1. I Remember Erewhon


    Date: 9/29/2015, Categories: Mature, Author: BradleyStoke, Rating: 2, Source: LushStories

    Sometimes she would be glimpsed through the shadows of the night or brightly illuminated by the lights of the night club (only to be obscured as the lights swivelled and their attention swerved elsewhere). In those days, there was a chaotic fragmentary dissonance associated with Erewhon that spilt over into my encounters with Ydobon. Shapes were brighter and more clearly delineated like a painting by Gustav Klimt or a sculpture by Jeff Koons. Or they were scattered into shards like a Cubist painting. Occasionally, shapes and sounds were as abstract and unfocussed as a Jackson Pollock or Mark Rothko canvas soundtracked by Peter Brötzman on saxophone and Cecil Taylor on piano. But just as often, the city of Erewhon reasserted itself in strong primary colours that Roy Lichtenstein might favour and accompanied by the bright and bouncy rhythms of Tiësto and David Guetta. And where there was chaos in Erewhon, so too there was in the many and varied apparitions of Ydobon, who somehow managed to move from the Pre-Raphaelite beauty of her earlier years to something more like the subject of an Egon Schiele painting. She was now a woman of flesh and pungent perfume: armpits, crotch and chipped toe-nails. My penetrations into Ydobon were now characterised by sweat and struggle. I might focus on the metal stud through her tongue or the similarly metallic taste of her fillings. I might dive again and again into a pussy that mewed rather than purred. I might renounce the front entrance ...
    altogether and sometimes come to regret my decision, even in Erewhon, where the damp warm spot that was once my close friend and companion became sullied with other less pleasurable associations. However, Erewhon was a city that continued to give. The wide avenues and narrow streets, the towering modern buildings and the ancient mediaeval relics, the railway lines that threaded through tower blocks, tunnels and open fields: they still provided plenty of opportunities for nocturnal secretion. Ydobon became steadily less mutable and more reliable. Her hair colour became more solidly brunette and had a definite curl to it. Her eyes took on the steady green-brown they’ve remained ever since. Her skin settled on a slightly olive pink. Her voice became as memorable a part of her as every other feature and in a sense less prone to shift and vary. Compared to the Ydobon I’d once known or the many versions of her that I’d got to know as I’d frequented the night clubs of Erewhon, she was perhaps less exhilarating. These days, Ydobon was not the kind of girl (or even the kind of woman) who would shriek in triumphant recognition as a tune by the Swedish House Mafia or Avicii stormed across the dance floor and pushed aside all the other contenders for my attention. She wasn’t the kind of girl who’d start the evening with a line of coke, follow by a tab of E and finish with a potent mix of skank and whiskey. She wasn’t the kind of girl who, even when we met in Erewhon, would tear off her ...
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