POETRY BY MADISON MANNING
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A hand grips my arm
A hand grips my arm, leads me to car and pushes me face first onto the bonnet. A leg compresses my back, holding my stomach hard against the dark grey metal. The heat from the motor warms my skin whilst my blood runs ice cold with fear. The hand and the leg disappear. Pressure lifted, skin still warm, blood still cold. I can’t turn to see the face, I step sideways clearing my pathway of the car. Frozen still I wait for the hand, the hand, the hand, it doesn’t come. I run, I hide. I am in a damp corner of a narrow street, I am breathless. I catch my breath, I walk home.
The warm water cleanses my distorted nerves. A thick steam fills the bathroom filling my lungs with dewy atmosphere. I collapse. I stay. I am useless. My forearm blocks the water’s flow causing the water to rise. Slowly, slowly it has flooded. I know I have to move. I have to get up. The bathroom door flings open. A hand grips my arm, leads me to my bed and pushes me face first onto the mattress. A leg compresses my back, holding my stomach hard against the soft blanket. The cushioned texture nourishes my skin whilst my muscles cringe with fear. The hand and the leg disappear. Pressure lifted, skin still soft, muscles still tight.
A hand wraps around the back of my neck, moving slowly down my back; caressing my skin. Both hands slide from my shoulders down my arms to my hands. Gripping his fingers between mine, holding my body down with his. Softness leaves. I want more, I wait for both hands. I wait, no hands. As I roll my body over my eyes meet his. He is leaning against the wall watching me with love exuding from his eyes. I smile. He smiles. He is mine.
An elderly attraction
This angst, this fantasy
It enthrals me
Yet leaves me gasping
Oh the sheer anxiety
It tortures me
It elates me
I crave the sight, the tone of your voice
We are trapped between another two beings
Their opinion it tortures me
I am exasperating myself
You are a mirror to me
A mere mortal that reflects
I shudder at the sensation
The consuming lust
It overpowers conventionality
Oh am I a fool for feeling such?
I envisage your hand
It is palpable
It is too much
I straddle your crotch
You’re immersed in my thrust
The intensity, it’s too much
Your hands smother my suppleness
I arch and extend in sheer pleasure
My mind begs…never end
You penetrate my trembling body
Holding my breast in your mouth
Fuck me, penetrate; fuck me
You throw my legs around your neck
And support my back whilst I grind and moan
Deep moans of pleasure – the intensity – it’s too much
The sensuality exudes from my eyes
Causing your heart to flutter and confide
You are engrossed, forever to be mine
There is something in a lust
In the kiss that tantalizes it
In a touch that enhances it
In his eyes that reciprocate it
In my heart that predicted it
Lust that grows or peters off into the distance
Never to be felt again
Never to be touched
Never again to be submerged in
There is something in that lust
That can never be defined
That can never be forever
© Madison Manning 2015
I’m an Australian sex worker. My name is Madison Manning. I work in a strip club in Melbourne three nights a week as a showgirl and giving men lap dances. I have been stripping for almost two years. Generally I earn a lot of money. Some nights I do not. I pay my taxes and I have a Literature and Composition degree and have begun my thesis for an MA in Literature and Writing, which makes me a more credible stripper right? I mean I am not an alcoholic, I’m not addicted to drugs and I definitely don’t sleep with the owner of the club for validation or because I have to.
So what got me into stripping? A question I have been asked more than any other in my life. Yes I was a student, and a life-long friend introduced me to the notion. But there was more than that, there always is. I had been living as a recluse in Queensland, Australia for the better part of three years, as a result of a nervous breakdown at the ripe age of 23. I physically and emotionally isolated myself from the world and dealt with severe anxiety and panic attacks as I proceeded to heal from the breakdown. With raw nerves, absolutely no self-esteem and little support I felt (sometimes fought) my way through the wall of anxiety that towered over me.
Once I had gained enough of my sanity back I made my way as far away from the sizzling sun and suffocating humid air of Queensland as economically possible. I landed in Melbourne.
In the early stages of the breakdown I wrote and wrote until I would sleep, or have a panic attack and call an ambulance out of fear of my own thoughts or feelings. In the mildly better stage I resumed my university studies that had ceased when I fell apart. So I was writing about my experiences with ill-mental health and writing to complete my degree. As melancholy and frightening as those years were I missed them once they had gone, I craved for something of depth to write about. I needed a challenge and as I slid my feet into those 7inch stilettos I knew I had found what I needed.
Creative work by Madison:
Writer and Producer of Andy A, a short fiction film about stripping http://youtu.be/M-R9h5Q5H7I
Blog about thoughts, feelings and experiences as a stripper https://1womandisrobing.wordpress.com
Sexual fetish blogger for Sticks & Stones Agency
Stylist, model and photography producer at @because_eileen