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A dance of words at the silent disco…


Him –

I imagine us dancing, me having seen how beautifully you are dressed, but now blindfolded and naked, my cock trussed tight and hard, you holding taut a light lead to my testicles as you lead the dance. I know that you are directing me, and with every circle you dance me closer to something that was behind me when I entered, and I don’t know what it is.

Her –

What is behind you…is the part of you, that I told you to leave when you entered the game with me. That part is gone now, but we spin past it so that you can say Goodbye and see it float off as I cut the cord that held you together. You are free now, you are mine.

Him –


It’s not my history that floats off, but me. I am now un-tethered to it, and tied instead to you, my future.

I am freed from all my inhibitions and all my desires. I am only limited by you. I only have your desires. I want only to go where you lead me. I am only sad when you are not happy, only bored when I don’t know what you wish for.

I await your tug

Her –

A tiny part of me craves the light, I spy it through my telescope, a far off place where people dine on vanilla ice cream the greedy ones have two scoops!

Alone in my observatory, alone that is except for you at my feet, asleep or maybe dead I do not know which. I think that your lead may have got caught up in the mechanism of my chair as I was spinning fast looking out to the far reaches of the universe, for where the people of the light dwell.

They eat their vanilla ice-cream and lick their lips happy. I kick you with my foot to see if you are living or have passed…alive, you and I sit down to eat our ice-cream sundaes with sparklers, sauce, cream and sprinkles. They may have the Light but we have the all the flavours we could ever wish for….but then why are we still hungry?

Him –

I am hungry because you only let me eat when the whim takes you, as you spoon a lickful onto the toe of your shoe. Vanilla makes you smile, strawberry is your way of being kind, chocolate on your shoe for me to clean makes you laugh out loud.

You are hungry because … but it is not for me to say. But I think, because ice-cream is less than a trifle. You control your indulgence, you prefer to observe others’ indulgences sometimes, and this mere ice-cream is not exotic enough. You want ever more imaginative ice-cream, that no-one has had before, you want stardust ice-cream with sunspot berries, mercury ripple and nebula sauce, set in the rings of Saturn. You want it fed to you on a small asteroid.

Here I kneel, thinking how if E=mc2 I can create a cosmic sundae for you, to make you smile all the way through to Fridae

Her –

I give you a desk, an angle poise lamp, paper and a fountain pen…but only limited ink. You can have access to all the books in the world and you have to find what makes me happy. I whizz around the library on movable steps and sometimes fly up to the chandelier and swing whilst I wait your answers. A little bird is trapped in the room and we sit together up high watching you below us.
A Grandfather clock ticks away our day and an hour glass shows time sliding…I am getting tired, bored and cross as I await your equations and formula so that my eternal bliss can start.

I tug your ear and flick you with my ruler, I spit chewed up paper balls at you whilst you work for my amusement…maybe even a chinese burn. Then I sit on your knee, so that you can smell me hot and perfumed, I rock back and forth and knock over the ink. We look at the ink blots and see if an answer can be found there.

Him –

I sniff the air for clues, I watch heat trail as you move, I borrow the telescope to check the titles of the books you gravitate to. I try to learn from Einstein, but all I get is Heisenberg.

My calculations go nowhere. I look at you. I bare my breast for you to target me. Actions speak louder than formulae. I put the paper on the ground, spatter ink like Pollock and roll in it.

I kneel and watch your reactions as you inspect.

It looks like the cosmos to me, but my interpretation is insignificant.

I now I was always bound to fail this test, but somewhere there’s a spark of hope that one drop will have fallen in a way that pleases you

Her –

Come with me, through the top of the world. Our world, through the top of the observatory, it sits on the mountainside like a giant cock, the slit not for cum but for go. The slit, opens, we slide past the old cold brass telescope out out towards the stars…..I want to carry moonbeams home in a jar!

Come with me, lets escape together…I will drag you by the hair kicking and screaming…lets escape where the only cage is the one around your cock to stop unsanctioned fiddling.

Let’s cook. Bitch.

The ink…I peer down with my monocle…I see a teeny tiny love heart. I pick up the paper and kiss the heart, red lipstick obscures it now, an eclipse of kisses that hide the dark love.

To celebrate this tiny moment of happiness – I have you kiss my feet whilst dressed only in your socks and pants.

Come fly with me, I am the pilot and you my trolley dolly – your cart laden with perfume, toys and alcohol in tiny bottles. The plane on autopilot, you are scared as you watch me sleep snuggled up in First Class. Surely, she cannot sleep whilst she is supposed to be at the helm. I read your mind and say “Don’t call me Shirley!”.

Him –

There is only one worse humiliation than being in socks and pants only, and that is being in socks and sandals only. But for you I will do this, and in public, and if I do then the cage around me or my cock will be occupied with pride.

You release me and stand me like a soldier on parade, alongside other soldiers, all taller. You tell us to dance around each other and clash our cocks like swords. I move gracefully, arms outstretched because I understand you. I dance in spirals, my cock gravitating to the others in turn. You know I’m not gay or even bi, but I trust that for you the spectacle or just the power to create it, is erotic and I do my best, ugly as I am. But the others, while they try, do not understand, so I must dance alone, and you anoint me.

I am the boy in Walkabout. You rub sand on my body, sand and syrup, and you write symbols with your finger, lines in the sand, signals that witches know the meaning of, and witches are there to read them and they laugh at their meaning.


About Prim Quim

I am an artist and therapist. I work within the themes of sexuality, repression, guilt, greed, contradiction, objectification, compulsion, itches that need to be scratched and bruises that need to be pressed. I am a consentual bruise presser, a boundary straddler and limit pusher. I interview people and witness their lives, I write about what I see, how I feel and all the beautiful fragments that make up my reality. I am the sum of all my parts - some bits move and other parts are static, some bits need oiling and other bits just run and run. I am both subject and object to myself. I am slave to my Art and so are the others who come into my sphere. I objectify and use, interrogate and examine - I need their reality and reasoning to lay alongside my own to compare, contrast, season and gorge upon. Exponent of automatic writing, compulsive self realisation and daring myself to go further.

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