John by 7ala Abdullah

Posted on September 20, 2011 by

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(In order to understand this piece, you should first read this explanation and this prelude.)

 

She was a magnet, and the whole world was made of metal.

So, him standing there in front of her was simple physics. As were the items of clothing hitting the floor, but he doesn’t even know that they are. He’s so hypnotized by the grey in her eyes that he can only tell she’s moved when her fingers begin to tickle his shoulder. Goosebumps like mountains dress his limbs in pure desire. He wants to drop to the floor and beg for forgiveness for things he never felt apologetic about. He wants to cry rivers of repentance; he wants to confess all his wrongdoings. He wants to declare his undying belief in her holiness.

A cold breeze enters through the cracks in his windows and hisses softly onto his back, but he’s too fixated on her to notice the change in temperature. She glows in this kind of darkness, he thinks. No, she glows all the time, he decides, but fabric interferes. Her pupils are microscopes picking apart and harshly inspecting every inch of his mundane skin. He stands erect, unable to move without superior command.

He doesn’t know enough, but he knows that when her tongue meets her lips; she tastes Eden. He doesn’t know enough, but he knows that when she arches her back; the heavens balance themselves on the curve of her spine, and he knows that when she curls her toes; angels kiss her feet. He doesn’t know enough, but he knows that the most expensive silk sheets will never compare to the softness of her skin, and that the sound of her voice is comparable only to the most moving musical notes. But he doesn’t know enough.

Even after all those months, he doesn’t know enough.

He’s spent a hundred and thirty-three days watching her, and he still doesn’t know enough. He knows her favorite brand of milk (Flora), her preferred type of cheese (Gouda), her favorite chocolate bar (Snickers), her favorite place to shop (Gucci), her favorite perfume (Armani Code), and her bra size (32 D). He knows she has five clients a week and that she spends her weekends in bed. He knows she has no family. He knows her favorite color is red and her nails never stay unpainted in a bloody shade for too long. He knows she’s got a standing order of ten garter belts and fishnets from La Perla per month. He knows she gets more and more friendly with the delivery man each time and he knows she’d pleased him pro-bono in September then kicked him out at three in the morning because he snored.

But he doesn’t snore. And if he did, he’d happily cut off his own nose so as to not displease her. Matter of fact, he’d brought a knife just in case.

But right now, her velvet hands are whispering profanities into the contours of his largest organ. Like an earthquake; her touch rattles him from the inside out and he’s shuddering with the realization that he’s finally where he knows he’s been heading his whole existence.

Here, the pieces of the puzzle called his life are falling into place. Here, the windows of hope are allowing him a peak into paradise. Herein lies the answer to every question he’s ever asked himself in the twenty-four years he’s walked this sorry Earth.

Her. This. Here. Now. Please.

Please, he finds himself saying. Take me, just take me. And he’s on his back, eyes full of tears and hands and feet immobilized. She places her ruby lips on his and he breathes immortality for the first time. Her tongue tastes of sin, and he’d gladly burn in hell for eternity for just another taste.

Now it’s just them and the moon that serves as the only cover to his cloth-forsaken body. She’s taunting him with miscalculated touches and misguiding glances. She’s mocking him with irregular patterns of kissing. Her hands are on his neck and he finds himself throwing his head back in submission.

You’re mine, she sings and his abundant hair looks up towards the heavens to declare it as the truth.

All yours, he pleads, and she presses harder against his neck in approval.

She’s looking down at him and he feels so small – so imperfect; so petty and human, so damn inglorious. He’s swallowed by the greedy lips of her lust and his life is flashing before his eyes.

He swears he can almost see divinity emanating from every pore in her body.

He’s out of breath, but she’d sucked it out of him the first time he saw her, so it was nothing new.

A little tighter around the neck and he’s giving in. A little tighter and he’s fading.

He doesn’t know enough, but he knows that she believes she is a Goddess; and so she is.

He doesn’t know enough so he doesn’t know where he’s going.

But he knows he’s leaving with a smile on his face.

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