You never told me your name. You just surrounded me like a ghost and I wasn’t sure if your tongue in my mouth, in my ears, on my breasts was yours or mine. I couldn’t care less. What is it about you? Why not anyone else? Why not you? Damn, you looked like you’d be good in bed, oh you would last long in the sack, and your blue eyes had sparkled diabolically when you had whispered Duras inside me, like black air:
Deforme-moi jusqu’a la laideur.”
You know, before you went up to my room, passed with me the threshold of the door, took off my dress with roughness, threw me on the bed, where you fucked me with the ardor of a man who has not touched a woman for 10 years, I asked myself very metaphysical questions. And even while you were inside me, over and over again, you literally impaled me on this bed that lived a thousand lives, I was reflecting on something else: is there an archeology of the supernatural? Is it possible to find a trace of the passage, of the existence, of the action of things that are not human, which go beyond the thought of man, in the past?
My god, you fucked me so much that night that I was hot between the thighs. Your liquid flowed on the sheets and dripped on my buttocks and my navel. And I kept thinking: what could be these traces? The reflection of a ghost in the tarnishing of an ancient mirror? The imprint of a vampire sucking the blood of newborns in the mortar of a Roman wall? The trace of the fangs of a werewolf on Etruscan bones? What? Where ? How? All this must exist, no? The world would be so dull and empty if the supernatural was not. Without interest. Without taste.
You were still on me when I stopped to philosophize. And the more I looked at you, the more you looked like the Devil. As if the Devil had entered into me. As if the Devil had fucked me.
All the walls of the room were filled with the same Man Ray photograph: a woman sucking a cock, everywhere you look, the same image, fucking god, where was I, what is this madness, and why does the devil feel so good, so fucking good inside me, oh yes
The next morning, you and I drank some coffee – you were quick to finish yours, as usual, in one big gulp. Me, I take my time – I was reading De Sade’s 120 Days of Sodom kept in the drawer, the only book in the room. What is evil? Is this evil? Humanity couldn’t exist without it, after all, so where does one look for it? Is it hidden somewhere deep in the desert, or was it everywhere, easy to miss, like the many synchronicities of the world. I was still thinking about the metaphysics of it all when you came out of the shower and asked for more coffee. We had none left, not even instant.
That’s when you asked me if I hadn’t just finished mine. Yes, just a few minutes ago. Without thinking, you came in front of me, I was already naked, and started sucking and biting my neck, mmmm, until just a little blood came out.
“Drink your coffee before it coagulates.”
My blood had a taste of chocolate, you told me. Black. Papua New Guinea pepper, you know, that naturally has a little spicy taste. I just love it. You sucked me so much that I fainted, I think. Or it was of pleasure.
As I opened my eyes, lying on the ground, with my legs spread, a dried-up drop of blood glued to my neck, I saw as if in a kaleidoscope all those black and white mouths (and dicks), those half-open lips, even felt disgust, nausea, the urge to vomit. To vomit the devil who had fucked me like a bitch. Hopefully, by praying to another god, for I am not pregnant with you. But that’s what I dreamed of.
Are not you a nightmare? Was it you inside me? Or did I just suck my red Leica?
M & Mrs Hyde are the two tantric and trashy sides of a forgotten soul, with frequent Jungian mood, tiny red spot obsession, Bombay Sapphire passion, frequent insomnia, recurrent headaches, taste for Darjeeling, and fascination for words. Always travelling from East to West, and inversely.
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