Saturday, January 20, 2007

"Tell me again, the story of how you seduced me," she said.

"I will try. Yes, I will try - it is all so vivid to me..."

'What are you thinking,' you asked, watching me closely.

'I'm undressing you with my eyes,' I told you, deciding not to mask the truth.

'Oh?' you responded, suppressing a slight smile that clashed with the unerring gaze.

'Now I'm sweeping you off your feet and laying you onto the bed,' I continued, describing what I saw looking past the reality of our vis-à-vis in the smoky room.

And you said, quite eagerly, I recall: 'That's some imagination you have. I mean, here we sit in this cozy cafe, only a round table between us small enough to kiss over. But I like it. Don't stop.'

So, of course, I did not.

'You lie before me, passive. You stretch. Your blouse slips from the clasp of your pants and inches upwards. I see the flesh that is always most tender. I push away the fabric, in my other hand the marker, and begin to write on you, the novella, the account of your seduction, the opening epithet hovering by the navel. But I stop.'

'And what happens next?' you inquired, lifting your glass of wine.

'I pause and watch your breathing relax, like the sea's waves suddenly calming in the idle wind of the summer. I take your wrist. The loose sleeve slips to the shoulder. I begin at the base of your hand, winding words around your arm, sweet words, like the temptations of a serpent as it draws you to the apple. You watch the marker, you look away, you watch again. You have to see every word as it streams out and onto your skin. But you sense the writing with closed eyes, so you close your eyes to feel what is implied.'

I stopped talking and looked at you. You wanted to hear more. But I waited - until you spoke again: 'I can feel the phrases appearing on my body even as you speak them to me. And now I am hanging, hanging by a word yet unwritten.'

I did not answer immediately, but tasted a slight sip of the wine we shared.

Then I continued: 'We are still there, on the bed, the marker in my hand. I release your arm, and it falls in controlled motion to your side. The words still tingle - as I see in your passionate expression. I grip the blouse that is disarrayed in the aftermath of writing, and pull it upwards with one fist, until your arms raise with it, over your head, and with a quick twist the article is in my hand, to toss into an oblivion that doesn't concern us. I am ready to write more. I lower you now with that hand, flat upon the bed. I turn you. You lie, face down, and I begin the next small chapter. It streams in eloquence quicker than one could speak, as words upon your back. Soon both shoulders are covered, and the well between. The writing descends like a tide sweeping down the form of your back, yet your torso remains still, frozen by sheer will - though a hint of the passion shows in the trembling of your limbs. I wait again.'

And then you sipped from the wine. And it was my turn to catch my breath after the imagined writing that whirled through my thoughts. But the story wasn't over, and there was more flesh to fill with the imagined tale. All stories must have a climax, and then a denouement, perhaps even a continuation. And so it is with the story of every seduction, and especially of yours.

I went on, 'My writing becomes more intense, as the space to fill grows less. Jeans slip away, no fabric left touching your body. Now I write haphazardly, across a breast, on a sole, on a thigh. Before I can say how, your body is filled. There is no room left for the materializing thoughts, though the climax of the story is nearly in grasp. I inscribe in words indelible and small, in the slightest spaces I find. These too begin to elude. But the final words are in my thoughts, and I poise my hand to bring them to life. Then I see one unwritten island on your scrawled-over form. I will end the story there, by the navel, where all stories, including this one, begin.'

And then I paused again, to observe the affect of my narrative on you. You waited, and I allowed you to wait. But something was preventing me from the final culmination of ideas.

'Go on,' you said with a tremor revealing the fear that I might not. 'Go on!' you said again in a raised voice, directing all faces in the cafe towards us.

'I cannot continue reading,' I told you, 'I am scanning you from toe to breast, and it seems that I have lost my place.'

"And that is the story's end, the story of how I seduced you. It ends here and fades into the shadows, just as my narrative to you now, and just as I am to do..."

"I see," she said, disappointed, turning away from the mirror, letting fall the marker with which she had written those final words.

Story #386

My muse has contributed a story:

Look here, do you think it is enough? I mean, you said one has to suffer for art, right? Do you think I'm a real poet now? I sufferd a lot, really, the tatoo costed me a hundred bucks - I could've get a new purse or new shoes for that.

That is some suffering you got there, baby, but it would help, if you'd wrote the poem yourself too.

Damn, what now. All this effort for nothing?

You could pass as an intellectual belly dancer.

Why is it so hard for a girl to get a cultural job these days?


Two other stories contributed by my muse: #63 and #286


And now, it's your turn:

Look into the navel, you are getting sleepy, sleepy, your eyes are heavy, you cannot hold them open, you close your eyes, you click the comment link, you write a story to the photo, you publish your comment. When you see the message saying comment has been sent you wake up and remember nothing...


