Sunday, July 16, 2017

Dirty Flash

Obviously, as has been discussed earlier, "dirty" is at the very least a subjective term for a lot of us. It also carries various connotations both negative and positive.
I was intrigued to see that my basic little quickie dictionary, when defining the sex-based usage of "dirty", had only negative associations. At least, that's how they read on the cold and clinical page, with no visual human signals nor tone of voice to modify the words.
When I tackle flash fiction, I tend to strive for imagery and metaphors. It could well be argued that this style of writing takes some of the dirt out of a story. After all, a part of that kind of dirty is its coarseness, and its vulgarity, both of which a metaphor is usually intended to dilute.
A little over three years ago I was in a group on Facebook where the admins would post an image and ask members to write a flash fiction inspired by that image. The intervening years show me several flaws in the story, but it was never meant to be one I'd publish for sale. It was for nothing more than an exercise.
As I read through it, I realised it certainly could have been much dirtier. I just don't think I'd want it to be.

----

Helena’s stocking-clad knees fill my hands. The hem of her dress, stretched taut by wide-spread thighs, forms a false horizon.
On my knees before her I see only eyes. Two pure globes—sun and moon—hovering above that black line.
My kiss on the creamy softness of her skin brings an eclipse, both solar and lunar. My lips cascade, skim down the dunes of her thighs and I find the sunset. Dusky corals framing fiery pinks. The scent of the ocean fills my body.
I release that rich breath and Helena’s body trembles beneath its feather-like touch. Her beautiful wet waves of flesh break against my lips, a feast of scents and sensations.
From above, I hear her keening cries, a gull on the breeze, as I dive into her. Searching, tasting, drawing her into me as she pulls me into her.
The pearl of Helena’s oyster slips between my teeth. Her voice breaks, rolls inside her, as my fingers leave marks in the velvet of her thighs.
My hands frame the lush wonder of her pussy as I drink the rich salt water from her.
She rolls her hips and washes all over my cheeks, nose, chin. She bucks and shudders as I drive my tongue forward, a fleshy boat sinking blissfully in a turbulent sea.
The soft thickness of her thighs clamp against my head and she engulfs me. Wave follows wave as she rolls and rocks, gives and takes, until my breath burns inside me.
She ebbs and I breathe. She calms and I rise.

And I turn the tide.

6 comments:

  1. Beautiful, Wilson. I don't see anything wrong with "dirt" or vulgarity in the right context, but you've established a certain tone in this flasher, and you held it to the end. Much more of the sea-imagery might have seemed too precious, but the advantage of a flasher is that it can be an excuse to do things you wouldn't do in a story or novel. IMO this flasher would work well in a collection.

    ReplyDelete
  2. I like the sea-imagery, too, especially "a gull on the breeze."

    ReplyDelete
  3. Lovely piece! I've used the flash format for extended metaphors on one or two occasions as well.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Curated
      by Jeremy Edwards, 2012

      At the beginning, I am always a Realist, processing every caress with no blinks or omissions—absorbing every detail of your love in a narrative.

      But then I become an Impressionist. Dabs of erogenous intensity overwhelm me before they’re fully there. Arousable with mere suggestions of pleasure, I saturate and look away; your touch ripples in my peripheral vision.

      And soon I’m a Fauvist, bouncing from one coarse sensual swath to the next, wildly sucking up the juiciest glows as I wash across a canvas bedspread...

      Until, finally, I explode into the Abstract, your flesh on mine a blindness of euphoric shape and color.

      Delete
  4. I'd call this poetry. It reads like it, and the imagery and extended metaphor work well together to create visual pictures in the reader's mind. Definitely poetry.

    ReplyDelete
  5. If this were less poetic, more visceral and explicit, it would be an entirely different story, Willsin.

    ReplyDelete