Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer
I never thought of you all being together; three coloured threads in the Creaghend tartan. The line of yellow thin and bright traversing large green and red squares – a Mondrian mean making some more red, others darker green, the combinations changing colour – winter heather summer gorse. Entwined, woven, bright changing aspects, texture and colour of heavy cloth.
That’s how it was with you; never just one thread nor just one colour. I used to think you were only in my head, as there the sparks would fly. In my mind’s eye certain features- broad shoulders, blue eyes, hairy forearms, strapping gait – would strike in me that deep longing: the rush of wanting, to touch, to possess and to be responded to.
To me, the physical part seemed to follow, like a startled lizard sunning on a lichen splattered rock. Instantly alert, tense and rigid at the first crack of a branch broken underfoot. So was I when a man returned my stare, flashed a smile, moved closer. Electrified and hard, my body ready for battle – the wrestling duel that is two men close, heaving, sweating, making love.
But you were more than an engorged muscle, that straining rod, leaking, cocked, prone to pump.
My whole body, hairy, taut, muscled, alive.
Here your place, surging through me, marking me out to others as someone corporeal, pheromone scented, powerful, a lover.
Oh three threads that I took for granted, used interchangeably for so much fun, now all of you have met your death for coursing through my veins now is an antidote. I am Lucrin blocked – your synesthetic power by which a snatched glimpse from a moving bus created the firm, hot feeling of the touch of a strong nape under my caressing hand – neutralised/dead. A hormone blocker, a spirit killer, a hard-on deflator – I am emasculated now, a eunuch.
Where there was function, now only memory of what seeing a man made stir in me, now retreating, Doppler-distant and blurred like smells of a favourite summer holiday in years past.
Farewell Dolby surround sound and 3D now I silently sift a box of faded Victorian postcards – racy girls, seaside follies, Parisienne damsels, their attractive power now beyond my reach, lost in an undecipherable psycho-cultural sexual code.
Cold sepia, forgotten, torn, worthless.