The bent cold, rolled-iron loop de loop, curved in a leap of death near the pier pilings, rotting, wasted away from the salt tear drops of an unrelenting army of a sea's vengeance, crewed of ocean soldiers, no memory, no pity, corroding soul killers as old as ancient time, leaderless, no generals, just along the board-walk. It's all there, just past the garbage strewn alleyways where the dead bodies splinter, like the coaster beams, decomposing near the dumpsters, near the second story gang cribs of their gang city block empires, held, fought and died for, for no other reason at all, except that's all they got and that's all their ever gonna get.

I'm a fucked up tortured girl artist, I wouldn't live anywhere else.

It's summer, snow cones, blood as the neon that lights the coaster timbers, screeching iron wheels in the big dip, near the cotton candy vendors and the bumps of the bumper cars, near my artist's loft. A summer night filled with strolling Chechens, Uzbeks , Russian mob guys out of Perth Amboy, Brighton Beach, The Jersey Shore. Ex cannibals out of the savage gulags of Siberia, shooting the water pistols for a pink teddy bear for their screaming kids. It's a surreal world of death, life and pain. Man I dig it.

I'm Mimi, this broken body young artist that chooses to live in this squalor, this filth, this beauty of the degradation of the soul. I'm a crippled Tattoo
artist, painter, and I revel in my own physical pain, as well as the mental of course, that swings with the whores and the pimps and the turf down here in Coney.

I love ghettos, gangs, street hitters, zip guns and duct taped pistol handles of Saturday Night Specials gone bad. The place is puissant with Wise Guys, Micks, Greeks, gangster wannabees, Haitians, Hispanics of every ilk and duck tailed Puerto Rican pimps turning out their girlfriends for the street life, and the hard men and bitches that run with them.

I'm a white girl, was a model once, not really by choice, just to see what was was, you know, use what you have, still have pics of me when I was whole. I glance at them some times, you know, just to remember when I could break a man down with a single glance from my green eyes.

Went to NYU, after, Parsons, hated that, turned to art on skin and canvass, after, after the braces, the stints, the steel encasing my body, blue the scarsare, from hips to toes, 5-10 I am, about 118 lbs. Food doesn't interest me; I definitely have an eating disorder, what else isnew. Extra weight hurts my joints, no one understands, I could give a fuck. I'm fucking and totally insane, most artists are.

The accident made me something new, something unique. Before, well before the chrome broke every bone in my hips, legs and feet, and transformed me into a bionic, anemic, thin, screwed together artist. I was a beauty then, no more, now shaved head, rivers of blue and purple scars, well what can I say, for the pain is wild, unfathomable, I revel in it, it helps me forget who I am.

Men don't look much these days, for the usual cosmetic crap reasons, you know, why fuck a bent pretzel when you can screw some Bimbo down in Beth Stur, don't blame them at all. Still, my face is intact, struck cheekbones, still flawless they say, yet a cripple doesn't get much look, who the fuck cares, actually I do, I'm sick of my own denial.

Have my Tat store in the bottom of the half a block loft I own, busy all the time, when I can stand the pain, ex bakery, industrial crib, lots a room for me to crutch around, canvass everywhere, paints, brushes and all the stuff, am kinda semi-famous. I whore my stuff in The City, few galleries, though I have oodles of money, more if I would only kiss my father's ass out there in Connecticut, which I don't. You know, weekends at the sea shore, grow my blond hair back and make pretty with their fucked up society club, maybe wear a party dress to tea. Fuck him, if I can't wear my overalls, army boots and nothing else, it is not worth doing it. I guess you could say that's who and what I am.

I'm staring at my carbon dated crutches, reminders of that date it all began, the braces on my legs, got my paint over-halls on, am nude underneath, bare cut arms, no fat on this gal, US GI boots racked to my twisted feet, windows struck from floor to ceiling, sitting on my window bench, feeling the summer air. I can see the sea, feel the salt from the wind streaming in, I love the sea. I laugh, then cringe from the pain, laugh again, gimps don't do well in the water, unless they're planning on drowning themselves, which I might do at any fucking moment.

