When Sex Bloggers Collide

It had all started with an innocent comment to her blogspot account; I had forgot to sign it anonymously, but thought nothing of it, and left it at that. Two Asian girls from the Labour Club later, and of course I'm checking my Nexus Email for comments on the blog, rugbyladwitha sensitivesideandabigdickatoxford.blogspot.com, and there was an email from her. You know, the girl who goes around shagging boys and writing blogs about it. Her. The enigmatic and untraceable vixen of the Oxford and Cambride sex blog universe: sexathertfordcollegestaircasetwelve.blogspot.com. Her email was headed "Hey there"; I knew 'there' meant genitals. Lad.

She had sent the email from her University account too, and I was shocked to learn that her college was only a minute away from mine. All this time, all this sex, happening at one university, so close together? Who'd have thought nineteen years old got up to so much, y'know? I said "Woah, I had assumed you were at Cambridge" and she said like no way. I said "I thought I was the only one taking someone home on a Tuesday night after Bridge." She said maybe I was; she never gets further than Hassan's without falling prey to a roaming, eager penis. We were like Gods among men, and we were about to shake the heavens. (Except she was a lady God. A Goddette, if you will.)

She asked me to keep her college location a secret, so I won't reveal much, other than that did you know you need a keycard to get along the Bridge of Sighs? I sure didn't. I think I know why they call it that. 30 years ago, or whenever it was built, some prophetic bridge-builder-guy (do they teach bridge-building at Oxford? Probably not, he was probably from Brookes) thought "One day, there will be an Oxford sex diarist" - this is before the Internet existed, no doubt(!) - "and she will set the paper-blogosphere on fire with her carnal lusts. Or, her pen, writing about them."

Boy did she. She had some bad chat. She was really clever. She insisted I wear two condoms, so she'd be 196% safe. We were really noisy, I couldn't help myself, I screamed "We're having sex we're having sex we're both at Oxford or possibly Cambridge and we're having sex" and those geeks next door in All Souls were no doubt extremely jealous; when was the last time a rich academic ever had sex, no? With his wife, you get it, am I right? (I'm right.) Somewhere between all the loud proclamations of sex (she was screaming "Oh yeah this sex is so good, I'm having sex, I'm SO EMPOWERED by this sex that we are having, here, in Staircase Twelve" that I was only in there for a couple of seconds before -- like the fates stepping in, between our thriving fiery over-sexed genitaliases (genitalie-i?) (we both have lots of sex) to push her sweaty labia away - and the condoms both popped off, and I came, and it was messy. But she said no worry, she was thinking of a new mystery blog anyway "Teen mother with a pram at Oxbridge." I said, if I'm sterile, perhaps she could be Gonorrhoea at Oxbridge (I left her the number for my doctor).

"Oh, one thing, Belle," I said, when leaving the room.
"What's that, you big sexy man" (that's what she said, eagerly scanning me for a nationality she could write about as a distinguishing feature)
"I thought we were double safe?"
"Yeah, but what if it's triplets?"

And as I was leaving I thought "I think I'm gonna marry this girl."

Poseless poesy

Following hourless days and dayless weeks,
What can I do but attempt to speak
From my speechless voice;
My illusion of choice
To sing loud silence
Or bring soft violence
Upon the heads of headless peons:
An instant choice, lasting eons.

Same, as an image

The beach

Happiness in my hand,
That elusive substance
Runs swift like sand
Gently blowing out
To sea. Under my feet
- I try to reach,
But the waves deplete
My strength and I am
Sunk in the substance:
Temporaryism, old friend.
Mutability, munificent
In its caress, its press
Against my skin,
Its insistence on
Sinking in
And drowning out
The hollows of sound.
But I can rise,
With strength abound,
Found on some coast
With happiness stuck
Between my toes
And the water drying
While I roast.

I

In life I had feared what it meant, when that last electric pulse strained out, to cease to be and to never be again. Not like being unconscious, or asleep, in that faint dimness of cognition... but utterly gone, absent, and unable to comprehend or be an "I" ever again. But here I am, still an I. I had not feared that in death I would be an I: that is far worse than becoming mud, than being absorbed, than surrendering to the womb of the Earth. Scattered Is, all looking up and into themselves and into everything. I am woodwo, I am seeing, I am blind; there is no scent, no taste. My blood: a river runs through it, and it runs through the river, and the blood of other boys' bodies scattered. Their own isolated Is. We have no mouths anymore. A branch took my arm, on its way down. Despite fear, I did it. Fear was less than the other thing. Now I've got the other thing in spades: a crippling sense of self, the self in chunks, all a self all the same.

Just a doodle

Split the atom, cracked half-shells
Split the infinite, "To dutifully love";
Love the yolk pouring out, dutifully
Tear down the walls, strip matter
Away.

Open the box, cracked china ballerina
Opening her dance, around-around;
Symmetrical-circular-here-we-go
Stop-start music, starts going
Again.

Lift the carriage, roll on tarmack
Lifting and falling, Wheel of Fate;
Progress to the highest, predict
Falling when the same joules shunt
Around.

Close the door, Chevy saltseaview
Closed beats ajar, indecisive hinges;
Swing closed hard, your red finger
-tips catch, this time I sound the
Alarm.

Smash the egg, more yolk to love
Smash the heart, more bloodyolk;
Blood-oak trees and bone white
Eggshell, shattered and scattered
About.

Choose the first, survey wreckage
Choose a second, begin restoration;
Buildings in Tokyo with wheels on
foundations, earthquakes happen
Alot.

Etcetera

Ani's Worlds (2)

Ani had to reach over to her phone. The girl in the bed had been there a week. Returning from work, there she'd be, in some new lingerie, in eager await. She was less appealing sleeping face down like this, however, with a spot of drool on the pillow the size of a sweat patch. Her hair, the dark, reddish and wiry sort, curled about itself in the air like arthritic hands. She mumbled to the vibrations on the wood surface by her head, but the girl could sleep through anything.

'Who is it?'

'Ani,' said the voice on the other end. There was an affectation of casual about the voice. 'It's just me, Marti. Had a day off. Here at home with Jeremy Kyle and thought I'd give you a ring. I can't remember if I was supposed to call you or if you were supposed to call me. Sorry.'

Gulp. 'Hey, I've been meaning to call you.' In truth, she really had been meaning to. Her voice went up an octave, a signal to drop pretences. We can let ourselves be excited, can't we? "I'm so sorry, I've just been' - her eyes fixed on the back of the girl's head, the wiry hair reaching onto infinity - 'a bit preoccupied.'

She slipped out of the bed, wedging the phone between her shoulder and her right ear, sweeping her legs out from under the white sheets and letting the bed slowly adjust. The weight shifted ever so slowly; she watched the girl's face twitch, her nose fidgeting about, near lips which look so much more beautiful in moonlight. A strip of sun broke through the blinds, straight across the mouth, down the middle as if teasing. Crapola. In a cosmic sense.

While they talked about the date, the quays, how the new jeans fit, she flitted her legs gently down the stairs in fluffy slippers. Every step was a performed move, to herself, revelling in the femininity she could assert when no one was looking. The private woman just the same as the outer one; whether this was true worried Ani somewhat from time to time, the careful dance of girliness was a never-ending waltz, afraid to stop and change the nature of her mannerisms forever by forgetting the moves. Being is seeing, or seeing is believing, or believing is seeing what you're being. It isn't important.

'Ani,'

'Marti,'

'Is it weird to say I've missed you?'

Of course not. Of course not. Of course it's weird. Of course it isn't. 'No, I've missed you too.' That she had. She tried to perceive the pretty, ginger-haired lady on the other side, straining her eyes through the cables and across the charcoal barrier and conjure up a woman in mens' pyjamas, with an empty bowl of cereal balanced on her lap. Without lipstick, they looked just the same, just as red; this was imagination, she was sure. The same little waltz, in a sort.

'Thank god,' (exasperated with relief, it seemed), 'You don't have work either today, do you?'

The bedroom was just above her now, looking into the TV, into Jeremy Kyle's soulless face. Craggy like the moon. In the movies, lovers looked into the moon at the same time, as if their longing could reach up to the satellite and back. Stellar love networks mapped through the heavens in ribbons and bows and knots of invisible cables reaching out from earth and back. Such a time may have never existed; now, whether in emulation of tradition or fiction, we simulate this with televisions and text messages. The bedroom, directly above her. There was the girl. The other beautiful girl. The betrothed, lying, unawares. One must be good about these things.

'I'm busy today, actually,' she said, at once hating and congratulating herself. Swallowing down a fingernail.

'Oh!' The insufferable 'oh', the one word, the one sound, a letter O, a single letter which reaches up to Heaven 'O Lord' and into Ani to stab at her with guilt, with pangs of longing, the desire to reward herself. To bite the apple.

'But I'm free Saturday.' The fireworks wanted to go off, but they just scorched the ground and burnt out slowly.

'It's a date.'