*******************************
*******************************

FRIDAY 08 AUGUST 2003
I -BOOK BEFORE BEDTIME

*******************************
*******************************

Hello AMP! I'm your computer! Remember ME? Heh, I bet you do! No? Well, huh-uh, you were certain pretty damn fuhMILIaH the other night, girlygirl! Eh? Oh come ON. LOOK at me, woman. Yeah. Yeah. NOW you're gettin' it, huh? Remember? Look over there. See that bottle? Empty, ain't it. Now where you think that all went, hm? All that wine inside? That's right girl. DOWN your throat and INTO your stomach. Yeah. Schlllurrrrp. Yeah. Nah, stop shakin' your head. I'm gonna tell you what went down. Don't thank me, AMPy-spanky. I'm doing you a favour. You jes' sit there and listen.

Yeah. You went for a few drinks with Frances to that pub in Stokey. And in the summer, you like to drink the gay white wine, don't you? Mmm. You like to see the glass all steamin' up with the condensation and you like to feel your fingertips and the pad of your thumb all wet and squeaky 'gainst it. You like how it feels cold in your mouth and spreadin' out horizontally down your throat and cold COLD down your oesophagus, don't ya. Yeah. So when you got out the pub you wanted some more, din't ya? And so at home you poured the wine and then you split me open, AMP, the way you always do - yeah, you know how ah dig it, I LIKE your hands on me - and you put me on the bed. And you propped yourself up on your elbows. And then your fingers are tap-tap-tap-TAP on my keys.

Huh-uh-uh-uh. Then you drank the wine DOWN your throat and INTO your stomach, an' it weren't too long 'fore you're all aready for nother one, so…schllllurrrrrrrrrp. And the bottle is by the bed. Slowly emptyin'. An then we're going on a journey, you an' me. Drunk-driving through cyberspace. Fasten seatbelt, girlygirl. BUMPy RIDE.

Ow the edge of the bed is hard against my shoulder and my hip as I lie here. The fluffy pillow is all scratchy and too hot too close to my face. Look at the movement on the trackpad: the joint of the thumb held steady on the clicker; the middle finger, just the pad of it, circling lightly, or, pressing harder, sliding in diagonal lines. I don't touch myself with this hand but I think that's how it must be; a routine of movements, a concerto, an order, a pattern; mix it up, start it again: always the same coda.

So THEN, AMP, you dodged his drunk 'ironic flirting' attempts, this semi-stranger semi-friend on a bulletin board you frequent, uh-HUH. RIGHT up until the point when his deliberate misfires had nonetheless scored a direct hit in the gusset area. THA-dump. RIGHT between the thighs. Ow! This is where it gets embarrassing, ain't it missy? This is where things start to blur.

At 1.20am, according to the post you later deleted, you enquired of the general bulletin board poplace as to where one might procure some proper "dirrtytawk" on the "interskein". Ah, you can delete all ya want, girlygirl - I'll catch ya. Don't bother denyin' - I've recorded every single keystroke you ever made! I've got a sense memory of each fingernail and squashy fingerpad and every single time it's pressed down against me. An' THEN---

[SNIPPP!]



previous : : : about : : : next