This is a text I wrote when I was numb, and depressed, and trying to write even though all I wanted to do was eat toast and hate Cambridge. I think it was in those few days before I discovered a bar of soap in my cereal.
That was the peak of my disorganized and depressed period. I was finally tidying my room, after many dusty days, and I discovered the soap in the cereal. I had eaten cereal in the bath, started crying for no real reason, and decided I would save time by just carrying the soap and cereal downstairs in one go. But then two weeks later the soap and cereal were still there. I hadn't tidied. Or studied.
Not good.
My friend came into the room, noticed the soap on a spoon. I took a picture. And then we laughed hysterically at the idea of handing someone soap on a spoon, and then running away. I find completely illogical things very funny.
Like this:
Click here for a video of a dwarf and a large lady at a crime scene
Anyway, this text is quite graphic, and cold. But it might still have some value.
Take care, my dear readers,
Yours Cheerlessly,
Sandpiper
The hands. The bed. The cottage. The middle-aged man. The
feeling of cold fabric below a naked body. The feeling of being hopelessly
sexy, pitifully thin and degraded.
O. is awake.
khayim, khayim, khayim
O. is awake.
Жива, жива,
жива
She shivers against the flowered fabric and the hands rub
across her back: warm, but boringly consistent. Regular, smooth, unsatisfactory.
Not enough attention to the shoulders. Not enough attention to her ass. If this
is going to be sex, then it should be done right. If it’s doing to be a
massage, then she shouldn’t be naked.
The light is bright on his cool English morning. Children
are walking to a good catholic school past thatched cottages and Anglican
copses. A shabby red car is in the drive. The house is full of those political
biographies you could read, but never do. They are biased, but the matt finish
is attractive.
O. is imaging the moment when she will be taken home, when she
exits the car and walks – secretly – through the newly green trees, past the rows
of glaring bicycles, to her bedroom. She is regretting that she won’t be paid
for this service. Her financial situation is not the best. If she were a
prostitute, she would have a story for her grandchildren. But there will still be
money when she is dead.
She should be enjoying the present: the feeling of warm,
haired hands against her back and the desire-filled stare of a strong man. But she
has never really enjoyed the present. She prefers the vague promises of the
future.
She guides the man’s hand downwards to her behind and forces
him to move harder. She initiates sex.
There are no condoms in this house. O. hesitates, but
continues.
The man penetrates too quickly. O. forces him out. She
shivers on the bed, covers her nipples (dark, stained, incongruous to white
vulnerable skin) with her hands, almost cries and whispers in pain. The man
asks if he can continue. O. consents. It is pleasurable for several minutes.
The man ejaculates, immediately stops and attempts to kiss our protagonist with
ruined tongue. O. pushes the kiss downwards. She peaks, disconnected (dis:pleasured,
dis:here, dis:then) – hermitized- as she
forces her body against the hard muscle of the man’s neck. O. puts on her
clothes (shirt first), makes skin-deep conversation and steps in the man’s car.
O. arrives home. O. walks through the trees, to avoid the glances of a couple,
walking hand in hand: her artificial lipstick-slut-hair-visage and her grasp
sickly clinging to his bearded neck. He is a dupe. She is a bitch.
O. returns to her
room. O. pretends to study.
O. is still numb, but she is trying.
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