you're too young & eager to love

Writing exercise with my Muffin-pants! Trying out a new character. 3 wine glasses in.

-


Eda has fingers for days. Long, tapered, white as snow. You have never seen snow, but a whore read you a poem once and snow was described as pale and pure and light. When she sweeps her fingers through your hair, down your throat, you feel that coldness. You bite at her collarbone because it discomforts you, because you are a man who consumes and burns. She laughs, and it’s high and silvery, and you want to swallow it down.

You like her. You like her pretty legs and her thick hair. The deferential way she flutters her eyelashes. You like the hot gash between her legs and how willing she is. She bends and bends and takes all that you can give. Sometimes you bruise her. You hold her hip with a hand and tangle your other in her hair. You mouth obscenities against the column of her throat and think of Sunniva, of her untouchable, unclaimable spirit.

The oasis is hot and moist and terrible to you. So wet that you forget the difference between it and being with a woman. A man can’t get lost in this type of dampness, but you try. Eda is willing. Eda is a soft body and a pliant, moldable will. This, here, with her, becomes you and your cock and the noises you ply out of her. A different man, a better man, would feel bad about it. Or maybe not, because Eda likes the clank and clatter of coin. She takes pride in a service well rendered. You wonder, sometimes, if you are just another client for her, another wayward man she takes to her bed. You come all the same, half-angry, half-elated, your breath already stale on the curve of her breast.

You call her a minx, a she-devil, a whore. She laughs and pushes away your sleepy hands afterwards, tugs at the damp collar of your shirt. She lights you a cigarette, because she knows your habits, and you lean against the window of her room, talking money, talking girls, talking dreams. You steal words from poets and pretend you do not notice the way her eyes glitter, or how you sometimes think of how that expression would look like in another woman’s gaze.