camping out for Star Wars has turned up my Geek Heat to sleeping-with-the-sun proportions. which means that, a couple nights ago, in the darkness of an energetic folk concert, I wrote two incredibly nerdy stories, both involving two redheaded comic book legends.
They tell me I'm a charming anachronism. The rustic sex god you've always dreamed of, with down home southern manners you can take home to mamma. They tell me I'm the luckiest guy in the world, the envy of mutant and man. Up to my biceps in blonds and brunettes, all those 20-something girls, not a white hair in the bunch. You'll think I'm crazy. I want a white streak, wizened ashes in the middle of fire. You can tell she's a rebel when she tells you her name, and of all the lips and tongues and skin I've tasted, she's the only. the only. the only. Sometimes I picture her when I'm with them. Monique, especially, she had red hair. "You're beautiful," I told her. What I didn't say was, "Could you age a little? Just enough to whiten your hair right--" and I threaded my fingers through her hair, letting it pour over my hands. She cooed. Rouge would never sound like that, all soft and breathy and weak like that,
Suddenly I hated that Monique wasn't Rogue, I threw her down and thrust myself into her, she squealed like a delighted mouse.
"Remy," she managed breathlessly. "You're an animal."
I leaned in so I was real close to her ear. "No," I said. "Just a mutant."
She laughed. They always do.
"Now we can play whenever we want," Harley said, standing to the full height of her newly indestructable body. Ivy just smiled. These lovers, together, are a painting: laughing, trembling canvas that revels in its gashes, blinding bright colors and shining wet paint. They are the kind of painting that you want for your wall, so you can spend the rest of your life wondering what it could possibly mean.
Ivy's face covered in splotches of clown makeup, the mark of frenzied kisses, circus spins. And Harley's thighs glow a faint shade of green, heated and pulsing with the violent rhythem that you can only feel underfoot, when you're standing tree-trunk still. But for them the vibrations are all over, thrusting them into each other, filling the air with firey screams. You want to join in, but you couldn't survive the night./lj-cut>