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Subject: {ASSM} From TxM6 Angela Exhibition at 17
Date: Sat, 2 Sep 2000 11:10:02 -0400
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From TxM6 Taxi Murders Sextet Hyperfiction Novel
http://www.taximurders.com/ (updated August 13, 2000)
mirror site: http://www.txm6.com
TxM6 is entirely a work of fiction for adults only.
Copyright (c) 2000 Sean Farragher
1085X exhibit
Exhibitionist:
Angela Mannino
August 23, 1973
Angela is 17.
Each of the blond lads, twins, had watched Angela's
exhibition many times. Draw the shade up, she told
herself, for she desired more than the morning sun,
and Angela knew the Mc Clennans, 21, were home from
Boston College. I always encouraged them, she
confessed to Aaron, when husband and wife, they were
bound and determined to be different.
1973 was the best year, and naked from the waist,
stretching her arms up, seducing the sky with small,
delicate pointed breasts, was an offering to someone;
there was relief as Angela spun, like gravity falling,
the physics of tits, or the philosophy of the breath
of color, like being watched, doing what was naughty,
making the skin breathe without too much effort, -
that's the color, life, as the blue milk, thin,
stippled and scattered as pinks swarms when the
movement of the mouth and the trial of the jaws fills
lips, drinks, and settled down taking one more step
home, through the throat, and she held herself up, as
the scream broke down, and then amid the flutter of
the mouth was filled with a kiss I had pass through
the morning window glass, yellow at the edges, and a
return gaze as the throat tightened, as the least of
the boys, feeling the bulge, as he stepped back,
amazed by the light as it turned her head racing her
kiss, as she let it flood, as a wheel of the arm,
towards the boys, acknowledged, they said they were
afraid, as they closed the blind, and didn't look
again.
Why did she wave, she asked that voice inside who kept
the books. Why did I show off, never did it before.
Why? Now, I won't look. It's not right. She's a good
girl, I thought, now I know she's a slut, and god
where did she get the milk, as it sprayed.
-So young she thought.
Irish blond twins, upset about nothing, had inverted
pricks, and well, it was over fast as they shot their
loads out the windows, as Angela described it, in her
peculiar exaggeration. More likely, the stared, and
pulled off in their pants or a pillow. -Come here, the
taller one said.
Angela shrugged her shoulders, and dangling inside the
window, one hand up, resting on the sash. The other,
on her hip, seemed pointed, unpleasant.
-No, I won't climb your ladder, Angela screamed.
You're a no good fucken bitch, Angela, said about
herself. My memory was right. Let's take it further,
up date it-
Angela cavorted, dancing for herself and for the blond
boys. Each half step she turned slowly.
Did they know she was watching them follow her [yes,
and I loved it], turning each corner at a slower pace
until each of their bare feet became more and more
transparent as she stepped out of her jeans, pulling
her panties high up her waist, when she collapsed,
suddenly, waiting for the little peace, she supposed,
when her belly was open, and hunger, well it had its
retreat, even if present, no matter what the good,
mother needed. No empties, please. I do not return the
deposits.
I wished they would follow my steps. She [Angela]
wanted to direct calves and ankles. Cover my skin with
full blank government eyes. Wouldn't it be wonderful
to follow these famous manipulators?
Yes, I wish they would follow, Angela thought,
as I watched the empty streets behind her shadow.
Each of her legs manufactured more than harm. I wanted
magenta and amber lights to be clear in the field
of tarantulas.
[Angela] wanted her opaque armor as her foundation for
furtive glances, for snickers, and for odd
conversations about and over the geometry of breasts,
that man somehow laughed outline, at themselves, as a
good swim in a cold brook, with a lover holding my
hand, and then spirited upward, out of the stack,
child will be one, and when I paused, there was only
the lights, as they spit back, and how the dishonest
cops hate, although I thought they might understand
well at least the charm.
I wanted sad preoccupation of whim and whimsy for
color what I did when I couldn't stand being alone.
How I wanted to be heard and loved. Would they follow?
I hope it's not too late, myself thought, brushing the
sun off my skin as I entered the cold dominion of her
own best room. I do wish they would follow, and I
imagined how the clouds could hold her [myself] away
from too much philosophy, too little immersion in the
sentimental and the not too clearly original.
What is a King, but an arbiter of what is true. What
is real is not interpretation, as royalty would
treasure the ache of voyeurs calling their pets from
their lairs.
Did they notice my face, blue eye shadow, and the
stretch of lust in my mouth; how I wished they would
speak, search my lies for their own. Yes, I too am the
old men, shooting sticks and dice and inert logs stood
on the corner everyday marking their inventory of
breasts and asses and thighs.
Nothing passed easily, nothing escaped scrutiny of
expressionist memory by anticipation.
What is the best piece of ass? I am. What was the
corner before I came to it? How do I anticipate each
male creature before his appearance?
Nothing changed, and I looked at the suggestion of my
sex, held myself open to their sometimes juvenile ears
and the anticipated howl.
I knew they couldn't reach me. Aaron did when he
kissed me last night. I wanted the air to bend from
him, and to hear some other birds curled their songs
around the edge of my toes as they struck the mattress
wishing to bring my legs inside some wall wishing I
could hear my heart through the stretch of mouth.
I opened him, and he held me outside, watching my
nipples harden suddenly, watching my eyes turn soft,
released, breathing stretched until my legs parted
slightly, and the moisture brought inside kept my cunt
lips open, filling me with a thick storm, with the
darkness and light that struck without stars, with the
hands lifted, or the mouth that will not stop sucking
air from milk for my infant knows as he perches at my
nipple, clawing his teeth, pulling up, retracting,
expanding his will, and hand collapsed, then opened to
crack the uneven ice but he skated across the horizon
where the woman [myself] knew tenderness to scream
more than the pleasure she enfolded into her skin like
the paste of the rose, drawn out as a harmonic rush,
as the scent over powers everywhere as we pause, feet
up, tasting our own milk, watching my nipple contract,
and then pulse, and if I wait, again, splashing like
the showers from summer across the dry hot face,
relief if I pause aiming it as expanding sky, witness
memory my mother [myself again] and all her fathers
darn their deathly web, where the fabric reached
across the street into the unknown grave, and the
terror in the spit, in the well that shined the
stretches of kisses, when the purr, the cat like
satisfaction that started with the opposite field
connection as I felt the uterus contract itself,
automatic fall out, as the dark swallows my own sight
and the memory is a bloody sliver for racing the fish,
and the dark game, as I watched the grief, my own, and
I held myself and I was offering the host for a second
time in myself [she is beautiful].
Can I heal?
-------
Comments appreciated
seanfarragher@msn.com
More American Adventures in erotica and other works by Sean Farragher:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Sean_Farragher/
Sean Farragher
Poetry Site: http://www.farragher.com (updated 8/13/2000)
TxM6 Sites:
http://www.taximurders.com
http://www.taximurders.com/enfer
http://www.taximurders.com/lcfallon
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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