1 – Katherine Sophie – A fly in the lamp

©CCVarieras - Drapeau rouge

©Katherine Sophie

Sarah says:

When we were students and stayed days in a room I would make up her eyes and style her hair endlessly, she would patiently wait like a star on a set. Her natural disarming head moves had subjugated many souls before myself.  

Her grey eyes gleam uncanny like a winter dawn on the Baltic sea, through the mist; when elated she may round them like a nocturnal raptor, if troubled, or teased, she squints them into vivid slits like a startled wolf cub.

With bountiful soft hair of the lighter hues on a sparrow’s plumage I would twine and plait and wreathe in random chignons and crests; she wears her head straight or bows her neck with allure. She’s nonchalant and leggy, gracefully swaying like the weeping willow before the storm, at times subdued like the saucy prayer of a repressed child I cannot tell if she knows how much I want her.

She was born with an amber fair, perfect silky skin she allows me to gaze at and skim over . She is tranquil and bounteous, her tall body frame loosens like she’s been taught dancing since kindergarten. I’ll slave any petty care for her, shampooing, clipping, waxing, blandishing, gossiping, lucubrating, tripping…

In Paris she lived in a small apartment on rue de l’Université, in the house of an infamous writer she had met through Camille, a gallery manager she befriended. She fulfilled the rent spending some afternoons “au naturel” at his apartment covered with precious carpets and stuffed with ancient draperies, crowded with all the world’s art. The highly knowledgeable amateur transfixed by her bare feet on the woven silk. He would take photographs of her in different lights and outfits made out of his collections of stuffs and jewellery; she was good at that, she wouldn’t say much about these sessions, nor would she ask for pictures. I had met Hugo Decharny at Camille Stern’s gallery “L’Etoile Amusée” and he had chatted me up some.

She was also good at concealing her affair with Victor, who gave her the money she needed for her fanciful shopping escapades. He would seem a sore cock of a yuppie, handsome, with a designer’s haircut and a tight collar, lived in what she described as a grey apartment overlooking the river Seine with the likes of Ed Ruscha prints and fake Kosuth neons, the window panes tattooed with phrases like “The world and life are one”, or “Watch how logic takes care of itself”, “The world is all that is the case” he could have been embarrassed to elaborate on, or bland commodities of language in stainless steel Helvetica type. To cover the desperately mundane reality of his life as a money man, he certainly collected the most abstruse Austrian intellectual camouflages and Swiss polish. His lair amused Kate at first, she was the only flower in the pharmacy, until she started to feel she was the open flesh in the morgue. She needed to be intoxicated to fuck him, and he was a quick shooter,  running for a shower as soon as he was done. On the night I finally got in her pants, I explained to her that Victor should kill himself, that she deserved better, and I made her feel that way until morning.

The Beaux-Arts school, where I met her, as exclusive as it might have been, was a beehive of vain pretenders coached by a gang of drooling predators. We were two half German brats were teasing that young audience of egocentric puppets. The cursus having been re-tuned to the neoliberal derivatives, mass communication and deceptive creativity towards the branding of bankable tricks, we two pulled all our efforts to the contrary, helped in that by Camille who promoted surrealism in the private high spheres, supported by Hugo and his seemingly influential network of friends and acquaintances.

The majority of students were into photography and video in the less possibly professional direction way. A sténopé shot of a nude girl on a construction site, blown up to a wall’s size, or a telephone shot of a nude girl passed out on the gritty carpeting of a motel room, or a blurry nude girl in any commonplace and bland setting, those would be the vademecum in search of a minute stool in the cultural network with a bid to enter the speculative merry-go-round. So our daily concern was to avoid the invitations, light or heavy, to be the girl in the eerie pin point focus, Hugo was all as much literary but high-tech and soft-mannered, and rich.

However, there still were teachers with some solid expertise to possibly pass on in drawing, painting, etching, all techniques and even colour,  They were shunned by the hip crowds but we garnered some tricks here and there from their good will. The mantra was that the art was in the business plan, and Victor would elucubrate on that until his clout on Kate wore out.

Being labelled the Mädchen, we stood our course outside of the intense networking going on in the school, After she gave me a desirable arrangement of a rooftop den for a few hours in the gallery, and lured me into her bed, Camille showed me to a very different realm through her trade and a clientèle of connoisseurs unimpressed by the taste of the curators’ posse that runs both the speculation and the institution. I started to participate fruitfully in independent group shows, willing to drag Kate along.

When Facebook started to spread, we put up our profiles, accepting only friends who recommended themselves from known places. It was new fun to post against the school’s main wisdom and google the realms of surrealism. When Hugo gave her a fast connexion, we downloaded quality fictions and pornography which fed our light-hearted debauchery, I was nesting into her big bed after Camille’s white cloud on the Park but still did the week ends at the Gallery and the mistress’ bed; she already lurked over my fairy damsel and seeked Hugo’ influence on his lodger. She wouldn’t try my own feeling, albeit she fiercely ravaged me every Saturday.

We graduated with thanks to the French Republic, looking at the sumptuous monument on the Seine bank across the Louvre as if anyhow we belonged there for years to come, although the historical meaning of the institution was totally obsolete. Our parents could locate their girls on the social map should any question raise, and the sound of the title was specially palatable about girls. My father, I called him Far in Danish, was in New York and sent an elegant check telling me to travel the world, Kate’s mother asked her what she wanted and she would accept some of her father’s money too. She had a younger brother, Simon, who was studying at Humboldt and lived in one of his father’s houses in Kreuzberg, Berlin, My brother, Martin, lives anywhere in America and I do not wish he knew what I graduated in, but that is another long story.

©CCVarieras - Shooting point

©Katherine Sophie

Sarah says:

I never liked Katherine’s friend Annie Loyseau, whom she had met in college at HFBK in Hamburg, musing about a bachelor’s degree before rallying the MBA crowds in Berlin, a bullying bitch of the worst kind. She had come over in Paris and finally convinced her to move back to Berlin, describing an easy scene of never ending parties, sex, drugs and whatever. She started drinking hard liquors and take any sorts of pills Annie would find; a few times they tripped without me and I felt bitter, seeking her faraway eyes the next morning. For the love of Kate I couldn’t have drank but I had not told her why, I understood that as a rupture and felt stupid, back in my room at Camille’s.

The shenanigans went on in rich student’s apartments, hotels and nightclubs; she then avoided me.  In fact Annie wanted her as bait. and pimped her around like fresh fish. After our seasons of playful companionship, she fled and left me feel like an old pair of boots.

I was out in the grey, Camille took pity and introduced me to people, she was sweet and caring and invited me to cry in her bed. She arranged with Hugo the replacement of the lost model and I let myself roll on the silk and undress for the master. The apartment smelled of her. For months I would not use perfume for myself, I would keep her last laundry unwashed in a sheet. When not working at the gallery I stayed for hours in silence and broke in tears when the day vanished. Then I would take endless showers and talk to the water running.

I would surf the networks after my Saint Loup crew, trying not to sound needy to the wholesome hearts I had relied on in that distinctive Swiss boarding school my Far had chosen for me, but Julia Grant my shining knight had flown to California and attended USC at Santa Barbara, they were all discussing their show at Burning Man. Fern Doolin, a gentle poet, came from Cambridge once to console me and we spaced out in the night while he told me the books he would write with all the necessary sexual details; he was a dedicated kisser and he also licked me wide opened for his Shakespearean dagger I knew for long wouldn’t fail. Chamaille Bruand lived in Rome but had family in Paris, he came over and fucked me right on Camille’s bed while she happened to be watching, as she told me later, and got excited for months over us. Eric Chazam, Briffaud Le Mai, Daisy Adair had all been cool partners in many places of the school, I was comforted when they took me in their confidence again. Of the Beaux Arts days all the desirable ones like Gauthier Renart the golden head or Fulgence Rotor, who could fuck for three hours, without any need of lubricant, were away, I did not need any of the others to guess my dismay.

Kate had left behind the suitcase with her sketchbooks, some dating back to childhood. I searched among the pages to recall the sweetness of her, who had left me as a needy punk. Out of rage and desire, I would draw along her drawings, most of them in the abstract visionary manner she had devised from the days in Sylt where a couple of old artists had taken her brother and her in their affection and eventually used them as models. I have seen photographs of slender blond children in the pale northern sunlight.

©CCVarieras - Long shadow

©Katherine Sophie

Sarah says: Katherine called me sometimes in the middle of the night, obviously high on drugs or exhausted of her inebriation. She would not speak to me of any artistic project any more, there were long silences, I felt like she was silently crying. She was out of my reach, she would hurt me too hard… free-wheeling in a milieu I sensed too well around the well-off kids of bankers and swindlers, fooling herself with the twenty-seventh edition of the attitude chic and the oracular phrases any buffoon would gobble to get in her pants, and Loyseau would have made her fuck dogs… she was an innocent token in a vicious ring pitifully marring the beauteous personality I had come to crave for, as if our common cosa mentale had been a mere dolls’ play now nullified into plain vulgarity.

Since the lamentable closing of my fair childhood at the hands of my own admired brother, alcohol looms over every trap I need to conjure; I could not secure her from the corroding gall of the soul, drawing her curious mind towards more mind expanding trips. She would mock my sermons and call me Sarah-bi. Some mornings she brought back hangovers and bruises, a tainted face I would avoid.

