Friday, November 24, 2006

May I Feel Said He

Breasts that heave, rise and undulate beneath the tastefully decorated veneer of the frilliness of her almost see-through blouse that, surely, is a size too small. If they were any closer, he thought, he could reach out to them, touch them, maybe rest his head and sneak the smallest kiss, take the tiniest bite. Look at them, just look at them, heaving there, rising (the word tremulous comes to him, suddenly), look at the way they sit there. With his erection, his arousal, just a touch away beneath the table, he touches himself lightly. Somewhere, in the background, the ocean swells and pounds. In fact, it hammers. The sea rises and drowns the beach. The river rises and creaks its banks.

And creaks its banks. The silliness of this kind of situation is, of course, made sillier in the recounting. She had, as they say, great knockers. The things he’d like to do to them. Or rather, to her. To all of her.

The resulting wetness was all par for the course and what he’d come to expect from someone like her, the dirty little mare. All that leery winking, those fuck me eyes. How could he resist?

How could he resist? He almost had her saying: Give it to me big boy, as they fucked hard (of course, hard) on the floor of the restaurant toilet or out back somewhere, pressed against a rubbish bin so that all the attendant tastes and smells could intermingle with, you know, the act, and act as a kind of sensual posy for all the real, mechanical stuff that was hard, painful and deeply, beyond all expectation, deeply satisfying. Obviously. At one point, he had her on her knees, her face pressed into a puddle or a smudge of something appropriately filthy but also edible, somehow. When she looked up, afterwards, that grin on her face, the mess on her face, and the way she licked her lips, wiped her face with the barest touch of her fingertips. Well, it was enough to make him. Enough to just make him.

The silliness of this out the back of the restaurant business is, we hope, softened somehow by the knowledge that we have all, at one time or other, been there. Not, of course, literally behind the restaurant (or at least, not behind that restaurant), but on our knees like the desperate fornicators and women-haters we truly are. How did she end up on her knees on that cold, wet floor? How did she end up with her face in that pile of whatever it was?

He entered her and as soon as he entered her her body buckled beneath the weight – no, the sheer significance – of the multiple orgasms that raced through her and declared, in the most certain of terms, that, at last, her long years of frigidity were a long way behind her. Yes. Look what he did for her.

Oh, he thought, oh she’s going to suck me right down. Oh, he said, that’s it bitch, you suck me right down!

This character, this clown, is, of course, even more deserving of the contempt that, surely, has already come his way. He asked her, What do you want? Love. Love is what I want.

They were walking together, hand in hand occasionally, over the beach. The moonlight, the cooling breeze, something appropriately significant on the horizon or lighting their way from somewhere up ahead, the hotel maybe. They walked on the still warm sand, bare feet, and listened to the crashing, the pounding, of the sea as it crashed behind them, the dark making it seem that much more thrilling. For that brief moment, all of two minutes, she realised that, perhaps, she was in love. Perhaps. They reached the hotel and the manager greeted them, offhand, dismissive. Let’s go to the bar, he said, fuck him, we don’t have to go bed, let him wait on us all night, fuck him. So they went to the bar and joined, again, the crowd of youths they’d spent the previous night with, with their girlfriends and wives on another table in a kind of conspiracy of self-hatred. Yet with their arrogance. Taking their seats, drinks all round, the conversation as banal, as threatening and as overwhelmingly child-like as it had been the night before. And soon she was the centre of attention, held up as somehow different from those wives and girlfriends whose directed attention quickly turned to abuse and laughter. As she.

Later, in their room, he threw her to the bed, she remembered in the morning, slapping her, calling her the same names they’d called her, fucking her, fucking her up the arse, calling her those same, terrible names, telling her he fucking loved her and loved fucking her and all the fucking crap he came out with about spanking her so hard, you’d like that bitch, you’d like that bitch wouldn’t you, as his fingers, rigid, unlike his cock. You like that, don’t you bitch?

Don’t you bitch? Where had he, this young man of apparent outward respectability and maybe half decent breeding, acquired such language? From his father? From the movies? From his mother?

He knew he was on to a sure thing that first night when he saw how those sweet knockers, tight beneath her blouse, heaved almost in time to his declarations. Of how they seemed to cling tight not only to her blouse but tight, also, to his every word. It was like they were somehow attuned to him, somehow a part of him and he knew that he had to, as they say, get a good piece of her. And how willing she came to him and how trusting she was then, out in the night, both half cut, both heading home together for the rest of the night. Oh, the things he would do to her.

The silliness of the situation is undermined completely by just, even, a small insight into this tiny mind. The hatred, of course. Which could, naturally, be blamed on a million things that were absolutely no fault of his own. Naturally. And naturally, his hatred of women stood in direct comparison, direct proportion, to his love of men, to his love of all things to do with men. Even as he declared, as he often declared, his love for women. His love for the very essence of women.

And he would never have guessed that she mistook this hatred, at first, for a kind of naïve longing, a naïve desperation amid his naïve sensibility. She imagined that he was somehow engaged in a faintly heroic struggle against the clichés of that kind of thing but was, for whatever reason, and through no fault of his own, failing. It was then, she thought, her responsibility to help him get through it. She would help him to get through it.

And so, for a time, as she threw herself into the lovemaking, as she called it, and threw herself into this and that, she came to know herself more fully. Which is, of course, the main thing and the whole point of this kind of story. In fact, the really funny thing about the whole business of their relationship was that it all turned out to be much more than just a meditation on the misogyny of a certain young man and an exploration of the differences between the men and the women. Because, as we all eventually come to realise, the differences between the men and the women are so full of cosmic (and comic) possibilities that it would require something that goes far beyond tawdry hotel and restaurant scenes, far beyond the use of certain clichés and thingies. Far beyond anything at all that could be described as insightful, illuminating or - curses - entertaining. You get so far and then you have to get out.

Still, he did get to fuck her up the arse. Or ass, as the saying goes.


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