and when she straddles me with her hips over my head and tells me she wants to fuck my face, my hand undoes my belt and she rubs her muff along my chin and when her clit brushes my lips i feel myself harden and go absolutely mad because i can smell her, just barely taste her and it’s good and i dart my tongue into her and her fingers grab hold of my hair tugging and with one free hand i cup her ass and bring her closer to me and i want to say her name but she says mine instead when my mouth is full of her and before i know it my hand is full of my own cum and amanda smiles in the dark reaching back for that same hand and brings it towards her lips.
All posts by manny@savo.us
this is what i imagine
this is what i imagine. i imagine him going through the motions the way the addict rustles his way out of bed and dons a tie. i imagine a man walking his dog and watching the animal go on the neighbor’s lawn and not picking it up. i imagine her slipping him vicodin in his morning coffee when she finds out. i imagine a little girl full of romantic fantasies being crushed by the first boy she falls in love with. i imagine a boy standing in front of a mirror first realizing he is a man but also utterly alone. i imagine the unspeakable loss a mother feels when they tell her son was found dead thousands of miles away. i imagine myself writing it all down and never ever keeping up with any of it.
and I wish for new things & old
and I wish for new things & old, for simultaneity and purpose, for an end to grief and despair, for the hope of daylight, for the promise of a bright and clear dawn.
project snowflake: notes: amanda, every pain
and every pain amounts to a phantom limb dangling inches from me, every pain a soreness i can’t fucking recover from. i can feel it just there at the periphery, just beyond my reach, a relief from all this, the promise of fulfillment, of being made whole. but i lie in the dark beside him and it’s a fucking miracle that i don’t skin him alive. that i don’t show him exactly how it feels to be this open and lacking, to be driven mad by the thought that there’s something vitally important missing inside of me and he just refuses to fucking see it.
new year jitters
it is a funny time of year, the older i get the more it becomes another cycle of artifice. you want to believe. you want to believe in new beginnings, in the closing of chapters, in some greater structure than the randomness of everyday life. that if you meditate, reflect, squint hard enough, you’ll see the design and you will be able to trace it, follow it, see where it all leads. no guarantee that it would bring you comfort, but at the very least, you’d be able to make sense of it all.
project snowflake: notes: ian
and when ian sees her, it’s been so long that he’s forgotten what it feels like to see her again, to be with her in all her amandaness again, that energy, that excited state that pronounced her and defined her, that announced her. he hugs her, and it all comes back to him, when he’s come home again, the solidness of her, her body pressed close to him, the smell of her hair. and even though he can never be enough for her and she can never be enough to him, just holding her now is enough to come back home.
project snowflake: notes: tom
she shows me her film and i don’t know to make of it. she did it on the computer i bought her and i think what a waste. i try to smile at first but when the actress goes to the bathroom and sticks her fingers in her mouth on her knees in front of the toilet, we can see the fingers right in there “nice and deep”, she says, “notice the rack focus?” i feel like gagging with her. i see the bile and focus instead to the emblem on the plasma screen and while a part of me wonders what they used for it, i’m distracted by the sound and turn to amanda. “what is this shit?” i ask her but she’s transfixed, in some other fucking place like usual, some place she’s told me i don’t belong. i wish i could grab hold of her and snap her out of it, just as the actress wipe the spittle with the back of her hand. i wish i could her hold her and bring her back to me, as she smiles and i hear the actress flush the toilet in this stupid fucking movie amanda has made.
project snowflake: notes: amanda
they write on me with their cocks and their tongues, with their dirty fingernails digging into my hair. harry knows, harry says he knows and he looks at me like i’m a piece of shit but he doesn’t know anything. he smirks like he knows when he knows nothing of it, he knows nothing about it but he tries, goddamn how he tries to look right through me. and my cunt answers to him like he’s calling it to his fucking fingers, like all he has to to do is snap those coarse fingers of his and it should just fucking jump to his whim. i push him onto the bed because he doesn’t fucking know like all the rest but he’ll do for now, he’ll do because he fucking tries. even when he gets it all wrong, his fingers get it right.
project snowflake: notes
do any of them know? does someone need to know? should there be a confidante? no. no confidante. although the idea is appealing, someone to interject some (version of the) truth of amanda, possibly bring in some history, i.e. the sumerian king and his punishment of bashing the offending woman’s teeth out with a tablet of clay.
harry knows, or suspects. doesn’t care? accepts? another twist. no, no. too many.
points to hit-
1. meeting each husband
2. her death
3. each husband meeting the other
4. each husband identifying the body
5. scenes from her childhood
6. on the set of first movie
7. premiere of first movie at festival (?)
not necessarily in that order, nor conclusive
from Moviemaker’s Master Class by Laurent Tirard, the section on John Boorman, “Directing is really about writing, and all serious directors write.”
voices, voices everywhere and overrun her, they write their stories on her and she eventually frames, puts them in the picture. they write and talk about her, all over her, their words on her skin, they skin her alive, and she puts them in the frame, mocks them, seduces them, uses them, discards them, over and over, they talk and she gets them in the shot, shoots them all down, scripts them until they no longer see themselves, stupid and blind with their talking, with their pointing, their figuring of her, as if they could figure her out and she’s got them all splashed across the screen, she’s got them in 35mm.
write about him
write about the cold and wet, the chill and the unshakable feeling you’ve been here before you’ve grown tired of it. write about the sound of this voice as it gurgles up what you so desperately want to hear but cannot make sense of. write about the feel of his limbs, the flap of skin as it wraps around the bone as you grab hold of him before he goes. the soft feeling of new leather that’s been beaten over rocks and casino tables and the touch of women who forgot his name. write about the few strands of hair stuck to his skull and impossible to clean. everything begins with a promise he breaks but ends with you keeping it.