Now the rot had a grip on her ghost, she was adrift in a chute of despondency, most of her prime spent unbeknown…

©CCVarieras - Wreckage

©Katherine Sophie

Katherine says: 

It’s a wheel of colours floating in a stardust night pulsating in rhythm with my cold arteries as I clutch to some invisible wet cloth. Draperies of salt spiral as a gaggle of silver wolves race into the gigantic dome I have always known upon this land. Dancing trees turn away and freeze as the pack chase an idea I cast out of my solar plexus. It becomes darker when the trees reveal grimacing faces and round my small body in a pond of chilled water, I know them, what they sell and what they want. I want to poke my nails into my palms but my fingertips are soft, clipped away, childlike. Over my heavy head, the swans loom and derive away from the mighty ghost who shed some black dust on my face and mouth when the shivering troupe of fast hunters return and they go back to their eerie standstill.

Different moons reveal blue tatters of the melting landscape and sodium-lit cities float over my trembling body when a burst of shredding cries follow the soaring swans into the needle I feel in my arm.

A new dry sheet is pulled under me with slow care, warm hands hold me as I feel my body being washed with lukewarm perfume, tenderly wiped and caressed and licked as I fall back into the wheel of iridescent visions. Cliffs of gold part away as I am strapped on the moving sand, the cohort of runners jump over over me and flog a deadly chord of pain in my chest.

Hugo says:

I was hurt by the unforeseen flight of Katherine, but I found myself alone with Sarah, and it was not too difficult to persuade her to stay in the place; Camille came over more often. Still I miss the unfathomable grey eyes, the lazy moves like a wreck abandoned to the tide, the slow flood of the loosened hair, I have inspired albums of her.

Sarah is a tall delicate pageboy, her narrow pale face framed in short black curls, neat eyebrows over deep nested porcelain-blue eyes, she is quite the opposite of Kate whose disarming smiles shimmer like nuggets in a stream, Sarah is like the unsophisticated pixie in a pair of tight jeans, she is worldly and yet candid, lean and yet sensuous, whirling and unerring on her fidgety feet. Raised on high grounds, overseen by benevolent powers, she has been through rich domains and exclusive arcades, she is the most resilient goblin I have ever cuddled.

I was shy around her at first, asking very little and pretending to be busy with the photo equipment, but soon I basely profited from her distress and obtained more from her than I did from her lost accomplice. She let me unravel her willowy and lithe body as passively as a sleeping patient, and she looked at me in the eye when my hands started to rummage further. She is the perfect model, I asked Camille to style for me and came what should, and better.

©CCVarieras - Light glare Sarah

©Katherine Sophie

Katherine says: 

Wild geese in the pink skies though the giant eye pulsating over my body; they circle my bare island chased by the distraught wolves running in the frozen sand. Black stealth skiffs on the low sharp waves carry dark figures brandishing lanterns with pinpoint eyes against the swift grey horde yelping at the sky. I lay cold and senseless, my hair spread into the sand and my mouth dry and salty.  The big white måger gulls rummage my sheets but I can tell they want my eyes, fishermen know that; I could chase them with the sounds I learned but my throat feels like a dead flower. Veils of blood hurry from all edges recapturing the flocks of geese into spiraling black clouds.

The wolves are chasing the gulls away , they sit on my legs and lap my feet and lick my breasts and I rummage into one’s fur with my nose until the need to sneeze causes me a shrieking pain and I jump.

My breath is fast and my heart drums. A grey shadow filters through my swollen lids, feminine voices swish around, a warm cover is pulled over my legs and body, a gentle hand stretches my right arm and caresses some puncture traces down a vein, softly taping the thin sin before securing the perfusion tube in place.

I need to deny something but my words flee and I cannot find my voice. A fresh lavender towel is applied to my forehead while she holds my hand on my stomach. A drinking straw is slid into my lips and after some doubt I drink like an exalted child.

She says how it all happened, an airbag is like an elephant suddenly sitting on your face, it broke my nose but it has all been fixed and that’s why I am still tripping but otherwise I am safe and my blood is faultless, there I feel a caress in my palm. I breathe I need valium because I am in withdrawal, she asks my dose and says no more.

The sun is dancing again over my horizons, the gulls are high, Simon and me rest naked on the clean sand.

©CCVarieras - Bitume©Katherine Sophie

Sarah says:

Katherine has stopped calling and wouldn’t answer my messages nor appear in the wired social pandemonium. Camille went to Berlin and tried to get hold of Annie, nothing, phone, mail, tweets, texts, nothing. She probed around the night scene, arty hangouts and hip water troughs; she posted messages without a nibble in return.

On our paths to glory, we have always together projected exuberant accomplishments, experimented mental topographies and sensual geographies but we still ignore each other’s safe code beyond the mutual elation of the dazzled bodies. I have had her many exalted ways in diverse galaxies but here and now I do not know where to look, and I long for the essential presence I put in her.

Strings of odd happenstances along the stream of our living friendship have imprinted that irrational expectation I keep of truth in her. The thought of her spawns in the carrousel of my daily thoughts at such distinctive moments that I simply have to accept she is alive in me.

Today, pain draws down my throat when I try and guess her whereabouts and wish Camille read the stars for us all over Berlin. Under my eyelids, there always was an echo of Kate which now feels diffracted and blurred. My mindscape is a forest where silence and shivers frighten the herd of me under the blue shrubs and the well itself withholds its notes.

©CCVarieras - Broken twigs

©Katherine Sophie

Katherine says:

In this hospital no one knows anything about what became of Simon, nobody asked for me in any manner, I’m leaving, he’s dead, I killed him.

My eyes are circled with dull yellow and brown rings and I cannot wear shades because of the big mask over my aching nose. I cry stupidly all day at the window, I see hundred of identical windows. My phone is inert. I have never felt as sad as I realize, seated on the loo wearing the hospital blouse opened on my ass.

That morning, I collect a few senses and ask to go home. A woman doctor with big appealing brown eyes tells me I could stay a little more, until the mask is removed, but I say I will get care wherever in Berlin. She says I even have no clothes to wear and I should call home.

Finding some nerves I convince the floor nurse to let me use her computer to order a pair of jeans and stuff from Amazon express, I beg someone washes my hair but it may not happen until next morning.

It’s rainy and cold as the taxi takes me to the station. I buy a mouse grey scarf that smells of candy and watch a whole new landscape of pain and sorrow unroll its endless remorse.

Hugo says:

Sarah agonised, Camille tricked her way into Katherine’s apartment but it is empty. They were as riven. I will call my friend Wolfgang to see if he could discreetly check on her or send a bloodhound on her tracks.

Last evening I showed Sarah my collection of Katherine pictures, she was more affected than she would have thought and asked me to hold her feet as she wrapped herself in silk. She fell into a troubled sleep and I took pictures of her poor soul with and without Kate’s photos, with the robe closed and not.

©CCVarieras - Moorings

©Katherine Sophie

Camille says:

The caretaker at Bürknestrasse has seen her go and heard the name she gave to the taxi, it is a mental institution outside of Berlin. They will not communicate through the phone, so I will call Wolfgang and we will go there. At least she would be taken care of, although no one likes the idea of a Nervenklinik.

I camp in the tidy clean apartment, it feels like someone has hunted all traces and left an immaculate trash can. It smells like a dull nursery. The weather appends the sad hues of stormy skies to my anguish when I stroll along the mundane avenues of East Berlin. I pray whatever burns in my soul for Katherine’s salvation. When it rains, it feels like a foolish answer to my mauled mind, like a healing kiss of Sarah’s, three times I wish she knows a reason to hope and beams on my heart now.

©CCVarieras - Scraps

©Katherine Sophie

Katherine says: As the Doctor in Hamburg had prescribed, I go a few times at La Charité to have my touchy rebuilt nose freed and wear wide sunglasses. I cannot think, I drink tea and eat white rice, whatever is left in the apartment’s closets, some prescription drugs, Valium.

I cannot answer the phone, only will I talk to Sarah who still has never enough of me, who has not yet guessed the grievous truth. I disabled my online accounts, I discard messages, I read Simon’s last mails at any time.

I stand for hours under the shower like a somnambulist freak, the fresh new face in the mirror feels like a mockery, emaciated and pale and certainly desirable. In the distressed bed, I conjure images of laughter bursts in the sand dunes, Simon’s sun-bleached hair and the golden field of his tanned chest, I masturbate like a poor wreck and wake up drooling on the pillow.

I can’t give up Valium, my five o’clock tug  that will never let itself be forgotten, but I have lost any taste for any other load, any trip would smell like suicide on a sidewalk downstairs. I don’t really know whom, but even as despicable as I see myself, I still wouldn’t impose to those I love the image of a dirty death. I remember when we had a craze at school for Francesca Woodman and finally they would not let her mother see her dead, what did she smell like?

Alas, let others decide, I have done all washing, cleaned the place and filled a bag, called a cab to go to that Clinic for lost souls like me. I wear no makeup and I cannot stand anyone stare at me.

