The thing I like about these is that they give you a chance for hop inside someone else's head and just sort of roam around (careful, don't touch any important brain parts). For that reason, I'm running this completely unedited. Well, that and general laziness.
Also, other housekeeping blog news: some fuckhead hijacked the "If you liked this story, try this" link thing at the bottom of the posts, linking them to his own stuff (so jerky!) so that's gone for a bit as I figure out how to fix it. Also, a couple people said they had some problems leaving comments, others said they did not. If you are having trouble, let me know in the other comment form in right column or write to me at jillhamilton001@gmail.com.
And finally, my story on Smart, Arty Porn Sites is on Salon and was the #1 most read on AlterNet. Probably 'cause people thought it was porn, but fuck, they clicked, they count.
Here, then, if you have remained awake, Abigail:
I'm the girl that he fucks. Her delivery was deadpan and I imagine her to be in that moment to be beautiful, sitting cross legged and naked. One of those long limb-ed, blank eyed girls displaying equal parts shyly and proudly hipbones sharpened on some eerie combination of youth and food avoidance. Hair tangled, sticking to the sweat and the cum that glistens lightly on a collarbone that was bitten and not kissed. She seeks something more of the earth than of the sky from my sometimes lover, my heart friend. This I know with a certainly that has no foundation for logic but is true nonetheless. A misnomer that word, that 'my' for he isn't mine, but I haven't found, and not for lack of effort a phrase existing within this language to indicate knowledge of another without linguistic ownership. Irritating. He isn't mine, this soul match to mine. I sometimes suspect that he belongs not even to himself but to some lilting Irish tune piped out by an Appalachian mountain dwelling hermit grieving for the womb like embrace of union wages and his long dead wife. He retreats often from this world, and from me, my sometimes not mine loverfriend. Though he lately seems less puppeted by the marionette strings of whatever it is that he belongs to that isn't himself or another. I've never minded the absences, though I'm glad that his mountain piper plays less. He is and was always wildest in the late night early morning, that faded blur between night and day: drunk and sober. A state that he seeks, drawn by that Irish mountain song that no one can remember the words to, that song that only belongs in the grey green blue of a never sober mountain morning. I sometimes but not tonight tell him that I love him. He sometimes but not tonight says the same. Always clumsily, both of us, exchanging that meaningless meaningful word that weighs entirely too much and not enough and it passes between us awkwardly and at random. I'm the girl that he fucks. She tells me this deadpan.
