Slime
What the myths and legends don’t tell you about N is how smooth he is. Running your hand along the delicate undulations of his curves is like stroking a peach. There’s gentle fuzz masking a glossy body underneath, made wet and subtly slimy from the walls and crevices of his underwater lair. They don’t tell you he’s luscious, arching and bucking through the waves as the sun reflects off his hard muscles.
I call him N—is that weird? ‘Nessie’ is a name forever linked to the old lady who ran the local newsagent and was an active member of my town’s running club. ‘Nessie’ is an upstanding member of the community who bakes fruit scones each morning to hand out to the old men who pass her shop. My N is not.
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He pushes his large, oak kitchen table against the window, worrying briefly whether the noise will agitate the downstairs neighbors. He climbs on all knees and elbows. Sticking his head out into the golden-hour sunlight, he inhales properly for the first time that day. Someone in his block of flats is cooking a slow sweet tomato sauce and he imagines grating mounds of parmigiano reggiano on top of it. With each pulse of the wind, scents arrive acrid cigarettes, spicy pipe tobacco, a hint of sea salt. It reminds him of living in France, wandering the streets to count how many people wore berets. He’d rented a bedsit with a living room/bedroom/kitchen separated from the bathroom area by an accordion door. Each morning at 5am, he would wake to the buttery scent of pastry being freshly made in the bakery below his room, mingling with M. Morançais’ Gitanes.
When he thinks about sexual awakenings, he knows only stickiness. These are his memories: tripping over in the mud, age 5; the allure of golden syrup on pancakes, age 10; shaving cream slithering between his fingers, age 14; kids’ TV shows with slime and gelatinous liquid pouring onto contestant’s clothed bodies, age 16. He uses baby lotion, massage oil, whipped cream, jelly, and lube. ‘It’s my thing,’ he tells her, and she’s cool with it. She doesn’t know any better.
His heart twangs, and he feels such a strain of nostalgia and sorrow that he has to close his eyes. A number of beats pass. The dog from the flats that back onto his garden barks at its shadow. He carefully props his head on his arms and watches the world turn to dusk.
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I empty the black powder into a 14-liter bucket, give it a shake to settle, then pour in ten liters of warm water. To begin with, the particles clump together at the bottom, a clinging lump of sacred sludge. But, I roll up my sleeves and use my arm to stir, running my fingers through the solution and feeling the delicate flecks trickling this way and that. Whenever I do this ritual, there’s a skulking sense of fear that it won’t come together this time and that the powder will turn to mulch at the bottom of the bucket. This anticipation brings a warmth between my legs that spreads languidly in a triangle sort of way to reach my lower stomach. Two or three minutes later, though, the mixture thickens deliciously, turning from anxiety to lust beneath my fingertips. A warm, oozing slime, as dark and seductive as night. I repeat this twice more: blue bucket, red bucket, black bucket. I line them up like sculptures as they gleam under my dim bathroom lights.
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The sunset looms in orange and black, the same colors as the bumblebee that’s dozily bopping its head against the next window over. He feels refreshed and a little dizzy from the memory of nicotine and lack of caffeine. He slides gently down from the table onto cool hardwood floors. His coffee routine is needlessly arduous because he can’t be bothered to buy a machine. First, he fills his cafetière with hot milk. Then, he pumps the lid up and down frantically to simulate the effects of a foamer. This sometimes works. When enough bubbles exist, he stirs in two level teaspoonfuls of LIDL’s Barista Premium americano mix, followed by two heaped teaspoonfuls of Cadbury’s hot chocolate granules. It tastes like shit. He thinks of her sliding against him, running her hands slickly from his chest to his hips. His arms flare with goosebumps, and his dick is hard.
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I can breathe underwater. N surges towards me with black eyes set back in his skull and shark teeth poised. He dives beneath me before scooping me up in one smooth twist, and I cling. I cling hard. The layer of slime that coats his winding body feels warm like melted wax next to the sharp jolt of the loch. It stays slippery; so do I. If I press myself in a particular way against his back, I know he can rock me into a trance. I don’t like to shut my eyes; instead I let the darkness below the waterline rush me, mixing fear and trepidation into my arousal. It’s the lazy high of being drunk combined with a rollercoaster’s thrill.