I have this sexual current running nonstop through my blood veins, complicated as they are trying to weave around the stainless screws holding all the bones together, which doesn't mean I don't have a cunt, a screaming Mimi, hey, that's funny, fuck even that hurts when I giggle. I'm begging for some gal, (switched years ago) to do something to it, anything. Maybe drill it with a jack hammer, sand it smooth with an air grinder, rack and pinion it, just do something, for I'm tired of jacking off, but look at me, pathetic, ugly me, where did I put my hand gun?

Really though, there is only one woman I want to fuck me blind, well a few girl types, mostly tattooed biker girls who use my talents, but they got their own bullet men, why bother with bent old me. Of course, that's her across the way, over there in another two story loft, top floor, Murong, a black, sculptress, stone and granite, marble too, welder artist woman so obsidian-black beautiful. She's corded muscles, thin, shaved head like yours truly, about 6ft 1, white teeth like the marble she blasts her chisel into, fuck, I wet up just watching her, which I do every moment I get.

It's not like the fucking God woman doesn't have a boatload of female beauty type girly girls hanging around her cut, muscled bod. Christ I've seen them come and go, come and go, none of their toothbrushes ever stay the night, see the dawn. I often lay in my bed at night, windows open, listening to Monk, Miles and Cole Porter creaming across the expanse from her loft, making the summer cool, bearable, nice for me. Christ I love that black girl, really I do.

She stays single though, for I know passion and her work always comes first. She is a very cool, studly onyx black diva, smiling all the time, frowning when the granite seems to be giving her hell and I am jealous, and I am sure she knows I exist. I get a look at times, accompanied by a smile, which drenches my cunt. Lately I've stumbled into her, sometimes at the Boardwalk, her in her heavy leather Welder pants, leather apron late at night, when the pain grips me and I can't sleep and we chat. If I didn't know better, she almost seems interested in me, said she heard I was a talent, though no tats for her.

She's super duper intelligent, funny, not self-absorbed like a lot of artists with far less gifts then she has in those calloused hand. She's actually humble, a rarity in these self-absorbed, ego-centric days. Why I don't limpty limp dick click over there and beg her to drive that chisel into my cunt, into my ass, best into my forehead I don't know, fuck I'm so messed up it makes me sick

Lately, I've caught her staring at me from across the alley, nothing suspect, nothing obvious, probably curious, enjoying the freak show I am. Yet, more than not she's been around more than I can understand. The bevy of empty heads she usually beds have been vacant lately, and Christ, my imagination is running amok just thinking of that amazing Africans, she is British Ghanaian arms wrapped around the spinet that I am.

Night has swept in, candles flickering everywhere around my loft, around the easels, canvas and paints and my few furnishings. I'm basic in everything except how my brain works. The night begins to cool, everything except my cunt and mind which are replicas of that Biblical Burning Bush, except I shave my cunt, for I still want to look pretty. The only reminder I have of being a women any longer comes from my wall mirror, which I can barely look into any longer. Since the accident two years ago I haven't been with a man, or a woman, usually laying naked under the sheets, doing this and that, and I feel empty, evacuated from my sex feelings, the mental pain almost matches the physical.

I can see her again, bare shoulders in her work overalls, barefoot, she always works barefoot, old, worn denim hugging down those small hips, muscles rippling as she crashes her chisel, sands, grinds, chips away at something she's again turning a slab of stone set on a pedestal into something beautiful from the memory of her eclectic mind.

I don't do drugs, could never trust myself to stop. Last thing I need or anyone needs is me bumping around with my braces and crutches, stoned, laying in some alley in my own urine and puke while they sweep me up and carry me back to my loft, me mumbling something about a black Goddess's white teeth, amazing black cunt and a black fist I need, desire, yet know will never be rammed in me, anywhere, at anytime, any orifice will do, fine, thank you very much.

