@R_T_Times: I want to read smut about light having to choose between wave or particle, eventually choosing both and then having a threesome. Except in a Fight Club esque twist, it turns out light is just pleasuring herself in a horribly dark room.
The shadow of the bed is the shadow of the valley of death, and we are lost in it, the three of us, alive. We light each other’s way, the blind leading the blind, taking eyes for eyes. Blind, but alive. existing’s tricky, but to live’s a gift.
We are a revenge tragedy, the three of us, and we are all knotted up within each other. Tangled in the sheets we are one, we are six-legged, six-armed, twelve-limbed, triple-headed. Three faced. Three faced but alive.
We are a revenge tragedy and it will fall to me, because it always does, to make the final cut. To bring the kitchen knife above my head and cut the Gordian knot. I’m no Alexander, trust me on that, at least?
There’s no trust, in the shadow of the bed. We are on the floor because it is too hot to breathe, in this little apartment high high high above the city. We are on the floor tangled in her white cotton sheets. We are on the floor all knotted up and naked, and my hands are across her, and her hands are across me, and her hands are across her. We are inseparable, the three of us, and we do not trust each other a tiny fraction. No trust, but there is love. Because we sans love equals mob.
We are telling jokes in the shadow of the valley of death. There is the dark one, and the blonde one, and me, and I am lying in the middle of them, and we are telling jokes.
-What d’you call a lesbian with big hands?, says the blonde one.
We look at her expectantly, in the dark.
-Well hung, she says.
It takes us a while. We are more innocent than we think we are. We hold up our hands.
The blonde one has the smallest hands. Me the largest. The dark one, somewhere in the middle.
The blonde one makes an indignant face, and runs her hand across my nakedness. Toys with a nipple. Spider-walks herself down and down and down, my involuntary hips moving to her.
-Oi, she says.
-It’s not the size of the boat, it’s the motion of the ocean, I offer.
She looks at me. The dark one looks at me. And then the three of us are properly laughing, tangled on the floor. We laugh and laugh and laugh until we are all out of breath, and then she kisses me.
-I love you, she says.
-Love you too, I say. –And you, I add, before the dark one gets offended.
But the dark one knows I love her.
The dark one and I have known each other since we were babies, and I have been kissing her mouth with its startling white teeth and pink pink tongue since we were old enough to run away from our parents and make daisy chains in the tall grass at the end of the garden. I remember her in all her incarnations, back before either of us had hips or breasts or anything at all. I remember when she kissed Harry P behind the bike sheds and I remember her crying when Harry P kissed Lola the week later. I remember us both at parties, with borrowed fags and borrowed boys with bad haircuts and bad skin and badly cut suits, and after, at her house, taking off her make up for her, naked in the bathroom. I was not a beautiful adolescent, but together we were, perhaps. i like my body when it is with your body. That’s the dark one. That’s the dark one, and I have loved her all my life.
Possibly I am in love with the dark one, but possibly not. It’s very hard to tell. What would I be without the dark one? She is something within me, and every particle of me knows every particle of her. She is my personal time capsule, my fourth dimension, she is my past and my present and perhaps- perhaps she is my future. She is within me: I couldn’t tell you which of my thoughts are mine and which are hers; which memories are mine and which are hers; her long legs tangled with mine, I am shorter and fatter and shockingly white next to her, but I still couldn’t tell you whose limbs are whose. All cats are grey in the dark.
The sin of leaving the dark one would be the greater, perhaps. Unless the greater sin would be to abandon the blonde one, who is everything. My blonder than blondest star. Look at her. Look at her in the shadow of the bed and look at her hair and lips and collarbones. Look at her breasts with their pink tips and her hips and her thighs and the place they meet. Look at the way her feet arch, like little waves. Look at the way she proffers that joke, like a child at a party. Look at the way she kisses me. Look at the newness of her. Look at all the secrets which she keeps and all the secrets to find. Look at her, and know she is everything. She is all the dimensions curled like seashells within themselves, numbers five to eleven, or maybe more, or less. That is how little I know about the blonde one, and that is how much there is to find about the blonde one. She is everything new; she is worlds within herself.
How could I leave her?
Neither of them trust me not to leave them. I don’t trust myself, these Ming vases of girls, who are mine.
In the shadow of the end we are here, together, and the dark one kisses me, claims me, and the blonde one kisses my neck and my collarbone, and she bites. Like a little cat her small hands. She bites me. Purple ring on my collar that will not fade for weeks, and she draws circles with her tongue from my neck to my breast and down and down and down. Her smallest hands. nobody not even the rain has such small hands. I’m leaning against the dark one, my hands in her hair, her mouth on mine, her hands stroking the blonde one’s hair. Like a cat and its owner, and god knows who is in charge with those two, my two.
Suddenly the dark one pulls up the blonde one, by the hair, kisses her mouth. Kisses her vindictively and sharply, bites her lip. They are leaning across me but they are not looking at me. They have their hands on each other’s faces. They are kissing like it’s a war, and I do not know who is winning.
Like a children at a party they will want a winner, and they will look at me for an answer, and flipping a coin won’t do, because it must be fair, and I can’t choose and I can’t choose and I can’t choose. don’t make me choose. the holy miraculous difference between firstrate and second implies nonth inkable enormousness.
No such gulf, between my dark and my blonde; together we are perhaps more beautiful than we will ever be apart, the men who would kill to see us tangled here, all young and beautiful and for a second it is almost as if I am floating, above us all, out of my body, and we are young, and we are beautiful. This morethanme. I am unblind, for a little lucky second.
We are young, and we know everything and nothing: I know everything about good old e.e. and nothing about the science of choice, and the science of breaking hearts, and the science of leaving; but as they kiss their battles if day has to become night this is a beautiful way.
The shadow of the night is the shadow of the bed is the shadow of the end, and from my watchpoint, high above all our bodies naked and beautiful and young I can see the beginning and the end; alpha and omega; the beginning is the word, but the end is science, and exactness, and with the precise movements of the blonde’s fingers spiralling along my stomach, and the precise movements of the dark one’s mouth on the blonde one’s shoulder, and the precise movements of my thumb between the dark one’s thighs, I see that this is just one creature in just one evening in just one world, just three girls in just three dimensions, just three points on a graph that started with the big bang and ends god knows where, in the shadows.
All italics from various e.e. cummings poems. Google is your friend. Go read.
Thankyou @davenight81 for the lesbian joke.