Seaside fantasies of crushed velvet waves, cubed granular salt, and inky blue depths of silk, seude, and panda fur flood my mind. Tepid palm leaves trap equatorial steam and cause warm rain to peel the yellow wallpaper in my bedroom mind.

I pick up the phone, covered in pink, fluffy, faux fur. I call my bestfriend, Niobe, and we talk for hours about the beach house we’re going to build when we run away together. 

We’ve got everything planned. I can see it:

Seashells and barnacles tup with pure gold doorknocker earrings in our jewelry boxes; we stay up late listening to the ocean moan to god while we watch lascivious red light specials and dream about skinny dipping. 

In the afternoon on the next day, our golden retriever jaunts giddily as we chase it with a stick, laughing like lunatics, playing reverse fetch. Down in the baked, luminous sand we nuzzle our dog, Kizzie, and eat whatever we want–and I mean whatever we want. 

I hold Niobe’s hand, and wipe mustard from the corners of her crumby mouth, licking my fingertip sensually afterwards. I’ve seen a lesbian couple do this in an obscure movie.

On misty morning walks, we’re mistaken for lifetime partners and lovers as we sweep the gilded sandman from each other’s canthi. 

Together, we own exactly one bike that we ride every Thursday to the local grocers. The bike is canary yellow with a glossy finish, a large, brown wicker basket, and a shiny bell. Its a Vintage make with huge wheels and ribbons on the handlebars. 

(I name our bike Rita, after the Italian ice place where I met Niobe as a gap toothed, big headed kid. She had dimples and a satiny kiddie perm that produced sumptuous pigtails to past her shoulders. She bought me ice cream and we’ve been inseparable since.)

Niobe rides on the handlebars, her full bottom making a soft, inverted heart in her distressed blue jeans. I steer badly, inciting her mock ire. 

On a straight stretch of road, I stop steering , but keep peddling. I cinch my arms around her doughy waist, my nose pressed to her sweaty back, my fingers spread and preying for higher, softer ground; I search for her sweet fruit until I break her boughs; her leaves and scented, sap studded branches raining down on me as we collapse into the grass; sunshine, bike, and all. 

That’s when I realize that we are not friends. 

Because, ‘scuse me as I get blunt: sexual peaches ain’t for no apple-pickin’ friends; just like cobbler ain’t for bad kids, nor easter egg hunts after church in the hot sun. No. You been the devil’s help in Sunday service all morn. Your mama done sweated her lortdang press out and aint waiting in nobody’s hot ass sun for your bad ass to find a sulfur smellin’ egg in a bush.

So no, I don’t get to squeeze on Niobe’s pleasurable bubblegum bubble curves, Niobe tells me. She says no as she tenderly leads my rough, slim hands to all of the places I am absolutely under no circumstances to touch. She says she is a Missourian who believes in showing and not telling. 

It is here, that we have our FRIED GREEN TOMATOES rubicon moment: my fingers graze her chocolate dipped milk mounds, part her pillowy legs, bathe in sacred coves of pink salt stone in the quiet grass. The road is empty and we foment all alone like Mentos in a glass of cherry Coke.

We’ve got it all planned out, or at least I do.

Love Letter

Venetian wineglass reds and baked, love letter greige appear in photographic Vermeer splendor. Within gilt framework, a British rose is lined with mink lanugo and peanut butter and jelly umbras. Clothing litters the floor.

Pillow soft suedes of buff and bisque wrap round buttery dulce de leche integument; cakey stomach grades into chiffon breasts; cream puff mammeries taper into whipped mousse nipples. Dormouse hued areolas, cut from upcycled raw silk ballet slippers, are soft to the glistening tongue; saliva saké on satin. 

Amaretto almond liqueur sluices over velvet rope thighs; between the sex lines is a swollen cherry cordial; it’s suspended in cloudy honeycomb amber, wrapped within a lace g-string; a pearl of antique black truffle rests in a rustic mons clamshell of espresso semi sweet chocolate. 

The aubergine tint in the coital smell of lightly mussed linens; the mauve in sensual leather and vanilla musk; the clitoral wetness in petrichor and Dolce&Gabbana light blue: these smells show tangled sounds in human paint at bed ‘n’ breakfast noon.

