Friday, November 09, 2007

The Birth of a Terrible Child

I was young once, naïve. Mentally and emotionally I was an infant, a terrible child, one who had savagely stunted his self.

We were on an island, in the South East Asia. I was nineteen at the time, maybe even twenty.
The island was small, quiet. It was night.
Outside our wooden bungalow the sea rolled onto the shore. We could hear it; the rhythmic rushing of water running up and down - its sound was soothing, it always was. My heart feels content when I’m near the sea. It always calms my soul. I can never feel anger by the sea, only peace.
A jungle was directly behind us; it was a thick jungle, so dense. I had never seen so many greens before - all shades imaginable. We were close to it, on its edge. We could hear it; the late night sounds of the jungle. At night the jungle was alive.
Inside our bungalow we were silent.
We sat opposite each other, naked, with our legs crossed. A mosquito net surrounded the bed. We were isolated. Alone. It was dark, except for a few candles around the room; their flames were alive; moving, dancing.
The opium hung heavy in our bodies. We were high, wonderfully high - sitting, as if on a cloud, drifting above the world, suspended.

She was then lying on her back.
Her body looked limp in the languid light. She was confident in her nakedness. There was never any embarrassment, only ease with her bared body, with the way she held herself. There were never any cracks in her self-confidence. She simply was, and that was it. Until I met this woman I was always frightened of my own body, afraid of another seeing it in full. After sex I would cover it, nervous of what they might say or see. It was not until I started to be with her that I could relax and feel some semblance of ease.

Her thighs slowly parted.
I looked down and saw the slow reveal of her sex. Her vagina was tight, compact. She had recently shaved it, leaving a single thin line. Her fingers drifted downwards, hovering along its edge, slowly swirling.
Her eyes were on my eyes; watching, waiting. Her eyes then fell away and drifted down to what lay between her legs - it was a silent command.
I sunk down on my front, snaking my body backwards as I did so. My hands hooked around her thighs, fingers holding hips.
Everything in my perception looked soft in the light. Dreamlike. It was a dream. My real dream. It felt as if nothing was real. As if all were manifesting and projecting from the depths of a vivid dream - a phantasmagoria of erotica, brilliant and blazing.
My tongue lightly licked her clitoris, exploring the delicate folds of her skin. I looked upwards, past her small pert breasts, to see her face – her eyes were now closed, relaxed; serene, like Buddha.
I wondered how she felt with the drawn out tease on her sex mingled with the opium washing gently within - opium, such a dream it seemed to me. Opium, with its waves of warmth. Opium, running ripples of wonderment through my soft and inexperienced soul.

After some time (though how much I could not gage, as there seemed as if there was no time) she rolled onto her stomach and told me to lick between the cheeks her bottom.
I had never done this before, but did not question.
I looked down at her bottom, at the way it was shaped; it was like a black woman’s; rounded, but so tight, curved outwards, but so firm; defined, magnificent.
My lips kissed along the contours of her buttocks. My hands gradually caressed and then parted her buttocks. My mouth moved in between her buttocks, my tongue went out and slowly I licked around the rim, slowly in a circular motion, slowly with pleasure, slowly with newfound joy.

It all seemed to go on for so long, like an eternity - infinite, with no beginning or end. I felt cocooned from the world, in a womb, in our womb, with nothing else but us.
There was no world right then. There was nothing - no society, no people, no government, no rules, no hate, no hurt, no envy, no greed, no violence, no war. There was nothing - nothing but flesh and sensations and pleasure and touch and taste. There was nothing - nothing but us; cut off, alone, with our bodies abandoned to each other and each other only. There was nothing - nothing but us and the invisible hands of time evaporating out of our hands and our flesh. There was nothing – nothing but the closeness towards her inevitable departure, followed by mine - her back to Norway and myself back to England to face the same rain and the same streets and the same houses, back to the same claustrophobia, to the same small southern town that I had fled from hoping to stall the death of my spirit.

Matthew Coleman

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