll surprise him, I haven’t told him the surgery’s today…’

The nodding nurse took the woman around a corner and the chatter faded away.

She’d expected, that if she were to ever met her buyer, she’d have envy so thick she could cut throats with it.

But she just felt tired.

A few hours later it was done. Half an hour of rest, and then she was out the door, looking around with her new eyes.

Nothing seemed different. The buyer had laser-perfect eyesight.

On the tram home, she checked her bank balance on her phone. Part of the last payment had come in already, wired in the second the hospital confirmed that she’d gone into surgery. She paid off another chunk of debt, and felt her fur coat of worry moult until she was wearing only an uncomfortable spring jacket.

At home, she went to the bathroom.

She blinked five times when she saw herself. Bold eyes, a darker, muddier shade of brown than her hair. It looked strange. There was a pang of loss as she remembered those days, that so quickly became faded memories, where she had green eyes like a princess.

The pang faded fast. She got changed, grabbed her purse, and walked out the door. There was just enough time to get a slice of pizza before her evening shift.

Written by G.J.

05/08/2015 at 10:49 pm