Her whole body is wet with a thin layer of sweat and glistens in droplets under the sunlight that manages to penetrate through the shutter. She looks like dew in the morning.
And as in the midst of a forest one breathes in that fresh moist air mixed with the smell of the earth, so much her body smells of the wilderness.
On her neck you can feel the heights of the skies, under her arms and along her breasts listen to the chirping of birds just waking; her smooth belly gives off the warmth of a sea rock in the summer sun, where hermit crabs and hermit crabs bask. The legs woven of fragrant flowers, hum like fields in spring besieged by bees. The feet are made of woven tufts of grass. The hands of earth. The mouth of split fruit.
The face and hair belong to a woman who thinks she is human.
She likes to call herself Alice.
Hers is not just a body but a geography of shifting sensations. A dangerous and moody map of nature: one day she loves you, gives herself, welcomes you unreservedly, allows herself to be contemplated in her beauty and the next day she can sweep you away on a whim with a smile.
It is without memory.
I. is intent on nibbling his belly and fiddling with his navel piercing and has no fear in the face of that unknown, protected as he is by his unconsciousness.
Now immersed in his memories and, more specifically, in the moment when he fell in love with that young girl. They were spending with a group of friends a day at the beach and barely knew each other.
I. after a bath that lasted too long and with hands marked with wrinkles more than a centenarian's face, was just getting out of the water, when he noticed a single, small action and tergiverted.
Alice, unnoticed by anyone, had shrugged her towel out of the sand and then placed it back in the same messy position as before, pretending that the towel had always been there, clean.
I. dried himself from the sea water as never before.
He realized that no one had ever taken care of him like that.
She fell in love that day.
Alice is now spooning, lying on the bed with her face in the direction of the wall, away from her lover, resting and still enjoying her body and the pleasures that have passed through it.
" Who knows, he thinks she is made of papier-mâché or porcelain. Men like to imagine us fragile and weak so they can feel strong and manly. I have been making him believe that for hundreds of years. Maybe I'm wrong, but if I openly showed all my desires, passions and turmoil inside, I'd make them run away with their tails between their legs--he wouldn't stand me whole--"
He had taken her with strength and energy. This pleased her greatly and made her smile because no matter how much he wanted to possess her, he would never hurt her or cause her pain. He was too gentle. Her masochistic side regretted it, though; she wished for so much more: for her to cross that imaginary boundary between pleasure and pain, on which her lover was trying to balance.
I., meanwhile, less than half a meter away, naked and belly-up, heedlessly fiddles with his testicles and caresses his thighs.
As he drums on his belly in rhythm, he stretches, fiddles with his private parts and lets go of irrational impulses that resemble electric shocks run through him and cause spastic, incoherent movements.
A single thought buzzes annoyingly in his mind and he cannot chase it away; it rests like an insistent fly between the walls of his imagination: ''I must finish my stories. But how?"
Now fortunately excitement was returning and the desire to know his companion's body had completely clouded his rational abilities. His eyes on such occasions became misty, his eyelids became drooping, and a slight numbness enveloped his face.
" This time I will not hold back."
He slides his hand down Alice's thigh, until it touches the crease that divides her from her lower back. She has a spectacular ass. He squeezes her buttocks hard.
Alice is intrigued because she feels that something has changed in the air and she lets herself be carried away.
He gets her to lie prone and with both hands, he squeezes her hips pushing with his thumbs on the pits of Venus. He holds her back. And with his right hand he makes space between her legs as she pretends to object. His fingers move roughly inside her body.
A feral desire envelops both of them.
Thus begins a dance of biting, punching, caressing, scratching similar to the game between two young tigers who do not realize their strength. Then more fingers in her mouth, swearing words and hands on her neck to suffocate. He licks her lips.
Mouths assay every part of her body and her every mood, sucking until it hurts and leaves bruises on her skins, like ownership marks.
Her eyes are moist, her lips forlorn and trembling, and her cheeks dyed a purplish red.
I. grabs her by the hair, smashes her face against the wall hard.
The bodies now move convulsively and impatiently for the act they were so procrastinating, the breasts are turgid, the lips moist, and every part of the body tenses...
"I can't go on" I. suddenly interrupts the magic of the moment.
"Stop it and don't bullshit, it's the most beautiful time..." she is incredulous.
"You go on with your imagination I just don't..." she says with a hint of failure between her lips.
"Don't spoil it just now" very sorry.
" Not that I don't want to, I can't. Try to understand me, I have no more intelligent words to go on."
"Come on you bastard" she says excitedly "do something."
"Writing is limited to words and sentences and there is a big limitation here.."
"You're doing this on purpose aren't you? You're just playing to make me more horny.."
I. walks away alienated by what is happening.
"Then keep fucking writing! You're hooked on your stories by now. Go make love to them and i with your characters and leave me alone!" She shouts after him as he walks away.
The writing could no longer keep up with her imagination and feelings.
"Fool and asshole that you are" getting up to get cigarettes, "at least give me a hug," and still trembling with her hand she reaches for the pack and the lighter. And before she can light a cigarette, she breaks two of them because of the unexpressed erotic charge in her body.
I. grabs her from behind hugging her by the belly so welcoming.
"But what's the matter with you? Do you have performance anxiety? You know very well that with me you can take all the time you need and it doesn't matter if you reach orgasm before me "
" it's a language problem, believe me" she shakes her head " because it's so hard to explain how things really are" she thinks to herself.
" Have you become impotent?"
" No, I don't think so suddenly, I'm only 25 years old, I hope it will happen as late as possible, in fact never ! And don't pull it on me." With his hand he makes the horns in a superstitious gesture.
"So you don't like me anymore?"
" I even like you too much, it's the writing.."
" Then you have someone else!" he says frowning and then in a grimace of terror "Are you gay?"
"None of that, I'm telling you for the last time, I lack the words to go on..."
"Then shut up! From now on I promise I won't ask you to swear at me while we're making love! I swear.
Just make sounds and noises or pant. You don't have to talk, if that's what ails you."
"Yes you are right. But if you want to attempt a work of art, some language you have to use" "It's bigger stuff than both of us" "Forget it"
"I hate you"
" And I love you"
"Do you really want to know how it is? All right, I'll humor you.
Popular words like, "fuck" , "cunt" or "pussy" don't work in my stories. The first one comes from dick, and I don't have a beating fist between my legs, and the other two are derogatory.
Not to mention "penis" or "vagina" as soon as you pronounce them it sounds like becoming a Catholic scientist with a stink under your nose and serious psychological, sexual and emotional problems. Feel how your lips tighten
in a grimace of superiority mixed with disgust.
Then we disprove this for good, no one among us grows either peas or potatoes on his body."
"And I can't go on writing the story now."
Alice is not listening to him but the last sentence echoes in her head and annoyed she replies, "You complicate your life too much. Your damn writing is driving you out of your mind, we're here, we're made of meat! And all this big mess just because I didn't help you with the stories?" she continues treating him like a fool: "All right you want to know what art is to me? Performace and life. We already have everything at our disposal. Art and life are the exact same thing. My only task here is to take care of beauty."
Now I. has his head resting between her tanned breasts. He is enchanted every time as he looks at her: her skin painted a lunar white, her chin tilted ever so slightly upward as a sign of aristocracy, and her eyelids that like a veil of disenchantment drop over her eyes.
Besides, he can swim like a fish.
And he loves the sea
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