PLUNGE.

It was Halloween, but it wasn't. It was October the twenty-seventh; it was a Saturday night and the alcohol was warm. The kids were all dressed up, the little speakers in the living room emitted a dull thumping of electro-sleaze. The kids were all sweaty, drinking their warm drinks and mixers. Rubbing their skin against each other they laughed and stumbled as they tried to remember the chorography to Michael Jackson's Thriller. They looked like a dancing road accident; a stylized vertical car wreck in slow motion. A fifteen year old boy was dancing on an old brick wall and some vampire girls were smoking cigarettes on the doorstep of the small Victorian row house. In the living room blank faces stared at walls, making small talk and talking about the small things that didn't all matter. Across the wooden floor the people in the kitchen were leant against the counters in the dark swaying to dulled tones of music. Upstairs on her ex-boyfriends bed the girl with nice legs was crying. It was Halloween, but it wasn't and the kids looked gruesome

The warm rough clay of the bricks against your bare soles, your toes curl over the edge gripping to the chipped edges. Jagged; but no unpleasantly so. You body sways as you balance on the wall. Your hair falls over your face in front of your eyes so you can longer see the damp green grass that oscillates below; further and closer away with each shift of gravity. You let your arms loose and imagine your self plunging, you feel the texture of the brick beneath you and then you don't. You can taste every memory from every summer day when you were seven-years old and you played in the fields by the canal. You can smell your grandfather's shed and the room you played in as a child. You think about the last moist thing your lips touched and how sweet a sensation it caused. You think about that rush in your ears, and you question whether your brain picked that audio track or can you really hear it? And you think you should be spinning but you're not. Your body lurches as it comes into contact with cool wet grass. Then you feel hot wet blood drip from your nose. You're not dead, but you have taken the plunge and that feels like.

Villanelle considers her legs. A broken bottle whistles across the floor with all the people, swaying and tumbling they break out into quiet fuss, the room seems somehow deserted. The girl with nice legs stares at his dominant chin it looks mannish from her lowered angle. She presses her nose against his jawbone breathing sweetly into the crevices of his neck "What are you looking at?" she whispers, closing her eyes. "Something frightening, like a room with a glass wall in front of it. All the noise is compressed against the pane of glass and it's trying to force its way towards us, but it's not real. It's just shop mannequins, it's just window shopping."  Villanelle lets the words stumble out of his mouth as they formed in his head. "You talk too much" the girl with nice legs breathes after awhile; she sounds bored. She strokes her nose up and over his chin feeling the rough bristles of his recently shaved facial hair. She presses her lips against his face, and then barely moving back so the very edges of her soft mouth slide against his face as she speaks. He can hear and feel the words. "Do you like my legs?" she asks in a child-like voice, begging to be humoured. Villanelle looks away into the distance smiling "You don't talk enough May." He says and slides from the couch in between her legs, he places a gentle kiss on the flesh of her inner thigh "And I love you legs; et j'amour vos jambes." He jokingly rests his body against the objects of his affection. Villanelle tells her he wants to take off her clothes. She bends over whispering in his ear, her hair falls around his head encasing him in a silky curtain of seduction. She smiles in a way that Villanelle can feel her teeth nibbling on his ear and she says "Fuck you". He replies with a full-teethed smile 'I would love to'. May - the girl with the nice legs - has a shouting laugh, she emitted the barking sound then drawing the attention of a number of nervous individuals. She looks Villanelle in the eyes, she finds a sort of school-boy innocence there. She motions softly with her mouth forming the syllables with affection and subtlety, "Vous parlez trop en n'importe quelle langue." She makes Villanelle laugh, he takes her hand they won't leave each others company tonight. They are taking the plunge and that feels like.

Alice was a girl and she was all dressed in pink. Jude was a boy and he was all dressed in blue. Alice and Jude; they were kissing in a room and the room that was all black. Jude had a condom in the heel of his shoe and Alice had drunk too much stolen wine, her torso would not stay upright so she laid herself on the black bed; reached out and grabbed his blue arm. Jude hadn't been drinking; he'd wanted to fuck her tonight. She knew; everyone had known. Alice had seen the jealousy in their eyes. The gay boy had that green tint to his pupils and she'd seen his jealousy swimming at the bottom of the vodka bottle that he had emptied into his glass. The gay boy was pretty he'd kissed Alice but he didn't want to fuck her. Jude would hear such envy in the quiet nasal voice of the girl, who lived on Primrose Hill and he would feel remorse but for now he would simply slip the rubber from his heel and then plunge into her arms and brush his tongue against hers. Alice and Jude rolled about on their best friend's bed, and she opened herself a little for him. Jude clothed his erection and then he pressed into her. Alice and Jude's bodies moved together. Alice could feel him plunging in and out of her; Jude could see her plunging in and out of conscious. Alice thought about Jude she had known him a long time perhaps their history would end here. Jude thought about Alice he loved her. Alice didn't understand the jealousy of the others, she wanted him to cum. Jude thought about being inside of her, and liked the way it felt. He felt connected entirely with her and the edges of his stomach felt satisfied. Jude was suddenly washed over by the image of the boy; he forced himself deeper into Alice and let her surround him entirely. Alice tensed her neck and stared at the shaft of light coming from the opened door, she closed her guilty eyes. The door shuffled closed. Alice wanted Jude to cum. She slipped herself away from him, he felt himself soften. Alice let out a whimper; Jude steadied her as she stumbled. They had taken the plunge and that feels like.

The writer concentrated not on his own face, but the reflection of the boy behind him. The dark haired boy who was wearing the writer's shredded shirt and had a torso covered in blood. The writer had a slash across his throat; it was dripping blood down his upper body. Blood poured from his mouth and nose and from a cut from the right eye.  They looked good; stunning.  Your jaw drops when you see them; they were both wearing white shirts and their chests soaked in blood, the writer's and the dark haired boy's eyes were surrounded by suffocating dark rings. It looked so realistic to the others; a mournful kind of handsome. The writer lay broken at the bottom of the stairs; his limbs all twisted and wrecked. His neck mutilated and his eyes glazed over. That is how he felt. He'd watched the boy's reflection as he moved around the tiny bathroom; the nervous space between the bodies was undeniable. The contents of the writer's stomach swam against his ribs and his legs felt weak and heavy beneath him. The heels of the writer's shoes sank into the floor, the weight of melancholy pushing into his shoulder blades, pushing all his muscles and flesh into one liquid mass. He wanted to sleep; the space above his neck contained a weighted gas the clouded where his head would be if he were sane. Thought was impossible; each thought would form then evaporate into the mist around his head. The sensations had begun so much earlier he could not reason why the mere sight of the dark-haired boy drained his body so. The curious and hurt eyes of the boy seemed to attempt to draw the writer over and they caused a heady mixture of fear and desire in the pit of the writer's stomach.  He could not escape the tender sickness nor could he word his unrest to anyone. Each time he found the acceptable words to articulate himself; they stalled in his mind becoming shallow and empty. So the words were once again dismissed. The gasps he was greeted with as he joined the nights other company satisfied the actor within him, but the rest of his existence was still upstairs, watching the dark haired-boy in the mirror. He could feel himself plunging and that feels like.

A boy from New York of eighteen who is obsessed with sculpture and large scale installations finishes his lecture of a work of controversial male artist with the summary, "You see the common misunderstanding is his work is simply about life and death, but it's not. It's about the humanity in morality, he blurs the line between sensation and the end; the immense bliss in dying, and the afterlife and the suspension of that moment. In a way he compares death to sex, we can choose die to the same extend we can choose to orgasm, we can embark on the process but once the moment comes near there is a point of suspension of no return. You see what I am saying yeah?" He grins at his own intelligence and perception; Mercedes and Crystella sit on either side of him draping pale exposed limbs across his lap and chest. He cannot fathom what they are dressed as, he thinks they maybe zombies. They are dressed in what their mothers would have worn in the nineteen-eighties but every item which has been ruthlessly cut to show an ample about of flesh, but the colours are all tainted by the brown of drying blood. He has a gash on his neck; a fake scar which he thinks looks pretty good. They laugh and coo in agreement with his 'intelligent' remarks, then the girls who have jet black eyes and purple couture lipstick begin to kiss either side of his neck, he becomes aroused and they begin to bite, he protests but before he can remove himself from their grasp they pull him to the floor and savage him. The shrieks of their delight and his pain become grinded together and it sounds, like a raging orgy. As he lay really bleeding now on the garden floor, looking at the girl's shiny winkle pickers, he hears the noise from the people rise and covers the sickening sport. The shrieking fades, one of the girls says "Do you want to get some wine?" The other one starts to pant; catching her breath. Wipes her hands on the already bloodied shoulder pads and replies "I am so in love with wine." As they walk away like the twins in 'The Shining' or Gilbert and George, the boy on the floor yells "She's not in love with wine, she's in love with you." And the blood comes plunging from his throat and that feels like.

The sociology around them had dissolved; all that mattered was the one single interaction, the rhythmic bend and power of two bodies. Nobody took photos. The writer was dancing as if he were fucking. He'd been fucking these girls all night. Running his hands across the inside thigh, and sculpting digits and palms around the curved domes of their buttocks. He liked the way their nimble frames responded to the gentle commanding pressure of his hand.  His skin was damp to touch, the perspiration highlighting the smearing blood pouring from his neck; glistening in the darkened light. The fitted shirt slid from his frame as the girl gripped onto the bones of his shoulders, dropping her body backwards, exposing her stomach to appreciating eyes. Rolling her shoulders she brings her eyes back up to meet his, their faces intimately pressed against one another; whispering silent erotic romances into their skulls. His feet ached; his hair was thrown messily across his forehead. The writer cheeks were flushed and warm, hands damp from running them through the beautiful girls long hair, as they work their bodies for one another. Another time, in another circumstance he would fret that the handsome morbidity had become a washed out and flustered condition, but here in this moment with the girl; his dishevelled appearance became part of the erotica. The dark haired boy danced like he was fucking too. He was dancing with a girl of his own; the girl he always danced with. She loved him, lusted for him. He just wanted to dance. In the dimmed light of the kitchen everything became altered; the effeminate homosexuals played at being masculine Casanovas; grinding their hip bones against the soft ample flesh of the female form. The writer caught the blue watching eyes, they were everyone that ever cared, the writer caught his bottom lip with is teeth and lustfully reared his hipbones. He felt the heat of the girl's body arching through his, causing his spine to crack, his groin revolve, his chest pulsate. The lust built in the room; a dark heavy sweaty mist. The women left the room in search of a darkroom to cry about the recent death of love and a heterosexual man to dance with. The writer danced on his own, imaging to curve and push of feminine muscles and bone against him. The dark haired boy panicked, he preferred to dance with girls. He tired desperately to find others to dance with, leaning out of the darkened kitchen calling for attention, but soon he decides to run a risk. A song from their youth played and the kids danced and laughed. The English Rose was being twirled by a newly found heterosexual partner; she didn't feel so lonely and sexless anymore. The writer and the dark-haired boy back into a corner moving face to face, motioning with their bodies strangely. The dark haired boy pulled his curled up hands in front of his chest, the gesture of protection of amused the writer whose arms swayed loosely at his sides. The writer reached out wrapping his arm around the boy's hip bone, running his things along the cervices pushing into the small of his back. One solid push and the dark hair boys back, pressed against the writer's chest. The writer felt a surge of dominance, placing a steady masculine clutch on the boys flat stomach, he snaked their hips in time. Drawing the dark-haired boy up and in and then exhaling him out again. They laughed and moved all sex was removed from this moment. It was a game. Any trace of lust dissolved in the writer's refreshed mind, the mist solidified and once again he could form coherent thought, the contents of his stomach steadied. They were playing a game. With the beat their bodies were plunging together and that feels like.

It was Halloween, but it wasn't. It was October the twenty-eightieth; it was a Sunday morning and the alcohol was warm. The kids were all were all undressed and ravished; the little speakers in the living room emitted a dull thumping of soft libertine voice. The kids were all sweaty, and exhausted. Lying on the living room floor, and collapsing on the stairs. The writer lay all broken and busted on the stairs he was smiling and croaking a witty profanity at the Irish girl. People were leaving pouring into the damp light of the dim Victorian street. The writer kissed the girls on their cheeks and slipped his arms feebly around their hips. He looked at the dark-haired boy who said "Goodbye," and placed an awkward touch on the skin above his elbow. The writer continued his bawdy banter but touched the boys shoulder and gave slight squeeze off recognition. There was something unsatisfying in this method of leave-taking but the demands of psychological etiquette caused a seizure of paranoia in them both. If they were to embrace they would take a plunge and that feels like.