A sensual read.

by Susan Abraham

...Choosing religion and loving you in this London dusk, my passions now swum hungrily in the waves of grace.

I am a ballerina toppling about in a wide blue sea. I am a fairy penguin, somewhere in Port Philip Bay, waiting with paralysed wings to emerge from a shadowy night. I am a broken-winged swallow nesting in my sensuality, crying for a sunset. I am a submarine planning to pounce on the sunken treasure in your blue-black heart. Or how about an enthusiast for an icy Channel crossing.

After all, I am patient in my endeavours and my repertoire is ready. A breaststroke for when I miss your strange, dark thoughts. A butterfly movement for when I feel beautiful and brave in this cold dark slush of ice. When I am tired, I will slip underneath the robes of Christ, that swish about here and there with tantalising power, yet saying nothing. You will not find me in the twilight.

My God is busy quilting secrets into mirrors; a fantasy here, a truth there. Nothing much. Just another revelation to embroider. Someday you will see all and know that we were meant to be. Today, I am no longer a sentimentalist but I know who I am and that is enough.

Yet on that evening, my passions stayed fugitive lost in the Songs of Solomon. I took consolation from its robust poetry, turning my simple prayer into a shiny sheath-blade weapon. I buried silent hum-humming of love into desperate worship; burrowed deep down in the spirit then shovelled up to the beyond. Such was my selfish devotion that I admitted to greed in all my heavenly supplications. A peaceful Madonna, a blushing bride, I desired nothing but to lie under you, slunk in an abyss of kisses.

“Make-believe my purity for a virginal makeover,” I teased with a giggle and covered my face with the shawl. “Swirl me into your palette of geisha shimmer.” I brushed a swift kiss into your ear for encouragement and threw a nibble. I covered my mouth with my shawl and tried to look as enticing as a harem concubine with sensual eyes. “Paint me nude,” I hinted again mischievously.

Once I had found a blue postcard of a Rembrandt woman soaked in creased linen, smiling up at a lean bent lover with her creamy breasts and apricot nipples swung slightly sideways, so that one heavy mound of flesh looked like it lived directly under her armpit. It dived deeply into the sheets.

The other, sculptured like stoneware, titillated the invisible photographer with its explosive ripeness, Catch that balloon, catch that balloon, I hear you laugh, before it bursts and crashes the lens.

Inflatable boobs, elongated ones and all amiss.. Elephantine stomps to crush a face with. Roly-poly ones to ride on. Virgin knockabouts and dying dropdowns. Catch them all, I hear
you say. Catch them all.

Swollen white arms stretched upwards contrasting with the fuzzy browns in forbidden corners. The abdomen stayed pregnant and wobbly in repose. Wriggle. Wriggle. The fuzzy brown lost ground with the wide desert flesh but picked up on the way down midway, circling an oasis that disguised a deep rivulet of red. Wet. Wet.

The lover in question looked like he was on the verge of feeding this sharp taut
sensuality of sunken bust and staring navel with quick hard brushstrokes to egg on her
mood for a painful adventure.

Like a rich cake that waited to be iced, the brush warned of dripping paint and brutal ambitions. His bearded face studied hers with attentive detail and a devilish grin. Her smile looked deadly. The temptation was obvious.

And then I hear you laugh again. A tryst or thrust, you suggest, playfully. To kiss or tease. To gorge on licks or prick a leak. Trim that messy rose bush. Prune its thorny bits. Hide the smells of desire. Water corners with his sticky scent and bullseye on her perfumed zones. Or
don’t you know how to screw a dame with a paintbrush.

I know, I know. Call the Chup-Chup man; Here I am at Melbourne Central, next to the old GPO before that terrible fire. And where are your lollipop wares, Mr. Chup-Chup man? Catch that delectable flavour of sticky sweetness, that delicious trail of drippy breath. Let’s lick the toffee and whip up a coffee.

Experiment on caramel and pour out the treacle. Suck away, my friend.

Remembering your words of disbelief, I too mocked at the picture, sensing frigidity. I pressed my thoughts close to the print. I drew on urgent breaths to evoke these faint signs of lust to life. I commanded my efforts like a guaranteed ointment to the rescue. ...


Image Credit: FeebleMinds