I keep finding reasons not to submit my short stories into my University's Creative Arts Magazine, which is called Helicon and is just fantastic. This one was finished a month before the deadline and a month before the deadline I decided it wouldn't be suitable- I believe 'too long and too gay' were the reasons for this one while Olanzapine Wasteland was 'too hairy'. Still it's probably better to think of your work as 'too much' of something' as opposed to not enough of something else.
'Too gay, too hairy and too long' makes me feel edgy in my own mind while I'm shit scared of 'not enough talent' being the reason I get rejected. One day I'm going to get this mental block down. But until then this is called Ulterior Motives and it's too long and too gay to submit to a magazine but just fine for here.
I pick out a girl for the day’s fantasy.
It could be the Abercrombie and Fitch princess from the library, knotted blonde hair twirling around her fingertips, mouth poised to a pout over a textbook. I imagine the taste of stale wasabi paste from the low fat, low carb sushi still lingering on her tongue as she slots that frowning mouth into mine. Or, how about the smiling dark one from the street earlier on? Soft around the middle and in all the places that matter, pillowed and protected by plush fat- I’d plant a kiss on the soft swirls of dark areola, unique as finger prints and come back with a mouthful. Her tits bounced as she walked past me and I picture two large thighs opening and enveloping.
Either would do. They all would do. These smiling things; all of them pieced together with eyes and moist lips, hips, teeth, breasts and arse. How much of it, I wonder, is lust? And how much of it is jealousy? I fantasise about tiptoeing fingers crawling inside of them, and then the rest of me. Pull her body close to mine and then just melt. Melt right into her.
What is it like to be looked at? To be eyes and teeth and lips and smiles. The bouncing and the giggling comes second nature, though I pile it on with a makeup brush- fake and gloopy, melting in the heat. Effortless, effervescent; they skip through life with the mysteries of happiness held tightly in their fists and slipped into the secrets of silk underwear.
The boys, the girls and those of us caught in between all stare at them through glass stained red and green- the strangest mixture of envy and desire.
We turn our heads away quickly- but never quick enough. How do they not catch us looking?
I’m not alone in all this wanting and imagining. I like to hope at least. Can’t be the only one retreating to the fantasies when the lock for my room slides shut, to keep out the noise and the shame and the bitter sting of reality. I can’t be alone in hiding behind all these gestures of friendship. Wearing that great feminine disguise, I take the primordial oh-so female instinct for nurture and support and weave it into something that almost looks real. If I squint hard enough.
The hug from a friend lingers long enough to smell vanilla scented perfume, her lips skating over my cheek as we greet each other.
I get to stay in her room while she changes- it’s just what us girls do. She locks out the rest of the world though. Just us two behind a closed door. I don’t think about all the things that could happen away from the rest of the world, in a locked room like this.
She slides the dress over her shoulders and discards it on the floor. Her breasts spill over her bra like Venus emerging from the half shell.
I don’t know what to wear, she huffs at me.
I’d wear her. Wrapping arms like a second skin and a soft wet tongue. Wearing and wearing down, licking off the salty sheen of sweat, eroding right past shiny dark hair and mascara crusted eyelashes, down to the bare bones of her.
Try the sparkly one. Justin will love it.
She smiles at me furtively and we exchange what could be a knowing glance to the eyes of an outsider. I don’t even flinch anymore- not when they dance close in nightclubs, or kiss on the sofa. I have a different girl for each day; of course she doesn’t creep laughing into my fantasies. I do not dream of cupping those tits and kissing her neck.
You can borrow this. She thrusts something strange, small and synthetic at me. Bet it looks better on you. And you’ll finally get with what’s his face; that boy we all know you’re crazy about.
I don’t really fancy it tonight, I say. Not my scene.
She pulls a face, lips turned down at the corners and I want to kiss away that frown. It’s never my scene; fake smiles and fake clothes, picking up the drunken spares, clashing teeth and the scrape of stubble. Kissing with too much tongue and not enough emotion. Because everyone else is doing it. Because she’s doing it. Is this what normal is supposed to look like?
Wednesday night, then?
Maybe.
Maybe Wednesday night I’ll unpick and unlock myself, step out from behind stale skin as something glittering and laughing and alive. Maybe Wednesday night she’ll be there and the half dozen Jagerbombs will be too much. In the dark of the club, I’ll take her hand; pull her close like a good, caring friend. And snog her face off like a bad one.
I swear to god, babe. We need to get you laid.
Probably not though. I push a giggle past my lips and it just sounds sick and wrong.
It’s cracking, of course. The mask, the smile. But I’m not going to cry because the Abercrombie and Fitch princess and the dark one with the boobs will be waiting for me. And, inevitably, so will she.
