Omnia's Red Pen Scribblings In Her Dark Blue Notebook

Knowing a new body — not feeling it yet — but knowing ahead of time that you are going to have this experience of getting to know a new one in a very intimately-aware way... Desire in one shot too. And not needing to wonder anymore, or work on it. A perfect stranger, before the discovery of reciprocated pleasures.

- shame . . . that’s what her face said, and what hers meant too, glaring hatred out of a flat face, no bones but the forehead and the bridge of the high arching nose and the slash of lip –

Everything must remain intact, no deterioration can be allowed to occur. Nothing must be destroyed in us. I would defend us against any third who would try to alter the nature of our connection in the smallest degree.

He went into the bathtub first while, still naked, I unpacked my suitcases. Once he was out of the tub I stretched out on the bed.

In love, a great force awakens in her:

“My body was totally involved, I wasn’t in my head any more, for once!! How strange and fantastic and terrifying.”

After we made love he'd start to think about how he could include what had just taken place between us in his book. Instead of a conversation with me. He put me at a distance and made me an object.

The result, the writing, I detested. “This text stinks of cheap perfume,” I tell him. "Perfume, yes, but not cheap," he rejoindered. "Yeah? What's it called?" I ask, but my asking is more of a bolshy challenge than a genuine enquiry. "Eternal Youth," he answers. In his latest piece of prose, he's relocated us onto a train.

The train starts moving forward and we buck and grind, my stripped bottom stranded upon the vinyl bench, him only part-way inside me, trying to get his whole length in and when he fails to do so it goes back out and enters for a second time, me pulling his head back by the hair and trying to tell him through the roar of the wind to just wait until the next jolt, but he does not understand me.

...using his thumbs to try and direct me but I am already turned outwards at this point, my face toward the back of the train, toward the closed toilets that make me imagine that we will find ourselves there standing beside the sink, with one hand seizing hold of the bathroom rail and the other draped laxly across his shoulders, as we dovetail our private parts.

...he pulls out again and this time he gets it right in and the train is rumbling pleasantly through the outskirts of Brussels, carrying us towards Düsseldorf in a pleasant buzz where I do not know any more which side is upward and which is downward nor do I care, for everything is of equal beauty and imprint, so what if he does damage to me, I want this because this is what I want, but she still pushes him away because she is nervous, what if it's only her body he loves and not her person? Not her soul at all, but her flesh only? And how can she ever find out and not lie to herself and how can she lie to herself again she knows better by now.

...the train’s movements are my hips and my hips the train and we are nowhere or both everywhere but always are going.

...as if the effort we had both made before had counted for nothing, an impossible equation of cunt and cock, then he gives up tries to push himself off me, to exit my body altogether, with me still clinging tightly inside to his male part, and I cannot tell if we are in the hotel or on the train or by the lake with skeletal trees.

...but the women too don’t much mind saying no but saying yes that’s where they get confused you may say yes then back out of it or yes in the daytime when I am near or yes in the nighttime when I have gone far away so it isn’t a real yes it's a yes with conditions that could never be met it’s hard to be certain all the way certain what you do mean when you say my body said yes my words didn't need to and you are no judge of my unspoken wishes and taboo desires and I know that my own yes in all its possible guises frightens and confuses and embarrasses me by no means excluding my yes in relation to your yes which is an unambiguous yes a male yes and not more ambiguous than a female no and less able to be broken back down than the no which might say later that’s all you have any right to because it didn’t come all the way out – I loved how he held my neck, and that same intensity stayed with me when I came back to myself...

I mean not my whole yes my whole body saying my yes and maybe my next yes when will that be, in the shower or an aeroplane or alone in the street or maybe here on the beach at midnight with the moon up and the ocean as well as that sky as that heaven as these wet sand granules on my back and the warm bodies, my own yes in conjunction with others’ yes or a prelude to further yes or a preparation for tomorrow and what my tomorrow might mean to me...

- not a single word was spoken, not a single act set forth into motion, this was their sexual practice, their mutual foreplay, whenever they shared the same space, during the time she had a boyfriend.

There he was, watching me without asking permission, taking without offering, stealing from the wellspring where everything flows - where the heart speaks its loudest words of longing and waiting and patience and pain.

Still unpacking my suitcases - many pajamas and very few shoes and stockings because I wear socks or boots or sandals. No heels.

- it occurs to me that the tastiest kind of woman is one whom nature in forming withheld something: a piece of beauty, a piece of perfection. We love a little flaw here and there, something that she would almost surely mourn for if she could see it in a mirror. But he mustn't let her know because we adore and might even in due time come to worship her physical defects. A deprivation that provokes you and turns you on. Not much breasts or almost no breasts. Knees too knobbly. Bandy legs. A gap between the two front teeth. A woman like that might know something important in bed. Might know how to give herself to him in a whorish manner. That little piece that we overlook until the lights are off and we learn to see so well in the dark not even knowing that it is missing in us and I do not yet know what I want from him but my mouth knows and kissing the writer's mouth I taste the word’s treasure and its all unwritten worlds, all of him that's gone under, so rich in feeling, in being a victim of that very feeling, just the way I was or always would have been until this wild moment of my taming him.