screaming in disbelief.
Sometimes I think I won’t be able to resist the urge. And the bigger the crowd, the stronger my urge becomes – to do something completely inappropriate.
So, I tell him about that morning. And then I continue to tell him about how I was going down the stairs and how, like numerous times before, I imagined myself falling down those stairs and somewhere along the way, breaking my front teeth. Not my back, not my head, arms or legs, not any of that, only my front teeth. They all get chipped and look horrifyingly hideous, while I lie at the bottom of the stairs, contorted and beaten up.
Why would anyone want to listen to such things? People want you to tell them about things that are interesting, to give them a recap of a movie you had seen, they want to hear a piece of juicy gossip or how good they look and how they’ve lost weight.
Imagine if I then tell him how at 2:15 p.m., as usual, I watched Edgar as he went to work. Edgar looked sluggish, as if he didn’t get enough sleep. Something was stuck to his shoe and he shook it off. Edgar’s bus came on time.
After I see Edgar off to work, I have another half an hour or so and then I head for home.
On the way, I fantasize about how handy it would be to have a lover somewhere halfway between work and home. I would tell the cabdriver to wait for me outside the apartment building. All right, he can turn the motor off, but leave the meter running. I think I’d even like knowing the meter was running while I’m committing adultery. This somehow illustrates the true state of things. Your meter is always running anyway.
I take my panties off while still in the elevator.
There, in that apartment, the blinds are half drawn, it’s quiet and everything is ready for my arrival. He’s sitting in a chair, naked. Everything is ready for me, get it? I throw one shoe off in the hallway and the other in the room. By the time I get to him, I’ve taken off the necessary items. We don’t say anything; I straddle him in his chair. At first, we don’t move very much. It’s more like we’re feeling each other from the inside. He nibbles at my shoulder. Takes me with both hands. Rocks me back and forth. I squeeze him from within….
If now you tell me that this seems detached, I could agree with you and advocate the theory that sex in general is a category of alienation, or if I decide to be really stubborn, I could defend the argument that two united bodies can never be detached because the connection is the point of the union. How much you draw from this connection, these two energies, is another matter. Don’t blame it on the silence in the room of my imaginary lover. In any case, I can get carried away defending either one of these theories, no matter how different they are. No matter what you think about it, it’s all the same to me. And because I don’t have a firm opinion on the matter. Sometimes I honestly believe sex cannot be detached. Other times, I think it’s always like that. But most of all, I think such discussions are totally stupid.
Let’s go back to my lover and me; we are now really going at it in the chair. He lives on one of the top floors, because as I’m hugging him around the shoulders, behind him, through the blinds, I can catch a glimpse of the contours of other high-story buildings, and over there, in the distance, I can also see a river. The only sound in the room is the occasional clanking of streetcars. And the sound of us breathing. There is no music to sweeten or jazz up the event. Music is forbidden. As well as smiles. Or a comfortable bed. Anything that might soften this image is strictly forbidden.
His face is mature and tense. His cheek is scratching my shoulders. Occasionally he bites hard into my shoulder. If it hurts too much, I clench my teeth. We’re both in a hurry. We know the meter is running and that I have to get home soon. And so we pick up the pace. One strong clench at the end, a tiny cry from me or
Sometimes I think I won’t be able to resist the urge. And the bigger the crowd, the stronger my urge becomes – to do something completely inappropriate.
So, I tell him about that morning. And then I continue to tell him about how I was going down the stairs and how, like numerous times before, I imagined myself falling down those stairs and somewhere along the way, breaking my front teeth. Not my back, not my head, arms or legs, not any of that, only my front teeth. They all get chipped and look horrifyingly hideous, while I lie at the bottom of the stairs, contorted and beaten up.
Why would anyone want to listen to such things? People want you to tell them about things that are interesting, to give them a recap of a movie you had seen, they want to hear a piece of juicy gossip or how good they look and how they’ve lost weight.
Imagine if I then tell him how at 2:15 p.m., as usual, I watched Edgar as he went to work. Edgar looked sluggish, as if he didn’t get enough sleep. Something was stuck to his shoe and he shook it off. Edgar’s bus came on time.
After I see Edgar off to work, I have another half an hour or so and then I head for home.
On the way, I fantasize about how handy it would be to have a lover somewhere halfway between work and home. I would tell the cabdriver to wait for me outside the apartment building. All right, he can turn the motor off, but leave the meter running. I think I’d even like knowing the meter was running while I’m committing adultery. This somehow illustrates the true state of things. Your meter is always running anyway.
I take my panties off while still in the elevator.
There, in that apartment, the blinds are half drawn, it’s quiet and everything is ready for my arrival. He’s sitting in a chair, naked. Everything is ready for me, get it? I throw one shoe off in the hallway and the other in the room. By the time I get to him, I’ve taken off the necessary items. We don’t say anything; I straddle him in his chair. At first, we don’t move very much. It’s more like we’re feeling each other from the inside. He nibbles at my shoulder. Takes me with both hands. Rocks me back and forth. I squeeze him from within….
If now you tell me that this seems detached, I could agree with you and advocate the theory that sex in general is a category of alienation, or if I decide to be really stubborn, I could defend the argument that two united bodies can never be detached because the connection is the point of the union. How much you draw from this connection, these two energies, is another matter. Don’t blame it on the silence in the room of my imaginary lover. In any case, I can get carried away defending either one of these theories, no matter how different they are. No matter what you think about it, it’s all the same to me. And because I don’t have a firm opinion on the matter. Sometimes I honestly believe sex cannot be detached. Other times, I think it’s always like that. But most of all, I think such discussions are totally stupid.
Let’s go back to my lover and me; we are now really going at it in the chair. He lives on one of the top floors, because as I’m hugging him around the shoulders, behind him, through the blinds, I can catch a glimpse of the contours of other high-story buildings, and over there, in the distance, I can also see a river. The only sound in the room is the occasional clanking of streetcars. And the sound of us breathing. There is no music to sweeten or jazz up the event. Music is forbidden. As well as smiles. Or a comfortable bed. Anything that might soften this image is strictly forbidden.
His face is mature and tense. His cheek is scratching my shoulders. Occasionally he bites hard into my shoulder. If it hurts too much, I clench my teeth. We’re both in a hurry. We know the meter is running and that I have to get home soon. And so we pick up the pace. One strong clench at the end, a tiny cry from me or
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