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The Cozy Spot

7 posts categorized "Flash"

April 29, 2008


How long before a person transforms into greasy convenient fast food burgers and forgets haute cuisine?
I never thought of comparing people to burgers but I threw my canvas against the wall, watching my easel tremble on the parquet floor. My paintbrushes followed, expressing their angst with wet multicolored smudges along the wall they hit. There was I, splayed out on the bed while my lover at the time, prepared to land his Apollo space shuttle. I could have been a fast food drive-through. He finished in a time frame that would have puzzled Albert Einstein. We didn't manage to swap positions and my eyes stared at the ceiling hoping for something that the Richter scale could measure. My taste buds soured at all this sex business and my own mind reprimanded my inner need to find the perfect male life model. It appeared that all experienced men my age or over had it all in the bag. My dirty Thirties were being laundered right before my eyes and I had little choice but to pull the plug on the whole debacle.
'I'm sorry, I'm busy,' said I to the astronaut on the other side.
'Aw, come on Samantha…' he whined, ‘we’re still on for tomorrow…’
‘No we’re not. I’m not painting you anymore, my inspiration has vanished. I’ll mail you your deposit!’
I shook my head and pressed the end button.
'It's the same, as they are on a mission to reach their ultimate destination - eternal astronauts that are focused on landing on the red throbbing planet.'
I stared at my diary entry and thought of double beef patties on a sesame seed bun. Intimacy gradually resembled a generic plan where journeys ceased to matter. I gathered my toughened hide, sketchpad, and ambled to my nearest burger joint. The ten-minute walk justified the calories I'd ingest and after I collected my pre-fashioned meal, I found an outside table.
'Hi, do you mind if I sit here? The other tables are full.'
My eyes transformed into a separate entity. He, a definite decade younger than me, launched a lust missile into my brain. His glossy black hair, tied back into a short ponytail, begged for release and his bulbous lips reminded me of strawberries.
'It gets like that in here.'
'I've never been here, stopping by after work,' he said, lowering himself onto the plastic seat.
Our conversation took off like Concorde. David and I sat in the café for two hours and before I could slap my cheek to remind myself of our age gap, his hand covered mine. A virile twenty-three compared to my thirty-three, I agreed to a nocturnal seaside supper on the edge of Bondi Beach.
Invisible fingers massaged my mind as we sat on a blanket watching black waves stroll to the shore.
Without any forethought, I rotated my head to stretch my neck and ease the busy locusts in my stomach.
'Here,' said David as his hands gently massaged my shoulders.
'That's good. I don't usually…'
I felt his velvet tongue dance on my neck. Its wet trail linked with my mind and each mental lens magnified the sensation. Every skin receptor tingled with delight and my conscious mind was at a loss. He opted for a slow journey as black, velvety waves met the sandy shore. A ten minute interval elapsed by the time the tip of his tongue found my earlobe. My hunger pangs rampantly demanded attention.
Our lips throbbed after three hours. My knees, liquefied by his ardor, trembled as his tongue danced inside my lips. His mouth served to draw out my essence in gradual steps. Our bodies mingled on the grass and our languid limbs tangled as we feasted. David's staggering arousal sculpted the throbbing monolith between his legs; his deft fingers slowly pried apart the moist petals between my legs.
'Your lips are sweet,' he murmured, fanning my mouth with his hot breath.
Clothed, albeit creased, we focused on the journey.
'I'm so…' He whispered, stroking my hair with his long fingers.
'I know…
I covered his lips with a lingering kiss as I slid over his sturdy body, melting to the tune of his husky moan as he slid into my core. A life drawing in motion, his hips slid against mine.
‘David,’ I whispered, revisiting Michelangelo’s sculpture.
His eyes glimmered, illuminated by a crescent moon.
Each agile hand of his braced my hips and guided my pelvis over his pulsating shaft.
‘Dance for me,’ he moaned.
‘I wanna paint you…’ I whispered, breathless with lust.
‘Anything you want…’ he murmured.

