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Glove Love

I work as a drudge, 60 hours a week to slog my guts out in a soul destroying job. I am a grunt, the lowest downtrodden minion on the ladder, obeying all the rules for a pittance.

But I don’t mind. Once a month I find myself compelled to walk down Whimsey lane to enter a special place, the Glove gallery. Getting excited as I get closer to the entrance, it’s a place for glovers like me to try on and wear gloves.

The bell announces my arrival at the shop, the rising anticipation as I can look forward to another session at the glove gallery. My face reddened at the prospect of feeling gloves again.

Society doesn’t understand my glove fetish, I don’t understand it, I didn’t choose the glove, the gloves chose me, and now I know I have to follow my rising urges every month when there is a full moon in the sky. I must satisfy my urges to visit the glove store and dive once again into an orgy of feeling and touching all the gloves, to experience all the glorious and sensuous shades of glove love.

So many to choose from, saliva moistens my lips, sends my head fizzing.

Try to prolong the sensation as I brush my fingertips against each one, eventually I’ll come across the right one, it’ll fit me just like a glove. The glove made me tell that one. And once I slip my hand into the right one it feels like an explosion of ten thousand tiny fireworks.

Here’s the curator, Mr Nick and he’s smiling. Mr Nick knows me, I’m a regular visitor to the glove gallery.

He says to me, ‘Ah come on try on another pair sir, you’ve got plenty to choose from, which one I wonder will take your fancy? Fancy a bit of fur , or a fluffy number or why not choose the luxury of red leather, go on indulge yourself. We don’t judge anyone here, please yourself, our gloves are arranged to provide for your pleasure.’

I eagerly plunge into the collected cornucopia in front of me, ready to gorge once more on the feast of gloves. I’d gladly smother my face into the bounteous bundle of gloves.

I glide my fingertips over the gloves. The intense satisfaction as my skin rubs against the material, takes my time caressing the different gloves, heart pounding.

Pulse racing, body shaking, arms trembling as I approach the pair I want, the ones that will fully satisfy my desires tonight as once more the glove will wrap around my skin and my body will tremble to a rhapsody of relish.

As my eyes excitedly focus on a petite pair of yellow fluorescent gloves.

I exquisitely explored all the holes with my fingers, pushing up to fill all the spaces, the great glee is coming,and I am transformed and sent hurtling upwards to touch a world that was ablaze with dazzling neon and full of excess, and Wham! We were performing ‘Wake me up before you go go’ with a shuttlecock shoved into my shorts as I flung myself around with abandon, screaming, flushed and pulling funny faces, telling the rest to keep up, my head filled with a blaring saxophone.

I came down from the bliss as I knew I must. Mr Nick was there to help guide me to the ground and seated me as my head settled and the glistening receded. I was tired and sweating as I took the gloves off and a part of me died.

I sighed and bid Mr Nick a fond adieu. We both knew that I’d be coming back with the rising of the next full moon to satisfy my urges and try on a different pair of gloves.

But for now I trudged back along Whimsey Lane and back to my boring life as a lowly grunt working for Bovis corporation. All work again, no enjoyment.

My only release is the glove gallery down Whimsey Lane. my heart was racing thinking to myself that next time I visit the glove gallery I’ll explore a pair of lacy ones. That’ll be glovely!

About the artist

Simon is a ND writer from England. He is a member of the All Seasons writing group. He will be publishing a collection of contemporary Gothic poetry later this year. He seeks stillness and solitude.