Slash fic, unspecified pairing
Dec. 2nd, 2002 03:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gilascaveIn response to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cicirossi's challenge.
Naked
I'm naked beneath my chocolate.
It sounds stupid, doesn't it? Sounds kinky, anyway, or something that would only entice a person with a hell of a sweet tooth and the insulin to withstand it. Either that or it sounds like what a dramatic sixteen year old would scrawl across her notebook, or wall, or webpage, trying to tell the world that *her* pain was stronger and more unique and more able to withstand any attempts to heal, than any pain the world had ever seen. No one understands me, she'd think, and she'd scrawl the unusual words to make a point, to catch someone's attention. Because as much as she sets herself apart, she mostly wants to belong.
I've known too many sixteen year old girls.
I don't know why I've written it here. Maybe I was remembering something, and I lost the thought before I realised I'd had it. Maybe I was hoping it would lead to some smutty, sexy, crazed romp that would shock my grandmother if she were alive and ever cared to read what I ever wrote. Would shock my mother, too, but only because she thought I didn't know about such things.
I didn't know about such things until I was too old to be that naive, then I learnt it all with a vengeance. Hell of a vengeance, and sometimes I wish... no, I don't. I know better. I don't unwish any of it at all. It hurts, it hurts like hell, but I can't undo it. I can't lose more than I've already....
Naked. Yeah, that'd be me. Naked, here, standing in my oldest jeans and a leather coat that ought not have survived this long. Naked, because the page is here and it's getting slowly covered with my thoughts, and as any writer will tell you it's your soul that gets spread out in blood. No matter how fake you think it is. It's yours, and you damn well better get used to it: everyone seeing your naked jollies, and you wondering why they don't jerk off the way you do, to see it.
Beneath my chocolate. Have a second to think it should be something nasty, something metaphoric and explain that what I really mean is that the love of my long dead life was another man. Make a fudgepacker joke and laugh at you when you turn your head. But, really, I don't know why I wrote it. But I did, and the inside of my head must have meant something by it, only I don't know what. I know what chocolate means. I can still smell it in my memory, that scent of really cheap-ass chocolate that tastes like wax and fills your skull with chemical reactions that make your lizardbrain think it's just been fucked into a coma. I tried the good stuff, and it's all right. Good for playing around, the same kinky stuff I didn't mean, before. Melts well, and spreads evenly, and you can lick your fingers and his skin for hours and not feel like you need to pop up for a drink of something to wash down the taste.
But it's the scent of the cheap stuff that burns most in my memories. Maybe because it's what I tasted, first, when he grabbed me and finally kissed me, after I'd spend an hour trying to seduce him. I'd used the chocolate as an excuse, in case he figured me out and laughed. Just meant to say I'd been thinking of something else and hadn't realised... But he kissed me, and that first taste of his mouth was chocolate and him, and ever since it's what I remember most when someone says chocolate.
I'm naked, here. I've got a bar of chocolate set across the top of this page. Been saving it for a long time, because so far the memory hasn't faded. As long as it hasn't, there's no reason to waste this bar. Don't know when I'll find another one, and once I open it I know I can't not eat it all.
But I don't need it yet, so I'll save it, and I'll be naked, here, in my thoughts and my memories, beneath this bar of chocolate sitting at the top of this page. And someday, when I realise I can't remember the way he tastes, I'll open it and remember.
the end
cicirossi's challenge.Naked
I'm naked beneath my chocolate.
It sounds stupid, doesn't it? Sounds kinky, anyway, or something that would only entice a person with a hell of a sweet tooth and the insulin to withstand it. Either that or it sounds like what a dramatic sixteen year old would scrawl across her notebook, or wall, or webpage, trying to tell the world that *her* pain was stronger and more unique and more able to withstand any attempts to heal, than any pain the world had ever seen. No one understands me, she'd think, and she'd scrawl the unusual words to make a point, to catch someone's attention. Because as much as she sets herself apart, she mostly wants to belong.
I've known too many sixteen year old girls.
I don't know why I've written it here. Maybe I was remembering something, and I lost the thought before I realised I'd had it. Maybe I was hoping it would lead to some smutty, sexy, crazed romp that would shock my grandmother if she were alive and ever cared to read what I ever wrote. Would shock my mother, too, but only because she thought I didn't know about such things.
I didn't know about such things until I was too old to be that naive, then I learnt it all with a vengeance. Hell of a vengeance, and sometimes I wish... no, I don't. I know better. I don't unwish any of it at all. It hurts, it hurts like hell, but I can't undo it. I can't lose more than I've already....
Naked. Yeah, that'd be me. Naked, here, standing in my oldest jeans and a leather coat that ought not have survived this long. Naked, because the page is here and it's getting slowly covered with my thoughts, and as any writer will tell you it's your soul that gets spread out in blood. No matter how fake you think it is. It's yours, and you damn well better get used to it: everyone seeing your naked jollies, and you wondering why they don't jerk off the way you do, to see it.
Beneath my chocolate. Have a second to think it should be something nasty, something metaphoric and explain that what I really mean is that the love of my long dead life was another man. Make a fudgepacker joke and laugh at you when you turn your head. But, really, I don't know why I wrote it. But I did, and the inside of my head must have meant something by it, only I don't know what. I know what chocolate means. I can still smell it in my memory, that scent of really cheap-ass chocolate that tastes like wax and fills your skull with chemical reactions that make your lizardbrain think it's just been fucked into a coma. I tried the good stuff, and it's all right. Good for playing around, the same kinky stuff I didn't mean, before. Melts well, and spreads evenly, and you can lick your fingers and his skin for hours and not feel like you need to pop up for a drink of something to wash down the taste.
But it's the scent of the cheap stuff that burns most in my memories. Maybe because it's what I tasted, first, when he grabbed me and finally kissed me, after I'd spend an hour trying to seduce him. I'd used the chocolate as an excuse, in case he figured me out and laughed. Just meant to say I'd been thinking of something else and hadn't realised... But he kissed me, and that first taste of his mouth was chocolate and him, and ever since it's what I remember most when someone says chocolate.
I'm naked, here. I've got a bar of chocolate set across the top of this page. Been saving it for a long time, because so far the memory hasn't faded. As long as it hasn't, there's no reason to waste this bar. Don't know when I'll find another one, and once I open it I know I can't not eat it all.
But I don't need it yet, so I'll save it, and I'll be naked, here, in my thoughts and my memories, beneath this bar of chocolate sitting at the top of this page. And someday, when I realise I can't remember the way he tastes, I'll open it and remember.
the end
