Viewing the local antiquities

Along the briny beach

Naked and first-of-the-year chilled, I pull the red curtain back to see if there's AC I can turn down; the window is covered with imitation wood sheeting; the silver heads of galvanized roofing nails show round the frame. The corner: "(Under new management.)"

Now Angel stands by the side of the bed, no longer in uniform, waiting: I tug on a haunch: She crawls up on the bed, puts her head down to my crotch, her muscular thighs either side of my head: I put my hands to her cheeks—

Something sugary; cherry-LifeSaver-ish—preparation. For me.

Her lips are plumpplumdark, swollen: like the leaves of succulents evolved to store water: darker than raingravid clouds.

It's about to pour. But the 69 puts a crick in my neck, so I ease out from under her, crawl back to the foot of the small high bed, get her down on her back, center her pelvis, so there's room for me to stretch out; get the pillow under her nimble butt: So. Thighs spread, arched, she's completely exposed, and my chin won't dig into the mattress.

The pillow will wear out first.

Reaching both hands up, I flick her nipples erect with juicylubed fingers: She tries to thrash but I bear down on her cunt with my head, her thighs with the weight of my shoulders:

Gently I take her right hand: Move it down to her motte:

"This way." She raises a hand, scissors two fingers: I put my hands under the backs her thighs to push her legs back and her round heels up in the air thinking Viennese oyster, but:

"No, this way." She scissors her fingers closed.

I raise my head, rear back on my heels: She clamps her legs tight together and begins to massage her motte, circling paired index- and forefingertips. No longer sprawling between her spread legs on my belly, on my elbows over her, my head at her crotch, I bring my mouth down to Surprise all of her cunt but the hole:

Eating her while she masturbates.

Cunnilingus is a dainty word, delicate: The sensitive male's way of servicing her: dining not eating: eating not preying; never the intricate tooling of frantic hunger: if lips could tear more than skin deep: bloodheat drooling licking slathering slithering bolting swallowing meat Good:

"You will kill me!"

Rubbing one out; I worry her swollen twat as she starts bucking, working herself faster, faster: I cram my smeared chin down forcing her wiretight thighs apart and her open, probe—

"Oh! I want to come!"

Her hands lie slack on the mattress down by her hips: I reach up, put my fingers between hers: We hold hands, hard, as she pumps, heaves, spreads her thighs wide and presents her twitching hole: sharper hotter: a swirling reduction of greased sweat and waxed sugary iron Red:

"Oh!"

My reward the wash of salt she floats over my broad flattened tongue: the angular mewing of gulls: sun on the back of my neck: sparkly hot sand: the unaffordable black masts scavenging the horizon: a cigarette boat thrumming its straight wake white across the incoming waves beyond summer's undertow. Shall we walk to the stand?

I look at the glass of ice and the can of Coke on the nightstand.

"Would you like something to drink?"

"Sprite would be good, juice would be better."

"Next time, call me first and I will get some juice."

"You only stayed in a one-star hotel."

"Not even one star. I know Paris pretty well. I will tell you the best part.

"Paris is all stone. Even the trees, the parks are surrounded by stone. There is a river that runs through the middle of Paris, between stone walls. There is a stone island in the middle of the river and in the middle of the island is a famous stone church with two towers: Notre Dame. Notre Dame.

"The church is a thousand years old, and when I got there a bell in one of the towers was ringing like it had been ringing for a thousand years:

"bong Bwonng bwong bang blong blongg bong Bwong

"The bell pulled me into the church; I couldn't help it. I had to."

"Like magic."

"Yes."

"Yes, my life is complicated."

{300}