the costumed afternoon

I was conscious of the wig, I was conscious of the costume but they weren’t an encumbrance. They felt as natural as my own winter coat or my own headband. Being someone or something else for a while, it felt far more natural than being myself. It was her idea and I loved it immediately. She asked me to wear the costume and I agreed. I panicked a little, worried that I wouldn’t do it justice but I agreed. The soft, pale, brown-haired girl took pictures of us. She seemed so bored and yet she took many. I wanted to stare at her, the one who asked me. Her costume was a sight. Her hair was down and her skin was pink tinted cheeks on smooth caramel. Her eyes hid much and her mouth was a wicked giggle. I wouldn’t notice until later how close to me she had stood. The way her tiny frame relaxed itself on my knee, my shoulder, my arm. But now, as I stare at the photographs, her floral breath whispering in my ear as she narrates each one, I notice.

four

I guess I knew she’d ask me into the fitting room. It wasn’t as if I didn’t want to go, I just couldn’t bear accepting that I did. I walked behind her, never looking at the pert caramel colored body before me. She was beautiful but she was making me sick at this moment. I allowed myself to drift off, to become a part of something else, the clothing racks, the smell of canvas shoes, the laughter of the sales ladies. Anything other than her. ‘How many?’ asked a woman wearing a headset. I imagined headset woman onstage in a Britney Spears outfit, and wondered if she could sing. ‘Uh, four,’ she replied. Four times. Four times I’ll die at the sight of her.

the jacket

It is hanging in my closet. My senses feel so acute I swear I can smell it from where I sit.

Three weeks ago today. Three weeks ago she saturated it with her body. Her smell, her charm, her laughter. It’s ridiculous but I can feel her hot skin and hear her smoky floral voice the moment I pull it from my closet.

My suit jacket. She wore my suit jacket for ten minutes or so. It was cold and the night air bit through my face and my ears. But I was impervious to natural unpleasantries that night. Only the caramel color of her thighs, mostly hidden by the red satin of her dress could really punch me in the stomach.

I sat there in the fog and watched the dizzy colors of people and things move past me. I concentrated on nothing and let only the euphoria of my stupor embrace me. And then her face, her arm extended out to me, my jacket in her hand. I kissed her fingers. She kissed mine. I kissed her lips. She kissed mine. I stared at her, for one long moment. She kept my gaze, boldly, and then turned to go.

I sit here now, three weeks later. The jacket is hanging. I am looking at a picture of her. I plan on wearing the jacket while masturbating to her scent and her photograph. Her black hair won’t be in my face while I *u** myself and her tiny body won’t be impaling itself on my *ock but I’ll imagine it. My dirty thoughts will do her justice. The jacket. It will bring her back to me.

muse

He came over every day. I set the lights, I laid the fabrics and the furs. I even brought a giant yellow snake once. He was my muse and my object and every afternoon he belonged to me inside a tiny studio. He was blue jeans and gray t-shirts, stubble and boyish smiles. Blue eyes tinted with black magic. And every day began the same. He would listen to my instruction, nod his head in accordance, grin at me and then undress. At first he used the changing room to disrobe before stepping into the lights, wrapped in a towel. But after his trust in me became absolute he undressed right in front of me, under the lights, under heaven. His body was a mind****. It made me hurt, it made me sick. It was angels and devils, purity and sin. Adonis’s cum and Aphrodite’s cream. No words could explain it though I tried. I tried, for my own amusement. I tried to see, I tried to breath but the sound of his belt whipping through the loops of his jeans knocked me unconscious each and every time. And in that millisecond of lusty darkness my body was an infant, tiny and naked, soaked in a sweat of lava and napalm. The air surrounding my face was burnt to a crisp and I could almost see the black crust of the charred atmosphere. Surely I would die here, my camera cracking itself in two as it hit the floor, with me to follow, knees first. This monster, how could he have done this? He was only a man after all. And so I snapped. The lens could endure what my eyes could barely withstand. The perfect white skin tautly pulled over muscle and bone. The slightest of dark hair trickling down from his navel to holy land. I smiled to myself and clicked like mad. His grin was shy but his eyes were madly bold. I wanted to **** him. It seemed so obvious to me. Surely he could feel my desire from where he stood and it surprised me the sheer force of it didn’t knock him over. You’re a ****ing animal, I told him one day, trying to elicit some response, a laugh or a smirk. Some cute expression on that wicked gorgeous face. Then he flashed perfect white teeth, too sharp canines. A vein pulsed in his temple. Oh God. He was naked, he was letting me take his picture and he was smiling.