Anonymous
Robert Watts, Chrome Shrimps and Clams, Sculpture, 1964, Metropolitan Museum.
I open my eyes and find myself in bed. It is hot. I can tell he has been staring at me for a while because his gaze is no longer human. I am not ready. I want to run, but there is not much time. I know how this goes. He blinks, slowly, he breathes, hard and I get ready. He breathes in, hard. Hard, he comes close and he exhales.
The AC is not on. The fan stirs the air thick and heavy with heat: heat above, heat below. I breathe in slowly, close my eyes and feel I’m prey. I like it. Today I am flesh. Now I am flesh. I get wet. I get willing.
He gets nearer, closer, breathes, harder. Roars, grows, snarls, groans, growls. As he exhales, he makes the air denser, noisier. His eyes, (whose eyes?) stay looking at me and I stare right back at them. But our eyes don’t meet. I look past him. I salivate.
All ready I rest my body - my bones loosen, my skeleton goes unhinged. I become a feather, light. I weight, nothing.
He grabs me, roars at me, scares me, hurls me around. I am a body, torn, ragged. I am a rag. Only a fine thread, a very fine thread keeps me alert. I cannot fight back. I remain limp to protect myself but vigilant to danger. His body sweats, oozes, heats up as he shakes me looking for the best bite. He tosses me over, quickly, to the right. Breathes on my neck, grabs me hard, and tosses me over to the left. He kneads me, presses me, flips me over again. He grabs me by the arm. He forcefully grabs my arm.
I know this dance. When the moment is right, he will take me. He grips my nape strongly, from behind. He approaches and breathes thick, hot air into my ear. Growling. His teeth threaten me. He stops. My skin starts disappearing. My blood becomes air. It boils on the surface. It smells. He can smell me. My neck pounds. He groans again, hard. From behind me, he exhales on my ear and attacks me. Penetrating me, breaking my flesh. I take his blow, wet and stiff. I tighten up.
I know this dance. I squeeze, he squeezes. He pulls me in, he pulls me against him. He thrusts at me with an increasing pace. I can hear a pulse, a very strong pulse. His heartbeat. The rhythm is strong, it grows. I breathe, hard. I groan, I snarl, I growl, I moan, I cry.
I breathe into the pillow, my eyes are open. He devours, eats, satiates. I am on, I am on. I like this. I loosen, I watch, I give in. His assault escalates: blood, flesh, rags, spit, salt. Then a roar, the strongest of roars. Having finished with me he shoves me off. I am a carcass. Free. A doll, fragile, weak. I take in this sudden death and find myself bodiless.
Robert Watts, Chocolate Cream Pie, Sculpture, 1963.
I am at the core (of what?). An instant of a dead pause. Absolute silence after the loudest sound. Then stillness. The fan has stopped and the heavy air freezes.
I look at him. His eyes are closed, his smile is tender. Blood still dripping from his mouth. Now, we are two still bodies: his, sated, mine numb. I am alone, I am fine.
I close my eyes and start breathing again. I am forgiven. As my heart’s pulses steady I start pulsating from inside. I tend to myself.
This is a piece from GASP—a book of erotica that will apper at the beginning of 2019. It’s a limited edition so keep your eyes on @GASP Instagram’s feed to make sure you don’t miss out