I was shaking shivering and disrupted, disrobed and robbed of all control over my limbs. My body rattled and my fingers curled as if afflicted with a palsy born from birth. He was plumbing me, and ripped out of my throat a fragrant moan which rattled even the window with its force. I barely knew his name, and I did not know much more than a film of his language. His English, however, was quite good.
"Now you must know what it is, to be an action, that is what the painters had."
I looked up at those rich blue eyes, unlike any pair I had stared into before. I was still quavering and my legs were wrapped tight around his hips. While he pressed against me, it was still "up" that I looked. I had only then realized how much taller than I he was.
"Now you are being silly. I came to study the painters."
His face was all serious.
"To know expressionism, you must be fucked by them."
I giggled and smiled again, I knew my eyes must be glowing as I picked my fingers through his fine hair. It was not the blond blond blond I imagined a German boy to have, but it was light, and finer than I could imagine any hair to be. It seemed gossamer and floated. A few stray strands wafted upwards on some unseen current of air that was rising from the heat of our bodies.
"That's what it is always about with you guys isn't it?"
"Everything." He paused. "Is always." He paused. "About sex. Getting it, not getting it, having it, imagining it."
"I told you I have a dirty mind. But I also know that the first orifice you have to enter, is not below the waist line."
"But it is the first one every man things of entering. And he dreams every day of being able to just stab his brush on the canvas. Those painters they fucked the canvas with their brush."
"I suppose that's what made you want to study them."
"No no. It made me want to be them. You think they had to introduce themselves to the canvas? No no. No. They just strung the canvas out, pulled it tight, and then they fucked the canvas with their brush. Their life splayed on it."
It was at that moment that I knew I never wanted to have sex with him again. Because, uniquely, I was exactly what he was looking for. Someone who had lost a pole star, a lodestone, a guide post, a land mark, a reference to my life. I was adrift and eager to be remade. I looked at him. He did not see the darkening of my features, or detect the change of the temp that my fingers churned through his hair. He did not seem to know, or could not seem to know, that everything was different now.
I stared that the imperfections in the cheeks. The way his face was too long, his jaw too short. But my calves told me his hips were perfect. So perfect. Almost a perfect, for any man not a dancer any way. I pet his check, and yet in a moment his face threw to far away, and I felt I was stretching beyond a gulf.
"You know we don't have women like you here."
I shook my head.
"What do you mean?" I was thinking for a moment my intellect, but I knew better. Perhaps my skin? My race, as you would call it. I couldn't believe it would be something else.
"It's the way you approach sex. I could not believe that you didn't blush when we were talking about Picasso."
I giggled. Yes, in real time. Giggled.
"The dream is clearly about masturbation, and clearly about a man's fantasy of what a woman dreams of when she masturbates. Why not say it. Why hide it? Pablo didn't."
"Many women would think it. But I could not believe you said it as we were walking through a gallery."
"Where else to talk about art?"
"But you were talking about it as if it were pornography."
"Everything is about sex. There's no such thing as pornography then."
He startled back. As if. No, hold the mayo and the as if. It was that he had not ever had a woman lying under him, who he had just raped an orgasm out of, talk back to him. He had fucked me. But he had not fucked my brains out.
He narrowed his eyes, he stared. His face hardened. He slapped me with a coldness. I felt good, as if he finally felt what I felt. I felt him soften and slip from my body. That moment. Hmmmm that moment. You can't explain that moment, that moment where a man becomes unplugged from you.
I wane smiled, my mouth a fading crescent. I watched his dream of painting me die, and it kindled in me the purest joy, Schadenfreude. But I was not done with him. I knew that there was an internship opening at a museum he coveted. I knew because I had applied for it.
I smiled waxing smile.
I was going to take it from him.
Schadenfreude. And other words I would come to know.