©CCVarieras - Wrapped

©Katherine Sophie

Sarah says:

Camille has called from Berlin, she forced her way into the clinic but Katherine hardly greeted her, she was a pitiable mess and the ward staff unsympathetic. The place was vaguely vacant, the management elusive. She’s going back with a lawyer tomorrow.

What is she doing there? Has she blown her stack in public or tried to kill herself? Are the judges not supposed to rule any such internment? Most probably she has understood she’s addicted to some harrowing plague and kept just the necessary will to ask for an escape. She knew perfectly the crazy scope of available poisons, which ones you can not even try; furthermore she has a phobia of needles.

Hugo says:

They found Katherine in some nut house she committed herself in and where they keep her under. Wolfgang will help to put some pressure so they let her out, he is looking for a proper therapist or some trustworthy help of that sort, he keeps an eye on the Annie Loyseau girl, who is not unknown to the drugs scene. I arranged for Camille to stay in Berlin for a while.

©CCVarieras - Linea d'umbra

©Katherine Sophie

Camille says: It was an artistic abduction. We ran with a half-high Katherine while Wolfgang’s friend was questioning the direction of the place, taking back any papers she might have signed and the prescriptions she was on. It appeared Katherine’s father wasn’t stranger to the situation and had agreed to get his daughter straightened. She cried incoherently until night, I held her in her sleep. I had locked the doors of her apartment.

We woke up very late and all dressed up. We undressed and hugged under the warm shower, washing each other’s hair like considerate animals, her body was still doleful but for a while she responded to coy caresses, then we fought each other’s long curls with endless heed; I playfully snipped her toenails, rubbed the pumice stone on her soles and massaged her beloved feet with some face moisturiser that had been there.

©CCVarieras - Landing

©Katherine Sophie

Hugo says:

I asked Sarah to run to Berlin and help Camille there, hopefully to listen indefinitely to the poor soul. As a blue knight she cleaned her mind of all rancour and flew.

According to a reassuring Wolfgang, Dr Schubert would accept to see Katherine and offer a one time hypnosis exploration of Katherine’s knots and blocks, after a complete diagnosis, all in one or two days. With support from her two chaperons she might overcome her terrors and address the inner void by herself without randomly erect some kind of mind scaffolding for twenty years and more.

She cannot have told the whole tale, called for available help, shame and guilt have clogged her phrases as much as diverted chemicals and alcohol. Around here at Château Demarny she felt valiant and immune, but she was eventually left naked and bereft clinging to the gossamer link towards Sarah’s phone.

©CCVarieras - Palissade

©Katherine Sophie

Katherine dreams: 

I am laying on the floor in a moving limousine and some heavy person is sitting on my chest, my hair is pulled by a grimy little girl with one eye missing, the bottom of a brown mouse showing in the orbit while the mouth moves making no sound. The engine of the car sounds like a spastic bass guitar. I am paralysed. Annie and her pierced-tattooed trolls pile car tyres upon my arms then suck and bite my breasts with black lips. The one sitting on me turns around and shows a greasy face with blood-injected eyes, he smiles, opens his mouth and a smaller pale face spurts in it, grinning with sharp yellowish teeth. They spread my legs opened and she fetches a full syringe of a blue liquid to inject in my vagina while laughing. The lower part of my body falls through the car floor and slides away on the road among pitbull dogs and enormous Nordsee geese stained with motor oil. One of the thugs with a bare pulsing purple brain searches my mouth with two fingers, while I feel firecrackers along my spine. Another vilain is fucking me, his belt and lots of shiny weapons hitting my chest. Each of his pulls in me sends red lanterns on both road sides and the engine gets a rhythm. I see my pleasure as fractal glittery stains on the black car roof and I cum abundantly on the road which is covered with stars. Annie has raised her fur coat and is fucked in her behind by the one-eyed girl and her long narrow red penis. The filthy monster keeps her face towards me, she has a piece of coal where the mouse was. She plunges her hands into Annie’s rump and extracts black lumps she throws at my crotch in a frenzy. The car becomes a night club where pink horses paw around a bed where I lay wide opened for black man wearing sunglasses; he slaps me while I feel his strokes to my heart. Someone forces his way to my throat and my eyes revolve inside my own skull filled with red earth and lightning bugs. Music beats into my bones and the rhythm stings my nipples. Annie vomits plastic roses and black wood shavings, shes tied to a horse and hairy men fight for her butt. Donning high-heeled silver shoes, I run to a mirror door and see myself nude with a large rose between my legs dripping black tears, the door and many others along the wall open and Annie appears in a black crotchless outfit, chasing bubbles in her syringe filliping her finger on the tube before stearing my vagina-rose, and from all the doors in the rounding room crop up the drooling crew with other syringes to puncture me. Two, three baby girls with rats nibbling their right eye gather around my head as I try to shout and they wave small syringes aimed at my mouth as Annies points with a black varnished nail under her tongue to a swarming abscess of purple maggots. Again I collapse inside my own sight down a warm and moist shaft filled with medusa strings that snuggle over my skin and give me electric chills in the womb with the pulse of the bass motor. A black leather bat with one yellow and blue eye grips my nipples and grows a scarlet prick on my face to the shrieking staccato of trumpets. The car sways in a hoard of pink horses with blue eyes which mimic kisses to me as I suck on the phallus deep to my stirring throat and swallow warm flint nodules until my stomach peals over the engine drone in an orgasmic fullness; I belch out garlands of madder petals and tongues and breathe a perfume or stench of gillyflower or motor oil, Annie plunges her hands into my stretched mouth and catches violet fish laughing, I have wings of opalescent colours and fly around giggling light bulbs with her sitting on my face kissing the tall crow black athlete who fucks me frantically.

©CCVarieras - Angles

©Katherine Sophie

Hugo says:

I have been fiddling with an unexploded bomb. I certainly did not see anything coming, or did I even pay attention? She was always lively, a bit moonstruck, so much like the girls in my Stangl’s pictures… What would it be when I see her again?  Was it only an accident, or a damn free fall to an end, to the unavoidable? As long as she was in my game she was safe, warm and clean for very little expense of her shine and no bond. Out there on the scene , booze, coke, dust, whatever and a bitch for a mentor, she went as fast as a daisy to the dump and she is broken for ever.

On my life, I have seen wreckages and disheartening annihilations of glorious beings I had burned for, treasures so lively one would forget to breeze in their wake, before alcohol corroded their pearly glow or opiates sucked in the colours of a willing flesh.

No, it could not happen so fast to our Katherine of the silky dawns, promise of the perfumes and songs, milk of the stars in the haze of a perfect peace. I will not mourn you as long as you breathe, no matter what it takes.

©CCVarieras - Naufrage

©Katherine Sophie

Sarah says:

The three of us in the Berlin apartment, the confidence is building again as it may look. It  is in a nice red building in a quiet street of Kreuzberg, it belongs to her father  Camille and I take turns to the shops or order food, we fear the flock of Loyseau’s.

At night, in the light of candles, she talks endlessly about the accident she had, and all the insufferable consequences she has to face or die. There are tears all over our shirts, in our hair. Camille and me let our natural familiarity regain her healing body as if it was the only cure to her desperation, we drink more tears than kisses, we spend our lust treasures on her ultimate abandon until victory and collapse on the brimful couch.

She read laboriously online about Dr Schubert, she’s beginning to like the idea, if we all go together and we wait for her. She has been infantilised by her plan at the clinic but we team flawlessly around her beloved head. She needs to ease off her addiction, I write down the countdown of the daily drops in the glass of water in her organiser and mine, one less every two days, and she drinks the first glass looking at me.

©CCVarieras - Edge

©Katherine Sophie

Camille says:

Hectic morning, Mrs Mother came to the apartment and attempted to talk with her mad daughter. Very impressive cries jumbled and befogged all bid for a consoling word, Katherine was out of her wit and cried like a demented wreck on her way to the bathroom where she locked among her sobs.

Mrs H. took to herself, touched our hands and whispered a plight to be given some news before she calmly walked. Sarah and me were impressed by the lady’s cool, but Kate is a big girl, after all, isn’t she?

©CCVarieras - Creepers

©Katherine Sophie

Hugo says:

Mrs Mother’s visit was probably a natural move, Katherine has never complained about her mom, who loved them generously. Also, I wonder why an insurance company or even the police didn’t question her about the accident since her brother died in it.

First things first, I trust Dr Schubert to re-tune her bruised soul so her long time partners can help her.

©CCVarieras - Boxwood pathway

©Katherine Sophie

Camille says:

We took a cab to drive Katherine to Dr Schubert’s in Dahlem. We were introduced to a very quiet old man to whom we asked if we could wait whatever time it would take. He nodded and invited Katherine into his study behind double doors. He left us in a large room full of books with big German leather settees. I looked for art books and found old ones with sepia illustrations. Sarah soon took a desirable nap.

Sometime later an old lady came silently and offered us coffee and cookies in English china. Time stretched, we did not find any conversation to share, as if we both tried to hear through the walls. At the end of the afternoon, the double doors opened and Katherine walked in with a pure smile, we both cried. Dr Schubert said softly he waited for us next afternoon.

Victor Hugo - Aiguille rocheuse

Victor Hugo – Aiguille rocheuse

Sarah says:

This morning Katherine was up first, distant and focused on her decision. She made coffee for us all, warmed some scones and played with the thin thread of honey at the breakfast table. We did not say much, the whole apartment was quiet. The whole city was numb.

