Post by Emad Fouad on Jul 22, 2007 11:17:26 GMT -5
Her hand on the spot of weakness
She was not lame
a bag of bones
gathered together
with the spontaneity of an amateur creator.
The slight hump behind her right shoulder
evened out the curvaceousness of her rounded breasts
with a fuller one
the shorter leg by five centimeters
commanded a brazen gait.
With her left hand
she forcefully held on to
her knee
bending her torso whenever she walked
like a slave girl.
Twenty-seven years
her nest has never experienced ecstasy
between two real arms
the sweat of her budding body never touching
that of another.
Twenty seven years
she has enough lust
to imagine his taste in her mouth
she who
stole him amid the crowded public transportation Eavesdropping like one possessed
on the windows of newly married neighbours
her hearing astute
to the sound of bones of her in-law sisters in the adjoining rooms
leaving her exhausted like a corpse
under the hand of the neighbour who kneaded her flesh on the stairwell
when the electricity went out.
She was patient
patience that taught her to put up with brittle bones
for a lifetime
the cruelty of her in-laws
when they called her a spinster
at every fight.
The idiot
did not send an encouraging glance
to that bozzo who stuck his torso against her shoulder in the bus
she did not trust her instinct at first
then she closed her eyes on her Arab kohl forcefully
including her front teeth
pressing with pleasure on her lower lip
when she felt his erection rubbing like a child
on her hot breast
she felt him large beneath his grey trousers
hard like a tent pole
she moved her shoulder a little
to feel his pulse completely
between her breasts.
In the small seat in front of his waist
curious eyes gazing with reproach
gazing instead outside the broken window
placing her shaking hands between her legs
the surprise wetness hit her like an earthquake
in the place of weakness.
The idiot
had she waited a little
she would have felt his orgasm on her up-lifted breasts
but she pulled her shoulder against the old chair
when she felt her soul leave like water
from between her knees
her five fingers in a spasm
on the bar of the seat.
Every night
she enters her room overlooking the street
and remains there like a runaway cat hiding a thick blanket
holding her hot breaths
and she lifts her black silk shirt
on top of her erect nipples
(that transparent black shirt
she snitched from her mother one night
from her dowry chest)
With shaking sweaty hands she lifts the silk shirt
to smell the perfumed soap
and the mothballs
looking at her hot wound
with the gaze of an approachful mother.
She moves her palm toward him
in fear in the beginning
like a child attempting to light a candle
her small hand
rubbing him slowly and lightly
shaking the thrones of the gods
assuming their position
up high.
She was not lame
she was a bag of bones
gathered together
with the spontaneity of an amateur creator.
Open legged
on the big bed
as is she were deconstructed body parts
like a star in an endless night
lighter than a prayer on open palms
heavier than pain on two meeting bodies.
Loneliness taught her
and the days
that left no tread
how to grow the pain between her legs
like a sin a God cannot forgive
how to make it round like a rock
and throw him far
with one hand or less
she learned how to train him like a dog
to make him into a ring
on her little pinkie.
Only
two fingers open the lips gently
the third rubbing her erect clitoris
mercilessly.
The girl sobs intermittently
with every sting of pleasure between her legs
she closed her eyes on the pain
and open them to misty faces
coming from oblivion
and to oblivion she goes
faces
whose owners
are crucified between her arms
while rubbing their hot tongues
on her exposed member.
Oh God
three fingers only
and she feels a rough body moving with her
a beautiful body
that knows how to cover every part of her curvaceous body
with a loving dawn.
She moves
her bent form rocking in painful pleasure
her innocent breast moving up and down
like a swing
salty tears sting her reddened cheeks
and there is finger
one finger
whose nail varnish is peeling
is pushed to the farthest pint
with gentle slowness
between her legs.