a story about a dream
When the wooden boy withdraws a strand still dangles between him and her: his dick is wood and his cum is a silk thread that still connects them, lengthening as he stands and regards her. Her neck is at the strange angle of broken, minute by minute she is growing as stiff as he is, although in a more ordinary way. He touches her chest: the heartbeat has stilled. His own body still moves to the rhythm of the wooden clock in the wooden cage his clockmaker father built for it: he could open the door with the key he keeps around his neck if he wanted. Instead he brushes a strand of her hair, moves his hand lower, touches the springy pubic hair, touches the silver thread. From a distance it could glisten and look almost liquid, it is the most human thing about him. He pulls it from her, he kneels next to her and looks at her.
He thought that this is what it would take to make him a boy but now she is no more real than he is.
He is drawn again to her cunt, which is cold now and so differently textured. He probes with his fingers, he imagines that he can see the clockwork turning round and round, you can put it fingers and phalluses and small stones and watch them ground to fine powder. Thinking, my dick is wood and her cunt is a stone mill. Together we produce flour. Thinking, this is the rhythm of the world.
She is so still, it doesn't matter how he touches her, fingers or dick or wooden nose.
She lies there and becomes more and more wooden.
Her cunt is a waterwheel, turning.
Her cunt is of intricate metal gears, interlocking.
Her cunt is a mill, grinding. I kneel beside her, lay my head close to her cunt, peering, looking for the wheels. What is just under the flesh, hidden by hair and by purple, but gleaming a little, further inside? Wondering, must she be wood before I can touch what is inside her, what is inside me?
Tentatively, I put my finger inside her. The wheel turns, drawing me in, to warmth, to moisture, to a small surrounding space, widening, drawing more of me in to fill. The wheel rocks me back and forth, is it warmth and moisture, opening for me I feel? or is it silky cool wood, the clicking of metal gears? Does she toss beneath me, flesh going both heavy and light and neck lengthening, stretching back to expose her throat? Or does she lie there going more wooden moment by moment, neck at the angle of broken, going cold going stiff? Am I killing her?
This story was told to me by a boy who ran away from the neighbors who lived behind my house. He told me that he wasn't really a boy, that he was a trained bear, kept in a cage, poked with sticks until he roared in amusing pain for their guests. He slept on my couch for a week, as I kept my blinds pulled and thought long and hard. Then I sent him on to a friend of mine who runs a halfway house off his farm in New Hampshire, he will find him a school and a part-time job and try to make him human.
Before I sent my bear/boy away I told him to say that his name was Jim and not Jimbo, and to be careful who he tells his story to lest he wind up in another kind of cage.
You squat beside me, leaning over me. Your face is changing.
I squint, trying to make you stop shifting. I blink, trying to fix you in place. I do not have my glasses on, and I cannot tell if you are a boy or a girl. I cannot tell if you are wooden or flesh. I cannot tell if you are real.
Your expression is intent. Your fingertips are cool on my body, raising shivers. The friction of your fingers on my body raises heat. I twist, writhe beneath the rare touch you inflict, I do not even know if I am trying to move into your hands or away. I am held fixed in place, I cannot get away. My whole body is going liquid under your hands and I cannot move at all. Your hands are so sure, your expression not get away. Your hands are so sure, your expression is so determined. But somehow I do not feel that you are looking at me at all.
You are touching me more firmly now, yet I am feeling less. You press into my body, my skin grows distant beneath your touch. I lie here looking up at you, politely, waiting for you to finish. My body turns to wood.
Who are you to desire me, why do you touch this wooden body? From a distance I watch fingers on wood, tracing patterns, watch hands fucking a wooden doll. And the wood cannot move to get away.
Does the wooden doll want to escape? Button eyes stare past shifting lover, nose lengthening from lying. Growing long for unadmitted desire, growing longer for hidden fear, long enough for fucking. For fucking without contact, touch wood. i don't want
to be wooden.
I dreamed a boy telling me a story. In the dream was a wooden boy, was a girl gone broken, gone wooden, was a girl touching girl, was a boy who was a tortured bear. In the dream was the need to tell a story.
Split vision slashes me.
Where am i, wooden boy, girl exploring stiff girl, or the one fleeing her flesh into wood? Shifting patterns in the swirl, brown faces touched with red, squint and change,
where in the dream was i?
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