This is what I think about alone. Glossing baby oil or lotion down and across my body and lying back on the bed or in the bath, I close my eyes. It’s not just the cold slick against my skin that makes my nipples hard, but also the decadent sense of taboo. My hands glide. Between my legs, I’m hot and silky; the silvery cool of my fingertips sends a current through me.
But it always turns back to soft and smooth human reality: muscles tight beneath skin, bones jutting and sinew, veins, and tendons. And the hard, ribbed thrust of cock.
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What would it be like to fuck the Loch Ness Monster, she’d asked him during a discussion about sexy book trends. He’d pursed his lips, and the fact he was giving it serious thought was one of the reasons she spent time with him.
He’s on the couch now, coffee in one hand, dick in the other, sipping and stroking absentmindedly. An image burns in his mind: her kneeling before him, the luxuriant drip-drip of slime from her hair, the tip of her nose, her tits. Dipping a measuring jug into a bucket, pouring thick liquid down the front of his briefs, and squeezing to feel the strange dichotomy of viscosity against solid cock. He places his hands where she wants them: fingering the divot of her collarbone, brushing her nipples, pressing up and inside of her. Their bodies move together in a debauched interpretation of passion.
He swallows too soon and burns his throat. His flat is quiet and still. He places the still-full mug on the table, grabs some Champagne from the fridge and moves towards the bathroom.
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I’m in plain white briefs, the innocence of normality shoved up against the fringes of hedonism. He empties one full bucket directly into the bath; there’s giggling and bitten lips. I kneel. The temperature is perfect. My weight displaces the liquid, and it sploshes up my knees and thighs. Our outfits match; he looks divine. He steps in with a grace that belies the absurdity of the situation. Is it awkward? Sure. But it’s intimate, trusting and breathtaking.
He dips the jug into the bucket of slime and pours it over me. I’m initially surprised by the warmth, and I gasp as it pools briefly on my head before the weight of it flattens my hair and drips down my face. He looks utterly blissful; I glance down to see he is so fucking hard. The slime continues to trickle down my shoulders and onto my breasts. I rub it in, and it coats my body, slippery and obscene.
It’s my turn with the measuring jug. We press our bodies together and kiss, wriggling against one another and delighting in unreality.
He resists, but I bend to his cock, and swallow him in one long, lush suck. He pulls my hair involuntarily at first, then deliberately, moving my head up and down as slime and saliva mix in the snugness of my mouth. I taste nothing, maybe a hint of synthetic powderiness and the musk of pheromones. While still in my mouth, he grabs the Champagne, pops the cork, and pours it, sparkling, all over us.
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He puts the empty bottle to the side. Gently placing one arm around her waist and around her shoulders, he lies her back in the slime so it almost consumes her. She drips it over her body, reveling in its silvery feel, and she looks up at him for a second. It’s like an arthouse film; everything is in slow motion, and he’s smiling—maybe laughing—with her. He wriggles her briefs down slippery legs, throws them to the side, and then discards his own. Grabbing her hips, he pulls her roughly towards him, slipping easily inside her and spreading slime across his cock, her cunt.
He fucks like an animal; he grabs her tits and presses his face into her neck, where his breath burns her, and sends shockwaves straight to her clit. With strong arms, he lifts her legs to the outer sides of his shoulders, letting go of her. Her hands are in her hair, so their bodies are connected only by three points: two legs and one cock. He thrusts deep, in control but no less carnal.
This, he breathes, is how you fuck the Loch Ness Monster.
He doesn’t let her laugh, catches her intake of breath with his mouth over hers and redirects her mind with his hands back on her body. They glisten over her tits, slide through the sheen and take his cock’s place between her legs.
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He is deft. He’s been here so many times before. But never quite like this. Never with the buzz of fantasies fulfilled, illicit thrills, and keeping himself under control. I savor the sweetness of domination. And when I feel most vulnerable, when I feel the low-key tingles, then the waves of pleasure spreading outwards, the cacophony of hands and lips and dick, my body on fire, he strokes my sodden hair, cups my face and all sense of power drips away. And when I come, it’s with a lazy violence that makes sense. And the only creature I’m thinking of is him.
Photo by Marlene Leppänen