The Technicolour Orgasm
THE TECHNICOLOUR ORGASM
As submitted to the 2011 Literary Writes (FBCW) short story contest.
The summer breeze stole all, smooth furiousness and tiny touches of the delicate—invisible hands tepid. Empires, carved stones, and ageless trees broke into a bleak horizon familiar—familiarly killing to a wide deafening point of Proustian melancholy. Smashes of memory, they settle full upon the moment, and I look at my former flatmate. He grins as if we are walking upon our long past pride, waiting to usurp and ridicule all the doting idiots and seductiveless screechers.
“These were the days, I mean you were an Apollonian god—quote a little Keats, and they were all your rage and putty. I am still trying to finesse that myself!”
“It’s been five years, and that’s your first comment of nostalgia… What happened to your pathetic fling with that professor, Dr. Rodera? Your famous quote—if I cannot have her skirt, I will bloody well have all her time. You made it to thesis with her.”
The clutter of strolling students. Apparitions like a great rolling unfixed despair.
“Bro, Man, sore wounds, sore wounds. You cannot own a goddess like that. Compose a thousand ditties for thinly ditzy women—and all you get is a tongue twister.”
“True, but maybe you would close……”
Quacking beauty thundered on the pavement—shocks of discovery.
“Ooh, her—that one is Alexandria. Don’t you remember her? She was definitely on the wonders-of-the-world-rejects-only list…”
“That was a different era…”
“Sad, but honestly… Come on here, realistically that one will never—and I mean never—truly and consciously clean up like all those bridely unpicked Cinderellas, even if she miraculously finds the heart to learn chenille. Remember the honour within our party line during high school—‘A man, even that man of countless men, cannot remove fugliness from a woman, not really… and shamefully, not ever.”
Trepidations of wrongness clinged like spiders to the spine.
“Yeah, you’re right. When was the last time you got laid? Should I ask Dr. Rodera?”
Faint memories came to him, that young sprite staring at me for the streets. Candid shots of my hand swerving at the helm of a Camaro, lit with laughter and other blonde companions. I wondered then who was leaving whose life, at that moment. Stains of regret and transgressions confirmed.
The stuffy clothes of a co-ed, covering a chrysalid in wait of bloom.
Kindly waiting in conversaion. Glitz of a ballroom and windows overlooking the ocean. People anxious and pretentious, kept inside old insecurities.
“At least, the Cognac is bearable.”
“That is the only smart thing that you have said all day.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
A couple and a femme fatale join their company. Old habits are hardest to kill. The hidden play of wandering glimpses suggest other pairings.
“Ages Cynthia, where have you hide yourself?”
“In the dark den of motherhood…”
“Congratulations, Jack. Condolences, Cynthia.”
This other woman making invitations and taking liberties from forgotten relations. She touches my tie, adjusting and flirting. Shameless in bustling about her cleavage and all the while not reserved to flaunt.
“What happened to you, and all your playboy plans? What is happening with your inspiring and lifelong NGO that you were going to found against genocide—the conscience of the unconscionable, as you passionately ranted back in the social justice society?”
“I went to Cambodia, and I saw the grim face of militia-inspired genocide. I still, I never will be able to mentally wipe off all the blood and tissue… And the worst part is that I knew that our government passively but ruthlessly supported these killings.”
An uncomfortable silence of pins.
“Yeah, Mark, did you hear: my Genix stock jumped there points as of Thursday?”
“What does that make you, a triple yacht owner?”
“Hahaha. Yes, if I didn’t have to start a trust fund.”
“Oh, watch yourself. You know it, but my plan is to spitefully, craftily commandeer something precious out of this dreadnought union. You should keep notes Lisa, right about now. Catch a good man: hint, hint—nudge, nudge. A girl gots to get a rock.”
She leans in on me, gasping my arm.
“Well, what do you say…”
And like a foreigner, I edged out of that conversation like wordless drips of ink evaporating to mist.
Crashes of sound. Waves pirouetting. Wakefulness at the whiff of the finest finest. I drank by myself. The glass and its dark liquor making revolutions in anticipation as I handled it like a supreme writer. Smells of the fierce brine, recollections of Byron.
I knew the romance of the landscape, like no other. Sweet words and skinny dipping. All of their faces could not be remembered as they bleed back to the sea, yet I always took the best pages of their diaries. The fate of every foolish lover are made with the squire’s gift in “loving so hotly that till dawn grew pale, sleeping as little as a nightingale.”
A shadow moving forward in the misty night of climed in stars. Emergence of the graceful mare with fiery spirals of long hair taking speech, she and her senses then in a flight of passionate and courageous gate….
I could see her walking in the sand and dirt, amidst her mind and better thoughts. And my heart took a beat—please let it be Alexandria.
And she came to me always in the full mystery of the dark, silencing me with a hush. A goddess wrapped in wool and silk. Her cashmere sweater, taken to vibrant colours. My dim-witted hands upon the golden fleece.
The touch of it, the expectations of her cool alabaster breasts, spikes of electricity swimming in the glee rush. Infinite swirls of colour. I could not bear to remove it, the weight sliding off, her arms raised the naked joy, the myrrh of her eyes, ablaze….
Fingers and leglocking lost in the labyrinth of love… Tears, sweat, and their breath: being everywhere dizzy. Entrance upon the house of the rising sun—wet motes and swans beaked, vibrating to symphonies. Rises of breathed spirit searing all the happied fires into flesh. The touching of backs, hot radiators. Eyes like sapphire-solemn moons awakening to oceans full. Kind hands commanding, heartfelt kissing abounding, wounded in arrows most gentle and unknown. Storming clouds of pleasure engulfing the whole of body bleed and the wondrous brain hot. A tiding out—cooled in bliss. The birth of humanity in the clasping of blind but brave soulmates united in love-tortured twists. And that soft, technicolour sweater taken by a cruel drift of the sea, free at last in sombre tones immaculate…