IN ANOTHER LIFE WHEN WE ARE ALL CATS


Drugs through the needle are to be avoid but no one warned me about the dangers of the little vibrating device I hold in my hand. I was not told that once you get started it is quite hard to stop. Dosification and moderation are key to a healthy, balanced life, getting to know my drinking limit and leveling down the amount of sugar turned out not to be enough. Laying down on my back as I look out and up to the sky, nothing is more hot and sexy that nature, the wind blowing, travelling through the swinging trees, feels so inviting to launch on this free skydiving trip. I forget I’m on my kitchen floor, by the balcony’s glass door, wide open so I can hear the birds. The subtle buzz gets my mood right on and wanderlust builds up, girlscout prepared embarking on the vogage up towards pitch high. Hanging on a thin string with my fingertips for as long as I can bare, it’s at times difficult to handle, specially whilst my body and mind discuss back and forth whether this is the best I can do to relax or should I rather take a cold bath in the aim to simmer the flickering flame of desire. Am I as greedy in other aspects of life, I doubt that. Overall invasion of electric shocks and then, one, is never enough, neither is two. How many treasures can I find, before I run out. Out of power, energy and any conscious thought. An innanimated flesh mass until I regain my strength again, and my will power to get up on my feet, and on with the day. Wondering if everybody feels the same, if we all have this need for attachment through this delightful inner convulsions and extraordinary high voltage charges to our brain. And if so, how come it is not easier to get, how come I need a device to get me there. In another life, when we are all cats, we might just be able to get smoothly close to one another, and ever so gently, touch with the back of our heads the shoulder of the ones we prefer and explore this free love of the hippies and the sixties affair.

In another life when we are all cats. Short-story from 12 o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts. The book

SAFE SPACE

‘I like to play when I feel safe’ send. The sound automatically generated by the reaction in her phone gave her tickles in her belly. Though she has done this few times before, she still feels nervous and unsure. Is this a good idea? This bitter sweet experience drives her crazy every time. She enjoys the safety of the distance, and the notch of anonymity, but, soon enough, it all feels too close and she, exposed. There is no point on opening this door if one is not willing to share, to dare to reveal your honest inner desires. Sure, there is some teasing around certain activities one is quite unlikely to engage with, giving the chance, but, the core still needs to be genuine and fair, raw pure. She lifted up her head timidly, quick check to see if someone might have noticed her arising blush, the lower lip bitting and her legs tighten. Daylight shining in all directions through the surrounding venue’s glazed walls, all of a sudden, seating by the bar has become a bit too risky of a choice. How it has all escalated to this degree is not that clear at the moment, from a Bloody Marie, not too spicy, to her index finger between her teeth playing with the tip of her nail. She scouts around shifting her eyes only, discretely, she hopes, aiming for a casual look, non-suspicious, at this point, quite a difficult task and well founded hunch by the heated sensation on her cheeks most likely showing scarlet on her expression. Back and forth with compromising suggestions in public was making her, among all the other natural reactions, smile, she understood why she likes this so much, complicity hosting this exchange of flesh rewarding propositions in smart compositions. Her mind thrilled with that level of connexion, the trust they had built. Feeling safe is here the major thrill. All the irrelevant details skipped, the aim is to impress each other with their witty minds and cleverly free charismas. A pick-me-up , a spontaneus intermission, a privately owned virtual bubble with restricted admission. Landing back to her feet, recovering her more harmonious mien, she cheered to herself and her playful disposition. ‘Laters, babe’, send.

Safe space. Short-story from 12 o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts. The book

THE EMPTY SEAT RIGHT NEXT TO ME


You haven’t replied to my message but, at this stage and age, I let that micro-nanosecond of disappointment slide through and out of my body without much residual regret. The doings of fermented grapes and grains cannot determine my day. I actively taste the seas, the lakes, the oceans I meet, and I swim free. I greet all the different versions of me as they coexist. Cold sea, head under water. Like the geese by the beach, one of us is on guard always looking up. Only every now and then, I close the curtains to my boudoir, keeping your face in a jar by the door never did any good to the lonely people in the world. I choose to upgrade this episodes instead, and their idle side effect emotions, before they rot, into two dimensional devotion. Mind you, this is not as much an empirical approach as it is a visceral sensation, an intuitive perception, but it works. Now, it’s all translated into colours, riddles and rhymes and I own it all, on my very own terms. It all has a different taste, this dry Martini is now salty and wet, chilled to perfection; I savour its texture and flavours introducing three olives bright green held together by a cocktail-pick. And I sip while looking at the empty seat next to me, reserved for the people with whom I can share agendas, interests and kicks.

