Slugs in the Scottish Highlighters
Is this a blog post…? I don’t know. It’s a start and starting is the thing I need.
Some content notes: slugs, sexy stuff, body stuff.
Slugs have entered my life. Not quite literally, tho there were a few small beautiful ones on my visit to Balqhuidder in Scotland this week. The Scottish Highlighters, as my phone decided to rename them.
More so I found them on the train ride up and on the first few days of my break. Abi Palmer’s Slugs: A Manifesto landed in my hands the day before travel and I greedily packed it (along with Queer Life, Queer Love anthology - a share last week from poet, friend and collaborator Ray Vincent-Mills).
I have been converted into slug life. Or, found I was already there. So many ways of experiencing and relating to this book, which was an expansion pack of the original. Even more juicy and share-y.
Lists feel quite good for things I read & enjoy at the moment, so a loose list of things this book has given to me:
🥟 a way of seeing life that I hadn’t before - slow, under, beyond, entangled in the mainstream world yet not of it. Something that my life feels like now
🥟 sexual pleasure in slug terms
🥟 a mode to travel on in my own journey of re-lubricating myself, 6 years after a poorly supported medical menopause. I finally have a prescription for testosterone and a pessary for my post menopausal care - let’s see what goo I can make in the next few months! towards the good sex - slug sex
🥟 not recoiling at slugs on the pathway to my accommodation, or under a stick I wanted to hold on a walk
🥟 a small driftwood slug to pocket and illicitly take home with me, over the border
🥟 joy in getting paper into my hands that was so accessibly written and formatted that I almost wept. Truly, for the brain-fogged and energetically disabled, make space on the pages for the words and readers to BREATHE and REST
🥟 slug-rotica - the writing below emerged this morning having taken up Julia Cameron’s morning pages (again), morning movement (again), some meditation (again), reading in bed without falling asleep again, and a very rare solo sesh
I immediately wanted to share this book with other nd and disabled people in my life, and already have.
The Shed
slugrotic fiction after Abi Palmer’s Slugs: A Manifesto and Jon Ransom’s A History of Sheds from Queer Life, Queer Love - an anthology
We sneak into the allotments at night, in dark. The slugs have started to leave slime trails over the pathway that takes us from our mind-melting lives into the refuge of a sturdy timber shed at the bottom.
It is not ours. The wooden table inside is so sturdy that we can rut to our cck’s and cnt’s content.
Queerly. Sneakily. Sluggily.
When we are done scking and fcking I make them stand outside on the pathway, still hard. Ropes of cum land on snail trails in a collaborative artwork of juicy, slimy, tender sauce. Don’t slip.
Our fetish is to hungrily feast on each other’s fat and sexy bodies before discharging ourselves externally. Making our sex visible.
