FREE & OBJECT
Daddy’s friend used to visit us every Thursday after dinner. The grown-ups would say that it was because he was lonely and had nobody but the scraps of evening we gave him. A rather convenient explanation for me, who added to these scraps the viscous ones which wetted my legs while he held me on his lap, smilingly hugged me, cradled me and gave me chocolates to distract my curiosity while he relieved himself of his voluminous privation.
The gardener’s son said he would only teach me to set a trap for birds if I took off my girl’s clothes for him, a boy, to watch. After that, people went to tell my Mom that every day I would be caught teaching the kids in the street how to set traps. No one will believe it was good. So, to this very day, I still lie about it. I say I never learned to set a trap, never caught a single bird in my little cage and that I don’t even like these birds that I have been trying to shelter since then.
With my pleated skirt, my beret and short socks, I would walk around with impunity. A schoolgirl. I was unaware that on the other side of the street someone, whose name I never even learned, was watching me; waiting for an opportunity that had long since taken place in my imagination. On a chance occasion, he got me, thrust in his fingers which ended in filthy nails, and leaned me against pleasure. My surprise was to see that this was good, like, as they told me at school, God saw when he made the world.
While at the movies his thumb and forefinger pinched my nipples, I started to think about that little wild plant commonly called “Malice" that shrinks at the least threat of touch. I started wondering if it, the plant, could feel the same nice near-fainting sensation I was experiencing at that moment, and if from her would also come that same feeling of not knowing whether to kiss or let myself go like the strings in a banjo, handled by deft fingers running down my body like a spider, crawling beneath my skirt heedless of objections.
The time had more than come for one of the men to do to me what my body craved when it went all buttery and ached, swelled up; ready to receive, absorb, swallow. And I remember the first one to give me in sex a cold and hot feeling, of liking it and not liking it. Of wanting him to take it off while screaming for him to push it in. For a moment I had the sensation that I could not take it anymore, counterbalanced by the yet stronger desire to get to know a movement that would complete me. I remember wanting to be like him, wanting to expel myself as he was doing, a mixture of sperm and blood, disgust and fear.
Sight in my neck. Fasten your hands round me. Play of who’s strongest with me. Start to kiss me from top, my body, beginning from where I am most womanly, to bottom, at the heels. Draw your thumb along the valley at my back. Dance your tongue around all my neck going in my hair and ears. Roll on top of me. Look at my nakedness in spots I cannot allow myself to, where I force myself to close my eyes. Achieve my breasts’ gelatinous contraction. Like a son, suck me. Glide the tip of your nose on my navel, bring up your face close to mine; slide inside me, deeply. And moan heartily.
Independent from that spent, horizontal body on the sheets, the surly mustache of the man I claimed. I can still feel the itch, all over my body, of that desire that always left me with a painful uterus, afterwards. He, fast asleep or nearly wilted, helpless. And me burning, trying to revive his unfailing convex log, precisely because my concavity was never sated. I lean over and ask for more. Sleep. Expenditure. No answer from him, except for his mustache which, in deep homage to vigil, awakes lazily, entangles itself in my pubic hair mixing liquids. Explores me. I unclasp my legs and quiver deep in my womb and grow calm.
Friend who uses me while I’m using you. Well, we use each other. Everyone else also uses us, we have no doubt. Friend, you cannot leave now because the night is not much more than a proposition yet. And yet if you stay, I’m afraid I’ll burst the next day for knowing myself tepid, wanting, without having you close by like on the day before which is today. ( Anyway you use me, I like it. And I will always have some humus left that you will have forgotten to drain, pouring forth each time that you touch me with those fingers of yours that till sin, the most perverse sin there is, the sin of the soul, that pulls itself back from inside, starts to come up slowly, climbing what is yet to occur. What is occurring now – briefness of the unifying orgasm which only partially opens for a few seconds the perspective of timelessness -. And what has occurred tired.)
