Archives for the month of: November, 2011

Me, I get to thinking about the gusset; I get to wondering just what it is I’m up to here. I mean, is this about getting my unfolding life down? And if so, what has the gusset to do with it? Why all this time sewing—in gussets?

And I get to thinking that I love the very gusset—this dear, imperative little cotton insert keeping me coddled while gamely serving an unglamorous purpose; this darling little insert destined for a short life, for the inevitable stain and so-woe; for the bin.

Why am I doing this? Search me. If you can.

Me, I guess I’ll slowly get to know a bit more about myself. And maybe you will too. If you care.

Oh: And by the way, T.B. is not the big bad wolf. T.B. lives with me, see, and is my one special love.

Once upon a time there was a little gusset who lived in an old pair of knickers tucked away, far, far away, at the bottom of an undies high-rise. This little gusset, she had once lived the high life: parties, clubs, raves, gala openings and private views. She had been swung about by a big beautiful bottom, pressed happily against warm luscious lips, drunk many a drug-drenched, sweaty concoction and been transported to a world of heightened ecstasy. She had experienced union, a knowing and understanding of another, one that is born of an intimate caring from both parties—something like unconditional love. Her girl was fiercely protective, nurtured her with gentle washing cycles, a dash of expensive perfume and a consistent inclusion on all special occasions.

It was when she was worn she was happiest of all.

The little gusset, never in her wildest dreams did she ever expect desertion. One rarely does in one’s youth and childish innocence. Life was, after all, like liquorice dipped in a fountain with strawberry scented air, and the little gusset had no reason in her reasonable experience to expect anything other. But things took a turn for the worst; one day, for no apparent reason, no reason at all, her girl just ceased to be there. No one seemed to know where she’d gone, however pressed, or when she’d return, if at all.

The little gusset became extremely sad. She withdrew into a world of her own and burrowed deep down deep into the depths of her underwear drawer. All the other gussets came and went, got about their business as if nothing were different. She was invited to play with Frill and Spot. And she tried. She did. But it never seemed to be too much fun.

The little gusset, she developed a violent streak, more as an escape from her pain than anything else, and set about lumping the gayer gussets among them. Just because she could.

Years passed.

The little gusset grew up.

And one day a strange and rather foreign pair of pants appeared and everybody’s attention was lighted upon them—for they were the Pants of a Man. All kinds of everyone vied for his attention and he certainly took a good look around but it was the little gusset, shyly beautiful all of a sudden, in a well used but coddled kind of a way, that knocked him out with her pheromone punch. Their relationship was wildly physical, passionate, risqué. The little gusset became once more happy.

And she stayed happy for quite some time.

The thing was, she didn’t know just how lucky she was.

To be happy

for some time





Once, I was a princess. I had long yellow hair and I lived with a man I was mad about. I loved him ardently. I would do anything for him—and I mean anything; I gave him everything he wanted. But, me, I was never quite sure if he loved me back. Because he wouldn’t tell me—and he said he didn’t know what love was. Turned out, it was just the chemistry he loved—my body, my scent, the way that I grooved—it was pheromones and fairer moans, the ecstatic delights of the flesh.

Me, I’ll tell you now, I’m no princess no more. I hacked off my locks and locked up my heart. I threw everything away. The tale was told that the beast turned into a prince when you kissed him—but this prince, it was the other way around, he turned into the beastly wolf, big and bad as you like. The truth was, when I opened my eyes and finally admitted his dark heart, it was too late: he was carrying death in his arms. Death to me. To us. Death to love.

I saw the truth. He looked at me.

And I ran.

And before all that, a long time before, I used to be an angel, can you believe? I used to be my Poppa’s girl. I was born that way and I stayed that way til I was four. My Poppa, he was an angel too. We gloried in our shining light. Perhaps you wouldn’t remember those tiny toddling years, but, me, I remember every bit of them…until, in one foul swoop, I was angel no more. Poppa left and there was no one else willing to uphold so much heaven.

I suppose I waited all my life for the hole he left behind in my heart to be filled once more with love. And me, as you see, I was fooled by a wolf in man’s clothing.


When you don’t feel loved anymore—because you squinnied the big bad wolf and his very sight and memory deluged all self-worth—when you don’t feel loved you are driven to find some place in your heart for yourself. If you can.

Or if not in your heart, then somewhere.

Some days, my sense of lovelessness is greater than my reason and there is nothing to be done but so-woe. But today, me, I find a way, however unlikely. I sew myself a kisskiss, a symbol of acceptance. I make a treasure of trove.

my first forage into a netherworld

Me, a week ago, I saw the big bad wolf. I didn’t expect to see him—but I suppose I should have known. Eventually it would happen: if you tread old haunts you used to share you’re bound to come a cropper. I caught a glimpse of him and my heart started. All the better to eat you with, my dear. The wolf, he rocked my every sum and substance. Effortlessly.

Rocked? you say. How so?

Like, rocked—he made you feel amazing?

Or rocked—he knocked you, shocked you, destabilised your mind?

…this wolf, he made me feel such a mess of feeling that all my secrets went thumping through my rigging. Just like that. Easy as pie. Hate—love—the memory of love. Pain. Excitement. Fury. The dog-man slew me by his very person, from some way in the distance—without even knowing I was there.

Me, I was out running in the park. I run every day, obsessively, as if to keep running from my once-was life—as if?!—come on, girl, face it—you are running from the life you had! (See, I’m intelligent enough to see what I’m doing, and dumb enough to keep right on pretending). And running from it—surprise, surprise!—I ran right into it, didn’t I?

You could say I had it coming.



Triggering our history in freeze-frame images, full colour, too lurid, strung with swish and whiff. And his oh-so tender maw. Those paws. Me, my now was torn and busted and fell away like a dried up snake skin, exposing my past in all its former gory. All that sticky. The wolf, the pig, without even trying, he blew my house right down. You wouldn’t want to feel that kind of blow. I just stood there, stock-still, staring as he heartlessly wandered the glory of our beech trees; I stood and stared til he was gone. Un-there, a phantom-shadow of time gone past. And me, I gathered the mess of my heart and my guts, packed them roughly away. Dismayed. Keyed up. Terrified. What the sight of a person can do. I turned and I took off, running hard and away, back the way I came.

Seeds, they come from the most unlikely places.