The Big Bang

Fiction about friction.
  June 3, 2003

This honeymoon is about hastily rushing from one beautiful, sun-drenched, sultry Mediterranean locale to another. It is also about beautiful, sun-drenched, sultry Mediterranean sex.

Lanie and I are conjoined at the pelvis. We are fucking like volcanoes, like locomotives hurtling through groaning air towards ecstasy, leaving behind indolently widening plumes of smoke that obscure the devastation in our path. She is a savage; she grabs me, throws me on the bed and mounts me growling; I stand up, and pin her to the wall (dent, another dent), and bite her, lightly, just as we begin to grind. The mighty ship creaks and lurches, depending on the current orientation of our humping-nudged bed, stern to bow or port to starboard. Plates rattle in a kitchen somewhere. The sagging sea sighs underneath. In the on-board casino the chips suddenly start falling right and the house dives into a losing streak, unbreakable for as long as Lanie and I shake the world. We fuck forwards and backwards, uniting loins, mouths, hands and anything the hands come across; we defile a fruit and then eat it, feeding each other; we roll over each other to usurp the coveted spot on top, laughing, screaming, sometimes even singing—nothing with words, just the unintelligible melodies of lust. She's afraid the chafing might bring on infection, the one where she constantly has to pee, but it hasn't and it probably won't, I tell her with a smirk, because we beat the life out of any hapless bacteria that get in harm's way.

We do it in the dark corners of museums, on shaded back streets, stumbling into strange people's empty houses, in the backs of taxis and in the fronts of movie theaters. We leave a palpable, commanding smell of prurience in the air; it stays behind for days and spreads; newspapers ignore it, but census takers in several months will record a sudden surge in births. It would be traceable to our passage through these blessed lands but who will bother tracing it? We infect each town with a fever of fertility; as we ascend the ship to move on and the velvet night steals over terra cotta rooftops, countless beds begin to creak, many more than on any other night before our coming. Soft flickers of lit-up windows and the rusty whispers of laboring mattresses chase us across the water. Farewell, they say. Come again.

< | Words Archive | >