Sunday, April 11, 2010

The Pillow Book: 11, 12 and 13

11 and 12 go together. 13, written before NoPoWrMo, goes rightly after them, I think.


11. When I go home with someone

xxxWhen I go home with someone, there is always the question of how I leave.
xxxI untie his embrace and make to go, whether the sex has been good or not. This way, when he implores me to stay, his pleading eyes appear in a charming light, and his fingers tighten on me in a regathering of the seam.
xxxI stay if I like him or if it is late. He presses me against his chest or turns over to his side of the bed, and we sleep till day outlines the curtain in chalk. How delightful when he kisses me with his eyes and slips my hand down to his morning hardness. Yet another kind of delight when he bounces up to make breakfast. The smell of pancake wafts to the disheveled bed tasting of dried sweat and semen.
xxxOr I leave, despite his plea. He asks for my number and writes it in a graceful hand in a leatherbound diary. He comes to the door, unlocks it in the most reluctant manner, and promises to call. I walk back into the city, which wraps round me like velvet trimmed with stars. Sometimes it is charming if he will not leave me but walks me to the train station. It is definitely not charming when he leaves with me in order to do his laundry.
xxxA friend had the frightening experience of not being allowed to leave. The door was unlocked only after he had given him satisfaction. I do not say I want to be tied up but I observe that the men I like, they always let me go.


12. When someone comes home with me

xxxWhen someone comes home with me, there is always the question of how I will ask him to leave.
xxxIf the man has a good ear, he will not need any cue, but leaves at a natural pause in the rhythm of the meeting.
xxxIf he asks to stay the night, I give in. I bring him out for breakfast in the morning, at the Irish diner or Subway, so that he can hear the train.


13. Wonderful window

xxxJean François has a wonderful attic window. When I flop down on his bed, the ugly post-war houses disappear and ochre branches spring up to weave a basket of the sky.

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