Thinking always moves time for me and I have problems keeping track of it. So I open my greens, sip at my wine, tilt my head, peek through the night at her open window, gulp, blink, gulp again, no way. I can hear Brubeck softly thumping from her window and there she is, standing with her chisel in her hands, bare chest, cut and wide shoulders, apron hiding those small tits. She's covered in night summer sweat and rock dust, ripped body, she is a working girl, no gym cosmetic gal, and she is staring at me. I can see her black eyes, and the whites silhouette them so strident. I'm sure I must be delusional, for I feel that I can almost reach out and circle them, outline them with my white finger, and I gulp again, for they're unblinking this time, her eyes are aimed directly at me.

From the waist up, well I'm not that bad I lie, but she is unflinching now, and I can't, don't want to break what is happening, or what I am fantasizing is happening. I feel my breathing begin to swell, my cunt beginning to feel something, like it's got Tourettes, screaming out, me, me, me now bitch. But that is nonsense, isn't it?

I giggle and my pallet is dry, so I sip again at my wine, feel all Absinthe-struck, dreamy, illusions and delusional as the French say, involved within "l'heure Verte" "The green hour" after drinking the hallucinate 'verte elixir'. Rimbaud's, Degas' and Manet's choice of grief too, a Paris party artist's drink, except I'm not stoned. I almost want to glance behind me to see if someone else is there, but she's leering at me, deconstructed, bone-scared me, hideous me.

Hoping that I'm not drooling, I feel like my heart is metronoming faster and faster, and for a few minutes we are stone-dead starers, gawkers. I know she's just fucking with me, why else would she be staring at me like I'm water, and she's dying of thirst. I can see her stomach beginning to bellow from her intense breathing, and those wide cut shoulders, powerful from lugging 300 lb. blocks of stone up her steps with a dolly, welding and bending iron vee ingots, seem to be broadening more by the moment. Nobody or body is perfect, but she's fucking close, and I am such a female, it makes me ill, and for the moment that shrieking pain in my hips has disappeared. Geeze, what is happening to me.

More looking, my own breathing is wild to say the least and I can almost feel something akin to one of those space rays aliens use crossing the expanse between our lofts, drilling me between my eyes, and still she seems completely like I have never seen her before. Of course I've never trysted with her between the sheets, and yet I can see her breathing becoming more intense, but not as fast as her eyes are: they simply will not leave me alone, and I feel like a fucking mime, unable to do anything but gawk at her.

Her thick, African lips move, part just a little, a small smile replacing her hard stare at me. I can see the sweat covering her midnight body and shaved head and then she tilts her head at me, nods behind her to her loft, smiles, furrows her eyebrows in a little gesture of "Well, what in the fuck are you waiting for?" She smiles, paper-white teeth, I melt, she tilts her head again and like an idiot I point at myself, mouth "Who me?" and wish the rest of me wasn't semi paralyzed like my stupid, stupid, stupid brain was, how fucking old am I anyways.

Behind her she glances at whatever she was chipping rock off on the pedestal which is now covered with shadows and candle light. Looks back at me, smiles, clicks her head, points downstairs. I nod like a dumb donkey, smile, struggle to stand, click the latches on my braces under my overalls, nod to her that it would take another 9-11 to keep me from coming, hope she knows girl Morse Code, you know, Jane stuff: "Me want you now." She smiles, indicates that she will meet me downstairs. I nod like in rote, head spinning, turn, grab my aluminum crutches, hobble to my iron door, scoot out to my elevator, door closes, button frantically missed three time, bullseye and am downstairs lickety split, sure that today is not my birthday.

I don't move fast, but I'm out the door and there she is, towering above me, semi-smiling, serious look in those jet eyes and without a word, she sweeps me up in her arms, those corded copper wrapped cable arms, turns and with my arms wrapped around her neck, holding my crutches for dear life, she moves like the panther that she is back to her loft. Up the stairs we go, through her own iron door, and I gasp, for the place is eclectically stunning, bare and basic and primal like her, slabs of iron and rock, welding torches as such. She's an artist like me, as she gently sets me on my GI issue boots, holding my non waist in her large, aquiline hands, making sure I don't flop on my face.

