Fucking [on] Facebook.

Tingles like warm champagne bubbles pour down my spine

Float along the skin of my stomach and my breasts

Craving my mouth.

When they reach they draw out a sigh of longing Then burst. Feeling your fingers tracing my flesh

But  your farfrom me, yet this fizzing Bubbling Over me is created by lustful words Typed feverishly by you in black on white, By memory of our bodies pressed

Our skin sweat

By waiting and waiting for that minute,We touch again, hair on end. This paradoxical block in my hand that comforts with

Your words, Your face, pulls me closer Yet mocks how far from you I am And pushes you further yet.

When times are more melancholy And the longing is not for flesh,Just for the wish of a kind word

Or the hope of reassurance that never Comes

It dissolves into read, and no reply. Read, and no reply. Saved nudes will be my virtual legacy: The girl who was so far away for so long For whom ‘the timing was wrong’ That you couldn’t stand my nearness Or the fear of me leaving.

Maybe. Maybe Absence does make the heart grow fonder, And maybe loving you was easier when we were side by side or Separated by sea and tide and maybe no wifi made loving me easier?

Because I was sex on a screen, Soon-to-be-real dream, A queen of wit who you couldn’t see scream And cry when she needed

But merely a witty reply or ‘I’m fine’ And you could believe it. Read and don’t reply. I’m fine

Somewhere between desire and consummation.

Somewhere between desire and consummation,

I found feeling. You turned in that wasteland,

And dropped the phone from your hand.

“Pourrions-nous parler?”

On the bedside table, the screen sings;

“Ignore it don’t stop listening.”

Hand on heart, hand on hold,

“Forget the phone.”

Through the streets of this crumbling city,

Speaking broken French, she calls me to the wake,

To have and to hold, sunset rose, she burns

In hollow eyes.

Sa robe de mariée est noire.

Lines and lines – of desperate poetry, perhaps –

Let me:                                 Talk.                       Talk.                       Talk.

Through techno basslines.

Hold the phone;

Je me noie dans l’espoir.

THE AUTHOR- SEBASTIAN CRAY.

Love in an Online World. FEATURED IMAGE BY CARENZA HERSELF.

Maladjusted Misfits

“We were both a couple of maladjusted misfits. We’re still maladjusted misfits and We’ve loved Every minute of it” Six months of swiping, Many offers along the way: Let’s have coffee. Let’s make it wine. You’re bisexual, right? So, How many people have you been with at one time? Let me tongue fuck your fart box. Let’s hang out a while. I’ll literally break your hip. Some common decency, but most of all just vile. Six months of swiping, Many offers along the way:

The Spanish Smoker, The Danish Chemist, The American Giant, The German Student, The Sensitive Scotsman, The English Stoner, The British American, The Curious Italian..

That one that didn’t talk much, that one that talked during, that missed opportunity, the ones that mocked my snoring, the ones that stayed for one night, the one that stayed for two, the ones that were just hook-ups, the ones that wanted to meet up again, too, the fellow maladjusted misfits Who made me realise time is cruel, the other half of the open relationship

Who, in the end, made me feel cruel.

Every one a connection; Every one an offer taken. URL can lead to IRL But URL will not suffice. URL can only work long term With IRL pain, hard work and sacrifice. Some common decency, A lot that is purely vile. And the few fellow maladjusted misfits

Who are completely worth my while.

MEET CARENZA HUCHE… ENGLISH LITERATURE AND SWEDISH STUDENT AT EDINBURGH UNIVERSITY.

This was my first holiday romance. I had gone on holiday with my closest friend, staying in Tuscany with her flatmate and dozens of his friends. We were picked up at the airport by a few of the dozens. All Italian men. They apologised in the car for the lack of women, and questioned whether we would be able to cope with the amount of testosterone in the house. My friend and I giggled and did not complain.  When we arrived , there was something in the air. It wasn’t the sliding brain cells from the meandering hills we had just driven through. No. It was the smell of the heated wind. The stars that seemed to have been edited as if one had swallowed thousands.

All of these conditions seemed to foreshadow something unexpectedly beautiful.

As we stumbled into the dim lit Tuscan house, there he was. One of the dozen. Standing in just a towel.  We acknowledged each other with a grin and as I walked past him I felt his eyes staring at every pore, every crease and freckle of my body. It was an examination.

When I had sorted myself out, placed my bags in the room I clipped my hair back and exposed my  shoulder.

I breathed in and sauntered to the entrance again.

He had gone.

So I breathed out.

The rest of the holiday I couldnt stop thinking about him and his towel.

A few days passed and then finally he appeared again. I acted coy and pretended  not to look. I jumped in the pool as he came down to sit next to me so it wouldn’t be evident that I was shivering, despite the heat.

When the light from the sun dimmed, the magnified stars appeared and the heated wind rushed around my legs, I felt him constantly close. Music came on and I was trying to ignore our proximity to each other.

But the tension became too much and he finally grabbed my hand firmly and as the Aperol slid down my throat I grabbed back. He placed his lips on mine and he hoovered me up, breathing in my dust. I wanted to be his and we escaped from the stars as he rushed me into the house, destroying flowers and furniture alike as we tried to find a place.

He whispered to me that ‘he had wanted to touch me since he saw me stumble in through the doors’. I shivered again.

We consumed one another for one beautiful night.

For a day after I did not shower. A way of making it real. Or to smell the visceral elixir that is the male body. I drank that potion up on the plane as I said goodbye to the meandering hills that did more than shake my brain cells.