Eyes and Thighs
A Short Story
I’m demoing an idea, so bear with me, please. This might never happen again; you are living through history happening in real time!
I came to writing about music through being a fiction writer. While that was not an option for a genre track at my alma mater, I grew tired of academic navel-gazing about literature written by authors centuries dead. Creating new ideas and images appeals to me far more than picking apart what makes a novel/a play/poetry so great.1
After college I drifted from writing fiction. Writing short stories became something I seldom did instead of the practice I wish it was. Even now, almost 10 years out from my graduation (gasp), I am not a practicing fiction writer. Music and teaching usually have my full focus.
Despite my divided attention, I started a journal practice in earnest last year. While I am not set in a ritual there yet, every week I grow closer to having a dedicated page count solely in order to get words on the paper, let alone a complete story.
In an effort to get in touch with my authorial roots, I attended an event called “Sip and Scribe” in Queens a couple of weeks ago. It is essentially the same as a paint-and-sip night but oriented as a writing group. There were a couple of warmup exercises, then some timed writing activities. In between these quick writes, the group members would share either what they wrote or what their experience with their writing was like. This was my first time attending, but immediately I felt comfortable, like I was back in a workshop2 in college.
The story below, “Eyes and Thighs,” was written as a response to the final prompt. Previously in the evening, writers were invited to reflect on parts of their bodies they had feelings about (e.g., shame, pride). Writers were directed to craft a meet-cute short story (inspired by Valentine’s Day on the horizon) where your body part is randomly paired with another.
I won’t tell you which body part I wrote about unless you ask nicely. Enjoy!
Like glue, Eyes met Thighs. They saw the curvature of the muscle strain under the weight. Each bulged at the other, but neither relented from the pressure. Rather, they almost drew closer, inexplicably magnetic. Two couples, a pair of swingers, salty with sweat and secret tears.
Eyes desired a closer view. Something more direct, you know, to take a picture for memory's sake. Something to look back on when they close before sleep in private delight. Something to dream about when no one else could see them.
Thighs struggled. They felt Eyes peering at their pressing veins, measuring their hairs like some trophy just caught for dinner. Thighs felt Eyes' hunger, and they wanted to satiate with their power. Under this weight, they couldn't say much. Thighs pressed on in silent seduction.
Eyes neared. With a closer look, their gaze grew more obvious. Yet care they did not. Eyes wanted Thighs to know they were there glaring, seeing possible angles splayed in delight. Eyes narrowed, laser-focused on their real goal: a picture they could never forget.
Thighs relaxed, quivering. They breathed drowning men's gasps. Thighs rested, successful with work, satisfied with attention.
Eyes never blinked once.
As an English teacher, I acknowledge the irony. “I am large, I contain multitudes,” etc.
Please contact me if you know about any remote (or local to Brooklyn/Queens), wallet friendly workshops. I miss the community, the accountability, and the practice.
LOVEEEEE ♥️♥️♥️