April 27, 2008

Lucrezia Magazine - Updated & Live

I never through it would happen so quickly, but YES, Lucrezia Magazine, or should I say, the reinvented Lucrezia Lucrezia Magazine is now up and live.

The new site has so many more features, including something it didn’t have before - a search button. It also is a valid RSS feed. It has a rotating news header on the main page. It’s worth all the all nighters that I have put in over the last seven days.

There is another thing I am in the process of adding to the site and that is a sidebar of four blogs that will be rotated from time to time. I haven’t decided on which blogs and prefer to leave that open. The only thing I require is for the said blogs to be more than six months old and to have an avatar that is 40 x 40 pixels. Those interested can email me via the email that is listed on this blog.

Anyway, I’m off to bed.

Enjoy the new mag.

I am going to take a complete day off from the Internet.

November 19, 2007

8:25 Sado-Maso (to Central)

She began listening to an old Baby’s song; John Waite made her go fucking gahhhh. Velvet voice…it liquefied her anterior and posterior cruciate ligaments. She clutched the pole, imagined an alternative reality, or a place other than the overcrowded train; its cattle-car style always ushered the unfavorable quantity. She named him Simian, courtesy of his hirsute metacarpals. An ape in apprentice suit, for it wasn’t Armani, Boss or Messini. He was Mr Shitkicker Deluxe; couldn’t look at her in the face each morning…

“Falling in love was the last thing I had on my mind

Holding you was the warmth I could never find…”

The above didn’t work on the 8:25 to Central. Come five and she’d be ecstatic to leave the fluoro-hell of the office, resplendent with its Feng Shui positioned plants (including bamboo luck pots!), proffering bullshit harmony.

Simian eyed the soft porcelain flesh of her inner forearm, and shuffled closer. Some voyeurs, like her, were hypocrites; she liked looking at incredible packages. She didn’t desire the undesirable to look at her…She apologized to John, and changed the lyrics to Isn’t It Time:

Isn’t it time that you fucked yourself?
Falling for you is a gift from hell…

I see visions of an asshole like you in my life…

I just can’t find the answers to the questions that keep going through my mind!

Her morning on the train was hairy enough with the crowd. Her coffee seeped through the tiny spout: noisy students swore and poked fun at static people on platforms, ‘will you look at the hair on that?’ or  ‘I wouldn’t do that.’ High school students; big talking, hormone infused twats.

She felt it then…fingers ran along her flesh; up and down. Fleetingly revolting, she thought, only because she didn’t invite Simian’s attention; the other murky thought, the idea of his large mechanic’s hands roaming her pristine flesh, soiling her contours, stoked her a little. The Yin-Yang specter ran amok as the train slowed to a crawl and a fuddled accent presented them with the obvious: “we apologize for this delay. It is due to the signals.”

Sydney train delays are about signals…Signals are delayed, blow out, fuck up…

Signs, signals, and right now, as Simian averted his gaze and studied the intercom, she considered stomping on his foot, and blew a tuft of hair over past her brow. He turned, gazed at her forearm, and she feigned ignorance, whilst assessing the temperature. It had to be three degrees over standard room temperature with the extra human cargo; did his cock sweat beneath his poly-micro-synthetic suit, and if so, how would it smell?

Her face glowered, and the train crawled all the way to her stop; his hand slid down the warmed steel and made contact with her hand. She could have jumped; he would have enjoyed it. Fucker…she wanted to smile. She swore she could feel her masseter creaking; it wanted to stretch her lips or pull them apart in the same manner it did for fellatio.

She glanced at his crotch, and cursed his loose trousers. What’s that secret squirrel in your pants up to? She turned, risked rear exposure, and waited. Her hair caught his breath. She caressed her neck, raising her mane to diffuse bottom notes as his cock brushed against her bottom.

Rub that sweaty cock, she thought. Go on…

They arrived to her station with a minor jolt, that she adapted for her own purposes; the world is a stage, in this case the carriage.

The hot fragrant contents of her Styrofoam cup splattered his left leg. Hot-hot-hot…Mr Cock.

Doors opened, people rushed out and she turned, smiling at her fellow passenger. He didn’t hop or squeal: just as she thought.