Crutches under my shaved armpits, thank god I did that, she just stares at me, her breathing coming heavy now, pink tongue touching melon lips and then she whispers to me, asking me if I'm alright. Sure, yes, positive, thanks for the lift, what we gonna do now mommy, I do not say, as I whisper back at her through lip trembles, that yes, I'm just fine, having a great time. She then gets a look on her face like you know, I'm something deliriously desirous to her, me checking the theater program, back to cover, sure she's got the wrong actress for whatever play she thought she was going to see for the evening.

Swaying before her, I've have never felt so fragile, so miniature in body scope, for her sculptor's power simply exudes out of her and her babe shoulders are so broad, thin and muscled, I can see every sinew of them, rumbling and twitching in unison along her torso. Then, without asking, she leans in, wraps her arms around me, nothing of a girl, and draws me in. I feel like I am encased in annealed drying steel, my bare arms in my overalls pumping sweat and sex, and then she kisses me, not once, not short, but a long, long time, no tongue, with those ungodly beautiful lips pressed against my own.

I'm glad she's not politically correct, one of those permission gals, for her hands are now on my tiny rump, which she squeezes, and though her embrace is gentle, it's strong, and I feel many joints and bones hurting, but what an amazing hurt it is. I've always loved pain, a little secret of the benefits of my crushing accident. Then the kiss breaks and inches away from her face, I see her up close and personal, and I swallow. The look in her eyes is so intense, as well, as well as my wet cunt and slender semi-iron body pressing against her own filthy workman overalls and the muscled body, against my cunt, and the look in her eyes, Christ, she looks like a predator black ocelot with one thing on its mind, me. I internally gasp.

Feeling tiny tremors finding their way around the stainless and titanium hardware that keeps me together, I think I am orgasmic, or something very close to that, it's been a long fucking time for this gal. I hope that whatever the fuck she's going to do, she doesn't forget that chisel, I giggle, sense of humor between the brain hemorrhaging still intact.

My breathing is going static, my cunt doing something, probably drowning by its own accord, then, oh my, here comes the melting, as she kisses me gently, lifts me like a white flake of snow, turns and carries me across the loft to where her bed is struck within the wooden planks of the floor. Gently, she layers me like a shaking dollop of white whipped creme across the black cotton sheets of her bed as I cross my arms on my prepubescent breasts, and simply stare at her staring at me.

She is a quiet, tall, thin girl, I like that, yet still I hope she can't hear my cunt murmuring and my breath swelling, each time my stomach seemingly presses against my back bone, I am so constructed of nothing but bone, skin and muscle.

She, like me, is wearing overalls, us artists like those, and I am weeping prayers that besides a bare chest, well, I hope the rest is naked, this carved girl seemingly cut out of a slat of black obsidian, so beautiful the way she looks at me. She is not impatient, as she bends to my maze broken toes, unties my boots, pulls them from my small feet. They are tiny for such a tall girl, scared and twisted though, and then she slips my boots and socks off. I wince in pain, lovely pain, she doesn't seem to mind, I love her for that, there is not pity in her eyes, just passion and then she stares at my scarred, twisted and crippled feet. She seems to purr, part her lips, pink tongue again as she takes them in her elegant fingers, closes her eyes, presses them against her sky high cheekbones and simply grows more silent, if that is possible.

My braces are under my overalls, not much else, and I go through a litany of girl cosmetic stuff I did or did not remember to do. Lasered cunt, I dislike hair, a phobia of mine, it's called Trichotillomania, lots of plucking before the laser beam, clean, little used, no tattoos, already resisted that urge, arm pits shaved, no eyebrows really, I am a fare once-blond. Brushed my teethums earlier, hands covered in paint, used deodorant, that's good and every time I look at her, my breath grows heavier, my cunt grows wetter. I hope she can't feel my body vibrating, and I am terrified of the look on her face once she strips me naked, for the purple and blue scars fall from my hips to my feet, road maps of my transformation from a beauty queen to a hideous drama queen.

Feet time over, she lowers them to the black cotton, reaches forward, kisses me gently on the lips. She smells like a working girl, pungent, beautiful, as a drop of sweat from her high forehead falls onto my lips. I moan, it is salt, the mother element of the earth, much like her. I imagine her cum, if she were to give me that gift, must taste similar. I am still in turmoil as to what exactly what is happening, but can't wait for it to do so.