Under the table I nagged her toes with mine, then she rummaged my morning curls and drew me to the sofa for a long leisurely embrace, begging me to keep her. I have ways of asserting my faith, silent songs at the tip of my childish nails… our heartbeats in calm resonance. Camille looked upon us as if we were an art work and took the bathroom first.

The ride to Dahlem was smooth, we were greeted with a pensive nod and the double doors closed. “That’s it!” we briefly said, that’s it. With only the tiny noises of our own clothes, we searched the library again. Camille showed me a heavy album of Victor Hugo’s drawings and paintings, a capharnaüm of monsters and chimeras carved out of ink stains and apparent rivers of tears, magically rendered by old heliography, it fitted so well my fantasy of what was going on in the next room that i rested in that book for the whole duration of whatever it was and took notes. Camille went into reading Achim von Arnim she had brought in French.
By mid-afternoon Katherine was back from the sanctuary, with her Baltic look sprinkled with funny crumbs of sunlight. We warmly expressed our gratitude to Dr Schubert who took our hands and kept them, he asked me about my father and family then peered into my eyes and whispered that she trusted me.

The return ride was silent, a lavish twilight cuddled bustling Berlin, Katherine wanted me to hug, she kissed me, I cried.

Victor Hugo - Le Burg de Hugo Tête dAigle

Victor Hugo – Le Burg de Hugo Tête d’Aigle

 

Hugo says:

Insisting with Wolfgang I finally had a quasi-oracular conversation in English with Dr Schubert who did not want to know my full name. Metaphorically he conveyed a positive message about the faculty of someone to recover a functional personality through intimate work. He did not believe in the orthodox cure which is an endless addiction only good for the complacency of the rich. He referred me to his books for further knowledge of his developed method, making his unwillingness towards me sound clearer until I backed off.

Katherine has plenty of intellectual tools and gifts to conjure the demons of her guilt. He said she would be counting on me because I had impeccably earned her trust, as well as the two friends who had brought her to his house, and that was the best chance she had in her life. I was deeply impressed by his words spoken quietly without any trace of academic pontification, I was moved and reached for my best photographs of her.

When I called the Berlin apartment, Camille answered. She said she did not know what to think yet, Katherine spoke sparsely but she looked very good, her grey eyes right into yours, with lots of smiles. Sarah was washing her hair, they were lovers again, kindly, like baby animals. Katherine had wished for music, they were a happy company.
I pulled my proposition of moving everybody back to Paris. Anyhow two of them had lives here. I could help, it was the least I should do, I could open rooms for nesting them. Camille liked that, she said she would watch for the right moment to tell Katherine.

©CCVarieras - Lost and found

©Katherine Sophie

Camille says:

There we go! Cleaned the apartment as if forever, rented a big car, piled it with Katherine’s stuff, sneaked ourselves in and drove a thousand kilometres through Wupertal where we slept like a brood of quails in a motel by the road.

With the humming and rocking of the car we all became very talkative. Sarah told us of her big brother who had sneaked every night in her bed since she was twelve and was never caught, but never got her pregnant either, she laughed finely about it, said he went away to an American college and never talked to her again, probably thought she would not remember.

I told them how my uncle made love to me when I was thirteen in the family house in Arcachon and I had a terrible year after that being obsessed with being some sort of slut while my breasts grew, and a dance teacher in high school put me back together out of pure dedication, not even trying to get in my leotards.

The three minds heating up, Katherine sank through her guilt and told her brother had been a true companion, they played long hours in the dunes of Sylt, or the nooks and crannies of the family home. They invented the map game, when their minds were scattered enough, one would give a body part a name, pointing a finger on it, say the ear lobe “Singapore”, the other would point another part “Mumbai” and so on, and depending on the wind of the moment, the fingers would point on more and more intimate parts until the end of the sequence went “Potamus”, “Washington” and they would start to twiddle the jewels  and unleash the lips and tongues like puppies…

There was a sad illumination on her face and it was quickly washed away. Sarah crawled clumsily over the backrest of her seat and spread tight wings on the torn puppet sobbing amongst the bales of rags.

©CCVarieras - Golden tears

©Katherine Sophie

Katherine remembers: It’s been a long evening chatting in a café with other students and we are all a bit drunk. to put an end to an argument, I rest my head on Sarah’s lap next to me on the bench. As my detractor goes on, I turn my head towards her and start to nose the warm corduroy under a cashmere sweater. It smells of an autumn fawn, chamomile and poplar leaves. Under the table’s frame she acts as if I had passed out and caresses my head, undoing my bun and letting me earn millimetres towards her fly . So then I feel quietly elated, and when the conversations die I make her feel I will not budge from her small tepid grove. From my unrolled curls, her hand creeps a few jolts down my collar and nests on my sleepy doves.

Never before had I met  such a free harmony of desire and satisfaction outside of the crystal ampoule of Simon and me. When the café closes we dare act like lovers on the way to her room. As if we had dropped some kind of pills, all my senses find her ready, she takes every bit I spill until we pass out for good in a ravage of smells.

How could I betray my own perfect little cloud and lay myself shortchanged by a reckless bully of a blonde? Are coarse chemicals only to blame for such a fast drift to the deadly shores where they pulled me from? Am I such a slut at deep or was I very simply played like a foolish mare with a butthole? Wasn’t she pimping me for dope?

I used to mock Sarah’s refusal of alcohol, vomiting sick when she tried to stay with me and a bottle; I think I see the wound now, what should I care for another intoxication than a gracile body like hers freely available?

Hugo says:

The girls are back upstairs, we get along tastefully, they are in love and we all like that. My writing goes pretty well. Sarah moved in, the bed is wide. I told Katherine to order supplies, paper, pencils, colours, whatever. Camille joins them at night and I can hear their voices from the staircase until very late, they keep to themselves, except for a few exquisite visits to my Herekes carpets, alone or together. I know more of Sarah than Katherine now and I use it to dare my hands and lips on her. From my coffers I unearth accessories like leather and pearls, real or fake jewellery, silks and laces cleaned and ready to half-cover my perfect models; Sarak wears the harness like a 1920 Berliner tomboy, Katherine wakes up pearls like a stream on sand and their kiss is the untold poem I hope I will write.

Katherine told me she recalls feelings of her holidays in Kampen, on the island of Sylt, where an old couple of artists welcomed her and Simon on rainy days, giving them tricks of craftiness in drawing and painting, waffles and hot cocoa. She gathers a new set of her references, keen for Sarah’s approval.

©CCVarieras - Kiss

©Katherine Sophie

Sarah says:

So many ways I love Katherine, in the afternoon I will find her on the ground, in a trashed sweatshirt, drawing in a notebook or reading. She will accept my foot massages and more, she says it took some time to understand she had missed me so deep and hurt me with her sick phone calls, she says she should have died too but then she begs for a furious kiss in my distraught and eager mouth.

Suddenly, she wonders about her father, her family, her grandparents, but it sounds she doesn’t really need the answer now, she says she will google them later…

On the ground floor of Hugo’s house there is a gym room of generous proportions, with lots of contraptions and music and a large shower. There we exude layers of anxiety and practice a groovy kind of osteopathy on each other, sometimes with Hugo who feeds some guilt towards the flexing machines he once installed there.

©CCVarieras - Crooner

©Katherine Sophie

Camille says:

We spent evenings with downbeat musics of the whole spectrum, trying not to startle the elephant in the rather small room. When words lacked, Sarah invaded the laid land of Katherine’s skin and we confiscated all fabrics piece by piece on the creeping path towards the bed. We had to look out for signs of lazy acceptance from her maimed will to unleash our flocks of lively touches along her veins. She whimpered mildly and occasionally escaped into a dream like a defeated child.

Hugo wanted me for lunch, we went to the Musée d’Orsay’s roof. He wanted to talk about Katherine’s new way of work, unexpected burst of imagery after years of what he had considered opportunistic snobbery and puerile conformism… only that? I told him that in my view, the rush of forms wanting to happen was a huge opportunity in Katherine’s accomplishment, the heavier the load, the more precious the outcome… at first it would appear as regression but her own real drive was squat in these bushes, to hell with nefarious academia!

Dr Schubert had done a stunning job with her, now she needed security and space to grow her intimate menagerie into an oeuvre, eventually. Moreover, her frantic need of Sarah’s mothering was blooming into a wealth  of creative intuitions galaxies apart from the depressing contemporary scene. Hugo should seize the gift that was offered him and basely profit from an exceptional conjunction of all planets; over and above he would seal the tale into poetry.

He kept silent, realising I was asking him to become Katherine’s protector a little more than he had let. Casually speaking, I spoke of examples in the gallery’s group of artists and he contemplated the commitment at stake, shrugged briefly and said he would offer the same welcome to them both.

He then said he was buying space to his house in which a large attic would make a beautiful studio for the two pixies if they were to stay with him, and in the future open the way to another yard and another street. He would commission his architect for a fast job.

He asked me to seriously supervise the girls’ progress and make enough to give them a social status, even if it meant funnelling money through the gallery. Over Paris strolled an armada of nimbus clouds as big as hope; he was caressing my foot as he had always, our heads tilted back together in delectable connivance.

