Dearest readers,
Thank you for being on this journey with me over the last year. I’ve enjoyed writing about everything from art history to grief and poetry from the vault - and sharing it with you all. I’ve received so much positive feedback, especially on work that resonated from the heart, namely Spontaneous Combustion and my first piece on miscarriage.
Chiaroscuro was first published in June as an idea over a few drinks with a good friend of mine. We spoke about commonalities in the arts, and stories we’d heard (read: gossip) and a narrative began to take shape in my mind. I had to write it. Over the last six months, I’ve crafted a first draft of this story that is so close to my heart - and I thank those of you who’ve supported my writing and this story - that I feel very strongly - needs to be told.
Thanks to everyone who voted last week for the short story they wanted to be published. Orange was the winner and you’ll find it below. I’ve been having a lot of fun writing these stories over the past few weeks. I think I may have found my niche ; )
I sent Orange to a few friends to read and before it was published - they all told me the spicy factor wasn’t high enough, and they wanted more. Maybe my friends are slightly degenerate (probably - but that’s why I love them!), so I’ve gone further with the spice than I initially felt comfortable with. But, that’s all part of the writing - pushing myself into places I never thought I would go.
This will be my last post for 2024. I’ll be taking a few weeks off over the holidays. Chiaroscuro only has a few more chapters left, and I anticipate its completion by February/ March 2025.
Thanks again for your support and I look forward to sharing more stories with you in 2025.
Joey xx
CW: This story contains sex scenes (duh!).
Orange.
The hallway is dim, and my shoes clack against the wooden floor as I step inside. The air is heavy with the smell of soap. He’s just showered.
‘Should I take my shoes off?’ I ask, seeing his straightened pairs of sneakers at the entrance.
He kneels without a word, unbuckling them with a precision that feels practised, almost ceremonial. It should feel strange. Someone I barely know crouched at my feet, his fingers deft and deliberate, but it doesn’t. There’s something about the intimacy of it that I like. I smile as I watch his hands move. I want to ask who came before me. How many women have stood in this hallway and felt his hands move across their ankles like this. But I don’t. I’m not sure I want the answer.
We met two weeks ago, at an art gallery. Georgia had dragged me along with the promise of free wine and ‘an excuse to wear something low-cut.’ I hadn’t protested. I’d needed the distraction.
‘You have to get out of your head, babe,’ she’d said, dragging lipstick across her mouth in a line so sharp I thought she might cut herself. Get out of your head. She says it often. She’s probably right.
At the opening, I’d circled the room twice, staring at art I didn’t understand. Paintings that felt coded, sculptures that looked like traps. But then I’d seen him: tall, sharp-jawed, standing too close to a spiked, metal sculpture like it might puncture him if he let his guard down. His jacket fit him perfectly, shoulders drawn back like he belonged everywhere.
‘You’re really staring at that thing like it owes you money,’ I’d said, emboldened by the wine.
He’d turned, looked me over like I was another spiky sculpture, and his mouth quirked up at the edges. ‘You don’t like it?’
‘It looks like something my cousin made in Year 12 Design and Tech.’
His laugh – short and clear – had felt like sunlight cracking through a closed curtain. ‘It’s Clement Tan,’ he said, glancing back at the thing. ‘Fifty thousand dollars of metal, apparently.’
‘Well, I hope it paid him back.’
He laughed again and I’d grinned at the sound of it. Warming me in places that had been all ice and snow for too long.
He hadn’t walked away. We’d talked. About art, about where we were from, about nothing, really. I hadn’t told him that I used to paint. That I used to feel something when I walked into a gallery. Now I just felt tired, like everything was slipping through my hands faster than I could catch it.
By the end of the night, he’d asked for my number. ‘To talk more about sculptures,’ he’d said, and we both knew it wasn’t true.
It’s nice to be wanted, I’d thought then. Georgia always says that’s a dangerous feeling.
Now, here I am in his apartment. He rises after unbuckling my shoes, as smooth as if he’s been rehearsing this moment for years.
‘Do you want something to drink?’ he asks, standing fluidly, his movements clean and contained.
‘Just water, thanks.’ The taste of tequila coats my tongue like a second skin. Any more alcohol and I’ll make a fool of myself.
At the sink, he turns the tap. The quiet hum of running water fills the silence. When he hands me the glass, his eyes linger on mine, and I feel a flicker of something. Curiosity? Calculation? Either way, his expression is steady, impenetrable.
He hands me a glass, and I take it, using the moment to look around. Sparse walls. A single photograph – a younger version of him with an older man. There’s something in their shared expressions that’s hard to place. I open my mouth to ask, but I stop myself. It feels too personal, and we’re not there yet. Although I’m not sure we’ll ever be there. Wherever there is.
‘Thanks,’ I say, testing his full name aloud. I trip over the last syllable, my voice catching awkwardly.
‘How do you pronounce it?’