Slowly, she unfastens my brass shoulder snaps and again, without a peep, pulls my overalls down and down and then strips them off my pallid skin. I wince in pain, she smiles, as I clinch my eyes shut, embarrassed, for I am nude now, hip bones trying to break out of my skin, cunt exposed, ribs struck evident as if they were bleached by desert time, just skin cut across them. My tiny tummy is hitting my backbone as it rises and falls, my mind going haywire, my body pulsating and sparking like a Coney Island Tenement flop, boot legged with cheap copper 220 wiring. I wince, wondering of the scars. I am vanity, sure and pure and what about those purple etches on my body and bent limbs? I almost weep in shame knowing what she is staring at.

Like she was an orthopedic surgeon, she UN screws and UN snaps my leg hinges, one by one, slips them off. I wince in pain, feel alive, she smiles as she slips one then the other from my legs. I groan from the delight of the pain, how she seems mesmerized in her artist's mind at my body, as if she is creating images and lines and perimeters of something she might soon create from her gifted imagination. In my girl mind I certainly hope so, as I again think of that chisel, almost giggle, but don't.

I have full lips, white teeth, a sharp nose, yet small, wide set green eyes, frozen in fear, even though I was once considered beautiful, as she takes her black fingers and moves them from my lips, down my no breasts, along my tummy, then the journey begins. Her head tilts, her forehead crinkles as she stares at the carnage of the azure and magenta cuts from the scalpel and cat cut that sewed me back together. Her fingers are trailing down the multiple scars, thank fucking God they are not keloid, that would have been unbearable. There are also tiny blue ex holes where the bolts and screws went, I almost like that, try to stay away from magnets and airport scanners, oh fuck, what was that fissure in my cunt. She felt it, I'm certain, as her eyes lift, and she stares at me, smiles, and stands, oh goody goody, it looks like something remarkable is about to begin.

She seems to hold no doubt in her mind of what she is about to do. I like that. A gentle, talented, drop-dead, sex-encased, beautiful artist who seems to know what she wants and I just can't shake the thought "Why me?" for I'm sure her thoughts are filled with pity. My body lays there as a line of white powder, one that a breath of wind could scatter. Her eyes haven't left my body yet, and I am positive that I have just seen a tear fall down her cheeks as her overalls slide down her muscled, string body and puddle around her bare feet and I gasp, and then I cringe and gasp, seeing her exposed.

Black, curved, jagged keloid scars, winding snakes of something horrible that happened to her, darker than her skin, cover her small breasts, ribs and stomach and she sees that I see them and yet she says nothing, just smiles at me, which incinerates my heart with joy. She turns, moves to a small table where a pack of cigarettes are struck, takes one, flicks a Zippo, ignites it, inhales, then allows the smoke to curl from her sharp nose. I gasp even more, for the same scars are everywhere on her back, as if she were lashed as the bigots and racists had done to the Africans a century ago along the great slave plantations of North Carolina, Georgia and old Mississippi.

She just stands there as we communicate with brazen eyes, minds locked on minds and then a clip of a smile breaks her lips. She knows and I know we are similar, headliners in some galactic freak show, odd periodic human beings, and then I cannot help myself, I glance below her waist, at her shaved cunt. I swallow my breath, it is black and melds into her long legs, flat tummy, quite gorgeous thank you. She sees that I see the liquid spilling down her inner thighs, I gulp again. She holds no shame as she moves to the side of the bed, and sits, her, sculptor-callused hand laying on my swelling tummy.

With out asking, she tilts the smoke to my lips, which I accept, having seen far too many French Bardot, Denuve and Belmondo flicks, where they smoke while they eat, fuck, swim. I am such a hopeless romantic, I am hoping that this film never ends. I inhale, find the feeling of the haze lovely in my mouth, my lung,s as she smokes herself, looks at the tip of the burning ember, inhales once more, then flicks the cigarette across the loft, not caring where it comes to rest. I can barely control my teeth from chattering I am so stoned crazy excited and wowed by everything she is.

