WARNING: contains detailed adult themes and strong opinions.

Monday, 3 June 2013

3 My Name is Malcolm

I'm trying to describe myself.
I am a dark haired caucasian/Arab born into Catholicism, practising Atheism, living in York.
My name is Malcolm.

At the beginning of the summer solstice all the hippies and gypsies in England go to Stonehenge, or near Stonehenge anyway. They stay up all night, their clothes disappearing as time goes by. The women have long dirty hair and different paints splattered across their faces, bare breasts, and unshaven legs. The men have straggly beards and skinny legs, but I prefer looking at the women.
At sunrise the leader will make love to the a "maiden fair" in front of a blazing fire.
Then we all run to the edge of the cliff.
And all I can feel is the wind against the still wet paint on my thighs and stomach, and the passion that flows through me.

I used to stare at Magdalene as she mowed her lawn, or hung up wet clothes to dry. She wore short shorts and loose shirts with well known punk bands on them.
Stupid ignorant little girl. The best bands are not popular.
A tingling sensation began at my toes and creeped into my things, my groin, my stomach, and my arms as I outlined her body with my eyes.

One day I thought she had died. She had just gone off to camp for five days.
I was disappointed at my lack of attention.

When I go to the grocery shop, all the colours in the world disappear. Everything is the shade of silver eyeshadow and snow. I love standing in the frozen foods aisles, sitting on the edges and feeling the ice against my fingers until someone chases me off. It feels like the world has ended and I'm the only one going to hell.

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