Saturday, January 20, 2007
"Tell me again, the story of how you seduced me," she said.
"I will try. Yes, I will try - it is all so vivid to me..."
'What are you thinking,' you asked, watching me closely.
'I'm undressing you with my eyes,' I told you, deciding not to mask the truth.
'Oh?' you responded, suppressing a slight smile that clashed with the unerring gaze.
'Now I'm sweeping you off your feet and laying you onto the bed,' I continued, describing what I saw looking past the reality of our vis-à-vis in the smoky room.
And you said, quite eagerly, I recall: 'That's some imagination you have. I mean, here we sit in this cozy cafe, only a round table between us small enough to kiss over. But I like it. Don't stop.'
So, of course, I did not.
'You lie before me, passive. You stretch. Your blouse slips from the clasp of your pants and inches upwards. I see the flesh that is always most tender. I push away the fabric, in my other hand the marker, and begin to write on you, the novella, the account of your seduction, the opening epithet hovering by the navel. But I stop.'
'And what happens next?' you inquired, lifting your glass of wine.
'I pause and watch your breathing relax, like the sea's waves suddenly calming in the idle wind of the summer. I take your wrist. The loose sleeve slips to the shoulder. I begin at the base of your hand, winding words around your arm, sweet words, like the temptations of a serpent as it draws you to the apple. You watch the marker, you look away, you watch again. You have to see every word as it streams out and onto your skin. But you sense the writing with closed eyes, so you close your eyes to feel what is implied.'
I stopped talking and looked at you. You wanted to hear more. But I waited - until you spoke again: 'I can feel the phrases appearing on my body even as you speak them to me. And now I am hanging, hanging by a word yet unwritten.'
I did not answer immediately, but tasted a slight sip of the wine we shared.
Then I continued: 'We are still there, on the bed, the marker in my hand. I release your arm, and it falls in controlled motion to your side. The words still tingle - as I see in your passionate expression. I grip the blouse that is disarrayed in the aftermath of writing, and pull it upwards with one fist, until your arms raise with it, over your head, and with a quick twist the article is in my hand, to toss into an oblivion that doesn't concern us. I am ready to write more. I lower you now with that hand, flat upon the bed. I turn you. You lie, face down, and I begin the next small chapter. It streams in eloquence quicker than one could speak, as words upon your back. Soon both shoulders are covered, and the well between. The writing descends like a tide sweeping down the form of your back, yet your torso remains still, frozen by sheer will - though a hint of the passion shows in the trembling of your limbs. I wait again.'
And then you sipped from the wine. And it was my turn to catch my breath after the imagined writing that whirled through my thoughts. But the story wasn't over, and there was more flesh to fill with the imagined tale. All stories must have a climax, and then a denouement, perhaps even a continuation. And so it is with the story of every seduction, and especially of yours.
I went on, 'My writing becomes more intense, as the space to fill grows less. Jeans slip away, no fabric left touching your body. Now I write haphazardly, across a breast, on a sole, on a thigh. Before I can say how, your body is filled. There is no room left for the materializing thoughts, though the climax of the story is nearly in grasp. I inscribe in words indelible and small, in the slightest spaces I find. These too begin to elude. But the final words are in my thoughts, and I poise my hand to bring them to life. Then I see one unwritten island on your scrawled-over form. I will end the story there, by the navel, where all stories, including this one, begin.'
And then I paused again, to observe the affect of my narrative on you. You waited, and I allowed you to wait. But something was preventing me from the final culmination of ideas.
'Go on,' you said with a tremor revealing the fear that I might not. 'Go on!' you said again in a raised voice, directing all faces in the cafe towards us.
'I cannot continue reading,' I told you, 'I am scanning you from toe to breast, and it seems that I have lost my place.'
"And that is the story's end, the story of how I seduced you. It ends here and fades into the shadows, just as my narrative to you now, and just as I am to do..."
"I see," she said, disappointed, turning away from the mirror, letting fall the marker with which she had written those final words.
My muse has contributed a story:
Look here, do you think it is enough? I mean, you said one has to suffer for art, right? Do you think I'm a real poet now? I sufferd a lot, really, the tatoo costed me a hundred bucks - I could've get a new purse or new shoes for that.
That is some suffering you got there, baby, but it would help, if you'd wrote the poem yourself too.
Damn, what now. All this effort for nothing?
You could pass as an intellectual belly dancer.
Why is it so hard for a girl to get a cultural job these days?
Two other stories contributed by my muse: #63 and #286
And now, it's your turn:
Look into the navel, you are getting sleepy, sleepy, your eyes are heavy, you cannot hold them open, you close your eyes, you click the comment link, you write a story to the photo, you publish your comment. When you see the message saying comment has been sent you wake up and remember nothing...