I peek at her cunt, she notices, smiles, I can't help myself. I blush. She notices, takes my hand, and presses my thin, white fingers between her legs. Her vagina is drenched, she smiles, Christ I have to blink, the heat, her clit is erect, small, so lovely, I want it between my lips and then she moans, as she closes her eyes, then opens them, and stares at me, which crushes me to whispers. Never have I seen anything so sexual, so erotic, so beautiful. She leans over to a small end table, opens the drawer, withdraws a thick, black ridged dildo, a foot long. My eyes go rigid, she smiles, graces my cheek with it, presses her cunt harder against my wet fingers, I can barely breath I am so filled with excitement. I am wondering how that dildo will break apart my broken body, my small, rebuilt torso, so rigid from the hardware keeping it together. Fuck, I don't care, once she does whatever she is going to do with me once she decides to do it, let's begin, I almost verbally beg.

Unable to prevent myself from doing it, I reach up and trail my finger along her breast scars, which makes her wince, not from pain, but from some distant memory she remembers in her artistic past. Moments move, it is summer, we are warm, naked and nude, as her eyes open, and she leans in and kisses me, which I accept, want, need. She then wraps her arms around my back and lifts me to a sitting position. I wince in pain, she tilts her head, I whisper for her to take no notice to my pain, she understands, that is who I am. I place one arm around her neck, the other clutching her cunt for dear life, which makes her smile, as she begins to lift me into the air.

My useless legs dangle, I jilt as spasms of pain shoot through my hips and limbs, but now she is sitting, back against the iron rungs of the bed stead, legs strung out on the sheets as she lifts me like I am nothing. I feel like I am constructed of ribbons, light, of air currents, her power is undeniable. I wince and moan in hurt and pleasure as she guides me onto her lap, her fingers stretching my coiled, scarred legs and tiny, nothing butt around her waist, and then she lowers me onto her dildo, filling me, stretching me, engorging me, and I throw my head back, shudder and moan. My fingers wrap around her powerful neck, and my head jerks back further, as I then shake my head back and forth violently, like some crazed dog bitch trying to rid water from its fur.

I moan as trembles and tiny orgasms strike my dormant cunt from and from so many different traumas hitting my body at the moment. Fuck what is happening to me, I feel like I am being split apart and mended back together at the same time. I moan, groan, tremble all over as she pulls me into scars, breasts against breasts, what is left of them before I became emaciated, close to her sculptor's breasts, and she does not move, just kissing and breathing on my slender, arched white neck with those lips, those amazing lips, as I feel the tip of her dildo pressing against the inner ending of my now so beautiful vagina.

Of course I can barely move, like a paper marionette that has had its strings cut. No power in my legs, yet she controls me so easily, vice grips cinched to butt, my tiny fractured hips, as she slowly allows me to move, grind, the best I can, a white string wrapped around a black gift. Her hands, long iron fingers and powerful hands lift my butt, up and down, ascent, decent, up, down, and each time a strike of pain rips through my body. Minutes pass, maybe hours as I throw my head back and scream as I orgasm over and over. I rip my hands into her neck, center her face, inhale deep, whip my shaved head back and forth, gawk at her like a wild jackal with a taste of the kill in my throat. I leer into her crazed yet controlled eyes and then crush my lips to hers, sharing saliva, tongues, avoiding the tears spilling down both of our faces.

My entire body then feels as if it has ruptured, steel pins grinding against stainless steel rods and screws and I-Beams as she lifts me high, her dildo swooshing out of my cunt, her hands supporting me under my arms, legs and feet limp, as she flips me like a pancake onto my stomach. So many things are twisting in my body and the pleasure pain so melded with orgasms, I scream, orgasm again, an after shock, as her hands wrap around my heaving tummy and she lifts me, so I am semi-suspended on my fists and knees.

I have never felt so marvelously helpless, controlled, protected, as I then feel her breath on my neck, her lips gently layered there as she enters my vagina, tip first, slow, how it even fits so far is a miracle to me, maybe I will become a Catholic, they believe in that kinda hocus pocus miracle stuff. She is patient, waits for me to pretend denial, which I do not, for I am mumbling nonsense, some gurgle through chattering teeth and bitten lips, for I want it, all of it, every inch of it, and this she understands.

