Author: D'jaevle

licorice

sometimes
                 you
                     just
                           want to
                                       fuck

 

 sheen of sweat on fevered skin
          slick
                 rubbing
                          of
                             entwined limbs

 

 bodies sliding
          groaning, grinding
                 frenzied breathing
                         bodies heaving
                               until
                                    the
                                        tension
                                                   breaks

aventure d’un soir

There were four e-mails, the last including the name of her hotel and the room number.

I glanced at the time. Ten o'clock. I had to be up early for work the next morning. I could think of several excellent reasons for not driving into DC this late at night.

None of them were enough to overcome my curiosity.

I dressed. At the door, I paused, went downstairs, and pocketed two leather cuffs and a metal hitch. Once in the car, it took me an hour to find the hotel and another twenty minutes to find parking.

There was no answer to my first knock; I stood in the hallway, idly planning my driving route home. She came to the door on the second knock, dressed in a bathrobe. The dark hotel room obscured the details of her face, but her short hair was slightly mussed; she had fallen asleep while waiting.

I followed her inside.

Details. She was from Memphis, in town for a convention, her second this year. She was a reader. She had a perfectly round ass; she jumped, as if startled, everytime I gave it a slap. When my hands slid the bathrobe from her shoulders, she repeated over and over again, "I can't believe I am doing this. I can't believe I am doing this."

I left three and a half hours later.

It wasn't until I got home that I realized I did not know her name.

my wicked life

There is a darkness in me, born with pride and held tight in my fist, a bruise-purple marble worn smooth against the hard corners surrounding the best of my intentions. This darkness has little weight – I discarded guilt long ago, trading it in equal measures for an infamy that lives only in my heart.

I swallow it whole – no, better! I imbibe it, a salve for a self-inflicted illness, a silver cool easing of the many-mouthed wound that bleed tears of joy within my ever dissolving resolve. It is a rainstorm in miniature, trickling tiny angels into the darkness at the very bottom of me; I could weep for them, for I can hear their hymns of sorrow when I sleep at night.

Do not offer forgiveness, I deserve none. My transgressions are many, my iniquities greater still.

And my indiscretions? They can be counted in the brightly colored letters blazoned in deep red for all to read.

favored by the sinners

   You are faith,
        favored by the sinners
        forgiven but not forgotten
        first to be filled
 
           last
               to flinch.

     in silence
         sentenced.
 
     in stillness
         left

     you belong here.

—

Happy new year, children.

I am off to the city of sin, to enjoy a week of decadence.

Here, a small gift.

Listen. 

[audio:Djaevle_Grail.mp3]
D'jaevle, Grail

feels so damn good to be this damn bad

We crave food because we need it to sustain ourselves, to fuel our bodies. Food tastes good because if it did not, we would not eat and we would not survive.

We crave sex because we have a biological imperative to procreate. Sex feels good because if it did not, we would not reproduce and we would not survive.

But why does being bad feel so damn good? Why the thrill of going against convention, breaking the rules, or just doing something that is society says is wrong? Why is being wicked so deliciously exciting?

What’s the biological reason for that?

delicate instruments

If I write this on your skin, perhaps the words will be a slow poison, a sublime promise exhibited in the symptoms of our illness.

I believe in my ability to possess someone in moments. To make them understand that when they are in front of me, they are everything. The world becomes a place of tools, a vibrant unreal painting that is useful only in the implements it provides in sharp knives, leather restraints, and delicate instruments of pleasure and pain.

Sadism has its place; but I prefer that thin line between the two, where it becomes hard to tell pleasure from pain. I use sadistic measures to get what I want, which is a consummation, a devouring.

I want to deconstruct you; find the pattern of your mewls when you're caught between a rock and my hard place. I want to follow the curvature of your heart, worn on your sleeve, but kept under your wings.

I want to taste the blood on your skin.

traffic games

When traffic is steady, but moving, there is a game I occasionally play.

I'll study the distance to the car ahead of me, close my eyes, and count.

One, one-thousand. Two, one-thousand. Three, one-thousand. Four, one-thousand.

Five. Six. Seven.

Eight.

I often stop at eight.

But not always.

—

where have all my bad dreams gone
the house without doors
the cracked teeth and empty eyes

where have all my nightmares gone
denser than my waking thoughts
where I wait with anticipation for my
paper-thin demise at the hands
of kind strangers

the lost children

 

I prefer the greedy girls
    the lost children
        who have forgotten not
           how to play
              or pray
                 or
                   may
                       be
                           they have
                                  but they're good at pretending otherwise

 

—

Sometimes I see my words as sharp, covered in jagged edges, a sweet, warm and jagged pill. 

[audio:Djaevle_Unfinished.mp3]
D'jaevle, Unfinished