Maybe it's the hot weather, but lately I've been seeing things in poetry. Under the sweltering weather, the absence of work made me a little guilty, so I closed my eyes and told myself that we're here to enjoy ourselves by doing absolutely nothing. An hour or so later, brown and bronzed, we snuck back into our room and indulged ourselves in a little pre-siesta sex play, exploring our bodies the way children do. At around noon, we woke up and enjoyed yet another meal of seafood that reminded us of our own lubricious genitalia.
A little walk after a heavy meal is always good, so we walked to a place that rented out bicycles. We got our bikes and cycled round the island. When we reached a mini-fishing village, we caught sight of a fisherman's wife and teenaged daughter doing their laundry and putting some shrimps out to dry. Though both were wrapped in sarong and loose t-shirts, I could tell from their movements that they were endowed with breasts worthy of Russ Meyer.
Island folks are known for their hospitality, and taking advantage of this we asked if we could use their bathroom. Smiling warmly, the older of the two beckoned us in. Either it was my imagination or the pleasant reek of shrimp that hung in the air, but a vague scent of sex seem to linger in the small darkened space of their living room. Mother and daughter resumed doing their thing; as Neko relieved herself, I stood at the doorway and enjoyed the free show. Ever contemplative, looking at them amidst the sound of Neko's gushing piss reminded me of what sexy really meant.
The bathroom door creaked open and Neko stepped out with a smile on her face. And just as we were about to walk down the stairs, rain started to fall. It was the kind of powdery rain that could only mean we wll be stranded there for a while. The rain hardly seemed to bother them. Though they made an effort to cover their shrimps with huge sheets of plastic, they didn't bother with their laundry at all. There was not a shred of hurry in their movements, and this made me think about how much we are shaped by the environment that we live in. As they made their way towards the stairs, they must have noticed the uncertain expression on our faces, and quickly insisted that we stay till the rain subsides.
With four people in their tiny living room now, the space did seem a little cramped, but their sofa was rather comfy. As the rain silently fell, that smell of unwashed sex became more intense. The daughter turned on the telly, and the four of us sat there watching some pretty lousy, locally-made cartoon. A few minutes later the mother got up and headed towards the kitchen, presumably to prepare dinner. When she hollered from the kitchen and suggested that we stay for dinner, Neko and I grimaced a little, and politely declined, citing the subsiding rain as an excuse. The daughter looked at us, or rather, checked us out, all the while with a knowing twinkle in her eyes. I was getting horny, and imagined getting it on with Neko in front of the fisherman's daughter, smack in their salty living room floor. That didn't happen of course, and the rain stopped at about five minutes into the four o'clock news.
As we made our way down the stairs we gave our profuse thanks to them. Just then, a man arrived on a motorcycle, drenched to the skin. That was probably the fisherman. As Neko got onto the bicycle, I made a mental note of the lecherous looks that he was casting her. Seeing how much leg Neko was showing with that pair of shorts she was wearing, I would've done the same if I were him.
Over dinner that evening, I asked Neko if she noticed the way the fisherman was looking at her, and she said yes. We talked about the size of the women's breasts, and practically drooled over the possibility that the three of them had incestuous threesomes together. That night we retired to our room early and initiated a mindblowing fuck session that began with me forcing Neko to masturbate in front of me till the shivers came. And as I mercilessly pounded it into her, I whispered to her narratives of how we would fuck like dogs in front of the fisherman, his wife and his teenage daughter whom he fucked and sucked every night right in front of his wife as she goaded him on. I told her how I would like to squash the wife's breasts together and furiously flick my tongue over the tips of both her fat nipples all at once. I emphasised the idea of how the daughter would bleat like a lamb each time her father fucks her good.
When I sensed that she was near, which wasn't easy considering the fact that I had placed a hand over her mouth to muffle her cries, I drove it in both physically and metaphorically, and told her that I will let that pervy but virile-looking fisherman stick his dirty, stinky cock into her while I watched and played with his wife and daughter. I stuck my tongue into her ear, and beneath my palm she screamed like a banshee, her body squirming and twitching in terrifying spasms that fully defined the (elusive) meaning of la petit mort.
I think we really need a fucking vacation.
In George Bataille's novel Ma Mère, there's a scene where the protagonist of the story grovels in his father's cachet of filthy porn (much like a pig in shit) after his mother hands him the key to his deceased father's study. In Christophe Honoré's adaptation of the story into a film of the same name, this scene remains my favourite. Here's an excerpt from the novel:
