Locker Room Ritual

She walks in to the empty locker room heavily, her footfalls echoing. She sets her heavy bag on the bench and goes to the sink. The cool water runs over her hands and fingers; she mutters to herself as she rinses them without soap.

I must have watched her do this a hundred times, but there’s always more to her ritual. She lets the water run for a few minutes and rolls her neck back and forth, raising her shoulders up and down. She opens her mouth wide, like a lion, and lolls her tongue back and forth.

There are cameras behind the mirrors, in each showerhead and soap dispenser, within each locker, and scattered throughout the room. There are microphones embedded in the paper towel dispenser, the sink, countertop, benches, and lockers. It’s a sophisticated recording studio, a pet project. I own the building, and the contractors were all close friends. Julie is a new hire, especially excited by the free gym access and personal lockers that the job provides.

She takes a paper towel, uses it to turn off the water, and dries her hands with it. She drops the wet wad in the trash and walks back to her locker. She unbuttons her suit jacket slowly and shrugs it off her shoulders. She folds it vertically, and arranges the sleeves so they can be folded as part of a square. She regards herself in the locker mirror, examining her eyebrow raise, the inside of her nostrils, and the bags under her eyes. She undoes the tie in back of her hair, and lets it shake out widely, massaging her scalp and humming to herself. She then sits on the bench to remove her shoes, placing them neatly in the locker.

She begins to slowly unbutton her shirt, revealing her lovely warm golden cleavage beneath her starched white blouse. She pulls each tail from her skirt, and sheds it like a second skin. The white bra is simple, humble, quickly discarded. She checks the door, and pauses, waiting for an intruder. She strokes her hands down her torso, grinning as her nipples erect themselves on her angelic breasts. She bites her lip devilishly and drops her skirt in a heap on the ground, quickly shucking off her stocking socks in a second. She eyes the skirt for a moment as her fingers dip down her abdomen, just below her navel and approaching the treasure. She breaks the movement and quickly retrieves and folds the skirt atop her pile.

She now stands before the bathroom mirror, trembling in anticipation and stealing glances at the door, waiting for interruption. She briskly tucks her thumbs on either side of her g-string and pulls it off. She sits back on the bench, tilts the locker door mirror toward herself. She cups a breast with one hand and her crotch in the other, and begins to slowly squeeze and gyrate. She puts two fingers into her mouth, closing her eyes and bobbing her head like an act of fellatio. Spreading her legs wide across the bench, she arches her back and thrusts her chest upward. She then extracts her glistening fingers and applies them to her sex, running a hand along the length of her neck, encircling it, squeezing gently. A quiet murmur escapes her lips, captured by the microphones.

She rotates her hips against her hand, increasing the pressure, and grabs her breast hard; the skin visibly reddens under her grip. Now her full form is tense and twisting in ecstasy at her debauch, and she begins to audibly pant and gasp as the orgasm breaks like a wave across her.

Every day at six, like clockwork.

Eve

We were his pets. He kept us like rabbits. We saw what he wanted us to.

There could have been a light shining in my face and I wouldn’t see it.

Now I think of him as the Gardener. He was one among many. Elohim is plural.

Then came the Word. It came from a little guy I had never seen before. He had a really big nose, his eyes were set far back in his skull, broad shoulders with little arms, and he had a bun on the top of his head.

He said, “Nachash!” I came over to him. He crawled up a tree and whispered to me: “Yodea.

Elohim ki beyowm akalkem mimenu wenpquehu enekem wihyitem kelohim yodae towb wara.”

I know, it’s more than one word when I write it like this, but those words make one word. You could say, “God knows that the day you eat it, your eyes will opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.”

It happened right away. It was after I heard it that I saw. The fruit was gorgeous, and I put it in my mouth, and it tasted like everything. It was like my whole body was being squeezed by delicious, it radiated to every part of me.

I looked back to Nachash, and he was hiding behind the tree. I felt like he was a part of me now, changing me, opening me. I saw the world made and unmade, a million times over. A deep love filled me.

I went and found Adam, who had named all the animals, but hadn’t given me a name yet. I was like the Word now, and I said it to him. He could have been born in that moment, he changed so much. He saw me for the first time. He saw that I was made of him, for him, and we wanted each other so badly.

He took me in his arms, and our love, it made something beautiful, we created it in that moment. We were like God. His arms, his sweat, my breasts, it was joyous and gentle and strong.

We finished, and he filled me with the most wonderful kind of water, warm and full of life. I was full, too. I tasted the water, and it was sweet, a little sticky.

Then we heard the Gardener. He threw Nachash out, and said he’d have to crawl on his belly and eat dirt. Then he threw us out.

Me and Adam covered ourselves and went out into the world. He named me Eve, which is a funny joke. Eve means “mother” but also “serpent,” like Nachash.

The Word was still good, but it hurt now. I wanted to be with Adam all the time; he could get really mean sometimes. We work it out. We have time now, not like before, where everything happened at once.

I’m going to hold this Word in my heart. Maybe I’ll share it with one of my kids, if they’re good.

Thrown

I have been thrown, to

A world not mine. Naked,

Screaming, fighting, on

The run, I don’t know

Why, and I can’t ever stop.

Everyone wants to

Kill me. I didn’t

Ask to play this game, but I

Will go down swinging.

Nudity as Archetype

The strangeness of the

Nude form. By undressing, we

Become someone else.

My binary logic:

Nude woman is a gift, nude

Man is a threat. Man

Is ugly, woman

Is beautiful. The way it

Is and will remain.

Leaking nudes without

Consent, a violation,

Worse than a theft. The

Genie, released, the

Damage is done. The tree from

which Eve ate revealed

Her, like how after

Orgasm, you think so clear.

Ham, cursed by his Dad’s

Cock. So it goes. What

We hide from outside is our

Similarity.

Serial Fiction Master List

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http://melodramaticphysician.com/2020/07/15/full-fathom-five-9/

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Regicide:

Regicide #1: In Traction

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Lust for Power #3

Assassin Nation

Assassin Nation #1

Assassin Nation #2

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Juan X #1

Juan X #2: Mapa Mundi

William Wild:

William Wild #1

Shamshael:

Shamshael #1: Sam and Carl

Shamshael #2: Underneath the Bridge

Shamshael #3: Transfigured

Shamshael #4: Devastation