Neck 2 Knees
Spider Moon
This book is work of fiction. Any reference to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's twisted imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Phil McCracken
Copyright © 2011 by Spider Moon
Published by M.H. Dartos
at Smashwords
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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All rights reserved.
N
I believe it was she who discovered the perfect place to have tea.
She had a habit of discovering...things
Now I remember: it was afternoon, we were walking through the vast deserted Manly Park, suddenly my legs gave out, I could feel the blood turning cold in my veins, and I said, joking, that a cup of tea would be fantastic.
This never happened, unless I was out with her.
She gave a cry, pointing at something over my shoulder. I turned around.
A man. A lard muffin of a man leading a goat on a leash.
I must have been feeling pretty weak, because I was tempted to think the Café La Triacetate had sprung up that very instant, at my friend's command, in the middle of the woods.
Maybe I would take my leave and hurl.
Moments later a fast talking girl was guiding us to our table, in an extravagantly flowered garden shut in by a low peeling wall, covered in ivy and looking terribly old.
Old and fermented and ripe with the putrescence of rotted flesh.
There were only a few people; a few people meaning an unknown amount.
Pick a number. Okay; more than two less than ninety-nine.
At a nearby table a woman surrounded by children sat in conversation with a priest.
Am I pregnant? Am I a whore? Am I condemned because my husband doesn't know?
"Let me see. You're pregnant and your husband doesn't know? Well, if it's he who got you pregnant, maybe you're slow to inform and plain deceitful at worst. But if it was another man who got you pregnant, well, here's my number. Give me a call. We'll work out an appropriate penance."
E
A couple in each other's arms stood at one of the upstairs windows, gazing languidly into the distance.
You could tell the man was groping the woman. She was smiling and grimacing, difficult to do
It was one of those moments in which the surpassing beauty of the afternoon light touches everything with glory and in which a mysterious power moves us to confide.
I wanted to…to…confide something. Something big, something bold, something sweaty and unsafe between the hot valley of this woman's crescent.
She, with a fervor I found delightful, was talking about Guyana and how happy she had been there. "I used to be very active—" she said.
Be active now. Activity brings on the lust blossom.
She moved—uncomfortably overlapped and folded and getting in her own way—trying to find an adjustment on the tiny, straight-backed love seat.
Now she was starting to get my drift you might say.
"How about showing me your new tattoos and piercings? That always gets the old motor running."
I supposed we might as well become confidential: dinner would have to wait and we had started on the wine; confidences might be what I got out of the evening.
Her husband, Jack, had just been called away to pick up an unexpected visitor at the station and, in spite of clear indications; she had not allowed the nature of the call to sink in.
I think Jack was on the "Jack out and to my girlfriend's." She would never know.
She stood up, lifted her top, and showed me her...assets. Wow! The places this woman would find to place her piercings was astounding. I felt my northbound plane lifting off. Works every time. That's it honey, chin up, shoulders back.
I'd figure out later how a person I hardly knew and had only tumbled with once or twice knew enough about me to —
But here I was, left in a dark fourth floor walkup furnished in trash collector's discomfort and draped in India prints and trousers much too small, and alone with her and her Candytuft.
C
"I used to be very active sexually—" she said.