Angel Stalker
He drops by on an irregular nightly schedule. Magnificent body with a huge span of wings. It’s the wings that are a bitch. Not easy fucking a guy with wings. Hands have to be strategic. Forget rolling over, me on top — his wings are way too sensitive. The novelty gone, I think of moths, insects, creepy crawlers — sci-fi nightmares. Near climax, the wings will unfold and flap in orgasmic fury. The air disturbance is unbelievable — like fucking a helicopter. And he’s so airy. More light than substance. I like a body with substance. Some mass inside and around me. Not that he understands. And I’ve tried explaining. Then moving. Several times, around town, to a new town, new country, subterranean. He’s a master stalker, more bird than man, his homing instinct supernatural, natural to me.
A supernatural being hones onto me. Do we have history? Another lifetime ago? And what’s his day job exactly? He never talks; perhaps he’s deaf. Maybe our connection is telepathic, quantum physic. Retribution, punishment, salvation, sacrifice — I’ve wondered all this so many times.
I toy with the idea of going to a past-life therapist. I’m desperate for context, motivation — but without that side of trauma. Lost memories are trauma, aren’t they?
It’s not like my angel stalker is a jealous lover — he’s never been violent or cruel or demanding — just silent. Retribution, punishment, salvation, sacrifice. Silence is reward and punishment.
Confession. I sell the feathers. The ones he sheds (on his wings they’re fluffy and soft, but once shed they become crystal hard). I make a fortune at auctions. It’s great having a fortune. Having what others want (angel as lover, the stuff of fantasy, religion). Money is the ultimate aphrodisiac. Isn’t it?
Confession. I sell my story. Weekly. As far as I can tell, I’m the only one with an Angel Lover (the Angel Stalker story will come later). An Angel Lover is glamorous so I’m glamorous, and even though I protect my identity, hiding behind a cute made-up name, I feel the celebrity. The deification. The whole world is buzzing with my story.
Sometimes I imagine that I’m him, the angel. Fallen. Wings clipped. I can imagine him as tormentor or tormented. Sadist or saint. Wanting comfort or giving comfort. There are no stories in his eyes. Perhaps he needs none. Unlike me, who needs at least one to keep my sanity.
When I’m not imagining, I’m planning. With enough money I can buy my way into another dimension. A new identity, a fresh soul. Or have I already been through all that? An erasure of memory with each escape?
An unknown past, an unknown future. This is why I stay and harvest feathers. If I grab chunks during sex the tips are crimson with blood. Angel blood. Sells at a premium. A kiltered exchange, maybe. But fairness is another universe.
‘Angel Stalker’ was first published in Luna Luna.