Unknown said...

Now, those are instructions I can follow. Well, not the ones on the stomach so much.

The Mushroom said...

Like any method actor or test taker, Gerte cribbed. But being a novice on the stage, she used the same method of cheat-noting as she did in class -- instead of writing her two lines on her hand or a nearby prop, she put them where she always did in history class, her belly.

The contortion she made right on her cue to recite her part was probably the only funny part in what was supposed to be a comedy.

Manature said...

Hi Indeterminancy,

Thank you for leaving a comment on my post Individual post page URL (permalink) for New Blogger remains the same even after changing the title and the date, unlike old Blogger. I have responded to your comment.

Peter a.k.a. Enviroman
Enviroman Says

Anonymous said...

Late again, she bolted without showering to her job. A typically busy day kept her occupied until after noon, when, during the lunchtime lull, she finally managed to slip away to the lady's room. What? She thought as she pulled her pants away from her waist and saw the writing. Marry? Marry who? She hated to admit it, but her sister was right. Her life was out of control.

Cie Cheesemeister said...

The bariatric surgery had worked--or had it? She was 100 pounds lighter but the same emptiness that she had once filled with sweet and savory tastes to comfort her was still there, and now there was no soothing it into temporary oblivion. She was still alone with her demons, only now they had less flesh to feed off.

Frances bo bancess said...

"enschuldgen fraulin, aber mein Deutsch ist nicht so gut, was sagt heir? Wer ist Joe?" James stroked her stomach in good humour, she giggled, "Und ist das zitadelle aller wert oder ist dein zitadelle aller wert?" He made a sly smile and kissed her passionately and then furthered with R rated content.

("excuse me miss, but my german is not so good, what does this say? who is joe?"..."and is the citadel of all worth or is it your citadel of all worth?" gah, i have terrible sentence structure, i apologize to the German for my poor portrayal of the language. 6 years of lessons did not fair me so well.)

Tom & Icy said...

I was with my sister, Lula, one evening when I noticed the list of names written on her tummy by her navel. Curious as I am, I inquired as to who those guys were. "Boyfriends." she replied. I quickly read the names and began laughing. "Those are all losers!" I teased her. Lula laughed even louder than I did saying, "Yes! They barely made it to first base. The home run hitters are written down below!"

Anonymous said...

Success! Having left her navel on a train in Belgium, Maria had finally managed to build herself a new one out of silly putty and cheese.

Clear Pores

Hobbes said...

Angela's navel had hypnotic powers. Fatefully, the summer she turned 16, midriff-baring styles were in. People who caught a glimpse of the navel found themselves doing strange things: going for long journeys to places they had never heard of, but had always longed for; kissing total strangers, who inexplicably kissed back; but most of all, writing. Scrawling graffitti on the walls, penning novels (without even counting the words), clicking out stories in cyberspace, and even inking messages to the Navel itself, in languages they didn't know.
The hypergraphia seemed to be contagious. Statesmen, parents and teachers who had never seen the navel found themselves afflicted with the compulsion to write something, anything, anywhere. Schools closed, although children were writing more, and far more interestingly, than ever before. Even the illiterate found themselves laboriously copying combinations of letters ("HBO," "ESPN") on their living room walls. Bizarre laws were passed by legislatures who had written themselves into office at the ballot box, because everyone else was too busy writing to run, or even vote.
Almost incidentally, the phenomenon ended itself. A Muslim extremist, who had taken advantage of the situation to become Sultan of Angela's heretofore Western democracy, penned a law requiring all women to cover up from head to toe. This was widely publicized in all the new upstart news sources, and Angela, who was writing an encyclopedia of style, took note of it. Always a trend-setter, she donned the burka, and lost her influence forever.

Unknown said...

"But," complained Alouicious, "the instructions are on the wrong side!"

Tom & Icy said...

The instructions for removing water from a bucket are written on the bottom of the pail.

Anonymous said...

Sorry.I'm so busy getting ready to return to NY the only thing that comes to mind is my mother yelling at my brother for writing on me when I was younger.

Your minions have done a super job though.

Anonymous said...

Cheesemeister, you story made my mouth water!

Anonymous said...

I just saw your muse's contribution and it was delightful.

A blog - ti's hard to keep up with at times is it not.

Unknown said...

Your Muse has a great sense of irony.

Indeterminacy said...

Doug: She has to, if she married me.

Tom & Icy said...

She was going to write a novel, but she didn't have the stomach for it.

Hobbes said...

Ooo! Great one, T&I.