©CCVarieras - Gardening

©Katherine Sophie

Hugo says:

The girls are still asleep upstairs, the talking has boiled until dawn, as it should. Camille is discreetly grateful about the attic, I am so lucky I had this opportunity, thanks to my influential friend Melchior.
We will all go to Venice next week, the Sanvios lend me their house, we will scrutinize the Biennale thoroughly for it is always fun, put apart the damage done to art as a whole under the conspiracy of witch doctors and philistines, speculators and curators. It should be good therapy, setting Katherine back on her track, exciting the verve she drummed when at school.

I break in the pixies’ lair, scent the rich bouquet of luscious humours, peep over the brimful nest of the bed where the three of them show a haphazard festoon of pale skins; in the small kitchen I start the biggest coffee maker and call downstairs for some croissants and brioches.

Camille doesn’t cover herself when she emerges first at the coffee whistle; she grumbles sweetly and sits on my lap when two cups are filled. My maid Lena never shows surprise when she uncovers my intimacy, so she disposes the basket of fresh pastries and flees. Like a bewildered crane in a scarf of haze, Sarah peeks behind the jamb and grins, then considering Camille is nude, she tiptoes in and shows her butt at the coffee counter, then perches on a stool smiling, calls Katherine for feast.

She has put on a vague camouflage nightshirt and her hair is over her face as she mumbles we pulled her from a dream where Dr Schubert was the rabbit with the gold watch. Sarah seizes her from behind and presses her head on her shoulders, massaging her flat stomach. In an effort to drink coffee, Katherine eases off and looks around smiling.

©CCVarieras - A dwelling

©Katherine Sophie

Katherine says: Hugo has the new attic redesigned for us, teams of workers take another staircase in the building or the next; he would arrange a bigger place if we want two bedrooms but we do not wish that, do we? As long a we can live at this comfortable address, our family trust funds suffice for our whims and rhapsodies. Like the wonder days in Hamburg again after a failed soar like the bird in the mirror. My broken beak still hurts slightly so Sarah softly applies one of Hugo’s ointments which smells of honeysuckle with the tip of her sacred fingers. She hasn’t yet told me of her whole life and she’s far too nimble for a little girl. I know there is a dark flag in the distance but she has overcome its shadow, she stands in the wind like the arrow in the bow, like a wolf on the shore, and I watch her, from a crib of peat.

Camille says: 

And Hugo ensnares both fairies in his castle of moonstone with no excessive expense of philosophy, as he always did, I may say. I wouldn’t have foretold a seamless harmony of the two vivid natures after years of casual comradeship, or was there always water running under the moss?  He has the demonic spell to untie the sensuous accordance from where they hid. I have myself spent both of their magic quite rashly without ever rending any dream in them, as he subdued their gentle souls along with mine and others in the wonder realm.

Marie de Chasseline is your diminutive renaissance princess, her head would nest readily in Katherine’s neck like in a velvet wing. She has a gracile figure and the most beautifully slender hands and feet, she sleeps like a cat under the bed sheets. She doesn’t really know the two lascivious damsels and I am quite lickerish to bring her near their turbulent bed. We brought fruit, plump cherries, wild strawberries, blueberries, blackberries and they have arranged a playful parterre of shimmering food bites.

Sarah says:  Marie wears raw leather sandals, she’s shy as a little girl as Camille introduces her. She glows a disarming charm with her big golden eyes and hair, she smiles on pearly rounded teeth and blushes when I kiss her, holding her closer than she expected, but stays with a tiny movement of the chin, turns to Katherine and find herself surrounded by rose and neroli so she swings her hips, she embraces Kate’s neck and kisses her full mouth. Camille stomps for amusement and shouts no time has been lost!

Katherine has concocted fruit juices as light as Marie’s wings as she sits on Camille’s lap and I untie her shoes to massage her feet as if nothing; I soon have a glimpse she wears nothing under a simple lemon chiffon pleated frock.

We talk about Pavel Filonov who is on display at the Karolina Gallery on his use of mental colours as opposed to “retina porn” as Kate says; fuzzing the vision in times of Rodchenko rule was an ultimate response, a desperate predication of whatever the free mind calls a soul. Marie brought us a heavy book of his and between the need to kiss for thanks and manipulating carefully the precious present, deft shenanigans occur and leave the honey girl unclad.

Marie asks for the bathroom so I hasten to show her and stay as she pees and unbutton me down her hair suddenly smells like a baby antelope some girl kept in Mombasa where I was with my dad on one of those unreal days he wasn’t away in the wind. She licks my petals as gamely as a bumble bee, but I want a taste of her wet little undine when the others call us cheaters so we run for the bed and dare them to swim till us.

Camille wants me, she pulls my ankle and opens my thighs while Katherine enfolds the blondinette and covers her smile with mad peckings. Camille is so skilled at breathtaking me that I throw my arms over my head and let myself elapse into the blue. After a grand peacock trippy vision with a blast to my solar plexus I see Kate’s fruit offered while she frazzles the tiny golden fleece of the new lost shepherdess available, so I close the ring of our lewd society at the limen of my fairy’s wealth whereas Marie glides her hand into the dripping small scoundrel that teased her.

Katherine mumbles:  Snow is falling on the moonlit dunes, three blue wolves are lying low watching me  hooked in tatters at the thorns of a large rose bush. I wonder how the snow doesn’t touch the flowers which smile at me. Bells garble away at sea along with the plaints of gulls in long dotted ribbons. Achim speaks to the wolves when they rock their heads and yap; he wears a bright white shirt and tight black pants and horse riding boots. I need to call him but my shout stays inside my empty skull. He leads the herd to the Hindenburgdamm where a train hurls away in a cloud of silver flags. I fall on the sparkling sand as a wad of torn paper when Achim comes back holding a lunge whip he snaps and set fire on me as the wolves lick me all over and I see Sarah pointing her tongue in my eyes and mouth squeezing my neck and I shout her name like a helpless castaway.

They upturn and tear me apart, I call Simon… thus they stop their maneuvers at once and Sarah holds my head and I feel small and disconsolate, softly caressing my forehead while somebody massages my feet with heavenly science. I listen to their breaths and feel Camille snuggled on my back. The skies hover again around the dunes, swans gather around the lost blue sweater of my little brother, I let go and cry again and again.

I snort and sniff and grab Sarah’s neck and shoulder, begging for a hanky, a towel, a mop… Marie runs and fetch fresh wet facecloth and towel and pat me gently. My eyes must be red and swollen, I try to make fun of myself, catch the three pairs of shoulders and ask them if they aren’t hungry, after all?

Marie says:

As Camille had told me, there is a wonder unwinding between the two big girls here. We rejuvenate each other in the tub then Sarah pees on me and retributions ensue ending in a minute cleansing with adventurous fingertips. But when dry we agree on devouring the talented cuisine they ordered at Remy’s, the vegetarian wizard, bites of antipasti meet sushi made easy for nude guests at a slumber party.

Katherine is recovering from her grim trip, her head on Sarah’s lap who is combing her hair all around and feeds her small beakfuls. Sarah’s short dark buckles stand up like a little boy’s mane as I frisk into them and make her look like an Adonis; there is such a quiet focus in her look that I suddenly wish it was for me. Sneaking under lush black eyelashes glint vivid sapphires and I tell her they bewitch me so she gives me a good look and a very wet kiss, then go back to the Princess’ long curls.

©Katherine Sophie - Returning

©Katherine Sophie  – Returning – @katherine-sophie

Sarah says: 

There’s a boy, Mars, my age on an island of the Ertholmene archipelago near Bornholm who lives in a Royal Danish tower. His hair is sun bleached and the skin of his neck is as dark as a violin; he smells like fern.

I was staying with one of my father’s cousin Björn von Skaer in the yellow restored barracks of the Marine where he had been an admiral. These old folks had lost all practice of teenagers so I was most of my time free along with Mars in the brush and rocks. He was kind and brilliant, he wore shorts and I would peep into his briefs. He mocked my thinness when he grabbed my hips to help me climb a wall or a rock. He said I looked like a film actress.

One fine day he told me we should borrow a boat to reach the foot of the cliffs and bathe unseen, there was no other way to approach the real sea. He showed some conviction so I agreed to go with him the next day.

I came early in my baggy jeans I had stolen from my brother, a marinière shirt and trashed sneakers. His shorts let beautiful tanned sinewy legs and feet appeal for wild lust. We clambered along an indistinct pathway to the remote berth of a small blue bark he pulled against the ledge; we jumped on board, he unfastened the mooring buoy and fetched a pair of oars.

Mars rowed steadily and soon dropped the shirt as I sat in front of him at the stern bench, his effort moved me with a gentle flux in the plexus, making me shout and sing foolish. He joined me with some Danish whaling song I did not understand. We laughed and shook the boat.

We navigated passed a small headland after an hour or so; he knew where it was, he drew up the oars and lied on his back for a minute. I wasn’t at all tempted to dip in the sea but he dared me to undress which I bravely did, I didn’t wear bras that would have been useless but I kept my simple white cotton panties on. He snatched his shorts and brief together in a split second, proudly presenting a snooty uncovered dingy in a puff of sunny tow.

