Fugues Fiction Archive

“There are lots of things he wants which are forbidden. He has learned to live with the strictures, or so he thinks. A shake, like a mongoose swishing dust out of its pelt, and our man notices that his thumb has come to rest in his belly button, feeling out the contours of that never-callused skin. He knows that silken feel of scars; he has touched it a hundred times, tentatively at first, later brusquely, in the keloids which stripe his shoulder. Scar tissue, softer skin than the real thing. He pulls his thumb loose and goes so far as to wipe in on his thigh, irritated at himself. ” Rated R. (36 K)

Vehemently, “NAVEL-GAZING”