Vintage
There is nothing in this world that is an entirely random occurrence; events are drawn to ourselves by the hidden twisting of our minds.
Chaos' slender cock had been turned in a similar lathe as its owner: the curve subtle and boyish, dipping timidly to the left, a delicate nodding into the valley where the groin met thigh. The skin there was a darker, tea-with-honey color; with a startling flash of deep lavender where the head perpetually peeped through the skin. When Matthews had first seen it, the violet hue of it had brought back memories of a certain wasted-life wonder: a hangover spent sitting in a park on the Kookai, on the morning after his thirty-third birthday, staring at the distant misty bulk of the first mountain he had ever seen in his life. Decades spent living only on ships, those bionic wombs that swim through the giant empty twat of the universe, and he'd forgotten that things like this were real. That Adam came not from the air, but from the precious and ever more humble dirt. That mysterious earthen purple had floated dormant in the bilges of his mind until it bloomed unexpectedly on the body of his young lover, Chaos letting him wrap his tongue around it and suck back the years he had lost in the void between the stars.
A few months later, he had seen a dress- a musty, crumpled, closet-warmer of a dress, draped with moth-eaten dignity over a water-stained mannequin in one of Gaignun's damned antique shops. His eyes had eaten in the low-cut bodice, the yellowing cuffs of lace, and the dye of such a rare and familiar color that he had bought it immediately, debt to Gaignun cracking its knuckles in his ear, two weeks salary blown- bang!- in less time than it takes to sneeze. Shuffling out the door with nervous conviction, he knew he was so, so screwed, and yet it was so, so worth it. Wrapped in newspaper, it had smelled like dead skin and girl perfume, and he would get hard just thinking about the place where he had hidden it, in an old shirt box under his bunk. Maybe one day, he would ask Chaos to wear it; those slender brown hands lifting a veil of antique purple satin, a curtain raised above the star performer, that strange and lovely mushroom growing beneath. And Matthews knew without seeing that they would perfectly, exactly match.
'Lavender's blue, dilly dilly;
Rosemary's green;
When you are King, dilly dilly;
I shall be Queen.'
- trad. lullaby