He watches her through the camera, and all he sees is shapes. Shadows. Darkness, and a sickly moonlight. She starts to lick at the lens, slobbering on it, and now she’s howling as she pulls back…”
by jason jackson
One night, he’s just lying there, watching her, and when she looks at him, tries to speak, love begins to drip like honey from her mouth. So he jumps from the bed, grabs his camera from his bag, and begins to snap away as she slithers, smiling, dripping, over the sheets towards him.
They’re both naked, and he’s hard. Ridiculous. Bobbing about as he dances around her. Around the bed. Click-click-clicking at her. The love-sticky mess is coating her lips. Dribbling down her chin. Pooling on the sheets below her. Golden. Clear. Slow-moving and fragrant. The smell of it fills the room. Fills him. Rich. Sickly. Like sugary sweets. For a second he’s a dizzy child.
Now her hands are in it. Now her breasts. She is writhing. Ecstatic. As she pulls herself up onto all fours, the stuff makes sticky strings from her nipples to the bed-sheets. She twists and turns, following him as he dances around the bed. She’s laughing. Smearing the stuff on her face. On her hard stomach. On her thighs.
‘Christ, what is it?’ he whispers, more to the room than to her, and he’s still dancing. Still bobbing. Still hard. Still ridiculous. Click, click, click.
Through the window the moon is an unchanging white, but its stolen light is enough for him. Enough for the camera. There are deep shadows. The sharp white of her body, and the somehow luminescent liquid that is now seeping over the sides of the bed. Now sliding down the sheets. Now drip, drip, dripping to the carpet below. It is all more than enough.
She cups a hand under her chin, and the stuff pools in her palm. She lifts it towards her lips, lapping at it even as more and more comes drooling out of her. She savours it. A fine brandy. ‘Taste it,’ she whispers. ‘Jesus Christ, you have to taste it!’
But he’s too busy with the camera, on the floor now, kneeling at the foot of the bed. She crawls across the bed towards him, grinning as the love-like-honey coils and oozes from her mouth. She fingers it. Reaches out to him. Smears the stuff across the lens.
His world becomes blurred. He watches her through the camera, and all he sees is shapes. Shadows. Darkness, and a sickly moonlight. She starts to lick at the lens, slobbering on it, and now she’s howling as she pulls back, long strings of it hanging from her jaws. He’s click-click-clicking away, the smeared image all the more beautiful.
She stands, her head thrown back, and the stuff is a fountain now. Arcing upwards. A kind of clear, slow, golden blood, pulsing from a heavy wound in perfect time with her heartbeat. It splashes the walls. The window. The ceiling. It drips from the lampshades and the bookcase. His bare soles are in it, are covered with it, and he’s slipping. Sticking. Stumbling. Gobs of it have spattered him. His chest. His thighs. His face.
The air in the room is thick with the smell of the stuff, and she is utterly cocooned in it now. It’s twisting itself around her. Coating her in its radiance. Wrapping her like a gift. He holds the camera in one hand, and he reaches out to her, touching her thigh. His fingers sink in. An inch. Two. She’s become one with it. It’s more than just a skin. More than just a sugar coating. It’s her. The essence of her.
He pulls out. Pulls away. Holds his hand to his mouth. Slowly, carefully, he licks the stuff from his fingertips, and the taste of it lies somewhere beyond imagining.
She stands high above him now, looking down, and the love-like-honey which surrounds her, which has become her, glistens. There are swirls deep within her. She is a confectionery. A treat. She is a fairytale. A Hansel-and-Gretel thing. A promise and a miracle. From below her, he feels the distance between them like a slap in the face, and he drops the camera to the floor where it sinks into a pool of the stuff. Ruined.
Smiling, he climbs onto the bed, and she reaches out for him. The stuff is still flowing from her mouth. She pulses with it. A slow, constant stream of love-like-honey. Endless. Unstoppable. Unimaginable. He moves towards her now, and slowly, sweetly, without a word, takes her in his arms. In the moonlit grey of the room, he presses his naked self against her. And there he stays. Stuck fast.
Jason Jackson recently returned to writing after a four-year hiatus.