Sunday, 3 June 2012


Amidst the mêlée of bodies on the bed
he could make out only a
hank of reddish hair
wrapped around a pumping fist, a
well-pedicured foot waving rhythmically
and an equally well-manicured hand
desperately clutching a
bull neck.

He tried to concentrate on filming—
focus, aperture (why are
dark bodies so difficult to light?)—
wondered if the guy underneath could
breathe, whether she could breathe with the
constricted moans coming from her
blocked throat—the increasingly
funky smell of sweat and arousal—but

his eye kept returning to those
sharp red nails on the
clenching hand, on one finger of which
glinted the ring he’d given her.

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