He says it slowly, the edges of his accent soft but distinct. I roll it silently in my mind, tasting it like forbidden fruit. His name doesn’t belong in my mouth, but I want it there anyway.
I follow him to the couch, where he sits casually, legs apart, shoulders relaxed. But there’s tension too. A kind of restraint that draws me in. I slide onto his lap, straddling him. The alcohol in my bloodstream gives me confidence, but it also heightens my awareness of every tiny detail: the faint scent of soap on his skin, the way his breath brushes my neck, the heat radiating from him.
‘Are you always this forward?’ He teases, though his hands settle on me with ease.
‘Are you always this calm?’ I counter, eyebrow raised, happy with myself for being so witty.
I want to know what he sees when he looks at me. I unzip my top, the sound loud in the room. My movements feel clumsy, too eager. A flush rises in my chest. Is this who I am now - someone who sheds their clothes for the brief thrill of being wanted?
His grin doesn’t quite reach his eyes. I wonder what he’s hiding. Or if he’s hiding anything at all. Maybe he’s just...empty. Maybe that’s easier.
‘You’re beautiful,’ he murmurs.
The words sting more than they should. I’ve been told that before, but it never quite sticks. I want to believe him. I want to believe I’m more than a collection of shapes and lines.
‘Come on,’ he says softly into my ear, ‘I’ll show you my bedroom.’
I pause. ‘How old are you really?’ I ask noticing the absence of lines on his face.
‘Twenty-one,’ he grins, then laughs.
My stomach hitches. Fourteen years difference. He’s a child.
‘No, I’m thirty.’ Relief blooms in me, absurd and misplaced. Thirty feels like solid ground, a kind of reassurance I didn’t know I needed. But I’m not here because he’s solid. I’m here because he asked, and I said yes.
‘August 8,’ he says.
A Leo. My stomach tightens. I think of the others I’ve known, their charm like a sharp blade hidden beneath velvet.
His bedroom is neat, stark. His control extends here. I shouldn’t be surprised. His bedspread is the same burnt orange as the evening sky just before the sun dips below the horizon. It feels like it’s glowing, alive.
‘Your room feels...disciplined,’ I say.
‘That’s one way to put it.’ He laughs and I’m transported back to the same way I felt the night I met him at the gallery.
Frank Ocean hums softly from his speaker, and the song pulls me back into the past. Music has a way of transporting me to places I don’t want to go. I push the song away. Force it from my mind, but the melancholic chords wrap around me. Around him.
He asks about my relationship. I tell him something that feels like the truth but isn’t. Something I wish was the truth but isn’t. But here I am, rewriting the boundaries in secret, pretending this is just a moment, something I can leave behind. But I am not like that. I hold onto everything. This will hurt. I can already feel the sting. The burn of abandonment before it’s happened.
‘You’re distracted,’ he says, his voice low, almost amused.
‘I’m here,’ I reply, almost too quickly.
His eyes catch mine, and I feel pinned under his gaze. There’s warmth in it, but also a distance. A kind of untouchable quality that makes me want to crack him open, to see what he’s hiding.
‘You have nice eyes,’ I say. ‘Light brown.’ I think of an undulating river. Of honey. Of dried amber.
He laughs softly. ‘They’re boring.’
I shake my head, my fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the faint stubble rough against my skin. ‘No, they’re not.’
The kiss that follows is soft, careful. Too careful. He’s holding back. I pull away, brows furrowed. ‘Can you use more tongue,’ I say, impatient. Knowing what I like.
His mouth quirks into a smile. ‘Okay. Sure.’
The second kiss is better. But something in me is splintering, even as his hands tighten on my hips. The orange of his bedspread catches my eye again, and suddenly, I feel like I’m on fire, burning from the inside out. Orange flames consume me; a wildfire rages within.
He undoes the buckle on his belt, then he rips at the top button. He looks at me then averts his eyes to where I know he wants me to be. I let him guide me downwards, let myself sink into him, into this. I take him in my mouth. But the weight of it presses against me. My thoughts spiral in the quiet, but I push them away. I’m here in his universe for a moment, and I want to remember it all. Feel it all. Get out of my head - just like Georgia told me to.
I look up at his beautiful body, at his abs that look like tiny sculptures protruding from under his skin.
‘I like being over you like this,’ he murmurs, his voice steady, unreadable. ‘Looking down at you.’
His words squeeze something in my chest. A bolt tightening. I look up at him. Catch his eye. A gesture that should be reserved for lovers. Of which we aren’t.
‘I like it too,’ I whisper, but it’s a lie. I feel small beneath him, insignificant. And yet, I can’t bring myself to stop what I’m doing.
I can see how much he’s enjoying it. His eyes close steadily and his hands move to my head. Guiding me. There’s a power in it. It surges in me. Holding him in my mouth like this. I like that it brings him pleasure. That in this moment I am all that he wants.
