Exotic Erotica
By Alyce Elmore
D had a splitting headache from the night before. Well actually, from a series of back to back night befores. Experience taught him that it was easier to stay on a roll, than sober up and start all over again, but his firewood guy had called to say his wife wiped out the delivery truck hitting a roo and, well, if D needed wood, he would need to scavenge it himself. Torn between days wrapped in sweaters and blankets or an afternoon spent outdoors, sobering up while he gathered wood, D was still not sure he had made the right choice.
Focusing on the task at hand, D reminded himself that selection, was the key to successful wood scavenging. The wood needed to be seasoned, but not so old that it was rotten because then it burned too fast. Size was another factor. Too small and it didn’t create much heat but for D, who didn’t have either a ute or a trailer, the logs had to be small enough to fit in the boot of his car. Of course, he could use his chain saw and that was the proper way to harvest wood, but he wasn’t feeling sharp enough to use it safely, or game enough to use it unsafely, so he was reduced to taking the best pieces he could find, from those ready and waiting on the ground.
So far, he’d managed to snag enough for the next twenty-four hours. Well, almost enough. He figured that just one more piece would create a decent armful for the return trip to the car, so looking around, he considered the remaining pieces scattered along the roadside. Eyeing each piece, and weighing it against his criteria, he rejected them one by one as not being worth bending over to pick up. Then, just when he decided to give up, he spotted it. How he missed it the first time was a mystery, but it was just the piece he needed, so he walked over and reached for it. As his fingers wrapped around the wood, a strange sensation traveled up his arm. There was no other way to describe it. It was just a strange sensation; like a taxed nerve. D figured that since physical exercise wasn’t really his thing, strange sensations were perhaps, to be expected, so, ignoringing it, he added the wood to the stack in his arms and walked back to his car.
Later, drink in hand, dinner cooking on the stove, and the beginnings of a fire underway, D felt he was set for the night. He stooped down and opened the door to the firebox, reaching for a piece of wood to add to the fire. The piece his hand landed on, slipped through his fingers, and rolled just out of his reach, so he let it go and picked a different one. He shoved the wood in with the rest and played with the flue until finally content with the temperature in the room, he stood up and looked around for the log that had slipped away. Strangely there was no out of place log to be seen. Mystified, he looked around, but the log was definitely gone.
Now D was not surprised at things going missing. It was a regular occurrence and one he normally took for granted, but to lose a piece of wood within seconds, was more challenging than, say, misplacing one shoe, or forgetting where he put his glasses. Invariably his glasses lay just out of sight on the top of his head and shoes, well, like the women in his life, they were used to being kicked around. Those missing women, just like his shoes and his glasses, invariably turned up too. Usually to pick up their stuff and piss off again.
Well, this time, it was only a piece of dead wood and a free one at that, so he returned to the cook stove, where, spoon in one hand and drink in the other, he sipped and stirred with mindless concentration.
If there was one thing that D could count on in life, it was that by the time his drink was reduced to ice cubes, his meal would be ready to eat. And now his drink had just reached that critical point, so he dipped the spoon into the murky depths to withdraw a sample, blew on it, and then gingerly checked the temperature with his lips. It was a lifelong ritual and one that had served him well over the years, but tonight as he raised the spoon to his lips, the stew moved. Not moved, as in, it slid off the spoon. And no, this was not moved, as in, when a bug had decided to pretaste dinner for him. This was a movement, stews were not, according to whatever laws of physics D understood, allowed to make. It raised itself up and looked him in the eye. At least, that’s how D saw it.
He dropped the spoon and stepped back until he bumped up against the sink. As for the stew, it returned to doing what stews are supposed to do, and bubbled away in the pot. D reached towards the stove, but his outstretched hand was shaking. It shook so badly that the shaking traveled up his arm and worked its way through his body, until even his teeth chattered. Determined, he reached again for the stove. This time, he succeeded in switching off the flame, then yanked his hand back as if it had been burned. His mind attempting to rationalise the irrational, decided the mushrooms in the stew must be hallucinogenic, and poured himself another drink.
That night, confused, exhausted and far from sober, D retired to his bed, where his subconscious fashioned phantasmal dreams that mined the depths of his inner self, uncovering thoughts and actions carefully repressed. Several times during the night, he was jolted awake by their vividness, but he was not someone prone to self reflection nor did he find insight to be particularly insightful. A series of childhood traumas had taught him that the world was not to be trusted, that fairy tales were really as dark and menacing as the Grimm brothers portrayed, and that the only defence against evil was to be more offensive. In other words, D was not a bad man, just one who hid his pain and self loathing in the closet with his Sunday suit, all the while sleeping comfortably in the knowledge that the monsters under his bed were real.
It was also why he liked to keep his relationships light and superficial. In his younger days, when women were both plentiful and interchangeable, pickups were easier, but even now, he still had the knack. When the mood struck him, he would sober up long enough to put on that aging rocker personna, and hit the bars. OK, it took longer and the selection was more limited but like scavenging for wood, you took the best of what was available at the time. To say that D longed for love, real love, was like asking an alcoholic if he’d like a drink. It was not about liking. It was about something much deeper, more destructive and darker. And in the end, that was what drove even the best of them away, like his first wife G. When she left, he was glad to see her go. She had given him exactly what he needed and he despised her for that.