Then, a weeping gush of air and cries explode out from my drooling lips as she enters me to the hilt. Oooooohs and screams and many aaaaahs blow out of my mouth as she begins to push, deep, deeper still. I lunge back, best I can, my knees are screaming no, my cunt is creaming yes, telling her she is right on track, and please do not stop, she does not.

My body bucks, spasms, orgasms, again. I blush, crashing pain raining in every joint and bone and tissue in my cunt as I almost pass out from the white lightening sparks shooting through my temples, completely encased by hands, Dildo and whatever the fuck is going on in her mind. I go rigid, spine bent, tummy bellowing, face pressed against my collar bones, screaming, gushing, orgasming, how many times this time, I do not know.

She is a rough and tender girl and I think that I can take no more, but not really. Whoever rips up a winning Lotto ticket once won, not this College grad, as I feel her dildo, the ridges, its girth, a magic wand of pleasure when wielded by a tender woman of little words and I am so tiny I feel every artery, every one of them inside me expanding, remembering my wish for a pneumatic air hammer attack earlier, well, wishes at times do come true.

Wishes and prayers are funny things, meaning, well you know, and I am praying she has not forgotten my anus, and right on cue, I feel her swoosh out of my cunt. Something is dripping down my thighs, me not her. She presses the tip of the dildo along that amazing rubber ring, waits for me to protest, none from me bye golly, as she enters me. Plop, tip in now, no protest, then all the way in she slides it, stretching my insides so wonderfully and painfully I almost break out singing as the pain granulates my insides into tiny liquid droplets of orgasmic cum. She then takes her fists, and plunges it inside my vagina, I scream, my body looses controls, vibrates wildly, as I whip my head up and down. I am impaled from everywhere, dildo in my ass, her small fist inside of me, my mind almost blacks out, sparks cracking in my brain, I orgasm over and over and then scream again.

Time passes, back to earth, still my knees have hardly touched the black sheets from the depth of her fist, and still she drives harder now, and my breath between massive gulps yip, yip, yips like a terrier bitch in heat, as I feel her own breathing intensifying. Then her entire body slams hard against me, driving the dildo entirely inside of me, as I scream, rake my head back and forth, white fists clawing at the black sheets, scream again as we both orgasm together, as she rips her fist out of my cunt. Not a single ounce of pain now, for she has rewired my joints, plumbing and organs within orgasms as I feel hot liquids fill my ass, sending me into a tizzy as she lays me on the bed, and then softly lays on top of me, her dildo, far, far still inside of me, her sweat mingling with my own. The inside of my ass feels as if someone has just ladled molten honey into it.

A moment passes, as does my breath as my heart begins to calm and she ever so gently slides to the side of the bed, and silent, very silent, she spoons me, one arm across my pink belly, her aquiline sharp jaw nestled into the cleft of my neck, her breathing slowing. She smells like sex, sweat, love, an animal like me, she is so beautiful and tender, I feel tears welling as I hold her head in my hands and I feel her warm tears mixing along my neck, trailing down and pooling near my collar bones. Yet still, she is a quiet girl and my body, simply said, is glowing, a most lovely, pain-free humm generating off of it. Her eyes open, and she whispers that I am the most beautiful women she has ever seen. She then closes her eyes and drifts to sleep, me holding her magnificent skull along my fingers, not happy per-say, for that would be something shallow within a cataclysmic moment in time.

I cannot sleep of course, and then the nights moves slow, and in the middle of the morning hours I glance to my left and see something, and it is cast in shadows and moon beams from the full moon. I quietly move her head to the pillow, swing my legs from the bed, bare feet tap dancing on the wooden planks. I want to scream, for the pain has returned, but I don't, gritting my teeth through it all. I struggle to get my braces on, never taking my eyes from what I think is silhouetted in some piece of granite she had been slaving over with her great chisel. Thinking of the chisel makes me giggle, I swallow it.

