Tuesday, 26 July 2011
'The Look, The Book, My Life'
by Sandrine Lopez
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A lazy, half empty, half-baked, off-peak beach bar, between civilisation and desolation, on the road to nowhere. A one in a million chance meeting as I'm just passing through, destination unconsidered, librarian on a break.
It's desert hot and dusty outside, uncharacteristic November, red indian summer. I'm sipping my chilled drink as he comes through the open doors, like a warm breeze trying to act autumn cool. There's something not quite right about him, like he doesn't belong, doesn't fit into the boxes society demands. The kind of person people cross streets to avoid because he innately makes them uneasy, without them knowing why. Plenty of spare seats available but those few scattered sober and unsober bodies shuffle vaguely to claim their territory. Don't want you here, the great unspoken shout.
Separating unruly dirty blond hair and stubble struggling to be a beard, his blue grey eyes dance between laid back and panic. Orders a drink but, frisking his pockets, has mislaid his wallet. He finds it after, in the lining of his jacket. By then I'd come to the rescue and paid for it.
If it is a wordless chat-up routine, I have fallen for it... looks, lust and libido.
His name is Kristoph.
From the first time he speaks, I want him. Such poetry and life in so few words. Pretentious perhaps, but I'm a creative, an idealist too. That instant, I am already lost, and the more said, the greater the labyrinth.
Other guys talk of mundane things, the drudgery of everyday life, rat race run and outdistanced. Any brief encounter, basic instinct, dangerous liaison, tainted by greyness.
Kristoph aspires to greater things, sublime fantasies perhaps, but ones so like mine, he's like a thief in my thoughts. Anticipated answers, symbiotic speech. I no longer need to say anything, because he knows the whole conversation, the intellectual intimacy of our intercourse.
But I do need to be there, because words are not enough, even if in my mind they are already made flesh, within my own flesh. His tongue crackles like fire and burns my soul. So hot my skin is soaked and shaking. My underwear clings, from perspiration and other wetness.
The merest suggestion of a kiss, let alone sex, from full lips that entice me with lingering and luscious language, makes me gasp because any of his dialogue is prophesy.
Foretold as we meet, our fate sealed by introduction.
Sitting, opposite sides of a table. One drink. Two. Three. He pays, then me. Alternating rounds, raising stakes.
My fingers grip the slender dripping icy glass, wishing for a damp but hot equally solid something.
His fingers dip the cool liquid within his tumbler, sharing unspoken cravings. Desire for another heat. Brings the tips to his lips, kisses, then sucks them. Does it again, gets me to lick them. My lips devour him, over nail and knuckle. Our eyes haven't parted since meeting.
We raise our glasses in a toast. Sharp chink, ideals, hungers, bodies wanting to meet with a slice of noise, twist of lemon, intoxicating smooches. Tongues between lips.
My round. Coffee, trying to clear my stolen head but keep the flow going. Need to know what he writes.
"It's not what but how it is expressed." Kristoph replies, points to my cup.
A latte. Takes my hand, dips a delicate finger in the froth topping.
"Swirling patterns of liquid, coffee complementing milk. Different shades of brown fighting to stop becoming one, the same. The foam... look at all the bubbles. Like people in a crowd. Two pop together. Become one... again and again."
Raises my finger to his mouth. Steals froth from it, tongue under nail. Seduction. Sucking me in. A lightning flash sharp sensation up my arm. Diverging into thoughts already tensing, relaxing, as one, and down my body, where I instinctively squeeze and let go also. Condensation like moisture caught inside the pages of my thighs.
Kristoph's lips lingers on my sensitive knuckle, before falling away. "What would you have me write?"
He doesn't need an answer. He knows. Has always known.
"Intensely arousing, gut deep, wrenching emotional tales... pinching your breath away, the heart drumming, mind burning, juices cascading..."
Realise our chairs have subconsciously sidled together. Almost touching.
"If I were to write your story... ?"
To be an actual character in a book, not just vicariously living out others. The thrill of that, yet the fear of being alone with a man I'd only just met.
Who I feel I know, both of our lives. Except...
"And your name?"
Katherine... my name is Katherine.
Just hear him say my name makes the already hot, oven close air unbearable. Drawing heavily at the sultry, oxygenless nothingness that still separates us. Barely. Drowning in promise.
Our spirits have already been intimate, romping playfully between the sheets of imagination. Our bodies must join also.
I thought I knew men. How they lay themselves on me, the heat of their skin against mine, in me, naked urgencies of night. And how I respond, surrounding them with enthusiastic thighs and clawing embraces, hungry mouth and eager cunt, until we climax, quiet or loud, sighs or cries.