He starts bucking now. His fingers tighten around my head and dig into my hair. He’ll finish soon. If I let him. But I don’t want it to end. Not like this.
I pull back, remove him from my mouth and look up at him. He’s looking down at me. Squinting, cheeks flushed, eyebrows furrowed.
‘Why did you stop?’ He exhales. Frustrated now.
I stand up so I am level with his eyes. I smile and I know he understands what I want. He wants it too. It’s why I’m here after all.
I unbutton my jeans and pull them down to my ankles, stepping out of them. Leaving them in a little heap on the floor. I move towards him and yank at his pants, keeping my eyes on his. They flicker like a flame in the wind.
‘You’re beautiful,’ he murmurs again as if hearing it for the second time I should truly believe it.
He leans in, his stubble brushing against my cheek, kissing me with a fiery force. His hands graze my lower back, and I feel my underpants being pulled down. He’s at my ankles again, helping me step out of them. Touching me now.
He lifts me up and the veins on his arms protrude through the muscles. My stomach hitches at the sight.
I gasp as his lips trailed down my neck, over my collarbone, and he finds the sensitive peaks of my breasts. My thoughts scatter like shrapnel, the room spinning as I surrender to the moment. His touch, his scent, the faint metallic tang of sweat and cologne. It overwhelms me.
His hands slide lower, deliberate and commanding, coaxing me to open myself to him. I shiver, my breath catching as I feel him between my thighs, his fingers moving with a precision that make me arch into him. Each stroke sends ripples of fire through me, building a need I can’t contain.
‘Please,’ I hear myself whisper, my nails biting into his skin. I cling to him, anchoring myself in this moment. Desperate for more.
The heat of his breath against my neck is like the sun burning my skin. The warmth of his skin against mine. Coating me like a blanket. I can’t think. I don’t want to. I’m untethered, riding a wave that threatens to drown me.
And then, he’s inside me. The pressure, the fullness, the way he moves. All consuming. I wrap my legs around him, pulling him deeper, urging him harder. His breath comes in ragged bursts, matching the rhythm of our bodies as they collide.
The tension spirals higher, winding tighter until I think I might shatter. My world narrows – the orange bedspread flares in my vision – overwhelming me. Frank Ocean sings from somewhere in the room. I’m lost in this moment, to the flames blazing between us. When the release comes, it’s explosive, a burst of pleasure that leaves me trembling and gasping, his name escaping my lips in a cry I can’t hold back.
He follows soon after, his body shuddering against mine, a low groan vibrating through him as he collapses into me. We lay there together, our skin damp, our breathing uneven but somehow in sync.
For the first time in months, I feel weightless, unmoored. But as I stared at the ceiling, the spell begins to fray. His warmth next to me, the lingering taste of him – it isn’t enough to smother the truth creeping back into the edges of my mind.
This isn’t freedom. It was a momentary escape, and I know the fallout is waiting just beyond the dawn.
I sit up on the edge of the bed, my hands twisting in the fabric of the orange bedspread. It’s soft but unforgiving, its vivid hue almost mocking. Frank Ocean fades in the background, melancholic as memory. Coaxing me into places I don’t want to go. He looks at me, tired, his faint smile more polite than real. The weight of his gaze settles over me, and I feel it again – that sharp, cold ache I can’t name.
‘That was nice,’ he says, grinning as if that makes it enough.
‘Yeah,’ I echo, my voice thin. That hollow surge of power flares through me. Although it won’t stay there for long. It never does.
But there’s no victory in it. My skin feels too tight. I gather my clothes, and he watches me.
‘Leaving so soon?’
‘I have somewhere to be,’ I lie.
I wonder if I’ll hear from him again. My hands tremble slightly as wrap my top around me. He helps me zip it up, and spins me around. Kisses me lightly on the cheek. Casual, forgettable.
The reality of what I’ve done presses harder with every second, like a bruise beneath my ribs. I glance back at the bedspread one last time before I leave. The orange seems alive, burning quietly, holding on to something I can’t take back.
When I step into the hallway, the sound of my shoes against the wooden floor feels deafening. The air is heavy, thick, as though the walls themselves are watching me.
Outside, the night waits like an open mouth, and I pause before walking into it. I close my eyes and breathe, but the colour orange clings to me. It burns under my skin like a secret I can’t name, a reminder that I can’t outrun myself.
I think of Georgia. I think of how I stood in that gallery and wanted to feel something. I think of his laugh, that clean break in the air, and how I thought it meant something – knowing it won’t.
Joey Hespe, 2024.
*Disclaimer: This is a fictional story and is not intended to represent any person or likeness.
Image: René Magritte, The Spot on the Map, 1955.
Thank you Eric. That means a lot 🥰 the writing transports me to other worlds when I write it.
His name doesn’t belong in my mouth, but I want it there anyway.
Music has a way of transporting me to places I don’t want to go.
love the way your sentences contain worlds.