Sacred Sex

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CHAPTER 9

Male hands on female back. Smooth skin, dark, not a single spot. The slight curves of her muscles are barely showing through the sand-colored tissue. The bones are the highest parts on that surface, which was her back. Such subtle angles. Every part of my hand assesses the ripples like a manual cartography. My fingerprints are all over it, like the love of the blind. Warmth flows as a tenuous thermal massage at each point of contact. The small hair strands raise to the static electricity of our bodies... to the gravity attraction of our bodies, like the celestial ones.

With my fingertips, I press the long muscles that run through her spine. I stretch the tissue with each new hug, while her trunk is tightly embraced leaving her breathless while slightly levitating her, as if we were in space. Kisses are exchanged with strength and speed that only the first kisses can have... or the last ones.

Our entire skin is a lip in uroborus.

I lift a sweater.

“You know what? I never understood why women are proud to fake orgasm...”

“Ten seconds.”

I’m talking to Jessica in her living room. I visited her shortly after leaving the nightclub where I was with her—now ex—boyfriend and my best friend, Peter. Her apartment is in chaos. Clothes all over the floor, pizza boxes, ice cream and chocolate package are also everywhere. It seems like a tornado went over that residence and got rid of all that existed there, leaving only packages and traces of the cliché. Even a small flood can be seen around the kitchen sink, from which a mountainous island of porcelain and metal emerges. Jessica tries to store what she can to try and leave the house “tidy” but such scene, once seen, cannot be unseen. Like Narcissus and the river, here there is Jessica and her abode. Object and reflection. Exterior and interior. One falling into the other. Always falling.

– Oh, Dante, I’m glad you came. I got this illness that infects me every week...

– Which one?

– Monday... – I wasn’t expecting that sudden humor, and get a little delayed in my laugh.

– I thought it was Peter calling you drunk in the wee hours...

A somber look is shot in my direction dissipating hers—and mine, too—smile. She stops her Sisyphus cleaning.

– Oh yes. That, too.

Male hands pull up on a pair of black panties, drawing the curves of her small musculature beyond her back, of thin thighs, touching the well-drawn, smooth calves and finally the bony female ankles up to her colored nails. The bed is already wet and olfaction is awakened on us once the biological weapon is disseminated in the environment.

The veil reveals my destiny.

“She who fakes an orgasm is incapable by herself, by her partner, environment, etc., to reach her best.”

“But she rather stays in that situation even if unwillingly.”

“Some say it’s to please the other, but altruism doesn’t work that way.”

“Sex, without pleasure and involuntary... Isn’t that the definition that’s on another apocryphal book of the Bible from a very famous Jew: the Houaiss dictionary?”

“Go to the word: rape.”

“Remark: Houaiss wasn’t a Jew, but rather a Lebanese. But you understood what I meant.”

“Sixty seconds.”

Jessica and I are drinking wine, sitting in the living room or in the small spots amidst all the filth and chaos that being some days separated from Peter caused to her sweet home. She smokes a cheap cigarette that reveals, beyond its smoke, her trembling hands that she tries to quiet as much as possible in the presence of her company, me.

– That idiot asked me for some time! Can you believe that?! He asked me for some time!

– Don’t mention it. He can be an idiot either when he wants to or when he doesn’t.

– I know. And that’s what I thought at first. But, you know what? – She takes another big drag on the cigarette; sips some wine; and only then releases the smoke in a distorted way.

– I think I know what you’re gonna tell me now. – It’s my turn to sip some wine.

– I’m not gonna be the one asking him to come back. – I lightly raise my eyebrows, but they get back to their places the same way they went up.

– Also, he was trying so hard to forget you last time I saw him.

– What?!

Jessica’s face. Snik. Snik. Snik. Closed eyes. Pfaf. Pfaf. Pfaf. Tight eyebrows. Tsad. Tsad. Tsad. Up. Klali. Klali. Klali. Down. Ret-rat. Ret-rat. Sharp. Sag-sig. Sag-sig. Obtuse. Narf. Narf. Heavy exhaling. Vahss. Vahss. Stop breathing. Suk. Bed in the background.

