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.














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.





SUMMER FLINGS. Eliza Lawrence.

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.


YOUR BODY AFTER SEX. An evaluation by Alexandra Eldredge.







Last night made me think about my relationship to my body compared to how men view my body. I could tell this man I was with really worshipped the female form. And I, by no means am happy with my body. I do not claim to have a desirable body at all. In fact, I would say my body is my weakest element. It’s where my confidence stops short. I cannot confidently say I truly like any one part of my body. But back to this man, the way he kissed my belly made me think that my belly wasn’t something to be disgusted by. He was a really selfless lover, placing my pleasure as a priority. I think he went down on me for the longest any man ever has and it was only our first time being intimate. And he didn’t just do it once. He would return again and again and again. Even after he climaxed he returned and gave me gentle, caring licks. As if to check I was alright, that I had survived. In fact, it was as if he was thanking me, thanking my body, my femininity. It made me think how cool it is that my feminine form can be such a powerful force of pleasure for a man. I love the feeling of a man throbbing in me after he’s been released from the agony of pent up lust. it’s such a deliciously satisfying feeling, lying there knowing my body did that to him. It’s strange though, I think all these things through and marvel at the sexual power of my body but when the sexual intimacy is over and it comes time for me to dress myself, fear takes hold of me. It is the fear of being seen, more specifically the fear of my naked, exposed body being seen as repellent, that they might be as disgusted with my fat as I am. I am sad writing this. It is so harsh. If know that my body is a powerful entity but I cannot connect that on a feeling, intuitive level. My immediate reaction is always horror and disgust at my very imperfect body. What’s also sad is that I write this 3 years into sexually enjoying my body with others and in that time period little has changed regarding my absolute lack of body confidence. I remember being with the man who I shared my first time with. as soon as the act was completed, I leapt out of bed and frantically started putting clothes on my body. Any clothes would do I just desperately wanted to be covered. I didn’t even bother with my bra – he can’t know how fat my body actually is! He can’t know! he can’t know that I like cake! A lot! He was so startled by my panicked dressing (I was well on my way to hurrying myself out the door). He looked taken aback and beckoned for me to join him once again on the bed. He was still completely nude and I was already fully clothed, that is how rapid my put-clothing-on-body operation was, and sadly still is. It’s one thing to be naked and pressed up against someone, to be feeling them and be erotically engaged and it is fine to be lying next to someone with the protection of blankets and sheets, but the moment I am vertical and my flesh is exposed, the panic takes hold of me. Just last month I was lying next to this exquisitely beautiful, long-haired boy who I had lusted after and idealised and had finally spent a night with. But when morning arrived I found myself facing my dreaded fear: having to dress myself in daylight. I lay there paralysed. There’s no way to get out of this, I told myself. You have to put your bloody clothes on in order to leave. Then I thought back to summer. I was with a boy and as I was dressing myself in the morning he was lying face up on the bed goggling at me. When I caught his eye and saw that he was watching me intently as I was in the midst of trying to squeeze my thighs into my jeans, I was horrified! I passed off my horror as a joke – stop that! I yelped and playfully hid myself behind his wardrobe door. He protested saying he enjoyed watching me. I suppose I should have been flattered but I still wanted to hide. I don’t want to see myself naked let alone other people see me. I can be playful in these situations but that’s my survival tactic; playfulness is only a thin mask for a girl (woman?) who is deeply insecure in her body. I think the worst part about post-coital dressing is that finding one’s items of clothing is often an operation in itself. Where the hell have my knickers gone? God knows where they were tossed in the passionate blur that was the night before. God, the thought of having to bend over and have my belly roll into folds and my breasts hang low and flop about in front of someone I want to want me is horrifying. Well, as you might have guessed, that’s what I had to do last month and last night, as I always have to do. I took a deep breath and after many internal pep talks I managed to dress myself. And guess what? The boy couldn’t have cared less. He wasn’t scrutinising my body. He was lying perfectly content in his bed. My naked body was no longer a point of focus for him, which just proves how irrational my hideous paranoia is.


BODY GIRL. Peter Jacquaye.




I found the nude you sent me
I realised I fucked up 
And now you resent me 
Because I really fucked up 
Now you’re traveling and shit
Haven’t seen your face in a while
Don’t think I will 
Because he keeps you under his thumb
That’s what I should’ve done
And now i’m talking to girls i don’t even like
Just to get some love for the night 
But during the day it’s you 
Body Girl I miss you