“See you tomorrow honey…” she winked.

She couldn’t wait. Come tomorrow, and she'd wear her lofty stilettos…

July 17, 2007


I’m in bed, doing things I shouldn’t be doing in a bed like blow smoke rings toward the ceiling. My masseter and temporomandibular joint work away, producing silver-gray rings. The muscle and joint are also responsible for…blowjobs.

I think of nothing, or minor things, like the way he invokes pleasurable images. I think about the texture of his skin and I take a leap, explore his obsidian-like rod between his legs. The image shifts, he has an erection and he’s planning a blitzkrieg. I’m the target, of course, with a pink painted bulls eye across my pubis.

The target can be round, or painted like a love heart. I can be his biological Valentine card, complete with a jagged pulse. Each undulation alarms, twists me into a tight helix. The muscle is beastly, powering at high speed. 7 Horsepower; a stampeding wildebeest powers through my chest until my flesh tears open and slick innards coat the pastel walls; blood arcs in the air. We’re talking 200/180, for my blood to slide down until my bewitched eyes throb. Gravity is an elegant dancer, affecting everything, including my roving fingers and arm. Smooth, rhythmic and fluid. A dynamic that is taken for granted; what would Galileo think? I’m not playing with balls, I’m playing with myself and like Copernicus, gaze toward the distant star -Penis Centauri. He’s such a fine specimen, and I’m a mere cosmonaut. I float briefly, to come like a supernova, disappearing further into a black hole, like…


June 30, 2007

Four Leaf Clover

“Fighting for peace is like screwing for virginity, and I thought I’d add…screwing for self-esteem is like mutilating oneself like a cutter…sitting in a secret corner, silent as a mouse, hoping no one will hear, let alone walk in on the bloody act…

It’s something that eludes my comprehension.

Get a punching bag.


Lash out, and tell that motherfucker to get knotted.

You won’t go to hell…

It’s not a given, there’s no definitive proof…All the holy men. Who are they? They are flesh, blood and bone; perishables that will dissolve in the earth, mere nutrients for insects as the world continues to turn, burn, churn and erode..

No one returns to say otherwise, or provide a bona fide proof that profanity will mar our hallowed entry into the realm of halos, angelic wings and pristine surroundings, should that realm exists…spend a lifetime pondering it…where will it get you when you’re inhaling the final breath?

It’ll be too late to rue.

Too late to cry…



C’es Fini…


Such thoughts or sentiments, matched the dimmed lounge. Each booth featured an array of sophisticated, if not, bourgeois patrons whose hands displayed glittering baubles; men wore pinky rings, while women allowed their creativity to take control. Some dared to display their 18 karat wedding bands and engagement rings, while others settled for abstract designs, spanning their ten digits.

A piano sounded in the background; mellow lullabies drifted through the room, like smoke, slipping through each crack or penetrating each microscopic pore. He sat opposite, one arm resting along the leather backrest to ooze more character than a method actor.

“It’s relaxing, isn’t it?”

Every square centimeter of flesh covering his face knitted together perfectly. I compared him to an oil painting. Each irregular daub formed a complex, lived-in portrait. His noble face could be included in a Roman setting. An orgy? I watched him raise his glass to his lips, noting his aquiline nose; nostrils flaring, the Martell eddied into his pleasure center, and his fingers slackened. He held the glass as though it were a breast, appreciating its weight and texture. Such hands could be considered a foreigner in a glam world. His thick fingers pried open a hothouse of blooms. His thick pinky boasted an unusual motif, and while I considered myself fortunate to avoid the dreaded wedding band, and faint tan line, I could not avoid the irony. Some displayed their initial, or boasted Onyx within a generic bezel setting.

I had to agree; idyllic surrounds enabled inner calm, even if one had to tolerate bourgeois phrases, sentences and discussion topics; each voice blended into the background, as those sorts of conversations usually do. I arrived at a fork in the road; there are no shades of grey here. It can be like an ancient warrior phrase; with your shield or on it, where every other in-between option is embarrassing. A shade of grey; the hue is ever so boring, a rainbow spectrum for the mild, meek and mind numbingly methodical.