“(...) And yet they say that they want to please this person who doesn’t satisfy you... who doesn’t complete you...”

“It’s sort of a weird fetish...”

“To help one who doesn’t help you.”

“Like the Stockholm syndrome: falling in love with the kidnapper.”

“One hundred and twenty seconds.”

– THAT IDIOT!!! – Jessica’s hand hits the table where the trash is, i.e., her coffee table. This abrupt, violent and sudden movement reminded me for a second of my dead father. My expression fades momentarily.

Just for a second, that’s all.

– Yeah, I know... – I can see a fire starting. I just watch whether the ashes of the cigarette go out or reach fresh fuel. I assess the situation.

– Argh! I hate him! – Now both her hands hit the table. Hysteria. The bottle of wine almost falls but I saved it in time. I drink alone.

– But he does it for your own good... – I say it quietly so she also stops fiddling her cigarette.

– What?! – And the cigarette goes out, with a fist hitting the table. She’s really aggressive. How did Peter last ten years? She quickly turned the table upside down, throwing all the garbage into the air and then down to the floor.

– Yeah... He’s trying to go out with other people so in the end he can realize you were his best option. – Of course I’d never let her know that that was my “idea”. Thus, I looked away pretending to be thinking, but in fact I didn’t want to lie while looking her in the eye. Even though I was good at it, I’d better avoid getting caught.

– Oh yeah? ... if that’s the case I’ll also have the first guy that shows up just to see if he’s not the best option! – As I stare into emptiness, the image of Peter bothering me at the nightclub exploding and cowering, comes to mind just before Jessica says that phrase. I ponder about Mary, both of them. The mother of Jesus, after whom so many children are named by their parents aiming to get them a virgin and pure aura, while anyone who read the Bible knows that by the time of the Genesis copulations already existed, and no one remained a virgin. Jesus had brothers. Moreover, virginity is all but a symbol, for the virgin woman has a watch—her period—within her, so she is a symbol of time, not of lack of sex. The blood of time. Much like Zeus was the son of Cronus, Jesus was the son of the Virgin. Both were sons of time. And see how curious it is: one Mary is known for her virginity while the other, Magdalene, for fucking more than she should. The most important women of the New Testament have, in sex, their gateway to sacredness. – Hi, did you hear me? I said, “if that’s the case I’ll also have the first guy that shows up just to see if he’s the best option!”

Of course we are dealing with the second Mary here.

I raise my eyebrow.

Jessica also raises her eyebrow.

She sip some more wine, finishing her glass.

I picture my face mirrored on the ceiling like in a motel.

The sheet sticks to my back.

Sweat.

Small droplets.

Eyes open.

Arms stretched out in bed.

Cigarette in hand.

“As for man, he has to pretend he didn’t cum or that he doesn’t come fast.”

“He needs to be flawless.”

“But wise is he who learns from women, his opposite...”

“And knows the time when he must also pretend to cum.”

I get out of bed and go smoke on the balcony. It’s automatic.

“Three hundred seconds”

I can feel Jessica’s eyes.

Disappointment.

Horror.

Disgust.

“Is that it?! Did I cheat on my Peter for this?!” Jessica thinks, still frozen in bed.

Elsewhere, clear as the nights I see from Jessica’s balcony, Peter is now on the wet, dark, desolate curbside outside the nightclub he was, embracing himself in self-deprecation and pity, just thinking of another cliché that alcohol induces to think, in unison:

“I’m nothing without...

“Him.” “Her.”

Still on the balcony looking at the street, I now think of the other Mary, the adulteress, the one almost everyone threw stones at, and killed. The Mary no one thinks about when naming their daughters that name; who symbolizes the worst in sex—a theme so sacred in religion—: the betrayal. And, you see, Jesus still saved her from death by revealing the universal sin and just saying, after such a sinful act against marriage:

– Go and sin no more.

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