He said I was white and my skin looked so soft he wanted to touch, as I was like mute, he crouched to my feet with his legs opened like a toad, he pawed my feet and legs and begged I drop my pants because he wanted to look at my kitty. After prayers and tickles i pulled it down and he forced my legs apart. I was totally wired when he timidly slid a cold finger he had just rinsed overboard on my bare lips. He wanted a kiss, I pulled a daring tongue and gripped his enraged wick.

In my eyes, he asked me to take him in my mouth, like he had seen grown-ups do, and thought would be safer for me; my lips were aroused by our kisses and his cocky pintle was already dripping salty tots so I let him in and gradually imitated what I had already seen on some video with my naughty pals. He wasn’t overly sizeable so he could wiggle deeper and he squirt through my throat holding my head until he was sure I had eaten the sour custard. I was about to shout my disgust but he didn’t let my head go and planted a nimble tongue where he had just shagged. He guided my hand to my maddened bud and I triggered a splendid fit of tremors by myself, wetting my thighs furthermore.

He embraced me close on the bench, I still tasted funny as it was my first time but he pacified my mouth and tongue with such dedication that I loved him and let him twiddle in my pink frills his content. He was proud but not victor, I did not feel vanquished or raped, he could have done it more because I saw the little orderly standing to attention, but it was quite time to return, so he dressed himself and beat the water, asking me to stay in the raw a little more. When I needed to pee he wanted to touch and he pressed a finger in my poopsie.

When he had drawn on the oars for some time, he suddenly sensed we had not moved at all, so he strived anxiously, I searched the boat but there was no other pair of reams, I dressed back and shivered. As we were realising the real danger we were in, a spruce fishing boat suddenly sailed towards us and a tall man sent a tug rope before heading to the port. He smiled wryly and said we could never have made it out if someone had not been watching us. His name was Greg.

A few men looked at us half-seriously as we disembarked, Mars’ far called him drily from the tower so he ran, leaving me dumb. I buried my hands in my pockets and walked nonchalantly to the Admiral’s home. I took a shower, pleased myself to the thought of how slutty I was and came down as usual nude in my best night shirt the colour of which had long faded. The old sailor was grave. He told me he, and all the people on the island, knew what we had been doing in that cove, but moreover, we had put our lives at risk and he would have died himself had ever happened. He held my hand, like my far did, said kind words of my personality and charm, but also that he could not keep me, that I would come back another year, and he kissed my forehead. We kept silent at dinner with wild salmon boiled in herbs infusion and baby vegetables grown in the neighbour’s garden. My tummy felt radiant and I was proud Mars had come in me.

I felt somewhat punished, watching the sun grazing the fiery waters from the warm and wide window ledge. I could have lived two more weeks of Mars’ blond fuzz and his strong hands holding me, my head, I would have given him all the chills he craved, why did he need a boat anyway? The never-ending twilight blasted in the room, my bag was done, I laid face down on the uncovered bed and wanked until sleep.

I wouldn’t have thought it is so easy to drown, my lungs feel like waves, like wings, as I tumble backwards in the emerald whirlpool while two hands grasp my hips. Behind my ears, a watery voice says “glæde i dig” like Mars did and rainbow fish suckle my feet, my tits, my lips and my pink snail. A bright light burst from a cave under us and in two or three flutters of my legs I enter a gigantic geode of purple crystals where Greg unrolls some shiny black rope, while fixing me with narrowed eyes, down in the bottom of the cave, in the dark where I am drawn to. Spiralling downwards in a twirl of caresses, I want to call Mars but only clusters of luminous pearls come out of my mouth and a whole audience of big gulls squawk furiously at me onstage at the Rosenborg theatre. Greg sits in the main box with a shiny helmet of blue steel and shows me to slither my hips for the happy crowd of young sailors who hold the big gulls. I wave my opened cunny to the eager chants and squirt pearly flakes on the bed of black roses I stand on. Greg jumps onstage naked with a stiff royal tarse towards me but I swim away and huddle inside the tinkling chandelier. All the gulls climb in the gilded branches and talk about the skinny girl with the round butt and stutter about her being a loose harlot and a tramp, to what I laugh like a tough lad. They all fly off and form a big cloud that shapes into a sailboat and hauls my shiny perch over the city where people look up and show me upthere. I let loose and glide and feel the cool air along my body, then I reach the green roofs of Rosenborg where parakeets of all colours squeal in my hair and womb as we cruise amongst the red and white pennants, then one is wrapped around my foot so I start turning around a golden pinnacle which reminds me of Mars’s gallant stem. I cling to the warm fallos and it screws down inside the tower in which are kept all the Royal Icecream on gold cones, sprinkled with visibly scrumptious crunchy crumbs. The floor is bedizened and shimmering, I watch my own all naked reflection while old courtiers dressed in black and clicking heels gather around and comment my body in Danish when His Majesty, who looks a lot like my far with a moustache and whiskers, offers me his arm and walks me to a silver throne where he embraces me on his lap and kisses me like Mars did.

On the next morning, beaten and melancholic, I followed my uncle to the boat that had rescued us and would take me to Bornholm where I would sail a ferry to Ystad and from there ride a bus to Falsterbo where my mother stayed with my brother Martin. I tried not to show I was crying, I did not look up to the tower and soon the big engine snored.

After the night’s dream, Greg looked kind of awkward to me, he offered me some coffee and even some brandy like a real fisherman, said he. It felt weird to be alone with him and the boat was soon on the high sea, it would be two hours. The wooden cabin was comfy enough for a morning trip. He fed the conversation cleverly and I didn’t pay attention to his stealthy hands, he smelled of grapefruit and was close shaven, he kissed me wildly and I responded, thinking it was fine to be an easy slag. He was already unbuttoning my jeans, I whispered in his ear that I was too small, he muttered he would not hurt me, he just needed to watch me again. He was ravaging my mouth and making me writhe and contort out of my pants on that stool, pulling my navy striped shirt over my head and exclaiming about my skin and tiny aguish areolas. He opened his zipper and let a fat dang in a real wig of black bristles and led my hand to it; I played timidly with the head shortly and it spurted a few times long shots of strong smelling snot all over me while he burst into tears. He sobbed on me as I felt his sperm dripping down with his eyes’ water so I caressed his shoulders and neck and kissed his eyes as I imagined that would quiet him out of this thrust of guilt and indeed he held my head then took my hands, walked back and watched me with his package dangling. He corrected the position, watched again my defiled body then shrugged and fetched a bottle of water, found a clean white napkin and started to wipe me softly all over. Suddenly we heard a boat’s hooter and he ran to the pilot wheel, mumbling that I should dress up and hide in a bunk. My shoes remained under the footstool. He opened the door and briefly shouted in Danish to the other boat. he breathed heavily. He came into the bunk where I squatted, the new sweat smell was heady as he kissed my feet, then he crawled along my back against the wood and squeezed my chest and asked me to say nothing of all that happened or kill him now with the gun under the counter. I was brave enough to laugh lightly, I took his hand and shushed him. I went into slumbers.

In Falsterbo at last, I joined my underwhelmed mor and Martin for whom I was a useless brat. Fortunately, the Admiral had not fully snitched and I had no explanations to recount. The next day, I asked for permission to enroll in a nudist spa where I was kindly befriended by everyone for the two remaining weeks. I was in the steam every so often and in the cold stream the feel of the stench on my chest faded, I stood innocent in older men’s view who did not erect at once.

I tanned slightly, everyday I came home after dinner late and slept like a stone and wanked in memory of Mars’ willy. I recovered the benevolent attitudes I had always known with far who could follow me in the bathroom without discomfort because himself had been bred so and my connection to him was crystal. No one, at the spa, was young enough for me and I did not want to show out on the beach as Martin’s skinny sister, so I would start conversations with gentlemen who taught me numerous things of life as if I had wooed the Gods of Olympus. Wolfsohn was as tanned as as a gun and groomed as the Grand Duke, I wondered how his combed moustache would feel in a kiss; he spoke diplomatic English and liked me at once he seemed to have known the islands of Ertholmene well, I suspected he was another Admiral. He made specific comments on everything of me, congratulating the dance teacher who made my back and shoulders straight, my feet aligned and steady; I laughed my head off at these and jumped backwards in the cold basin from the boards where people were laying in the sun. He lowered his voice when he peered at my eyes and called my lashes a trick of the devil.

Wolfsohn started a game when he knew he had conquered what he called my greek head. He untied my phrases and spinned metaphors and analogies to fall back on my true concern to what he responded swearing I would be loved as widely as the stars vault and give like a poppy field under the moon. He extorted me tatters of confessions and let me own up to the bittersweet spell of self abandon, warning me in the steam box not to undervalue my inner crystal at the wanton use of predators, knocking gently at my chest and telling me to radiate into my nerves and veins. That time I felt wired and discovered how to light up my solar plexus; in the blessed minutes one does not yet feel the cold in the water, I almost fired up an orgasm at his words and a simple knock. Nude and relaxed, he taught me the only path through the thorny rockery of such a gifted damsel’s life as mine would be to find something to actually do, write, paint, compose, embed in the outer world, better than act upon another will’s lines. It was one of those childish epiphanies when one wishes an imprint will remain in the deep grain of one’s mind.

