voracious menses

sticky and wet. everything sticky and wet. a tickling sensation, as the liquid heat oozes sluggishly out of every pore. i lay still and silent, my senses perceiving hot and cold simultaneously. i feel hundreds of tiny beads of sweat trickle down the small of my back and along my scalp like the slow, soft caresses of infinite tiny finger tips.

soft caresses … my soft caresses. when i touch my pink fleshy lips, wep and slippery sap coats my fingertips. i long to lick these wet lips and taste their sweet syrup. my own, sweet syrup. i can hear my heart pounding, like a bodhran … feel the engorgement of blood in my groin. waiting to exhale … then … a sweet sigh, followed by an quiet, orgasmic squeal. shit. that feeling. throbbing. behind my pubic bone. hmmph …

… prying my hot, we and sticky legs apart, i thrust them into the air, making a ballistic missle of my soggy bed linen. a moist, sharp thud punctuates the screaming silence at it hits the peanut butter colopured wood floor. i peel my soggy sleeveless undershirt away from my sternum, making a rustling sound as my mane passes thru it. and then … the sharp flicking sound of air displacement as i fling the soggy cotton mass across toward the soggy bed linen pile.

the sweetly sour odour of perspiration envelopes me. i reach thru the jungle of curly bamboo on the bedroom windowsill and throw open the window. i close my eyes and rush to the arms of the gentle salty morning breeze. from the towering treetops, a winged chorus chirps, warbles, chatters, clicks and tweets - it sounds like the tropical garden and birdhouse i used to visit at the zoo as a kid. i love to bathe in the golden ribbons of hazy sunshine that spills thru my windows in the morning.

i feel it. i try to deny it. alienate it. but … i feel it. that insatiable, wild, yearning grows within. it bubbles and churns at my core, corrosive, caustic. as it eats away i struggle in vain to plug the gaping hole it creates, but i cannot find the filler capable of filling the void. blood orange. for breakfast, i mean. appropriate, considering ‘the menses flowing out of me: heavy, thick, red …

crimson-coloured sections of citrus fruit enclosed in a firm, puckered and mottled rind. full bodied. crimson-tasting. carefully, i remove white, stringy coating from each section. i draw a section across my lips and then my mouth slowly draws it inside. the skin of the orange-meat feels taut and full, like a wrinkled water baloon. i nudge it gently, rolling the crescent-shaped section with my tongue. when i sink into the plump, ripe fruit, tinky jets of juice spray inside my mouth, the sound reminds me of the crunching sound of walking on snow. i grind the ripe, juicey meant to a fine pulp and it slides effortlessly down my throat.

the throbbing intensifies. sharp. pressure. cramping. squeezing my viscera into itself. i need a hot frying pan (hey, don’t knock it … it works better than midol and a hot water bottle …) and some serious drugs to remove that pounding sensation from my head. wild hunger fills me.