Underneath the stupid giggle and the chaste hugging. Under the clothes, under the skin.
Just behind a locked door.
'Too gay, too hairy and too long' makes me feel edgy in my own mind while I'm shit scared of 'not enough talent' being the reason I get rejected. One day I'm going to get this mental block down. But until then this is called Ulterior Motives and it's too long and too gay to submit to a magazine but just fine for here.
I pick out a girl for the day’s fantasy.
It could be the Abercrombie and Fitch princess from the library, knotted blonde hair twirling around her fingertips, mouth poised to a pout over a textbook. I imagine the taste of stale wasabi paste from the low fat, low carb sushi still lingering on her tongue as she slots that frowning mouth into mine. Or, how about the smiling dark one from the street earlier on? Soft around the middle and in all the places that matter, pillowed and protected by plush fat- I’d plant a kiss on the soft swirls of dark areola, unique as finger prints and come back with a mouthful. Her tits bounced as she walked past me and I picture two large thighs opening and enveloping.
Either would do. They all would do. These smiling things; all of them pieced together with eyes and moist lips, hips, teeth, breasts and arse. How much of it, I wonder, is lust? And how much of it is jealousy? I fantasise about tiptoeing fingers crawling inside of them, and then the rest of me. Pull her body close to mine and then just melt. Melt right into her.
What is it like to be looked at? To be eyes and teeth and lips and smiles. The bouncing and the giggling comes second nature, though I pile it on with a makeup brush- fake and gloopy, melting in the heat. Effortless, effervescent; they skip through life with the mysteries of happiness held tightly in their fists and slipped into the secrets of silk underwear.
The boys, the girls and those of us caught in between all stare at them through glass stained red and green- the strangest mixture of envy and desire.
We turn our heads away quickly- but never quick enough. How do they not catch us looking?
I’m not alone in all this wanting and imagining. I like to hope at least. Can’t be the only one retreating to the fantasies when the lock for my room slides shut, to keep out the noise and the shame and the bitter sting of reality. I can’t be alone in hiding behind all these gestures of friendship. Wearing that great feminine disguise, I take the primordial oh-so female instinct for nurture and support and weave it into something that almost looks real. If I squint hard enough.
The hug from a friend lingers long enough to smell vanilla scented perfume, her lips skating over my cheek as we greet each other.
I get to stay in her room while she changes- it’s just what us girls do. She locks out the rest of the world though. Just us two behind a closed door. I don’t think about all the things that could happen away from the rest of the world, in a locked room like this.
She slides the dress over her shoulders and discards it on the floor. Her breasts spill over her bra like Venus emerging from the half shell.
I don’t know what to wear, she huffs at me.
I’d wear her. Wrapping arms like a second skin and a soft wet tongue. Wearing and wearing down, licking off the salty sheen of sweat, eroding right past shiny dark hair and mascara crusted eyelashes, down to the bare bones of her.
Try the sparkly one. Justin will love it.
She smiles at me furtively and we exchange what could be a knowing glance to the eyes of an outsider. I don’t even flinch anymore- not when they dance close in nightclubs, or kiss on the sofa. I have a different girl for each day; of course she doesn’t creep laughing into my fantasies. I do not dream of cupping those tits and kissing her neck.
You can borrow this. She thrusts something strange, small and synthetic at me. Bet it looks better on you. And you’ll finally get with what’s his face; that boy we all know you’re crazy about.
I don’t really fancy it tonight, I say. Not my scene.
She pulls a face, lips turned down at the corners and I want to kiss away that frown. It’s never my scene; fake smiles and fake clothes, picking up the drunken spares, clashing teeth and the scrape of stubble. Kissing with too much tongue and not enough emotion. Because everyone else is doing it. Because she’s doing it. Is this what normal is supposed to look like?
Wednesday night, then?
Maybe.
Maybe Wednesday night I’ll unpick and unlock myself, step out from behind stale skin as something glittering and laughing and alive. Maybe Wednesday night she’ll be there and the half dozen Jagerbombs will be too much. In the dark of the club, I’ll take her hand; pull her close like a good, caring friend. And snog her face off like a bad one.
I swear to god, babe. We need to get you laid.
Probably not though. I push a giggle past my lips and it just sounds sick and wrong.
It’s cracking, of course. The mask, the smile. But I’m not going to cry because the Abercrombie and Fitch princess and the dark one with the boobs will be waiting for me. And, inevitably, so will she.
Underneath the stupid giggle and the chaste hugging. Under the clothes, under the skin.
Just behind a locked door.
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