He allows the fragrant liquid to lubricate his lips; the lizard king, he licks the corners of his mouth. I expect a set of fangs to materialize; I’m disappointed.

“We could talk all night. Comb through our hobbies, and occupational goals. We can dissect our brains like social neurosurgeons…or we can fuck,” it rolls out of my mouth, like a fine drop of dessert wine.

“You’re outrageous.” Eyes twinkling, his pinky taps against his glass. The gold ring glimmers, animating the four-leaf clover decorating his pinky finger.

“I’d call it luck. Do you consider yourself a lucky person?”

He dithers for a second, while I fine-tune his body, placing it above mine. I magnify to an unimaginable power, until I can glimpse his hair follicles rubbing against mine, warmth builds to a mind piercing frequency that pushes me off the libidinous cliff, for his skin to break underneath my nails. Blood will creep through his pores, initially, and his skin will begin prickle…

By the time I’m done, his back will resemble tic-tac-fucking-toe.

It’ll be too late to rue.

Too late to cry…

June 06, 2007

Fatal Error

I didn’t know what to title this story. It’s about a one night stand. It is fictional, and started from nothing. Ordinary day, and equally ordinary return home, to the usual routine except that I decided to sit my arse down and actually compose something that didn’t contain anything like Paris Hilton’s imprisonment (boo-fucking-hoo!) or the disastrous absence of juicy paparazzi pictures detailing her anguish (excuse me while I reach for the Kleenex).

I spent the earlier part of the evening checking out Duotrope for publications, thinking it was high time that I returned to other genres in a full time capacity, because there are only so many words one can use to describe a cock, and there are some days where I don’t even want to discuss, let alone describe one like it’s a separate entity: mad, angry, raging, hungry, pulsing, whatever…

I’m all cock-ed out, for now or in a romantic sense, hence the Collector.

So I ended up holing myself in my room with the usual: coffee, cigarettes and laptop. Starting from nothing feels good, and I feel - for myself - that it's the closest I can get to freedom. There are no deadlines, no pre-planned plots, no interference at all. I don't drive, but it may very well be like pressing the accelerator and going for it, without giving a rat's about traffic cops.

Why the title? Things/events can parallel technology or computers. One is there, comfortably surfing, or doing whatever, and then something happens, everything freezes and you think, ‘Shit-a-brick-what-the-fuck-you-fucking-piece-of-shit-computer,’ when the Fatal Error (or Error 404, or something similar) screen comes up, and you have to start all over again.

Fatal Error

I try to collect my senses; dropping them in the mental wastebasket is as complicated to me, as completing a Sudoku puzzle. Every neuron is screaming at me from within; he sleeps, ignorant to the perplexity that is unfolding around him as I step into my pants.

The blue-brown stain on my neck is communicating to me; the love bite looks like a flat pancake – of shit. It pays tribute to our naked limbs, and rampant mouths.

‘You’re a talent. You pick winners.’

Do shut up.

I hear a wheeze, it’s his breath and it eddies within his throat, rising up to a sharp hiss.

I’m a little teapot, short and stout. This is my handle, and this is my spout. When I get all steamed up, then I shout. Tip me over, and pour me out…

His name…

It’s there…

Fatal Error 404. Reboot required. It’s as I zip myself up that I catch a whiff. The remnants hang around; whirling through the air, the morning light bounces off each particle. Dust and dead skin cells whir through the air. Somewhere up top, a ventricle is weeping. It pulses, telling me to gulp a few Tylenol. Four should do.

Continue reading "Fatal Error" »

May 08, 2007


I tried to post something but it didn't work. I lost the post...but the message for the day:

When in doubt or in crap, laugh:

DogattackfunnycartoonspicsA flight attendant was stationed at the departure gate to check tickets.
As a man approached, she extended her hand for the ticket and he opened his
trench coat and flashed her.

Without blinking an eyelid she said, "Sir, I need to see your ticket not
your stub."

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