The seat right next to me. 12 o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts. The book

COLD SHOWERS


What were you doing over there?’ He says, with a teasing look in his eyes and a shy bit of his perfect set of teeth temptingly threatening. For the sake of the mood, on this setting and my own, I am going to have to improvise and lie. I choose to narrow my eyes and answer him with the same look and inquisitively teasing smile. I’m pretty sure he wants me to be naughtier than what I am. Talking to this other girlfriend of his, they way we did, sharing giggles and with hardly any personal space in between, even though we’ve just met, has probably got his mind to wander among images and expectations that are quite unlikely to be met. I could be wrong, maybe he, like me, is just playing along, enjoying the game of pretending one is up for more, cause, only the thought of it already builts enough anticipation, and the silly smile, and the blushing that by now is almost feverish, for we’ve been playing along for too long, so long that is getting harder by each day to keep it cool and under control. At least, for me, because I cannot even remember how I got here, to this boiling point that melts my brain taking my best judgment away. Sure I gave it a thought, a split second worth of a thought, to refrain and behave like my old self, but, somehow, by now, it’s simply just too late, and tonight, of all nights, will be the night I will make this right. My hands on the wheel now, gambling my chances, beating on the winning card that hides in my bag. Circumstances have aligned and everything about to happen, including the unbearable pain no one could ever possibly save me from, that will eventually come, has its course set and I’m blinded by desire. I played with fire and the burn marks are showing on my skin and in the sleep, that I don’t get. Now you hold my hand with yours with the for your eyes only access-pass in between, I give you the address, later on you will show, and this will be the begining, of the end. For this affair of ours was set out to fail in the realm of the heart, where I, accidentally, have crossed, stepping over the borders of this ill-advised emotional side. Still, and for now, we will plan our encounter to come, in an old-school Hollywood film manner, as my mind is set out to stop with this nonsense business of late hours cold showers.

ICE CUBES IN MY GLASS

It all feels different now. I see the ice cubes loosing their advanced position on the battle for the right to remain solid against my amber brown liquid as I rest the glass on the well worn-out wooden surface of the bar. Savouring how that sip had reached its perfection reminds me that “I thrive best on hermit style with a beard and a pipe and a parrot on the side”, said by someone else, and shared, for us either to embrace or to relate. I relate. My tongue feels the thrilling sensory parade this liquid has left behind. Peaty, hopy, malty… never been good at this kind of description, probably due to the lack of poetry behind. Life is poetry. Love is poetry. Stories captured for eternity, in songs and the like, loyal soundtrack to the crusade of eager cell troops towards molecular perpetuation, while we stand hopeless to their mercy, waiting for the so promised calm after the storm. It all feels different now. I can feel myself think over this Janis Joplin heart of mine, I guess, now, only my hair is that wild. I notice the seasons cycle, wind, rain, snow, the grey dark blue grow green aquamarine on the sea while I swim. The higher presence of water enhances other flavoured virtues in my glass. No night feels lonely as long as I can write. The candle’s flickering flame impregnates the walls of this bright enough venue with dancing shades of all of us, blue birds, participating in this scene. A proud feeling comes over me as I realise how I’ve managed to take the last sip in the glass before it got spoiled. Drinking, like living, is an art. My empty vase is acknowledged by the skilled bartender and I read the natural suggestion through the spark in her eyes and the lifting of her brows. I’ll take a Manhattan, dry.

Ice cubes in my glass. Short-story from ’12 o’clock-tales’ (The red table & A scared black cat)

LOVERS

I will not make the mistake of thinking, I, am the one. The only one you care to be with, the one with whom, you, enjoy time best. We are not new to one another. You have met me before, when you met your fine wife, when you met your, oh, so adored, last summer’s great lover. We are, indeed, not new to one another. Neither, will I make the mistake of thinking, you, are the one. The only one I would like to be with, loose track of time. I have met you before, when I met my dear husband, and my, oh, so very attentive last summer’s glorious lover. I know, I am aware, awake and I know. Yet, despise all this grand understanding, I will not stop me from wishing, on being to one another the one, for the, oh, so very addictive, monopolised affection, nightcap and morning coffee without intersection. I am aware, awake and I know, that, I am, just, the momentary distraction and, you are, just, the warmth for the time being, or, at least, until the thrill is gone and we both move on.

