The Fuck-Up

She had a natural innocence, a kind of perpetual virgin quality, as if she didn’t know of the demon genitals that secretly dwell between the legs of all, waiting to spring.

—It is when I spend two months dating you in the cold until i lose sensation in my fingers, and my girlfriend and job. You know what I wanted.
—And you knew what I wanted.
—Yeah, to make yourself feel pretty at someone else’s agony. Fuck you!

Had I spent my whole life confusing love with a series of erections?

I wasn’t sure if she was refering to me or the guy in the phone until she kissed me. I started softly kissing her face, along the ridge of her collarbone, undoing her blouse buttons, moving down along hear breast. All the while I expected her at any moment to properly stop me. I wondered if perhaps I wasn’t taking advantage of her at a vulnerable moment.

Janus began undoing my clothes and I started stripping her. She brought me over to the big round bed. And everything was done, nothing was shameful, not vulgar, not squeamish, nor could be, everything was mustful. Energy launchedand abounded; muscles bulged, bunched and loosened again. Nothing retained. Everything was a blastoff-moonwalk-splashdown, shamless sin before the expulsion. Each single sensation was on its own, soaking up itself, every second was lifefull and there was nothingness, until my liquid concentrate diluted and then sinking forever deep, deep, deep…

—What’s your name anyway?
—Je ne parle pas anglais.
—Je parle français.
—Je ne parle anything.
—Fuck you!

I was so drunk that I was somebody else, but that person was still concious, so there was still something left to liquidate.

Esta entrada fue publicada el 14 agosto, 2012 a las 2:32. Se guardó como Quotes y etiquetado como , , , . Añadir a marcadores el enlace permanente. Sigue todos los comentarios aquí gracias a la fuente RSS para esta entrada.


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