Even the best, the most satisfying so far, pales next to Kristoph's words, crafted into art. Language made music. My heart taps its toes and clicks its fingers to his rhythm. My twat throbs to his quietly uttered decibels.
Blood curdling screams as molten cum erupts into me, at the end of body shattering positions grinding like tectonic plates under earth, are a whisper in comparison. Yet, when Kristoph quietly hisses 'Fuck me Kath...' in my ear, it unfolds into the greatest love-making ever in my mind, an aural orgasm in three mere words.
And not 'I love you'...
Kristoph has already had this conversation.
I am just reciting the transcript.
My words, ideas, yet his binding of them.
Noun. Verb. Adjective. Interjection. Injection. The most versatile word ever. The most multi-faceted act believable. One word. So many positions. Variations on a meme. Me, me...
Him, that is. One person. I want all those variations, positions, multi-faceted acts, with him. Alone.
Me. I'm already halfway between young and old. What does he see in me? What meaning in the space between my words? Between my legs?
"Say it again." I want to be certain.
He does. I already am. Have always been.
Same road to nowhere.
Bed is inevitable. Has always been.
In the space of those few short drinks, my libido has already planted a flag on the perfect pinnacle of Kristoph's promise, and the only way forward is down. Once that first pebble, his concise invitation loaded with potential, tumbles down the mountain of lust, the avalanche of our fucking is unstoppable.
A rolling stone...
Night would be my choice of venue... a short separation, anticipation, chance to decide. Breathing space when every breath, as my thoughts, has been taken by him. I want time to wash off the dust. Clean my sour sweat into sweetness. Make myself halfway acceptable.
Kristoph dismisses any delay for a nearby, impromptu hotel room. Doesn't bother with silly pseudonyms like 'Mr & Mrs Smith'. Boldly signs both our names openly, one almost on top of the other, with filthy weekend daring.
Make hay while...
Early afternoon sun scorches through open curtains on our bare dirty skin.
No words this time but the unvoiced melody of physical needs. A gentle start would have been nice... quiet overture, instrument building on instrument - touches, kisses, caresses, embraces - to a symphonic climax. No, we hit the bed running, and don't slow down.
Gaze long into the abyss...
Nietzsche warned us, but Kristoph is already there. It gazes back also, pulling him into my holiest, blackest of holes. An absence of me that is everything I am about, what makes me woman. Concealed shade, which the light white of his spunk wants to illuminate. Where I want him to shine, glistening like liquid quicksilver.
Darkest before the dawn...
Shadows fall over the room, setting sun of our high noon idealism replaced by impending twilight, as if my blackest of desires are an eclipse.
Accelerating still. Kristoph's hips jerk within my wrapped thighs, the deep digging of his shaft a blur of sensation, flicking through my pages, as my own hips grip and grind back. Our searing bodies, heaving chests, grasping, gasping the humid searing air.
Fearful symmetry as our bodies clammily cover each other, twisted and hungry.
Burning bright... like tygers in the forest of night
Same nowhere. Different bed.
Days. Nights. Pop together. Become one, strobing, light over dark. Black over white. Yet never grey.
Kristoph and I have popped together. Neither telling where each ends and the other begins.
Both one many-limbed person, pleasuring itself, as we are it. Caressing, rubbing, yielding, succumbing.
His physical self-indulgence soft covers us in a jacket of his making.
Gratifying myself thrills him, us both.
Because we are one coin, just flipsides, mirror images. Head tails. Yin yangs.
So as you open my book, read the torrid swollen pages and delve into their meaning, I tear you open and huddle inside the lurid soul of your profession. Study, deconstruct, as reader, and as one written.
Am I more than pussy to Kristoph. Someone to push his inspiration, a right to fuck, into?
Is he more than cock to me? A body to fill the gap in my life, myself as that yearning abyss.
Perhaps we both want more, but certainly no less, than that.
We cling to the room, claw at the bed, each other, for some meaningless division of time. An hour? A day? A lifetime?
Based on real events
Kristoph is ghost writing the novelisation of my life now. I supply the details of my fantasies, between the sheets, between the pages... my car hurtling us ever faster along coastal road, empty windswept fields one side and crashing waves the other, as he weaves them to words. He's more eloquent with language, tapping away on the keyboard of my body. Describing my character with his fingers, crafting it with his tongue.
Only the names change
No index to what I am, no Dewey Decimal Classification. Fact becomes fiction, embellished here and there, cross-referencing biography (921), english literature (820) and human anatomy (611) into genre-bending erotic tales (Category AR: Adult Romance).