He could have ravaged, scourged, mangled me stupid as I smiled with all my body, instead of what he offered to elate my pretty head with my first ever bone massage, easing the seams of the dream box and putting me to sleep in a purple cloud.

I woke up under the rainbow parasol, he was gone, I needed some whipping in the steam so I spotted two ladies on their way to the sauna and joined. They were visibly thrilled by the chance to grill the skinny brat who had been bragging around doctor Wolfsohn. They threw two or three cups of water on the granite stones and we all offered our lungs to the vapor and stretched out, then beat each other gently with the fresh green perfumed brooms and I noticed it was more them playing me around and reaching my tiny venus with the tickling leaves. We rubbed indulgently our neighbour’s skin with the loofahs and they smoothed my feet with pumice; some hands went kindly astray but the heat already forced us out. I felt swift as a salmon when we dived out, I wanted to wow my new friends with my gracile frame and breathing exploits; they appreciated my little show but I already knew they craved me.

They inquired my creeds and parentage like two real swedish matrons so my upbringing in the UN realm resurfaced and tamed them instantly to the sound of my family titles. They knew my mor was in the best hotel. I saw them as sweet old mothers but they certainly weren’t even forty and they were fit as hell. Ola was baltic blonde with honey skin and a bald pussy, Harriet showed a delicate freckled muzzle and smiled endlessly. They dazed my vain mind with murmured compliments, invited me for diner and implied I should stay the night in their apartment at the club.

In the sleek dining room sat Dr Wolfsohn reading a magazine at a table, he waved at us and asked me about my head, he made me sit next to him on the velvet bench and softly touched my temples and occiput and then winked at me. He spoke Swedish to the ladies but stopped when he noticed I did not follow. When he said he was waiting for someone Ola’s eyes sparkled and she showed me to a remote table. They questioned about my head and I playfully told about the massage, they stared with round eyes and envied me for they told me Dr Wolfsohn was the Royal Ballet’s osteopath and his renown was intense on the matter.

They made me talk about my life in New York and all the places I had been to, I told them I was neither Danish nor German although I had been born in Copenhagen of German descent, carried a blue UN laisser-passer, spoke English and French. Ola’s hand fluttered over my thighs sometimes and Harriet eyed me with her fine smile. They ordered raw fish, bijou potatoes and carrots, frozen nougat cream, Norsk wild raspberry juice; they beguiled me gracefully so from the lobby I left the message for Mor I would sleep at the club.

Seeing me yield to their desire, they hasted the meal and we nonchalantly walked to the elevator in which they literally devoured me. I had made up with girls before, but skilled adults were a totally different game and I fainted a few times at their might, learned by myself a whole new garden of senses, heard dizzying cajolery and felt so widely indecent that I moaned.

They made me lick and dart my tongue everywhere conceivable, asked me to shove my arm inside their warm sheath, to my fright they washed and lubricated my shy arse and opened it as wide as their mouth and showed me in the mirror.

I do not remember dreaming that night, I woke up to the smell of coffee and cinnamon in front of two very dapper nude ladies who licked me a welcome, I’m all languid and my ass feels funny. Harriet let her lush profusion of copper curls glint as a dawn cloud.

some idea I have been brooding over springs from my sleepy mind and I ask my devoted worshippers what my age would be; they discover they trusted my looks a tad over what is permitted and freeze down. I shiver and try a smile, muse I will disappear like a damselfly and meet them by the pool. I want one more lathery session in the shower but they refuse that I wear their perfumes, so I laugh and disappear…

The rest of the week flowed in grace, Dr Wolfsohn resumed palpating my body in pure scientific chastity and it happened that I found myself in the hot box with Ola and Harriet who tastefully healed my arsehole. On the trip back to New York city, Mor made the remark about a new gait she saw with me, a new stretched up backbone; I said I wanted to dance.

©Sarah von Ketteler - She dances

©Katherine Sophie – Sarah von Ketteler – She dances

Camille says:  

The studio is transformed! They have built a spacious Italian shower and a toilet in no time! Hugo asked his long-time friend James, an art teacher, to gather good furniture and all that’s fit for a pair of pupils; he did not forget a sizeable Angelico red couch and an English sound system, the girls chose their own top of the art mechanical chairs.

Setting the time as from Katherine’s attempt to redemption, James followed the revolution in the lovely heads and worked at erasing the stains left by the almighty devil of communication as it predominates in today’s art accademia and market. He represented to the overprivileged damsels the outstanding dispositions of Hugo’s indulgence, to what he could not but totally abide.

Katherine says:

The study is all off white, the furniture woody serious and on any whim James brings all kinds of supplies and materials that smell of virgin lands, or flowers. He spins games to flush off lodes of creativity and shares hands with us in every manner. He’s well aware of all that we let Hugo have, he saw the photographs and probably owns some; he would not miss our evening shower, he is one of us.

Sarah says:  Hugo has a great gym on the ground floor but he doesn’t use it much, except if he has a chance to meet us; he likes the idea of our effort and sweat and made uncanny macro photographs of our sweaty skins, pleats and bends unidentified… but we need the rolling mat and the fitness machines to start the day and I drag the sleepy dolent mistress down to start her fire; a deft pinching of the nipples infuses enough electric flux to unlock the hips!

©CCVarieras - Bignonia capreolata

©Katherine Sophie

Camille says: This morning Marie the Tree-Hugger was waiting for us outside Paris at a small train station for a walk in the woods. She had insisted that we should wear real walking gear, so we looked like lost soldiers, carrying food, water and whatever in our packs. The weather was perfect, Marie was in a delightful mood, she had brought some serious camera, she taught us how to really hug those big oak and beech trees and feel the cool fresh energy slowly pumping just under the bark. We were kidding ourselves into the great voice of the forest, absorbing oxygen and the petrichor scent of grass, ferns, leaves, mud and flowers.

At mid-way was an airy undergrowth of beech trees, she told us to drop the packs and shoes and started to take pictures of us, winning off pieces of clothing one by one until the maids were in their radiant raw and she teased them with each other. When the pace was found, she asked me to help with a comb and a tissue and simple makeup stuff she conveniently had. She conscientiously pressed her palm on her models body in hope the friction marks would stump off, then quietly reached further for no surprise of the belles. Biting one mouth or another, she tossed Katherine’s honeypot in the arms of Sarah whom I fingered in that proud arse of hers. She said the more they would play and suck mutually the more chances she had of a glorious shot. As we carried no towel or whatever, we could not lay down so we stood up in rapture, and they eventually streamed gold on the moss for Marie’s great excitement. They were acting like Hugo had taught them, their expression of bliss was stupendous.

Before we dressed, Marie offered a foot treatment with a healing cream and she applied it herself and we all applied it around to loving feet; she chilled out from her work and overflowed love on our heads, verified the knots and straps and led the platoon back to the train; on the way she clarified that the photos she had done today would remain private, aside from her work where no human being, as beautiful as might be, ever appeared. Sarah suspected she would jill off on them but gave permission if Marie was to let them shoot porn of herself.

Claude Variéras - Mare ensoleillée.

©Katherine Sophie – Marie de Chasseline – Gold pond

Hugo says:

In the blurred wake of my oldest chair as centuries hover on unknowable landscapes and cities, I have accomplished a dire transference into the almighty stillness of words’ dreams. Fate has allowed my hand to shape the unexpected provinces for innumerable foreigners to roam in dread or euphoria, let my will conceal its weapons under the cloak of mirrors.

My prostitutes served a sublime act by the chronograph and I never dared forfeit the accordance of our wishes; the best of them sowed life in dry detours of my swivelling ruins. Unquestionable remained the core faith I ever grew on that beauty is an infrangible sign, a refraction in the black poison of human entropy.

For ages I designed mental contraptions to forbid looking back on afforded seductions along my trail; my forehead was my hallowed light and Hades was my coat. Other than my peers lived erratic casualties to whom I deigned not bestow more than a glimpse at my noetic juggleries. Otherwise than printed in good order my soul remained seamless.

Marketa visited with her blushing daughters, she unwrapped the silent preys she had herself trained and groomed. She was irreplaceable as the lewd puppeteer, handling the novice courtisanes out of their modesty in the nascent vice, offering me their already wet fruit as proof of their promising whorishness. As I nosed in and out their ears, Marketa would bedraggle me as conveniently as the play needed and bared her own elegant brazenness on which the young tongue knew her ways. Then the rosy damselfly was brought to frolic around my own ticklish shrubbery and her touching clumsiness all but enkindled the instrument of her alleged fear. Marketa certainly wouldn’t try to sell me the pitiable parody of virginity, which most of the times is dissipated at kindergarten or in the inscrutable shadows of the park’s boxwoods (yes, that is where I invaded the first living fanny I ever saw, to the reward of some faint pee on my subjugated face) but she let her pupil’s immaturity spray some dainty dew on the rawness of lust. They came to her swift hand and tongue as easily as the flakes in a snowball so when the urge to root my crisis into her flexible pits of silk she greeted cautiously the whole importance of it after her mistress had anointed it somewhat. When the resilient tenderfoot fell over dripping, Marketa would lap her figa and resuscitate the encroacher ready for the other pleated wicket she blessed with a plentiful gush of vaseline; I pushed calmly deep and deeper while the sight of her widespread abandonment set off stirs that hurled through my solar plexus, then I laid on my side and asked for her pearly mouth backwards when I foraged the narrow and febrile burrow till another cast of bliss.