Friends Make The Best Valentines💝

Roseate curtains of heavy, crushed velvet wend sinuously, revealing a glossy silk lining colored like milk; the gem tinctured fabric frames a large bay window.

Billows of cashmere drape over a window sill seat: it’s upholstered in a syrupy-thick, plush material. I run my fingers over the burnished gold fuzz, leaving an ocean of soft, smoky ripples in the cloth. Every secret touch leaves a ghost here by the large beach facing window.

All around, on hard surfaces, fairy lights (held up by the sorcery of copper wire) spin their infinitesimal, glittering turbines in the indoor twilight. Long, dripping, cylindrical wax candles marry short rotund tealights in the dark. 

A large, aromatic, three wicked candle gives off rich, complex spices; firelit tendrils of floating, silvery smoke invoke a bronzed vegetable garden overrun with thick ivy vines and luscious, mottled orange and white goards.

I recline on the decadent sill seat, taking in surroundings that are frosted with a thick meringue of visual cholesterol. Egg whites tip ombre flames of cinnamon and auburn in the fireplace. I listen to the perfumed apple tree firewood pop and whizz.

On the cedar table there are: matching flutes of champagne; a crystal tumbler of seven year old cherry wine wrapped in a filmy red g-string; a heart shaped box of whiskey infused German chocolates, with several chocolates bitten and painted in dark semicircles of lipstick; and two large, deep China plates filled with Cajun spiced lobster and chicken pasta.

Steam rises from the plates; the food was just taken off of the stove top. My best friend sets the table. She lights a birthday sparkler and puts it in my pasta. I rise from my repose, running a hand over my satiny, negligee-like cocktail dress. 

Who would’ve thought that a year into being a newly minted divorcée, I’d be having the most romantic dinner of my life? I stand barefoot, looking at my best friend of years with my moist, stinging eyes. 

Her gentleness (and sensuality and eroticism) is overwhelming on this day that would’ve swallowed me alive: Valentines day; a day that is simultaneously my birthday, the anniversary of my wedding day, and the day before the day my husband filed for divorce. So yeah, today should suck.

“Are you ready to get smashed while we watch Gilmore Girls, or what?” Riesling says, holding my glittering, birthday plate of pasta.

“You know it, kid.”


Queer Heirlooms

The golden 

eternity heirloom 

was in the the keyhole of 

the pink velour door. I take the strangely

decadent key out. What I’m seeing

is shocking.

Through the plush keyhole of the lucullan boudoir door, I can see Lucy naked in big crusts of diamonds.

Lucille’s mistress is wearing a négligé printed with emeralds, sapphires, and chrysoprasus; her name is Imelda, or Immy. Immy is Lucille’s married, blue-blooded socialite friend. 

The curvature of Immy’s bare lower back segues into sumptuous callipygian glutes; there, a rectal plug hangs with a tail of diamonds as thin as a tennis bracelet. At the dénouement of the diamond tail hangs a cherry crafted from rubies.

I spy breathlessly as Immy’s overflowing, apricot bottom vascilates gelatinously, her expensive tail flailing; she plumbs Lucy’s yonic challice, going in and out of her with a strap-on phallus.

Lucy’s luscious bawdyhouse breasts are a salacious gemini, and her vigorous lover gropes those globules like succulent forbidden fruit.

Imelda brings her puffed, shapely, crepey lips to Lucy’s erect rosebud nipples; those buds are pliable, like the translucent plastic teat of a baby’s bottle; Immy fingers them, rubbing a substance like candle wax or petroleum jelly over the raised, womanly brail.

Coffee grind freckles are the outliers of Lucille’s autumnal, chocolate and pear colored areolas.

Sapprous heirloom jewels of breast milk hold honeycombed light and fairy floss in their small beads: Lucy’s wonderful, postnatal breasts knead themselves into Immy’s; the women moan, and swear, and create rainbow Borealis with the glossolalia of coital pleasure.

I watch, committing onanistic sin; I touch my nebulous regions as they kiss and suck where panties have been. 

Immy sucks Lucy until Lucy is in the sky with her diamonds.

