It
is not taste, still he thinks in
terms of that word knowing it to be incorrect, thus: finding some elicit memory
of his having licked the peeled skin of a banana, and now something similarly
dehydrating to this taste of her, the aridity crawling back across his tongue
and a reflex swallowing to provoke salivary irrigation, moisture into its wake.
His
teeth are as broken chalk.
He
feels beneath the spread of each hand the actual packed mass of her thighs,
certain he can hear their blood revolve within, their bones’ fluid
displacement, and between them now the drying taste he understands to be
synthetic: perfume or applied deodorant; a trace of powder from her
newly-laundered briefs, trapped and holding to the pubic hair beneath his
tongue.
She
holds herself open, loose hair gummed to her fingers and a latticework of mucus
exposed between the vaginal walls, while an emanative heat registers itself as
taste across his face and the back of his throat.
The
root of his tongue aches.
The
flesh stretched between her fingers looks sore and raw, “uncooked” is the
actual word he thinks.
Skunk:
Uncooked.
Her
fingers find his mouth.
She
swallows audibly at her own breath as the bridge of his nose rises across her
clitoris; his tongue again, and the muscles in her legs tighten from the inside
out.
Dropping
his hand to the carpet allows him the Moosehead, but its actual drinking
constrains him to relocate the centre of his gravity, rising to the support of
his elbows. He watches her vagina collapse upon itself, unaware even if he
maintains sobriety enough to resolve what constitutes the internal/external
ratio of her skin.
Relishing
its weight, he inserts the not-empty bottle, the index finger of his left hand
adjacent to the long glass neck in a gesture adopted to preclude the creation
of a vacuum, though to the actual logistics of this he applies no conscious
thought whatsoever as he now rotates it out, the short thick suck of withdrawal
accompanying each partial exit and push, the exposed bottleneck oiled with her
lubricant.
He
breathes her taste, and deeply, the bottle still slowly rolling to his hand,
until the movement of his head allows him sense of hers, the face rapt with its
disquieting intensity and amazement.
