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indecently hot and muggy. naked boys everywhere. i smell like ocean. [i've developed a sort of blister or callous on the inside of an ankle. most likely it's from a stiletto strap. it looks like a blister, but i keep peeling and peeling the layers away. there is nothing inside it. nothing but skin.] [i haven't masturbated since i got back.] nothing turns me on anymore. except foxglove, and only when she plays. and nightshade, of course, but she's not here. fantasies of rape and penetration no longer appeal. they taste like dry toast. i don't want to be attracted to foxglove. it's not something i've chosen, and that bothers me. my mind is searching for something to fixate on. i need that to write. there's not much here to choose from. frat boys and party girls. slim pickings. we went to the beach. flies were everywhere, coating the rotting mounds of seaweed, stirring like locusts at each footfall. amaranth and foxglove tried to practice for open mic night, but it was too hot. there were maggots. a lecherous and ugly boy came to listen to them play. he tried to talk to me as i buried flies in the sand. i didn't answer him. frustrated, foxglove and amaranth walked into the water, intending to swim. it was too cold for them. i danced in the surf as they walked away. they did not see me. on the way back the drum was broken. |