Wedding Invitation

We met without her there. My eventual wife, I mean. I was alone, on a bed purchased by my daughter.

It is difficult to forgo the breath of a lovers fingers. The oils secreting out of pores, foreshadowing where touch is to fall, are the colour of joinings. It is this tactile unpoured kiss, telling of consent and its hushed breeze of procreation which gives sweat and sweet flavours to coitus. The pauses, where fingers are poised, are the battle flags of want and hope. They press the mind into smaller, denser spaces where the moisture of anticipation is blood, where the thumping is still within the body, waiting. We await the dilation of consciousness, the absence of sufficient dimentions for thinking, to only leave room for the rose of feelings. All of these vistas of beauty were absent. I was alone and had been for years.

I had been forced to drink the watered wines of pseudo-intimacy, a prairie where the wheat fields are grey and the air is a too thin jaundice of yellow. The feminine eye, falling as it might across a man prostrate upon the colourless salt flats of this place, will want its lids to close. It is a sympathetic act of appropriate abamdonment called privacy, where no mixing of pity with grief easily works. It is why masterbation is medicinal just as the white pills dropping from the bottle to the hand are not accelerants and do not excite joy.

I am right handed, so I used my left. There was a feverous ish in my viens that contained no hints of culmination. The artificial sweat was drownding the seascape of sheeting upon which I was closer to sinking than floating. The windows presaged a darker hour with the outsided light blinded by metalic venetians.

Then a shock. A nudge.

A wheat stalk, a wielded straw jutted interferingly into my fenetic stasis. It was sharp and antagonisticly good. The ish (crystal methamphetamine) and brain were agreed. The trespasser was intimacy. The touch was singular but also steriophonic in mottled orange black clouds and no one, by my.brief googles of the room, was here but me.

It isn't the penis that causes the audiences inside of us to find masculinity inelegant; it is the scrotum, that pipe bowl holding the promise of continuance, but in a fashion that crosses Faust with Mr. Potato Head with the variously melanin-ed jiggle of leberwurst. The poke continued there, dimpling the inelegance and retreating and creating the remembered agony of green coupling.

The sweat became boldly real and, if the ish defeated a summating of the cum whitened Everist, with its discarded oxigen bottles reminding all of the inverse potential for good in all such achievements, it was the kind of hued defeat that most will long to repeat. Meanwhile, the tickling scratch from a broom's lost hem fibre was slowly, wanderingly bringing me out of the salt lands towards life.

It took me awhile, as my hand fast waltzed and my penis threw forth arguments, to notice that the room itself was shifting. The door was ever so slightly closing and opening just an inch or two either direction. Someone seemed to be watching from the clothes cupboard, the door header swang down and lights nestled in its confines considered the spectical in the room. The chest of drawers was in minute motion too. I was purforming to an audience, extending fraternization with a crowd of voyeurs. And I didn't choose to cease.

Each moving object slowed upon my I looking away and returned to motion with my refocused gaze. And I found I was putting on something of a show, paying for the audiences' seats.

Brian Pannell in a non-practicing lawyer and used to work on old cars in his spare time.