Reaching to the end of the bed, I find my crutches, count to three, for I know when I stand the blood will rush into my legs and the pain will be unbearable, but I must see. Three, two, one, I'm up. The room spins, the agony raking my lower extremities is so intense I almost lose consciousness. She had morphined me with sex and love, and now the anesthetic has run away, and I almost vomit, the pain is so intense.

It passes, partially, it always does, so I click, click, click across the loft, move to an angle and gasp, eyes bolted open, waiting for them to acclimate to the moonlight and shadows, and then they focus and I gasp, close them, open them and simply gawk at what is before me. On the pedestal in white marble is a bust of me, elegant, a master piece of my face, eyes and soul, and it looks as if I were recreated right there, white, I am so white, my head on her pedestal, my heart in her body, her dildo inside of me warming me still, her amazing warm lips still kissing me. She is a genius and then I feel tears beginning, saline and bountiful spilling down my cheeks, as I begin to weep, simply struck with awe at her talent and her pain of having such savantish talent and vision to create me from memory.

I begin to shake. I am so over come by all of this I cannot support my self any longer and begin to tumble. Then, her brutal fingers wrap around my waist, and she lifts me so easily. She then wraps her arms around my tummy and presses her body against mine, pressing her lips against my ears as my crutches clank to the planks, and I reach back and wrap my finger along the back of her skull. I peek at her as she hugs me tighter, supporting me, dispelling my grief, knowing that in those arms no harm could ever besiege me and then she whispers.

"I have loved you from the moment that I first saw you. If there is other beauty more than you, I have never seen it. Come beauty, we will talk more about this after we sleep and then in the morning I will feed you, come now."

I am with out words, for there are none. I am thunder-struck, frail now, perhaps as a woman might be at times when feeling safe, when in a giants arms, a woman of no ego, rift with genius and humility. She lifts me in her arms, and my useless bent legs dangle, my blubbering face caught within the cleft of her neck, lillies wrapped around her shoulders as she moves me back to the sheets, lays me down so gently I feel no pain. She tucks a single black sheet under my quivering chin, leans down and kisses me as she quietly moves along side of me, and lays a single hand along my breasts.

In moments she is asleep, and ofcourse I am satiated, tired, magnificent, and so I close my eyes, resting in her arms, feeling her breathing, her power, and sleep comes and as I sleep there are no memories of pain, nor nightmares; I do not dream.

Summer has returned as another year has passed, and the sun is yellow, vibrant as I have become and I am sitting at my window seat, in my loft, smiling at the black woman across the way, slashing her heart and mind against a massive slab of black marble. It is a commission she has received from a London gallery that will be placed along a park near the wharfs, where ships come and go, great ships have always been a part of London's soul, as she is of me now.

We are in love, inseparable, best friends, artists in collusion of a real life, a conspiracy of sex, respect, dignity ,and of course, love. But both still independent artists, so we decide to keep a space between us so we can create, uninhibited in our own ways. We are unencumbered by any chains of unreality, such as living together, or finding crippling marriage, so when we join at night, we are always glad to see one another, never taking for granted our love. Sometimes, mostly from our own passions for our work we sleep alone, and sometimes when I wake she is standing there, breakfast and tepid tea waiting for me, always that smile along with kisses, and I could ask for nothing more.

Watching her create, I feel my stomach kick once, twice, bringing a smile to my face as I lay my fingers onto my rounded belly, feeling her, our baby inside. We had that done, her brother you see, another black artist, we want to mingle our love, our talent, our passions, so they are one. The doctors tell me I can do it, though it will be like having a tractor ripped from my loins, but I want it, our child, a shard of her and me combined, connected and beautiful and remarkable, mostly like her, though she says she prays that our little girl will have her mother's beauty, which makes me blush.

This is my life now, it may change. I cannot think of having anything more than what she has given me and what I have given her. She turns, wipes dirt and sweat from her face, grins and waves, shaking her head back and forth for she has told me that every time she sees me sitting here, watching her, she is simply filled with joy and pride that I chose her to love, what a liar she is. I love her so, as summer has returned to my life, as my heart has, warm, marvelous and complete, what a lucky girl I am, this I know.

Originally published September 2007 - "Saucy September"