Fantasy Erotica
"Seaweed," a sex story by Paul McQuade
Seaweed. Seaweed clings to the back of her skull as she throws her head into the clam shell basin, heaving the ocean wave after wave. Mermaid-scale dress half-off, her breasts hang low, penduluming double in the bathroom mirror as she steadies herself, wiping sea salt from the edges of her mouth. Sea witch. Ursula, I name her.
Mermaid by Igor Amelkovich available at Obsession Art
I am lying on the bathroom tile worshiping the ceiling as the edges blacken gray and blue. My body is potatoes crumbling under teeth; it is surrendering to a skein of butter. Gold. It is the sun. My nail polish clear sky.
I start chipping it off; peeling slivers of eggshell from the formica of my fingers. A striptease revealing frail, cloudy nail. Fragile, pink flesh.
Ursula is another person. She has reassembled. Now she is Snow White. Snow-skin, blood-lips, which are perfect for kissing.
My nail polish is off. I am part naked. I pull up my skirt and grope for the mound between my legs. Sponge, anemone, soft as the softest kisses of the sea. It is a little clam whispering, Ursula, come to me.
“Are you playing with yourself?”
Ursula, my sweet, my precious, come to me and lie in the shifting sands. I will hold you through storms; I will shelter you from sharks; I will give you a kingdom in the deep while the men break on rocks in their flimsy ships. Just kiss me kiss me kiss me kiss me.
“No.” I am not lying; this is not a game.
“Then get the fuck up and let’s get back to the party.”
She wants beer noise and the smell of old mattresses, the dolorous pressure of the sea tolling like funeral bells. She wants to see the distended conger eels that await her outside this sea palace. She is their Queen; they feel electricity in the way she moves. Conducting sparks – it is all she knows.
I want to spend so long between her thighs that the saltwater of my tongue finds form, solidifying with the grit of her slit to make a pearl. When I come up, the world has changed.
There are two of us in the mirror then. I rinse my mouth out with stale water. She sprays perfume, littering the bathroom with jasmines. I am suffocating in the mist of her floral bitch-heat. I can taste her on every papillae of my swollen tongue, panting fog into the mirror’s gilt. Our eyes meet there; we stare at each others' reflections. Other-me puts her hand on Ursula’s neck. It feels water lilies: white petals, roots hidden in murk. There is a room she has never been in. Bluebeard forbade it. I will lead her down to the ocean floor, our hands trawling the seaweed for treasure.
The door is locked. Ursula’s sex is a locket. She is Rapunzel crying for a key, for a tower, for a prince.
I am a locksmith, opening up her secret parts, her treasure trove. She murmurs in the gloaming but I cannot hear her clearly from my purchase in the deep.
Originally published June 2010