![]() In Bowie’s case, his left pupil was permanently dilated. Anisocoria is a condition characterised by an unequal size in a person’s pupils. Instead, the unusual appearance of Bowie’s eyes were due to a condition called anisocoria. She is currently at work on a collection of short stories.So, why were they apparently two different colors?Ĭomplete heterochromia is a fairly rare condition (in humans) whereby each iris is a distinctly different colour, such as having one blue iris and the other brown.īut this isn’t why Bowie’s eyes looked different. ![]() Jessica Marks lives in Boulder, Colorado, where she is persuing an M.F.A in Writing and Poetics from Naropa University. Five minutes with Bowie and my vibrator is always plenty of time for me, but after my heartfelt attempt, the new batteries died. I shut my eyes instead and started masturbating. Bowie's eyes were open in the photo, and for the first time, it bothered me. Mouth agape, mid-song, highlighting the microphone stand's phallic glory. ![]() The next morning, I woke up and watched Ziggy. Once I got back to my apartment, it took me forever to stop shivering. It was fall, and I only had on a thin sweater. I didn't feel like taking a cab, and walked the two miles back to my apartment instead, which was stupid. I practically ran out the door, leaving Amanda to find a ride home with Paul or Patrick or whoever. He let go of my hand, and I quickly finished my drink. I got a shiver down my spine, just as if he had flicked his tongue on my clit. ![]() When he grazed his thumb over mine, I nearly fell off my barstool. He smiled, "Now I know you've had too much to drink tonight." He held my hand for a second. I wanted to leave the bar, go somewhere quiet, and just talk to him, not shove him into the backseat of his car and pull off his pants. Bowie's left pupil is dilated, and Bowie Junior's right eye expressed the same phenomenon.Īt this point, I felt my cheeks flush, like I was drunk, although the tequila was my first drink of the night. Eventually, I gave up, and simply stared back. I tried to draw his attention somewhere else, but he was really intent on looking in my eyes. Funny thing, he looked at my face, not my legs or my tits. I think it is possibly his most sexy quality, which is saying a lot.īowie Junior bought me a Tequila Sunrise, and we talked. Most people would call that creepy, since one of Bowie's pupils is permanently enlarged due to a school-yard fight years ago. I nearly spat back the water into my cup. As he sat down beside me, I took a sip from my glass and looked at him. The hair flip, for those who need such a hint, entices anyone who's looking to approach you. Men are amazed when they smell a woman's confidence across the room, and they can't help but stare. A guy was drinking a beer by the juke box, staring at me. I crossed my leather-clad legs and flipped my hair over my shoulder, which masked my quick glance around the room. I was still sitting at the bar, since I make it a point never to walk across the room to speak to anyone. She had long ago disappeared into a booth to suck face with a guy, Pete or Paul or somebody. My friend Amanda and I were in a bar tonic water for me, gin and tonic for her. I almost broke my non-celibate vow once, but really, it wasn't even close. It's my nature to give, but the next time I have real sex, it will be with David Bowie. When I give someone a blow job, they're happy and I get complimented on my skill. The guy always gets nervous afterwards, asking, "Was it good? Was I good?" over and over. I'd much rather make out with someone and go down on him in a bathroom stall (that was last Friday) then fuck. I am not abstaining from sex for religious reasons, even though David Bowie is a god. But her husband is not David Bowie.Ĭelibate is the wrong word for me. That all changed once I moved into my own place. Just once, I wanted to let out an arched-back moan. The downside was that I still lived at home, and since both my parents were up, I had to orgasm quietly. The morning ritual came later, in high school. While everyone else had posters of Johnny Depp or Ethan Hawke, I saved my allowance to buy vintage photos of Bowie in concert. My obsession with Bowie started in junior high. No real man could ever live up to such a satisfying standard. When I wake up, whether or not I have the dream, I stare at my Ziggy Stardust poster and masturbate. Of course, then Labyrinth becomes a voyeuristic porno. The masquerade dancers crowd around us to watch. During the ballroom scene, instead of dancing, we end up fucking on the floor. I have a recurring dream in which I take Jennifer Connelly's place in Labyrinth. Barrelhouse Fiction: David Bowie Eyes, by Jessica Marks
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