We experience every coupling ever fucked, distill them into short, intense, timeless narratives of each other.
To protect the innocence...
He's my knight in shining spaceships, I'm a damsel in this-little-black-dress. Him Tarzan, me Jane, swinging from the chandeliers. The only limit is imagination, though fictional-fucking-for-fun-fantasies loses something in translation when forceful-for-real-fucking finally fatigues us both. Until the tragi-comic silliness of it all has us in tears of laughter, smiling painful limbs.
Life imitates Art far more than Art imitates Life
Only it doesn't in this case, does it Kristoph?
You bend my confessions, memoirs and desires to make the plot, the scenarios, more exciting. But the closer you get to my perfect sex scene, fabulously fearless fucks and steamily scorching shags, the less like me it is. Am I your fantasy female for real, inspiration and muse, or am I the one being reworked, edited, abridged for your amusement?
Work of fiction...
Kristoph: Katherine eases her Mercedes sensually into the parking space outside the isolated coastal bed and breakfast, controlling its penetration with practiced guidance.
She stands coolly taking in the view, the waves crashing wetly below, while Kristoph hounds out, pounds in, the reception, hunter that he is, and pays out for a single night.
He tells the owner with a knowing smile, "We may not even need that long..."
The cases stay in the boot because neither need their contents. Each other's body is all that's required. Normally the stop is for petrol but now it is Katherine who needs refueling. Running on empty. Only hours before but burning up the previous injection like a gas guzzler in the heat and speed of her need. In this respect she is high maintenance.
Kristoph pushes the key in the lock, gives it some twists... and he is in.
The room is spacious, with a befittingly elegant ancient four-poster bed.
"Give me some time to slip into something more comfortable." Katherine purrs. And Kristoph growls in mutual, tiger-like appreciation.
In next to no time, 'comfortable' is similarly nothing at all, except the sheets. Her naked body rolls on the bed, a silent invitation for him to join her, join with her. Either one long elegant fuck, taking as much time as the four-poster had waited for them, or a series of short flawless lays, like the perfect pearls on her necklace.
The sun is a gentle spotlight over them, bathing them in a golden glow, lending their tans the aura of a god and goddess alone in a heaven of their own making.
Their bodies become one slowly, tenderly, merging... beginning with touch, continuing with flavour.
Katherine savoured Kristoph's cock between her lips, her tongue tasting the vibrant texture of veins. Then his tongue explores her from neck to toe, via her fluffy yet soaked pussy. Washing over each other like felines, as if trying to cleanse the other's dirtiness.
So many positions. Katherine picks and chooses like confectionaries in a box, gems in a shop, and Kristoph obliges, more than willingly.
Their motions were the soft rocking of the sea, branches swaying in the breeze. Then tossed by a squall.
Entwined with her, he penetrates the hot depths of Katherine's cunt with practiced guidance, seasoning it with his cum, crashing wetly when he gives her the fulfilling she desperately wants.
With cat-like squeals of delight, she writhes and relishes his passionate piqance...
All we want are the facts, ma'am...
Katherine: My car skids to a halt outside a small, out-the-way motel because you need a pit stop. Again. I won't be saying no, though.
After hurriedly paying upfront for a small dirty room we're through the door again, jumping out of our few sweat-damp clothes and on the bed. Running as though our lives depended on it.
Bump, grind, wooosh, oh my god yes yes yes...
Epilogues and other Addenda
What happens to the characters after the writer finishes their story, Kristoph? If your adaptation of me is biography, then people would know I still exist. Now between your pages, your sheets, the pliable soft or stiff hard covers, what remains beyond?
Like most sequels, each liaison could have creatively diminishing returns. Each fuck less satisfying.
Multiple editions or orgasms? One volume, or two, or a threesome? Will I warrant a novel? Short story? Single para?
Kristoph's tongue teasing between my toes...
A footnote even?
Perhaps I should read less into it. I have become a much-loved edition, one way or another. My corners are worn, the pages yellowing and dubiously stained.
But would I rather his embellished fictions to my naked bare facts?
To call Kristoph a writer and poet is an insult... his words, like his body, transcend elegant rhythms when imprinted onto mine.
The label of lover is a misnomer... beyond sensual and physical attraction, and into something metaphorical, metaphysical.
And the title of greatest fuck ever is a lie, because this is only the first chapter.
What is past may be prologue, but the obscene acts of his body, filthily into my own, have yet to find language adequate for the rest of our book.
Happy ever after?
Our mutual climaxes may be measures of closure, marking out silk soft pages, but there may never be an ending...
- - - - - - - -
Victoria Blisse's Sunday Snog