Lovers. Short-story from “12 o’clock-tales” (The red table & A scared black cat, book adventure)

TREASURE HUNTING

With my pink friend I follow the Georges, the Gilberts, the Geralds and the Greys. My clouded mind goes weaker and weaker as I’m connecting the dots through this adventure, this blind folded hunting treasure. An eel runs through and inside my belly, my inner thighs and discharges by my spine. I have not enough fingers, should I care to summarise. I have a pink toy, it is not a substitute it’s the colourful garnish on the side. Wise whispering monkeys allowed and welcomed to cooperate, to explore this soft-sanded land, this private island, this hidden paradise. In the morning, every now and then, after the coffee or the champagne. I’m wearing red. Red danger, red passion, red, mercurial red. I look for the soothing shade, put the skull and bones to rest and willingly I sail into the pleasurable domain.

Treasure hunting. Short-story from “12 o’clock-tales” (The red table & A scared black cat, book adventure)

STRANGERS IN THE NIGHT

‘It’s quite funny, isn’t it? How things move back and forth in the heart, in the mind, until they settle somewhere deep inside’, the words coming out easy between the two strangers in the night seated by the counter of this, yet another, beautifully oil-preserved, Mahogany bar. It is surprisingly easy to reveal one’s deepest thoughts and elucidations amid the ones that have not once before met. No backgrounds to keep into account, no further information but what physical presence provides. There would not be exchange of numbers nor family names. This is merely a safe space to steam off the mind, the heart, the head. Things can get, oh, so very easily misunderstood and carried away, but, not in this set. Not between the two that would never meet again. The two glasses in front of them have been refilled more than once by now, and the time to close the encounter narrows down onto them. She has been here before, in this exact same scene, and she knows about the temporary nature of this condition of being strangers. Before one of the two feels the need of an exchange of ciphers and letters. Nothing heals while conceal, and, that is what all this was about. He is unhappy and married, she is from the above none, both crave for company every once in a while. On a moment in which both set of eyes lock into each other two seconds longer than before, she smiles, collects her belongings and wishes him goodnight. What could be done has been done. Ain’t it quite some special this solace of meeting strangers.

Strangers in the night. Short-story from ‘12 o’clock-tales’ (The red table and a scared black cat, book adventure)

GIRLFRIENDS

Actually, I don’t even know if I remember how it feels to be in love. Have I ever been in love? I dare to say. I remember excitement, my mind focused on a person unable to handle any other thought of use. What was that feeling, hyperbolically intense, I sometimes encourage myself to remember? Her friend looked at her with an intention of smile in her face and the thought of considering cancelling the next round that was probably not that close of being done and delivered. The venue was packed not one more barfly could fit, yet, they both felt there was only them as they always do when they seat by the corner of that bar that has seen them grow closer together. Unfolding world’s mysteries one sip at the time. Reassuring each other through the game of adulthood. Two young girls at heart, looking into each others eyes with the silent message “we have, never the least, got this far”

Girlfriends. Short-story from “12 o’clock-tales” (The red table & A scared black cat, book adventure)

SIR LORD OF THE VIKINGS


You are, oh, so very hot. At least, in my mind. Though we haven’t met, yet, we have talked. Chatted. Emojies, hearts on text clouds, as a landmark of approval, and the way you have described yourself. Oh, are you good with words. I dream on your hair, dark blond curly hair. I dream on your eyes, grey, dark blue at times. I dream on a body that likes to keep fit but not to the extreme. I wonder if I could take you off your uniform one day, or you rather strip it all off yourself for me. I don’t need you to have a play room but I want you to be playful. While we listen to the beats we’ve shared, the ones that turn you on and my own. I am very aware I am smoothly crawling over to that sensitive phase, the one when my boiling point ignites. Not in search for danger, nor ‘out of this world’ adventure, diamonds in the raw live among the ordinary and that is quite extraordinary. My fantasies are shaping, taking forms, defining and detailing, even though I’m yet to know who’s behind the secret door. Who’s this Mr. Sir Lord of the Vikings turning my mind and body on. Your words, clever, your conversation, smooth, and your attention, sublime. It is within my nature to trust, for I know about this tiny little troll that lives deep inside within this magic nurturing forest that has grown within my heart, seating and patiently waiting, holding in the hand a crimson velvet rope, attached to a shinny golden bell that will ring into my head, shall the moment come in which I must wake up from the spell.

Sir Lord of the Vikings. Short-story from “12 o’clock-tales” (The red table & A scared black cat, book adventure)