Afterwards, our bodies lay across each other like fallen
bridges, each of us taking deep breathes, Janus looking back at me, planting
kisses on the side of my neck. Our bodies glazed in each other’s natural dew.
Her forehead drips with beads of sweat, reminiscent of the melting of icicles
in late March. She turns to me and after a moment of listening to the lull the
Oscar De La Hoya computer screen saver emits, after acknowledging the subtle
hallway raucous and deciding that she is better off not leaving, after hearing
the spring board squeal from the floor directly above our bed, she turns to me,
asking me questions, beginning with the words, ‘you know.’
“Do you know
I’m in love with you?” She says, more of a statement than a query. I nod, brush
my fingers through my hair, look at her poster left over from the campus wide
poster dale at the beginning of the semester. Looking at the Gingerbread man,
wondering what piece of my body Janus will bite off next if I misbehave.
There is a
silence in the manner in which we cuddle.
Sometimes we hoist each other over our bodies like a blanket, tugging at
each other’s limbs as if fingering for the helm of a flannel comforter. The
lull the computer screen emits is pleasant and almost soothing. Her whole
mattress smells like an orchard, her body scoping it’s limbs even further
around my waist, reeling me in closer.
**
“David, report to Janus for a kiss.”
***
When I come I normally have to be reading something.” Janus
says, almost a laugh.
She pulls
back the orchard emanating comforter that drips into the top of the floor.
Stacked like graduation tassel donning hats are stripped books of erotica she
has retrieved from the dumpster. She holds them up, sets me on a convenient
chair that Corey Ruben showed her what to do and the read out loud. I try to
accost her and hold the book.
“No,” She
says. “You watch.”
The shirt of
mine she is wearing is unbuckled and open. Her bra, silk, purchased from the
Victoria Secret gift certificate she got for Christmas. She continues to read,
a passage I have long since forgotten admiring the subtle volition of her
hand, pinching at the top of her jeans like a spider, slowly unbuckling the
brassy orb. I begin to sprout as I hear her volitional hand pull south on her
zipper, s if she is creating two succinct tracks of individual railroads to
traverse.
I move
closer. She swats me back with a look of seriousness pasted into her eyes. I
focus my vision of the top of her panties, edging out form where she created
the fissure by tugging at the zipper. Her hand encroached the top and slices
its way down, into a place I can only imagine is warm.
Janus reads
on. She reads. It is a threesome. It is a gang rape. The female hates it so
much she is enjoying it. She is demanding that they tie her up. She is
demanding that they blindfold her. She is demanding that they split her in
half; break her in two, punish her for not having the one item that they
posses, the on item she wants ploughed inside of her right now. The stem, the
flower, the dew. She wants all of this right now and she wants it in as many
crevices as are possible.
Janus reads
very sexily. Her fingers continue to massage up and down. Janus is holding
something inside of her jeans in place. She is holding something that will fly
of if she lets go of it. Her whole body is both bird and cage.
“Come
here,” She says in one word, the book down on the mattress like a dove that
has just been shot.
“Come here. David. Come here. Oh, come
fucking quick.”
She has paralyzed herself and she is
holding some sort of button inside her underwear, afraid that if she lets go of
it, a current will drown all of the inhabitants. I walk up over to her. With
her free hand, the hand that is not in her pants, the hand that was previously
holding the wounded dove, with guidance she leads my hand under the silk tent
of her panties, to the place that she has been holding.
Her whole body is early spring. Her
breath increases. She tells me to press it as hard as I fucking can. She wants
me to hold her hand and press her like an elevator button whose door will not
close. Press it has hard as I can. She wants the two of us to make her come
together.
She lets out a sigh
afterwards. I get off the bed, careful not to step on her glasses, find her
book and place it under the apple-cinnamon scented mattress.
“Next time, “ Janus
says, still sputtering out inhalations as if Oxygen was something foreign to
her body. “Let me watch you.”
***
A very pretty flower just for you.
****
“Well, she’s a blessed angel on
earth; and after this one night I’ll cling to her skirts and follow her to
heaven.”
“Young
Goodman Brown”, Nathaniel Hawthorne.
He holds it in front of him like an
instrument, a Suzuki, a stringed Stradivarius. It breathes in life. Hard. She
lies in front of him so that he can count the moles on her back, making
constellations. He has never held it in front of somehow before who has
demanded that he perform this one act. Demanding that she hear him adjusting
his fingers, playing the chords,
emanating a sweet ambrosia to go with the chord.
She reclines down. From on top of
her he can make out vertical slash where her bra was previously fastened. His
body his raising his hand, hard, erect, it looks like it is groping out to meet
someone.
Without
consulting the time signature he begins. With slow and solid tugs he shifts
chords on his own body. Slow at first. It is almost as if his entire body is a
high dive and part of him must fall down, on top of her.
Her back is a rye desert, spotted
with several craters disguised as moles. She is waiting for him to arrive.
Waiting for the jam he is to produce. Waiting for the nectar to be deposited in
tiny splotches at first, as he continues to give his recital above, tugging at
him earnestly. A slight treacle of sweat plops off of his brow, landing on her
back, near the mole constellation he has mentally monikered Ursula minor.
In one standing he has become concert master of his
instrument. He hits the high note. He plays in perfect tune and all the while
his audience is below him waiting patiently, patiently, waiting for him to
finish the piece, waiting for him to douse them with his concoction, waiting
for sprinkle his seeds over them and begin life anew.
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