Breathy. Moist. Damp. The intro to my first romance novel. Lol. Kings and Queens incestuously breathing all over each other. A big breathy orgy. Only one rule is you must breathe on each other. Only other rule is no touching – no skin-to-skin – just breath as a tool for wild, frivolous pleasure. I picture fur blankets with the heads still attached – curtains and drapery of deep reds, burgundies, violets, aubergines – all velvety to the touch. Large stained-glass windows. No judgement. Chalices filled with moonshine and hand-stomped…foot-crushed wines. Rosy cheeks. Laughter. Nay – cacophonies of laughter. Kings and Queens whose lands’ are in disarray because their priorities are on pleasure, sexual experimentation and indulgence. Reds, golds – stained glass. There is a lion looking on – or involved in the mix. Imagine an art history class where we analyze the symbolism of renaissance portraiture – where the paintings were re-painted to soften the vulgar expression of sexual displays of affection – the grapes held just so – the cloths draped performatively – twine, and braided chords of gold – fraying edges – each stroke, each position, each colour – the relationship of items – the arrangement of items in the display – all purposefully portrayed – hung in meaning. Captured in time.
My muscles and body are chirping in now – my right thumb muscle, my right forearm – my right neck, slight twinges of pain – now my wrist – all attempts to keep writing. Keep flow writing. Did I mention the grapes? Were they so prevalent in regal societies because they can be turned into wine?
where rivers are born 