Kafez

Literary

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Location: Dublin, Republic of, Ireland

Wednesday, 8 November 2006


(This is just a one-off! I'm experimenting with nudity in fiction. To see how far I can go as an Asian writer, not bound by rituals and traditions of a society that may not choose to embrace freedom the way I do. I want to stretch my prose to a liberated courage that says, I am a child of the universe. I want to write on sensuality with a deeper daring and not lose my passion for literary fiction or the quality of my prose. I want to wear nudity in my writing as naturally as the hem under my skirt.
My character is fictional (meaning, 'imaginary'.)

by Susan Abraham

But what would I not give for this astounding burst of sexual rapture when once you loved me, Vincent. What would I not give in earlier years, for this mirrored bubble of sexual gratification, always feeling I loved on borrowed time, knowing someday my
fancy bubble would burst and flee?

Pardon the narcissism.

While being photographed, I loved the shimmer of peculiar shadows that ruled my body in the dim lamplight. Brown flesh swum with hues of faint yellow and gold.

Ghostly forms trampled on slippery skin with no respect for the scented lotion that covered my body like milk. And so threatened with it, a stirring of strange sensations.

Lavishly seduced, my skin lay buttery and silky. It dismissed all thoughts of my soul camouflaged as a melting glacier. Lost in folds of curves and rolls, it rose and fell with orchestrated rhythms of sweat and breath.

It hoisted my dark imagination to a bolder creativity. It fanned the wind in my sails for an urgent desire to please my man. No
doubt, it roused my lofty appetite for regality in the nude and appeared even to my touch, dangerous and inviting.

Breasts swung and danced. They had lumbered about in a gauche way before discovering a tune. Nipples appeared to collide; then escaped each other like angry souls. My body, lost in its imaginary merry go round, turned and twirled about with slow fluidity and a strange, unspoken grace.

It sidled about in the undergrowth like a contented snake. It slip-slided in the muddied grass. It lay burrowed in cushions like a watchful hare. In water, it danced and splashed, with the glee of the fish. On pillows, it romped about like a naughty child, my behind, obedient, to the taste of a playful spank. On rugs, it curled up, meditative in its embrace and worship of reverence for the missing lover.

Uttering secret mantras of love, my words were inaudible. Frozen by faint whispers, my lips would later be captured on camera in an assortment of curious forbidden shapes. My expressions were of the enraptured. On the floor, my hair spread like a fan. In water, it poised for a sting. With my face tossed backwards, tresses soaked, dipped and dunked into bubbles and ripples with the dangerous fragility of a jellyfish.

I felt as delirious as a river bursting ferociously on its seams.

Later no longer volatile on passion, I sat cross-legged like a small child engrossed in her playthings; plaiting my long wet strands into such neat lines, they looked like a parade of dancing snakes. Pleased with my venture, I stayed enamoured.

I celebrated my hunger with grapes that dripped its succulent juices all down my chin, threading their way like angry purple lines all through my neck and coming to rest in the deep valley that housed a chain and the rising layers of bashful skin. High on a spiritual ecstasy, I smelt flowers that were born deformed of scent.

I drank wine that made me think the world was mine.

Afterwards, I would pretend I was your mermaid swimming in a fishbowl; your go-go dancer on the high seas. I looked scintillating to say the least.


Image credit to Tallulahs's

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