I’ve been trying to do my best at revising old drafts and reworking some older pieces. I believe I published this long ago before this iteration of this blog. Am I padding my stats for Every Damn Day In June? Maybe. But does it matter? It’s a good piece. Let me know if you like it!
The wind is picking up, warm and dry from the south and the candy sweet smells of a carnival are carried over the dry fields where the red and yellow tents sprawl. The storm clouds are menacing and dark, dripping with malice and flattening the light, muffling the creaking, lustful moans of the calliope.
I can feel you in this wind, in the dusty warmth and the smell of engine grease and popcorn. I feel you slide across the dry, humbled landscape of this godforsaken town and I wish, wantonly, to feel your cloak of mystery and air of quiet confidence touch me, to be enveloped by your ring leader’s smile, caressed by your master of ceremonies baritone.
I wait for you, for the storm to break, bare legs with dirty knees tucked up to my chin on the front porch as the sky turns brown before the lightning starts. With every strike I’m willing you nearer, aching between my thighs and ribs for a touch I have not yet known. I wait, the lightning rod, pulling you closer until I feel you make contact and the surge of you is blinding, deafening, perfect by every calculation. And when the storm rolls west and past the midway, I can still taste the singe of your desire in my mouth and I can still feel you, like a fistful of matches set alight, under my skin.
I know she is here. Somewhere in this strange town, with its alien smells and its alien accents under its alien sky. But still, I know. I can feel her like a compass feels magnetic north – drawing me here to her darkness under ominous, lowering clouds. The air is hot with ionized ozone promise – boiling with the potential of lightning.
Somewhere here, in an unremarkable building, in anonymous darkness of this unremarkable town, is a woman with glittering denim blue eyes – the soles of her feet flecked with the wood and soil they have collected as she walked in naked anticipation across her floors and in the garden under the cold moonlight. Does she feel me near at hand? I know she does. It’s instinct. The homing call of the salmon. The rutting season of the stag. Turtles hauling themselves onto the beach at night compelled by forces beyond rational; her pale animalness flickers like a mirage at the edge of my vision. She’s a storm, a furious thunderhead behind my third eye.
The same forces have pulled me here. This place. This woman. And as I walk across the city, sure of my path, I see her in my mind with ever more clarity: the soft alabaster of her skin, the wet heat at the apex of her thighs, the gorgeous copper tang of her blood. As I turn onto her street, the lightning finally comes, close. The boom of thunder across the valley is almost perfectly synchronous with the whip of lightning that paints the underside of the clouds a vivid white against the dusk.
And as the first rains fall onto the parched earth beneath my feet, I arrive at the steps that lead to her door. And she is there.
The wait is over as my hand turns the doorknob, almost without the permission of my mind, it is instinct and chemical draw, my body betrays my consciousness. My body is not afraid yet my mind reels. I can feel his heart beat overlapping mine thought the wooden panels of the farmhouse door, I can smell him in the heavy air after the storm. He is rain on dry earth, he is petrichor.
I am without defense as the door opens and our eyes meet. Ever the riddler, he smiles and his first words to me, despite being a guest on my porch are simply, lowly, “I’ve been waiting for you.”
She is as I pictured. Pale. Blood red lips that glimmer in the half light.
She is naked in the dark. I can see her hands clasped in front of her – like a little girl lost, but a woman: fulsome, heavy in all the right places. Fertile. Pulsing with blood and firing neurons and breath and sexual energy almost palpable across the few feet between us.
I regard her. She is all I expected. All I wanted.
The blue light of the night casts her in half shadow, and with her pale skin she could pass for something beyond corporeal – her nipples tinged purple.
And for a second, we stand and stare, savouring the electricity of the night.
He is well composed, stoic. Hard featured and pale he has the look of an old fashioned musician or an Edwardian spiritualist. His cloak is fine and heavy but showing some wear and age. He is assembled modestly and exudes a serene authenticity; no airs, no hesitation, just perfect calm and absolute presence.
It is a strange thing to meet a person you feel your mind has invented, to see them rendered in flesh and sinew to know there is blood pumping beneath their shallow skin and dreams filed away in their heart.
We hang a long pause in the air between us, strung up on the awakening of the moment, on the gravity of having finally manifested destiny. The geraniums in their cheerful orange and red on the porch behind him are the only colour I seem able to see, I am so mesmerized by the darkness before me and his eyes, flinty, wolf like, plumb the depths of my own ocular pools and make my mouth go dry.
With one firm step he is in the room, I am in his arms. I feel light as air as he carries me into the evening’s heavy dusk. Naked and unashamed I know no human eyes are there to see us for miles as he carries me like a child, prostrate in his arms, across the dry, empty fields towards the beckoning dark of the treeline. I am aware, suddenly, that I am both prey and prized possession. Regardless, I know that he won’t stop until we reach the center of the forest and from that forest, I shall never return.



Every Damn Day In June is run by Hyacinth Jones of ‘A Dissolute Life Means …’, her sex, life and sex-life blog. Click through to read more!

Violet Fawkes

Violet Fawkes (she/her) is a freelance writer and sex blogger focusing on pleasure education, erotic fiction, and the intersection of identity, kink and mental health.