By morning, yesterday was just that; yesterday. Sitting on the edge of his bed looking down at his naked legs, he ran shaky fingers through his thinning hair. The fire had gone out but the room retained enough heat from last night that he eschewed his house coat, instead stumbling to the bathroom wearing only his boxers. As he stood, giving the toilet his best shot, he glanced over at the mirror above the sink. Fascinated by his image, he dribbled the last few drops on the floor as he felt compelled to face himself. He leaned against the sink, studying the dark hollows under his eyes, the lines that dug deep; character lines, that marred a once handsome facade. Disgusted, he pushed himself upright, sucked in the slight paunch, and put on his best stage impersonation.
As he eyed himself in the mirror, his vision blurred. Was it his imagination, or had the light changed? The area around his reflection shimmered in a brown glow that faded into blackness and he tried to recall if this was one of the symptoms of a stroke. Closing his eyes, he shook his head and then reopened them, hoping that his sight had returned to normal but the colors still encircled him. He raised his arms, and watched enthralled as the dark image outlined him like some over inflated shadow. Confused, he held his hand out in front of him and stared in wonder as the black iridescence engulfed it. Then violently, he shook first his hands, then his entire body and the aura dispersed around him, like dust blown away by a puff of wind. As quickly as it had come, the strange mirage was gone. Now the only reflection in the mirror was that of the aging, milky skinned, flabby bodied man that he was accustomed to seeing.
Bewildered, he wandered from the bathroom back to his bedroom and opening the wardrobe flicked through hangers of identical black t-shirts. After several moments of careful consideration, he chose one at random and pulled it over his head as he turned around. Through the dark material covering his eyes, D perceived a phosphorescent glow. Quickly jerking on the shirt, he stared at his bed. There, amongst the rumpled sheets and stained pillows, floated, or rather wallowed, some oversized green blob like shape. The shape pulsed and rippled, generating streams of colours that ranged from deep magenta to pale turquoise and D stood transfixed as he watched them surge from one end of the blob to the other. In fact, if he hadn’t been so fascinated with the light show, it might have occurred to him to run from the room or at the very least, slide around its edges until he could slither out. But all thoughts of escape eluded him. Instead, the lights mesmerised and enthralled so that he was simultaneously repulsed and attracted. He realised that the thing was beckoning to him.
Some part of his conscious mind screamed, “run” but deeper, in his subconscious, another voice said, “come”. It was not his imagination. The thing was inviting him to join it.
Horrified, he felt his body moving in the direction of the bed. As if he were a marionette, unseen strings raised his knee, inched his leg forward, set it down and repeated with the other leg and so he was dragged by his own body to the edge of the bed. Tendrils of multicoloured gelatinous goop stretched out, and tentatively caresses his skin. Repulsion gave way to a pleasant tingling as waves of color throbbed along the tendrils and flashed against his body. He closed his eyes, stopped resisting, and allowed the sensation to flow in and through him. When the tendrils withdrew, D reopened his eyes.
Hands outstretched like a baby reaching for its mother’s tit, D responded to the creature by extending his own fingers and pressing against the viscous mass. It withdrew and the area he touched turned an angry purplish black. Thinking he had bruised the creature, he pulled his hand back, and in response, the creatures colors slowly became more subdued. D held out his hand, once more. This time not quite touching it and patiently, he waited. The goop extended towards him, until once again they connected and the throbbing light show was rekindled. It’s slow, steady rhythm increased in tempo as D’s heart joined in. He pressed his hand harder against the creature and was consumed by a craving for even more intimacy. Slowly, he climbed into the bed next to the thing, allowing the warm amorphous mass to wrap itself around him until he was totally absorbed inside it.
Inside, looking out, D’s familiar world morphed into a shadowy one. It became a world where solid shapes dissolved into thoughts and thoughts became objects. The thing was fingering his senses, plucking each one the way D fingered the strings of his guitar. They both listened to the sounds it produced and as it became more proficient, the noises became melodies. D realised, it was tapping into the long repressed song writer he concealed inside and was exploring that part of him. Diatonic chords that created harmonic progressions were infused with musical discords and angry riffs but with each substantial musical thought, the creature was probing deeper and deeper into D’s psychy. While the thing searched to understand him, D likewise hunted for the essence of the thing. They groped and pried into each other, exchanging thoughts and feelings, until at last a stasis was reached and D slept.
While he slept, he dreamt and perhaps, thought D, so too, did the thing. He hadn’t only discovered things about this strange and illusive creature, but it had in the process, reintroduced D to pieces of himself that he thought dead or at least lost somewhere along the journey of life. When he woke, he looked around, ready to reignite the experience but he found his bedroom to be cold and empty. The only light that illuminated his bed was the mundane light of day and not that dancing prism he had hoped for.
Despondent, he left the bedroom and headed once more for the bathroom. As he passed the mirror, he glanced at it casually, then stopped and stared in amazement. This time it wasn’t the aura he had experienced earlier but it was something almost as shocking that grabbed his attention. He stared at his reflection. While it was his face, it was not the one he usually encountered. This was the face of a man transformed. No, it was something even more unbelievable. It was the face of a man brought back from the dead and in his eyes, he caught just a glimpse of shimmering light. That light and the chill in the room reminded him that he would need more wood.