‘I think it is working.’
‘I saw him lose his shit to enjoy the…’
‘Wait… What are you saying?’
‘He laughed, eyes shut. Opened my bum, quickly closed it, moaned hard, and then laughed.’
‘Hahaha … Oh! What a daft.’
‘I am telling you. All this is happening in a mild-paced doggy.’
‘So you think it’s working? What are you using for your interpretation?’
‘A variety of things for a round understanding of things.’
‘Cut it. How do you know your interpretation is precise about it working?’
‘I heard the laugh of a cur. That foolish laugh of him going in and out.’
Cold Tuesday in Pretoria.
July’s weather stern on the skin.
Erotic objects salivating in the city
Warmth, chest to chest, flesh on flesh
Memorized names unknown identities.
Waiting for the change.
He stood at the balcony for too long, his cigarette had been off in a bit. It was now his natural breath drawing thick the air. For a moment he scratched the itchy scrotum dangling underneath his grey gown. He thought he should go back inside before he caught a cold.
He laughed inwardly at himself for having being lost in a reverie of the sex he had with Fundiswa and also for arousing when he replayed over and over again their sexual encounter yesterday, especially when she moaned just before she was about to come .… All at once, with his insatiable appetite, he knew he should ask her to come again today.
Lying stark naked next to him, he would rub her round bum and flirtingly say that her skin was soft as though the light brown silk dress she had undressed was still on. His hand softly picking at her skin continuously and rhythmically as harp music. She liked his determination, passionately rubbing and picking at her bum even when she didn’t move to acknowledge – she enjoyed seeing him emphasize his craving. Just that. Not love. Love was something whose freedom she didn’t know of. Because of its invisibility, intangibility, she would always disqualify love by trusting that there was something else missing.
‘Do I annoy you when I tell you I love you?’ He would ask with an air of genuine uncertainty. Shaking her head is what she would give as real out-of-no-love response. She hated that he tried hard to make what they had what wasn’t. There were no tasty attachments to savour except the common thing they shared: a passion for sex.
You sit on it, your mouth opens, your irises and pupils dash about. You flash your eye whites, asymmetrical sounds fall from your lips perfectly – a composer’s vocation displayed in an auditorium.
You disturb the flow as you reposition yourself on top of it, looking for a different angle within. In control of your pleasure. You start to realise that the sun is sharing your smile, spraying its yellow sheen through the window. You are back from the crystallized moment and can hear a saxophone in the other flat coughing out scales diffidently then four tired unclear arpeggio notes. You think that the player is lazy or inspired for his practise today.
Your eyes meet after he peers at your enthusiastic bouncing on his dick. He smiles and you fling the smile back in passion and do not stop at that, stretch your neck before loosely throwing the head back and he continues looking at you for pleasure. But you wish he said nice things to you today like he usually does when he wants a fast-paced ride.
Your body communicates to you. Telling you this is raw. Your flesh is being pushed, pulled. You question the expression of love when you feel your flesh stretching. Tongue pleasant movements on the clitoris remind you that death is really unacceptable. Your body communicates to you what it wants, you continue at your own peril.
I experienced sex as a whole cluster of pleasure and possibilities with him, like the attainment of a self – I listened to my own self-feelings and lost my mind in pleasure. It was during the doggy style that his disconnected moans poured in. They came in torrents accompanied by rich breath sighs, that elegantly stroked my nostrils.
Fundiswa… Fundiswa… Fundiswa…
She painted her mind with the acts of the sex she was not a part of, would never be a part of and would never feel. Her imagination on the canvas, put together colours and hoped for a realist portrayal of their sex but in truth it was all an abstract painting. Just as abstraction surpasses nature and creates a new reality not congenerous with anything, her creation was absurd. She created images of them, images she thought gave the full picture of his mendacity. She saw him touching her, delicately pressing his index onto her nipple, her breasts quickly covering in goosebumps in horny-shock. She created images of him beginning to touch her and wondered if he knew her body language well enough. She saw him scratching her clitoris with his teeth and sucking, sucking it and swallowing it finishing the ocean. She saw him going in on her with high energy, stroking her with the same rhythm and pace for at least two minutes before changing. She could hear moans shooting out of his mouth like hot food, falling out carelessly yet with a purpose.
There was no point in chasing happiness only, in only embracing happiness. Thinking in the depths of pleasure, she couldn’t erase the expanse of feelings she felt which went beyond happiness and their hold. The feelings represented her and him as Erotic Objects controlled by what they needed to create and pour into each other as necessary. This could be to imagine, wish, voice, moan and express love but also not-love. The Erotic Object controls what it requires and needs and what the other requires and needs but never in a bad way. Its object is pleasure. Incomplete composite pleasure.
‘It is working.’
‘Oh no. Not this again.’
‘I am micromanaging the situation a little bit.’
‘I am listening.’
‘I tell I do not want this pace and rhythm, that pace and rhythm, you know. I just can’t take it.’
‘More like can’t appreciate it, a passion refused.’
‘Yes, you kill the mood.’
‘I state what I want.’
‘Yes, killing what he wants at the moment.’
‘No… What’s the point of not having what you want?’
‘He kills his to give you the moment you want.’
‘And when does he get to tell you what he wants?’
‘He does. I just can’t take it at times.’
Fortunate Jwara @FortunateJwara is a writer from Pretoria. She enjoys writing musically and the use of erotica as free self-expression. Her debut novel The Music Thing is published by Weza Home Publishing.
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