The new orchid would finish spent and breathless, sobbing against some complacent chest or a thigh; If I was rich, I invited them to my bath for yet another round of manners but as fast as my fortune grew my endurance settled and Marketa’s boarders recovered more smoothly. Nevertheless I loved to join for the readying toilet of the fawness, as if to make sure I had done no damage and eventually entice a new visit if I had been enthralled somewhat; I feared to see blood if I could have been ruthless but the only once it happened was some garnet menstrual blood that ran unexpected causing panic about my reaction and relief to my so casual assent. I wouldn’t share such promiscuity with any other person but certainly with the one who just pleasured me?

Marketa said most of her daughters found real husbands to whom they provided genuine offsprings; some of them returned for thrills and money when the passion bourgeoise watered down, she kept tracks of both ends of the arrangements.

Février came with his transgender cousins, bashful debutantes with a scoffing monstrance concealed under their modest skirts. I happen to be tall and strong, but I never knew what to do with my own kind, however the ambiguous beauty educes a mesmeric trouble to what, after millenniums of sordid suppression, it is wonder to bow. Young footmen and ship’s boys may shine some gleam too but I would never have survived in the Royal Navy.

Confident to his own taste, Février introduced only the prodigy grade of baroque pearls, not the masquerade trumpery of sweaty cabarets. Either he acted like the perfect nephew letting me titillate his pretty cousin on the couch while drinking tea in bone china or sherry in Waterford crystal, frisk inside a sateen lined jacket to find smug little buds as a start and untie my way down to her youngish half-uncovered stem. She would only keep her grey or mauve stockings and fall on the bed, delivered, available as a Jesuitist angel on a stucco cloud.

Their elder inculcated outstanding sultry ways in them, with grace, and their virginal mouths hemmed like the arum spathe whatever use they were summoned to, but they would not surpass the selfless dedication of their fellow courtesans of the slit bun . Overall they excel at lewd slavery, they long for chains and straps and creative contraptions, they welcome the winner into their chubby rose like opera heroes, when they have sweated for my pleasure, they smell of rumpled hemp, algae and mushroom.

Marzel Blick had been my lover a few times and sent the Ermeny twins, Diss and Dat, the daughters of a rich actress and whore, just old enough to float. Seeing my carpets they threw away their heavy shoes and waggled their toyish little toes in the silk just for me to scent the vanishing moisture and innocent fragrance of leather. They looked childishly slim and wagged the perfect skulls of Caesarean-born babies, cropped as velvety eggs. They held each other while talking as if no one had already been in Diss’ pants or Dat’s mouth.

Once plucked, I ushered them to the bed, on the ivory plains of cambric linen and watched them like a Meissen treasure scene. They wilfully played a weightless rococo arabesque around two witty pairs of tushes with a tiny winking snail in the middle. Their body hair was so blond it appeared merely as a gleam.

They wouldn’t part, when I gulped Dat’s tongue Diss lapped her ear or her fanny, it felt like one angelic dragon with the many hands of Guanyin. I hurried out of my trousers; they nibbled around in my pleasure patch with some cute fury and twittered lightly when the blind wand shuddered for rapture. I seized an available dancing pelvis and tried my luck without a chance to romp in. She stood up my strain and I dripped my holy drops on her minute curtains one by one until she began to smile on my buffer and pant, still.

I did not want lubricant there, it would feel livelier with patience and good will, I hate hurting anyone, and all the less a gracile pixie. The other one wanted her turn, she opened wide her legs horizontally, letting her daffodil blink at the marauder. Offered so, I need first to gulp and bully the miniature gallimaufry around her merry path; it scented of chamomile and neroli, violet and beeswax, tasted of macadamia in clotted cream, with a clover note inside the hidden blind hatchway. Meanwhile her double was carousing around my conveniently weeded parcel so as the pagan shaft started to ache exquisitely. I bounded up to station and asked permission to pervade, pushing as kindly as my urge let. Dat, or Diss encouraged me to rend the little slag through and through, but I sensed my progress and told Diss, or Dat, to sit on her sister’s tongue and rack her garnet teats. Eventually I won a tiny bit, a helping hand arose on the awaiting bud and lather swamped the plotzed pirate to the great fuss of Dat, or Diss, who claimed her share before the loot was spilled. This time her sibling vigorously wanked her till she squirted a wave in which I bravely swam and subverted her cunny in depth.

One on top of the other, beside, opposite, I knew not which of the smooth wombs I had seeded as it went all swallowed and kissed over, sloshed in a storm of musk, chrysanthemum and resin with the holy sweat of debauchery. We washed and rubbed and filled the enema with vanilla warm milk as a prelude to a second act. They wanted a drink of pomegranates, cherries and sugar cane, their eyes were like colibris and their hands were baby squirrels. I touched them with a mild balm of live amber, mimosa, broom and linden flowers, which made them laugh. Nosing each other, they wouldn’t lose the the head of the perfume as one does on his own skin.

The bed was wet, I led the spellbinding animals to the couch salon strewn with soft and floppy quilts and lit by a cloud of pinpoint lights. They had supple tenuous necks I suckled with feather light prudence so as not to stain the tender flesh, she let her head roll back while her legs were thrown apart like reed in a squall. They showed a profile of intact innocence, small face with a tall forehead, a straight nose and a light chin. When she kept her mouth half-opened and her eyes adrift I could have cried on her coy bosom in, had her other self not been bustling about my wasted family treasures and charmed them upwards; I reached the languid one’s crotch with my unruly tongue in and around and rummaged my way north. I had the handy bottle of suave merciful gliding balm ready, Diss or Dat caught it and coated Dat, or Diss’s rosy sheath and her hand with it, in order to ram her sister to the wrist and make her whimper. She had her fun while I invaded her lithe mouth to the throat, following her own efforts. She choked and I dressed my rodney with the glossy drool and shoved it in her tender naughty lane. Then I mounted them alternately telling them there would be a fat banknote to the winner, whom I worshipped wholeheartedly and would not tell from her sister once she had rinsed her nifty fiddle. They split the premium, I guessed.

Thereafter I rolled a sideboard in, adorned with a plenty of inventive lobster, crayfish, shrimps, Saint-Jacques sandwiches to their taste, fruit and juices; I beamed in awe of them feeding each other like visions of Eden. Their day was over, as they are well-off little tramps with rich patrons, they do not sweat overtime. We tried to find some music to soothe our nerves and keep on fondling the foundered bodies, my hands still venturing inside the relaxed alleyways of lust, I tuned in a stream program from Portland, Oregon. Eventually we passed out as a brood of foxes, my nose on Diss or Dat’s kitty.

Indeed, my fellow Cavaliers of the Circle Of Liars and I shared the most beautiful whores, therefore they know my taste in the matter and will send the most commendable citizens at my door, out of friendship. Rain soaked tramps, nail-biting runaways, bruised souls or misunderstood poets are eventually ensnared in our nets for their better fate if one will, and I never knew of anyone complaining about our generosities. I met perked-up, clean and groomed wildfowl out on their own dependency and free will. The Confederacy Of Selfish Aesthetes, as we also call ourselves amongst many names, has a mighty network of lawyers and doctors to sort out the lives of our chosen godchildren in accordance with whatever stupidity the prohibition law says. Addicts are sent away to rehab, alcohol is feared, and STDs monitored as they should, under the vibrant city of Paris lives a widespread virtual brothel divided by the river Seine, and a holy crew of grantees out of reach of the police or the Mobs. I have no idea where they all come from and how, they might tell me, they might not.

I met Camille at sixteen, she was sent to me. Her mother was the last of a slaughtered Jewish family who later hung herself. Her father had disappeared when she was three. Yet she was the most overwhelming explosion of golden locks around a pure small visage of a child Madonna dressed as a refugee wearing English spectacles. She was cheap, she had haunted some hotel corridors and concierge backrooms, I kept her. She was easy, too, I took an apartment for her. She went back to school and studied art history because she had this idea that her ancestors were art dealers in Vienna and because she liked my collections. We became accomplices in many arrangements of my life, but I was convinced she needed a self standing fate. When she received her doctorate, I summoned a table round of her best lovers to invest with me in a Gallery where she would support her chosen artists and mine.

As soon as she gained command of her own life and bank account, she unleashed a beautiful voluptuous temperament and became constantly demanded near the Laughing Cavaliers. At eighteen she would entertain three ardent gents at night and be fresh in the morning at the Sorbonne. She socialised with two of her professors at some discreet chapters of the Liars and she gained attention. Her complexion acquired an even rosy haze, with her spectacular mane I had had the privilege to brush, she stood fiercely and walked like a dancer.

We travelled together to the best museums and the most surprising hotels, we invited escorts in Vienna, in Rome or London, she chose them and exhausted them more than me, she wanted them to sleep in her arms till morning. Her arse blossomed on a still so slender silhouette and her apple breasts weighted more movingly, she advertised her gallery by herself and one day recruited Sarah at the desk and in her bed while she sent me Katherine on the edge of a rainbow.

 

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