Remittance Girl

Remittance Girl is a writer of literary erotica, commonly known as smut.

Chemically Sane

The drug smiles for me reptilian and affable it moves I follow The slow blink deciphers not light from dark, motion from static, marks time only out of habit The cool embrace of a limbo where distance is measured in bodily functions and solipsism This is peace: cottonmouthed mute and clamorous silence is my retreat,…

Truth Settles

Truth settles a bed sheet lightly at first but with creases then smoothed until it covers my face like a polythene bag and suddenly there is no air but truth to burn the lungs to cling and mold closer with each breath, and then affords no more. Please share:

#twitterotica Squeal

This was written for Alison Tyler’s “Flash Fuck Me Baby” challenge. 100 words of concupiscence. It was also tweeted live, under the hashtag #flashfuckingcontest 30 mins before it was posted: “I love it when you squeal,” he says. After he’s slid his rigid cock through the slash of my lust, coating himself slippery with my…

The Almost Woman

here lies the woman you almost had lost hated loved the one you almost threw everything away for who almost drove you off your head the fuck you almost tasted the mouth you almost kissed the nipple you almost sucked the cunt you almost lost yourself in the almost woman. Please share:

Purge

It comes up a relief released unmet dreams turned rancid in the heat of waiting. Jigsaw pieces of curdled desire harboured past their due date in the belly of the wrong woman. Each heave the birth of another nonviable monstrosity. The handle, cold against a sweaty palm, the mechanism gives into the banality of human…

Numbness creeps in like a cat

Ticking off the silent days purgatory grows familiar; I gain more tolerance for the hole in my head. Numbness creeps in like a cat mistreated once too often, wary of kindness, assuming every meal its last. Once it takes up residence, things will never be the same. The hole will become wholly unremarkable. One day…

Reach

The outstretched hand is a lovely thing, unless it happens to be yours. A graceful petition, sublime expression of who gives and who receives. Until you notice the shredded nails, the fingers truncated with each bout of begging. That outstretched hand is no longer lovely, a bloody, clawed set of stumps, too damaged to feel…

The Day of the Dead

The lipstick slid on but not right. Where was the sticky-slick sweetness? The quiet perfume that spoke of its expense? Piled into the bra, her tits looked okay, but released they were not right. Empty, sullen, as if someone else had worn and mistreated them. She picked up her keys, amazed they did not slide…

The Yawning Gulf of Love

The roar of rain and the long, rumbling tunnel of a thunderclap wakes me. But you are still sleeping. An ocean of bed sheet and the wall of states, silk-thin and diamond-hard, between the dreaming world, and the waking one divides us. Thunderstorms always make me horny. I nestle my face in my pillow and…

The Erotica of Cruelty & Stories of the Body Without Organs

Recently, I’ve been reading a quite a lot of stuff by two French thinkers: Antonin Artaud and Gilles Deleuze. Admittedly, reading the French can be a chore (if you’re not French) not only because I get the feeling that often their translators had one hell of a time trying to translate the ideas and concepts…