Lazy Sunday

Lazy Sunday

♦♦

An Erotic Quickie by Ximena

Goddamn ants.

They make the neat black type on the page look alive. It undulates as they walk briskly on their way to wherever. I put the book down, pinch one between my thumb and forefinger and flick it away. It’s late but I can’t sleep. Lazy Sunday and all that.  I’d napped earlier, and the afternoon had been so humid and gray it was as if the sky was covered in an iron bowl. Even naked, I’d still sweat out my bed sheets.

 I’d dreamt of a suburbia so perfect it gleamed like plastic, with little toy cars parked neatly in driveways scrubbed pale cream. The grass was greenblack and iridescent with dew as the carapace of a Japanese beetle. I didn’t fit in. I was sleepy, lazy with something, drunk with boredom and horny, so horny that I danced in the front walkway and rubbed myself up against the clean white wooden banisters of the porch with feral abandon. I ran out and talked to a new neighbor, my sex throbbing with anticipation…I  heard someone playing an unfamiliar tune on a piano, something ethereal, and I began to ravish that stranger. Her nipples are interesting, unique, like dark rose marbles laying on top of her small breasts. She held her breath and I could see the smooth flesh shelf that her ribs made, I could count them, she was that slim. I pressed my face against the warm skin of her stomach and felt her muscles roll as she finally took a  breath, then hitch up and down as she sighed because I’d put my fingers, still wet with her saliva, on her cunt. I’d spread her open, slid them inside gently, curved them, straightened them again-

 The picture faded out and I was  temporarily awake again, wondering why I was making love to a woman I had seen acting in a mediocre movie. I could still hear the music. Someone was in the living room on my piano, playing an unrecognizable tune. I sighed and turned, still half asleep, and looked out my window. The sky had turned a virulent yellow. Maybe it would storm and dissipate the ghastly heat. I felt as if I were breathing through a woolen blanket, oppressed.  I scratched at the hollow of my throat, into a pool of sweat, and when I looked  there was an ant caught underneath one of my fingernails. I closed my eyes again-

 I was with a woman again. Her skin was sweat-slick and blushed and I was in the middle of slowly licking her pussy. She was salty but not cloying, seawater on a rain-rich year. The smell of her made me tremble. I was almost mad with passion, I could barely breathe even when I lifted my head  to look at her, at where my mouth had been a second before. She was both new and familiar, a memory I couldn’t quite place in my frenzied state of mind. All I knew is that I had to have her. I bowed my head again, tracing her every fold and curve with my tongue, ravenous.  I had to see her face. I tried to lift my head but it was too heavy. I strained and strained, tried to push up with arms gone rubbery and useless. Above her swollen delta I saw a smooth stomach, a belly button like a surprised black eye, breasts so full and firm they blocked my view of her face-

 I woke up angry. My mouth tasted like I’d just sucked on a dirty nickel. My insides burned. My long hair stuck to my neck and shoulders I was so sweaty, and my recent late lunch of was laying dead in my stomach, dangerously close to resurrecting and clawing its way up.

It was just another dream, another reminder, another hollow promise of a paradise I’d lost too long ago.  I got up to pee and spit bile, dirty nickel, sadness familiar and tired, into the toilet before sitting down.

Latest Comments

  1. Alice Bluegown says:

    Nice – very evocative of a particular time of year, which unfortunately we have not been able to experience in this country because of the relentlessly crap summer. Enjoyed the whole wistful nautre of the piece…

    • ximenawrites says:

      Thanks, Alice. It’s oppressively hot and sticky here right now, so it was easy to translate the feeling to the page :)

  2. willcrimson says:

    The writing — the evocation of taste, sight, and the heat — is the best part of this quickie.

    //The grass was so green it looked black and iridescent with dew like the carapace of a Japanese beetle.//

    *Loved* that.

  3. wordsmithingimp says:

    The ants make me think briefly of The Bell Jar. A bunch of delicious descriptions in here–even the not so pretty ones. The last line made me want to grit my teeth.

    • ximenawrites says:

      Sadness does have a taste, doesn’t it?

      I read the Bell Jar a couple years ago. I wrote this piece a couple of years before that.

    • wordsmithingimp says:

      “Sadness familiar and tired” especially helps me imagine that miserable, sticky-mouth feeling you get when you’ve sweat and slept yourself into dehydration. Erg. Uncomfortably fitting.
      Thanks for resurrecting this piece.

  4. vanillamom says:

    I too liked the line Will liked. It is a color we can immediately “see” in our minds eye. The juxtaposition of the bright and colorful with the “gray bowl of sky”…the sweat and rancid heat of oppressive reality, vs the heat and sweat of luscious delights…all done so very, very well.

    An impressive piece, Ximena

    nilla

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