I drink her in, take my time; no rush. In this half-light her dress shimmers, like mercury running – liquid-metal hugging her ebb and flow. And each wave, a witch’s spell, her rhythm holding me hostage, pulling me under.
Suddenly self-conscious, I turn sharply… Lisa’s bloody cat is watching me. Perched on the end of the sofa he sits still, eyes locked – observing me in situ. I pick up a cushion and throw it at him: ‘get out!’ I scream-whisper, and he jumps off the end and runs away.
The spell broken, I think of Lisa – alone upstairs in bed. She’ll be awake, reading a little something, turning pages with a candle still lit – hoping that I’ll join her. I could switch off now, right now… NOW… and go upstairs. The thought ruminates, starts gaining momentum…and then is speared by this liquid-metal girl. She undulates; I ululate. Call and response. Pornography is primeval.
The remote control is mine, all mine, and I run a thumb across the buttons, feeling the power and the glory. And with that fucking cat gone I dim the lights further and let the world fall away, leaving me alone in this blue lagoon. I flick channels to stay immersed; let warm waters rush me. And there is no-one else, just me at one with this desperate housewife… flick… this Jezebel… flick… this Whore of Babylon… flick… this Succubus… flick… this Little Bo Peep… flick… and back to my liquid-metal girl.
It’s like magic. I press the biggest and reddest button you’ll ever see and fall straight down a hole. And there are all these doors, and behind each one is something special. And the worst thing? It just never gets boring, looking at a woman like that – de-frocked, dethroned; private and yet so, so public. Sugar and spice and all things nice… Pornography is utopian.
But it’s not real, say the detractors. Well, let me share ‘real’. Lisa with her good days and bad days and ‘oh God I’ve just got my period’ days – that’s real. And Lisa’s ovulation calculator, stuck up on the fridge – that’s very fucking real. The last six months, I’m finding magazines lying about the house with articles like ‘How to boost male fertility’ and ‘Improving your erection’. With reality this wired, I’m choosing substance abuse – and my substance of choice is this liquid-metal girl. But I can’t… Not today. Today is Day 12. Within the next 48 hours she will ovulate which means… which means I cannot deposit my zinc and L-arginine enriched muck into this here tissue. And that’s the genius of her leaving her menstrual calendar on the fridge. Cause she-knows-and-I-know, but we can say nothing and pretend that our lives aren’t fully fucking scripted. So I should switch off and go upstairs, take that book out from her hands and give her the comfort – hope – that she needs. And pray to the sun god Ra or whoever is on duty these days that the worthlessness I carry does not manifest itself in erectile dysfunction. Again. But, Dear Lord, this liquid-metal girl cares not for my duties. She turns around, assumes the position – beckons me forward. In slow motion she plays with a ringlet of hair, licks a finger. Glossed, wet lips. I check once more to my left and right…no Lisa, no cat…and move up a gear. With moistened finger she continues calling, and there is only one response. Cause this show, it’s all for me. Between myself and the liquid-metal girl, I’m the only one that matters. In these warm waters, all us rejects can bathe. Our flaccid dicks and immobile sperm, slackened muscle and sheer, naked ugliness, are no barriers in this Eden. Pornography is the promise that’s always kept. Pornography is egalitarian.
I stare at the tissue as my heart rate slows, easing back to its living-dead groove. And the liquid-metal girl continues gyrating, now brazenly mocking me, and I grab the control and switch off. Upstairs Lisa will now be asleep, her book on the bedside table; pages finally shut. And I think of all those new foods she had started cooking: brown rice, steamed fish and legumes. And the yoga classes which she begged me to accompany her on, with that posh-tart instructor going on about the ‘power of visualisation’, and ‘…breathing light into one’s pelvic region.’ I’m sorry I laughed, Lisa; I wish I’d gone back with you now. Then there were the sensual massages she wanted us to try, our bathroom cabinet purged overnight of pain killer and out-of-date linctus, and replaced with sweet almond oil, vetiver and ylang ylang. The thing is, Lisa, I’m not a brown rice kind of man. And the things I’ve seen cannot be unseen. Even if I wanted to.
Days will pass, blood will rise, and the universe will again collapse down to a simple binary: you, or… me. And in the history of man, it’s never been this easy… to make the wrong choice. Because nothing is perfect except this chimera, this mosaic, rushing me each time like a new sensation. I wish the dice weren’t so loaded. It’s cruel to lose a race you didn’t know you were in. But in this age, we make our own reality. And that means you can’t touch me. And I don’t want to touch you.
Tamim Sadikali has completed his first collection of short fiction. He reviews for @OpenPenLondon and @Bookmunch among others, and is the author of Dear Infidel (Hansib, 2014). Image: Virtua Fighter 5
Gem Blackthorn is QMT's Sex Columnist, and the author/curator of Lust Thrust Thursdays. Send her your submissions and questions at sexsexsex [at] queenmobs.com