And there’s nothing like at least once in one’s life to love a marine man, with arms that are strong and animal even in their smell, a smell of vinegar. There’s nothing like not being able to run one’s fingers through a hair that’s already been entangled by the wind. And not having to be careful not to get dirty the already filthy and torn T-shirt. Feeling on one’s delicate female skin the friction of the calluses on his deformed hands. There is nothing compared to seeing one’s small hairs dance upon hearing a raspy breath murmuring in one’s ears a music as clear and unbelievable as the sun that hovers way above and sees. And once finished, diving in the salty water, burning and laughing, asking for a second time, right there.
Tame and manly. In the midst of this great city, much bigger than us, he. Already old, almost deactivated. Knowledgeable about all the dimensions of pleasure. Able to retrieve my pleasure with his tongue. And it was always I who sought out this anatomical, organic, wise lover. I went, and in an almost extinct thought, I would ask myself why do that since I would have to come back. If I managed to be with him, my impotence to hold the moment between my fingers made me choke, even if he was just sending me away with a slap on the rump, even if he was just strumming my ribs in a hug, or his eyes were only promising me little more than another day. But when that other day took place, the violence of the cries, of the slaps, of the bites, of the exploding hour, made up for the submission to the wait.
The boy at recreation, that day I went to his school to get something that wasn’t even remotely close to his first awakening, accompanied me. Why, being a mature woman, should I not grant myself to someone who must have sparse pubic hair and not even any beard yet? The lack of roughness will be gratifying on my soft blushing face, breathing hard the moment I push away one of the elastic bands of my panties and help him to arrange himself inside me. Standing, leaning against a wall, I force myself to do peristaltic movements like those of a snake, in order to wrench from him and his surprise the most innocent of vices.
To that man who doesn’t know how to enjoy me, I could teach a few discoveries, if he would only let me. Take him to things he hasn’t even dared to fantasize about yet, like: Come on, now, remove my panties, – I want you to –, anoint my face with my essences. Then, darling, lick my skin till I’m dizzy, grunting low hoarse animal sounds. Finally, after you have also daubed my breasts with our leftover juices, taste them; see how I make no restriction on tasting your body with love. Because that’s how things are. And this is what will keep us alive while our mouths still value a kiss.
To think how much smaller I ‘d be had I not had the guts to go to the last consequences on that street corner in which I met and wanted an unknown man. Once, it was night and the night always makes me more relaxed, our eyes met for the first time. Just that. Shyly, I invited him in. I sat coyly on his lap; caressed his hair while kissing his proffered lips, taking my time, giving our clothes time to disappear like curtains moved by invisible hands. He didn’t like me to put him inside me. He’d rather have his own body try to find me and once found, have mine softly shelter his. Nothing made me impatient, not even his penis inadvertently sliding away, in the heat of the moment. It was a matter of skin, and it was from the skin that we got one another, together.
This time it’s me, all alone, who follows myself on the paths of my desire. Woman, face up. My hand, which is no longer mine, transformed into my last lover’s hand, through my vulnerable parts, crisscrossing electric sparks from my belly to my knees. And those sparks closing in a circle, while I fantasize about myself as an odalisque or as a nun, a dancer, or anything that gives me the right to that inalienable moment of happiness; pleasure, it’s a must.
On top of me like a summary of everything that I had looked for lately, you man, were there. You, who turn my insides into a wound, a bleeding one, who make my menstruation come flowing down and my sphincters tighten simulating a virginity long gone in the fingers of one man. (How pleasant to seat beside him on the garden wall and let it happen); or in the hurry of another (who anyway made me feel very much of a woman for doing what really had to be done); or on the shallowness of others, (who barely kept themselves from throwing me out afterwards); or on the humility of those who think they are the lowliest of creatures just for having relieved themselves; or on the triumphant air of those who believe it to be a battle. But, if to all these men I left scattered pieces of myself, it was simply for them to teach me how to better squeeze my tights, just the way you like it.
Translated by Adriana Vieira
United States Literary Representative is Veritas Literary Agency
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