Cunnilingus in a shower

I step into the building like a shy kid, stumble around in the darkness for the mailbox and open 55; the key waiting inside.

The building isn’t old but the wooden staircase creeks as I get bored in the swirling whiteness. The smell is of dirty laundry and intense marihuana but no sound can be heard other than the accusing motion of my feet on the steps.

 

She opens the door in a short peasant/college-like dress, her ballerina ankles free to roam about and her hair arranged in a childish ponytail. She steps aside, lets me in and shuts the door.

Taking her index finger to her lips he reminds me to be quiet, there’s a lioness in the other room and she’s got a light sleep, which will become a funny thought when in 45 minutes she begins holding on to headboard like a helpless man holds on to a cliff above the abyss. But right now she walks me to her room and lies on the bed, a vivid portrait of sin.

 

I take off my shoes and realize that without socks this place will be impregnated in cheese in less than 60 seconds. I repress a grin, leaning my heavy head against her shoulder. Probably this moment is the explanation to why we all do it; why we incur and then recur, as if life were the purgatory.

The promise of naked shoulders to rest upon is love’s invisible machinery.

And I rest upon it like

Shipwrecked sailors on virginal islands

 

She’s got nothing to lose and she knows it. I’m just waiting for the flick of the wrist, a green light in her already meadow-like eyes, a moan. But the question she must be posing herself as she stares at me with a playful smile is if winning is indeed improving. Or if winning, on the darker hand, is a one way ticket on a past-bound train.

 

But answers to such big questions don’t come as the dress flies off. Her white regular bra unveils two old friends I deeply knew I’d see again. But we have many things to talk about and the night is our bodyguard so I dive into her after licking open the lock. The water starts dripping down the edges of my mouth and it tastes of life, life in its most passionate physical form; she, shaking the bed and waking up the neighbors’ neighbor and me, playing hide and seek with a slippery mountain between her hips.

My hands are my strings and her gasps the puppeteer. Whenever she accelerates, I draw a slow and gentle circle inside her center with my fingers. As she cools down, I make crosses with the tip of a tongue that is harder to control every time she contracts.

Each time I meet her sex, a distant voice, the one I love, plays a sorrowful violin note in the back of my head. It screeches like no other instrument before, each time louder than the previous one. It bounces through every corner of my guts, belittles me, fools me, deceives me… and the bed is still unmade.

 

It’s 5 in the morning; the sun will soon be rising, I see it on the bricks of the alleyway. She’s probably still naked, touching herself like I just did, and writing a song about the thin line between victory, defeat and the past.

 

My love, she’s probably somewhere in Portugal running from a police officer that wants to sleep with her.

As for me, I’m sitting on a chair that should recline, my eyes are irritated and there are threads of tobacco that on my desk look like ants.

 

It’s good; it’s great to be alive.

 

 

Arcadio Falcon. 2016

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