Flo mo | fiction

Europe oh | novella extract

Flo | mo

Flo’s a dominatrix and recently, she purchased a new leather whip.

She told me if you lash them hard enough it splits skin. Her black leather boots have forty-seven metal studs and each stud has a pointed tip. Each week she dyes her hair a deeper red. One night while out on the drink she confessed to me with blood in her eyes that despite not having evidence; her father is dead.

Flo’s a dominatrix with a smile and full lips I’ve considered kissing. Once I dreamt we had walked the embankment of the Seine River in Paris holding hands. The sun streaked the sky a mustard yellow, rays spread as though ink meeting water as walked holding hands. Inside of my dream, Flo wore a summer dress she’d never wear and whistled songs about tomorrow being sunny.

But it was only a dream. Because Flo is a dominatrix who possesses no fear of who it is she may become.

‘Never ask, where is tomorrow,’ she once said, ‘or today is already over.’

Flo has ambitions far larger than her virtual realities.

‘One day I will open a hostel on the Skeleton Coast, it is in Namibia,’ she once said, ‘you can come and we will swim naked among the wreckage of ships as we deep dive to find our golden treasures.’

On hot weekends Flo skates Tempelhofer Feld Airport’s abandoned runways in hot pants and a black bra. There she flies a kite until the string won’t release any further and drool begins to form at the edges of passing men’s open mouths.

‘Sometimes the kite goes so high you forget it’s even up there.’

Flo has sex with boys and girls but only boys for money—she thinks this is funny. And she won’t suck non-vegan no matter how much they offer and can tell by skin pigmentation if they chew meat.

‘Some men like to draw me naked after we do it, especially if they got a suck.’

Aged eight she could do an ollie on a skateboard—much to boys delight. At eleven she took up gymnastics and toured the country with her squad of girls until asked to leave for misbehaviours of the indecent kind.

‘I can split for days,’ she once confessed, ‘even when eating out girls.’

At sweet sixteen she was banned from attending sex education for knowing too much about the practical appliance of the metaphorical story birds and the bees.

‘At school they wanted you to exist in a mind cage of rule fucking and how to think literature,’ she once said, ‘I had to find another way.’

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Late one evening, in the twilight hours of her youth, a single mother entered her bedroom with terror in her eyes. Stroking curls behind an ear she kissed a daughter’s cheek. Then she whispered to an ear she was the most special girl in the whole wide world—and to leave before it was too late.