*
We would never have met, if not for my advertisement here. And the number you left in my email box, no, we should never have met. Still I searched for you uneasily in the cafe. The place of our rendezvous.
Who are you? What are you? Why are you? Where are you?
You tapped my shoulder and you said: How are you?
It felt like a game, and yes, you did spot me first. There, I saw you smile.
Our chat was light. Like smoke over water. Moving about on the surface. Of a lake I could see nothing about. But I was willing to plunge blind into you. Into you. Even for free. Because you are so beautiful. So vulnerably beautiful.
Night fell with a quietness outside your house. A big bungalow. Plasma TV. Black leather sofa. Parquet flooring. Spotlights. Designer furniture. And your wedding photo on the wall. Gray and white.
You took out the money. You took off your ring. You took off your clothes. A naked body. Bruised. Battered. Lashed. You took out your husband's belt and placed it in my hand. Whip me, you said.
It was in tears and blood we had sex. I kissed you in all the places that hurt. The parts that I had whipped. The parts that had already been whipped. The wounds bleeding, the wounds bled and dried, the new wounds over the old, the scars reopened - I had my tongue over them all.
And I tasted your tears. Coming forth from the depth of a lake I still could not see. But I was willing to plunge blind into you. Even without the money you had placed on the bedside table. For you were so beautiful. So vulnerably beautiful. And each plunge I made, you said: it hurts less. it hurts less. But you cried more. There was the smoke floating over the water of your lake. I swam in it.
One night. Two nights. Three. Four five six. I thought you were merely drunk on the seventh. The bottles of whisky lying broken everywhere. There was blood on your bare body. And blood all over the bed. Under the bed. Around the bed. Your lopsided walk. The medicine box. Empty of all pills. Your drunken way of saying: it's over now. The way you spread your legs open. The way you curled your fingers. Come on, come on, come on...
I made love to you till your last breath expired. Till you lay dead. Unmoving. With a frozen smile on your face. The police told me that your husband was found under the bed. I was not sure if he heard your cries of desperate pleasure.
You left me your money. Your everything. You left me the stain that no soap, no detergent, no fucks can ever wash out. It just becomes a little fainter each time I'm rented out. Rented out. Rented out. Out. Out. Out. Sharing the pain.
My body and soul is for rent. For you. For your private use. What will you pay me?