I’m so hot and flustered when I come away from the keyhole; because, I know nobody will believe me if I, a lowly house servant, say I saw Immy the Wondergirl and Lulu having sex; and because, I’m left with nobody to blame for the way I suddenly feel.


Today at Ulta😢💋

You know how it is when you’re that weirdo girl who’s always at your local, magical makeup department store? Yeah, you’re that girl who basically lives there.

Today, you’re on the hunt for a lip plumper to rival botox, when suddenly, you need help. The lip fattener isn’t where it’s supposed to be (oh pooh). You approach a sales associate when it happens.

Somewhere between here and the shimmering aisles of peptide imbued lip gloss, false lashes, and super matte lippies you dropped your heart. You feel like a secondhand generic Barbie looking at gorgeous gay Ken.

Sales guy has beautiful honey browns rimmed in mascaraed lashes, and a full nude pout. The innocence and softness in his face makes you melt.

You know there is a rift called sexual orientation between you two, but when you talk about makeup, there’s this spark. You kind of get each other, and it’s a little magical– like Angelina Jolie’s mouth, or Beyonce’s everything.

You know it’s a hell of a long shot, but you already see yourself getting married to him at your pansexual wedding. Now you just need to get him to say yes to coffee and pedi’s.

🌌Evanesce: Enchanted Romance💋💖

Let’s evanesce in a coruscating mushroom cloud of magical, mauve smoke;

We’ll fly away to the morning star in a copper teapot, splitting rainbows with the Bowie knife of a sea glass prism.

Bring your sequined mage’s cape, we’ll go see Silver Leopard, the big top aerialist.

We’ll ride a glass elevator to tomorrow; steaming up its panes with Cleopatra’s secret treasury of cobra tongue kisses.

I’ve got a golden fishtail braid: Rapunzel’s rope; I’m hanging by it out of a steam powered balloon, my hand extended to you.

Grab it and we’ll soar together over the spires of Victorian London, dangling by a yellow thread of princess hair.


Lips of Croatia,
satiny with rubies
lining the vulva.

Night’s flower is a
crocus shaped
wine chalice
dribbling stars of fire:

ethereal blooms
of violet tint Eros in
the sky.

Borealis, bewitching
and fey, grows a
crystal garden
of emeralds that
are as plumb and
lambent as buttery
Sari silks.

To be kissed
by a feathery mouth
as beautiful sounding
as Croatia is
Tea and Sympathy
in and of
its self.

Spirit Handball for Fishermen

We’re riding rainbows down to the sparkling Rhine, like shahs on gilded geldings. We’re going to catch some silky SoulFish.

A shadow the circumference of Saturn’s rings eclipses sunlit waters, clips the Achilles heel of dayspring.

Here in the shade burns: lace embroidered with translucent, smoky-gray roses, the embers man-eating the bride-whites in the fabric.

The lapping light is hungry, thirsty. You’d think that this shadow’s woven woof was dear old Sin, barking up the wrong pome tree;

You’d think that umber shade should enter her chrysalis, and emerge sparkling red like bobbing apples in a barrel, or like sunlight kissing corneas through papery, closed eyelids; because, lust is ripe in the black of full dark, but its color is a buxom red.

Lust is so red, that you could say that these naked, dark-mottled waters were a salacious cherry.

Here, by the riverfront, is the black fire of sans-candle darkness; here, the glassy light is virginal, like a newly minted maenad, her face the color of sex in the water
I know your secrets.

I see your invisible shadows plainly. I see souls: we catch them everyday: you catch mine (yin); and I catch yours (yang).

It’s like spirit handball for fishermen; like a moneyball sutra for a Bodhisattva.

Prayer of Love

Hey guys! I haven’t written anything in ages, so go easy on me!

Hamsa hands harp on hamstrings; harpoon deftly soft subtleties sibilant and slithering like serpant-whales; synthetic syzygy, like palm reading, forces the hamsa of fate. I see your maritime sea of weak knees, and week day weakness. It’s blue in bloom, buxom; yields fjeld’s of violets. Fold your phalanges in the quiet. Say a prayer behind your eyelids. Breathe.