But we had a glass of wine each in our hands. And the table lamp lit her room glowing in a pool of peach and gold.
“Why the constant sex and death in your writing?” she asked.
She was sitting on the bed - sleeveless jogging vest and shorts, and a blanket wrapped over her thighs.
“Live. Love. Dream. And die. That's the process of existence in a word-universe,” I replied.
An hour before, she didn't exist. Except for a young voice over the phone. And the promise she made as part of the bargain. An hour after, she was living. In flesh. Real. With her scent in my nose. And she was near. So near that I could almost reach out and touch her skin. But I didn't move.
She didn't too.
“I - I am quite surprised you came," she said. "I mean, we are total strangers, right? Although over the phone, you know... And of course it is stated over your blog that you are for rent, so... well..."
She blushed as she stammered and stuttered.
"And you are - kind of, well... cute too."
I didn't know how to react to that compliment, but I thought she was definitely cute in saying that. Her embarrassed candidness. I tried to give a smile, and my smile probably wasn't assuring. For she blushed even harder and looked away from me.
A sudden gust rushed in through the window. Metal blades of the blind vibrated. The gust then rushed out through the doorway, lifting the translucent cloth veil into the air and revealing the corridor outside.
“You are a left-hander,” I said.
“How do you know?” She was surprised.
I shrugged and didn't give a reply.
She frowned. The face wrinkled. For several seconds. And she laughed. Loud and young. And her laughter filled the room.
“You talk like this often?”
"Depends." I shrugged again.
Thus her eyes twinkled.
*
We finished half a bottle of wine while she chatted, about everything. About anything. Like the way you can tell an intimate stranger your fears, your desires, yourself. The bursting of unbearable secrets. The urging to bare all to someone else. To connect. To share. So that you’re not alone anymore. So that you’re free. So that another person knows - who you truly are.
I listened quietly.
Finally, a little out of breath, she asked abruptly, “So how do you charge?”
Obviously it must have been a matter weighing in her head for some time.
“For this?”
She nodded vigorously. Her face was flushing, her eyes were looking at me intently. Yet in that instant, she was much further away. Like that edgy voice over the phone when she called me.
She pulled the blanket up from her thighs and wrapped it tight over her shoulders. She was shivering. The cloth veil by the doorway flapped its floral print to the movement of the wind.
We could pretend. We could play and act. But it was, and would always be, two lonely people.
“No. No money. Not today.”
There was a moment of silence.
“What do you want then?” she asked timidly.
“Maybe, just a few photos of you."
She seemed a little excited. “You mean – nude?”
“Anything. Just a few shots of you. Now. Doing whatever you like.”
She bit her fingernails. Then, after a while, she said, “Ok.”
She stood up, left the bed and went to close the door. The door was locked. The cloth veil and the corridor disappeared. The world was shut from this room. The wind ceased.
She turned around. Faced me. Bit her lips. And tugged her jogging vest off her body. Tugged her black sports bra off. (I could see her small beautiful breasts and hard nipples). Pulled her shorts down. Hesitated. Then pulled her panties down too. (Neatly cropped pubic hair). It was all done in less than a minute. I was admiring, as she revealed herself full to me.
“What are you waiting for? I’m posing already!”
I shook my head. "This is showing off your body. Not posing."
She pouted and looked around, then made the decision: her study desk.
Pushed away all the books that were on it.
Opened her cupboard.
Took out a black patent leather bag.
Slung it over her shoulder and climbed up the table and gave a doggy pose, with her slippery wet tongue wagging.
The different postures. The escalating excitement. Eventually she sat on the tabletop, leaned back against the window blind and spread her legs wide open. To flaunt her pussy. And she asked, “Is it okay if I ...?”
Under the hood. In the moist dew. A pink rosebud. Fingers strum. Strumming her hunger. Her aching. For air. For life. And she gasped. The gushes and juices, the back arches. Peeking forth, the rose blossoms. Petals unfolding. In full ripening. And there is nectar. Sweet nectar within.
She could not stop moaning. Her face, contorted in agony. Anguish. And tears rolled down. Tears rolled down. Moaning. Groaning. Soon. Very soon, she was crying. Great silent sobs of a body-shuddering kind. She hugged her knees in a tight fetal position and rocked herself back and forth. Tears rolled down. Tears rolled down.
It was raining outside.
I carried her to the bed where she curled up like a baby. I covered her with the blanket, sat down in that void of silence, and waited, until eventually she went deep, deep into a quiet quiet sleep.
*
Left her hostel room.
Drenched in the rain.
Took a cab back home.
Along the way, I reviewed the photos taken of her. The images were raw, and tender, and excruciating. And I deleted them one by one, such that, when I got out of the taxi:
I never saw her again in my life.
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