One day Faulkner, who was staying at the Algonquin Hotel, met the proprietor.
"How are you today, Mr. Faulkner?" inquired the man.
"Ohhh. Not good. I'm sick to my stomach," responded the alcoholic novelist.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Something you wrote, perhaps?" the proprietor said.

Indeterminacy said...

Doug: That's OK, if the instructions aren't to your liking, you can always improvise.

Mush: Love your take on this. What a brilliant place to hide crib notes.

Peter: And thank you for your answer, and for stopping by.

Al: There's a grand elegance to your story. I really like it.

Cheesemaster: If she loses any more weight, this is going to turn into fine print!

Frances: Du sprichst deutsch! Und deine Geschichte fasziniert mich auch.

Lammy: I needed a shot of wit this morning. Cool story.

Anonymous: This is the first time I couldn't tell spam from steak.

Mrs. Weirsdo: That was stunning! I admire your writing on this one. Thank you for sharing your inspiration. It looks very well polished, too.

Doug: You need instructions?

Tom&Icy: Good dogs. You win a scooby snack.

Cooper: But now you are old enough to be written on... ;-)

Brittney: I concur.

Cooper: My muse's contribution was a joke, she told me. I found it where she left it for me, in the empty text file where I wanted to write my story, but had given up. I say it's good, too.

Tom&Icy: She shouldn't have lost all that weight.

Mrs. W: Always use the non-toxic markers.

Everyone: My story is written now, and I'm just in the process of polishing it up. I think it has turned out something like a Möbius strip.

Unknown said...

Fantastic, Indie. That tatooed woman.

Alouicious needed instructions. I don't care to know.

Anonymous said...

Such finery from what appears at first glance to be a photo that would provoke only masturbatory fantasies.

{illyria} said...

such fantastic, dexterous prose. but then sweet slabs of bellies always did provoke humankind. our ancestors can attest to that.

Cie Cheesemeister said...

A few more vivid descriptions and you could have a guest spot on The Naughty Observer blog!
Nicely done. I actually prefer suggestive erotica to full-on blatant porno, but I am, as the Brits sometimes say, "a right old slag" when it comes to the craft of writing and I could pen either for money.
BTW, you don't have to live a completely Pansi-less life. Come see her, Aubvey, Brittney and Emrald in their new home at
Of course it isn't quite the same, but it's pretty crazy, which translates to fun for us and scary for normal people!

Indeterminacy said...

Doug: *takes bow* *marker drops out of shirt pocket onto the floor*

Cooper: Thank you. But I'm also wondering if the story could be taken as a metaphor for masturbation.

{illyria}: You're the princess when it comes to fantastic, dexterous prose.

Cheesemeister: Me on the naughty observer blog? Wow! Are there dirty pictures? Thanks for the new Pansi link. Is she taking spelling lessons down there?

Jamie Dawn said...

It's getting hot in here!

Body graffiti should be well thought out before one makes it permanent. One should ask, How will this look in twenty years when some extra flab or wrinkles have developed on my body?

Indeterminacy said...

Hey Jamie, always nice when you stop by.

Good point, but you will never have to ask these questions!

Anonymous said...

As always, a very interesting read. Perfect proof that one can be very erotic without being graphic. Keep em coming!

Hobbes said...

Thanks, Indie. It actually took just two quick tries, but your suggestion about hypnosis helped a lot.
I liked your story. Reminded me of that Italian writer, you know, IF ON A WINTER"S NIGHT A TRAVELER is one of his books. Anyway, don't like them, but it was fine in a short story. I'm a little slow, so please clarify: the writer is writing to herself? Appropriate--writing is so narcissistic in any form.

Indeterminacy said...

Mrs. W: I'm not sure who is writing and who is telling the story. Usually I also never know who reads the stories either, unless they are nice enough to leave a comment, so thanks for doing so.

I Never heard of the Italian writer, but your suggestion seems to be I should rather read my own stories than his. Actually it's no fun to read my own stories because I usally know what's going to happen. No surprises at all.

Frances bo bancess said...

pick up the marker, pick up the marker, please! how heart-breakingly beautiful, defiantly seductive, i hope to be wooed like that one day...

Anonymous said...

Just make sure you say "yes" if it ever happens. This girl didn't.

-Marshall Lentini

(grüße v. aruseri, kerl!)

Anonymous said...

i'm yours. beautifully done.

Indeterminacy said...

Frances Bo Bancess: Thank you. I would like to try this with the markers myself, actually.

Aruseri: Thanks for stopping by. Yes is a beautiful word.

Fembot: I wish I'd discovered markers much earlier in life. Thanks for your comment.