Lavish

by Emaline Delapaix

Editor's Warning: This piece contains explicit sexual content. It is not for children.

I could give him everything he wanted for a short period of time, maybe even months. No questions, no promises, devoid of deflated childish jokes and cover-ups. I could be the homemaker prettying the home with pointless garbage, the smell of freshly-picked flowers invading my nostrils as I worked, plumping the nest so it would be soft on his return.

The house would be filled with organised baking smells. The recycling would be rinsed and put out on time, the hairs removed from the shower, the couch vacuumed, pillows beaten against a wall, dust-free. There would be homemade ice cream in the freezer, intelligent literature left in strategic places throughout the house, for visitors' eyes, my dyslexia hidden behind my Crest White Strips smile, in my swollen and overloaded throat.

I wouldn't need anything else but his strong hands and sense of humour, his dick inside of me and our pretty, sexy adult world where he would be braised tofu and credit cards and I would be Swiss chocolate biscuits and thermal underwear.

When away from home, raw and pretty things would come out of my mouth in letters, postcards and emails. I would send photos of weird and beautiful places, foreign canned foods and we would indulge in sexual tension in late-night, far-away phone conversations, in filthy phone boxes, with tired voices and sweaty, sex-smelling fingers.

And he would whisper forever and I would sing him stuff and nonsense, covering my ears for a second, pretending he is dead and I am lonely and this kind of life is exotic.

He will tell me his secrets but I won't know everything, only what he's careless enough to let slip, the tongue being most fertile after we have just made love again, for the third time that night.

We will love and lavish third-degree burns like presents, we will make the same mistakes every day but will like it that way because our selfishness is arousing, insuring we always come back for more.

The Author

Emaline Delapaix is a Toronto-based Australian singer-songwriter-photographer-poet. Fascinated with mortality and the human body, her first collection of photos/poetry ever shown to the public included "Strip" and "Making Friends With The Bathroom Mirror" as part of Toronto Pride's ARTWHERK! in 2005. emalinedelapaix.com