A collection of soft-core-raunch short stories about bodily detritus.
These stories were read as part of The Fondle Tour.
There is a droplet of something — anything from sweat, cum, pus — on my screen. It had seeped through.
I wipe and it spreads.
This wipe is, for a brief second, just my fingers swimming through a body of foreign fluid, then emerging from it on to the shore, forming lips over stimulated pics. The tip of my forefinger pushes into the little puddle, fondles. I take a bit on my thumb and rub in a circular motion. Things quickly get sticky.
Oh, your sneeze.
Your exalting and explosive expression of relief, of yourself into air.
It makes me blush to hear the violent thrusts of the snot and ticklish detritus eject from your nose and mouth with a boom. Again + again + again + again. Such power in you; a gust from your insides spews dust and spit across heaven + earth to land on retina screen, along touch strip, and in keyboard crevices. Your snot doesn’t care how high res anything is. It’s coming and landing and drying on it.
you woke up this morning itching
your eye twitches. you’re a nervous person.
you can’t stand it when there is a pebble in your shoe, a booger in your nose, a chunk in your teeth, a fibre btwn your toes, a goober in your eye, a dribble of drool down your chin.
this morning is not simply morning.
this morning is your scheduled release
let the scratching commence.
Encrusted on the edge of a typically moist spot is a satisfying chunk of gunk.
I’d like to let it sit there for a while, feel the heft of it, feel the crust push against tender skins. Lips part for half a moment to grab a breath, lids let in light slightly, and I lay still, not wanting to wake you.
On the outer edge of the eye there is a firm, almost painful, accumulation of crust. It has a tight hold on my lashes. It is lodged partly between my lids. I like this minor bondage and accept a bit of strain. The follicles feel tight when I resist the remnants of sleep. The relief when I relax the lids again is pleasant.
I’m not quite naked yet.
I’m close, but not quite.
its relative, you know.
and now I am nearly.
I am nearly forever.
the act of becoming naked is the act of becoming. I am forever becoming naked as my body sheds and expands and drifts out into space; my head floats in a cloud of dandruff that trails behind me - the tail of a shooting star - debris dropping slowly, dusting everything with a layer of dry magical epidermis star dust.