A Cup of Rage (2016)
“A Cup of Rage In Bed For a few moments in the room we seemed to be two strangers observed by somebody, and that somebody was always her and me, the two had to watch what I was doing and not what she was doing, so I sat on the edge of the bed and calmly started taking off my shoes and socks, holding my bare feet in my hands and feeling how lovely and moist they were, as if pulled out of the earth that very minute, and then I, with fixed purpose, started to walk around, feigning little reasons fo...r my movements, letting the hems of my trouser-legs brush the floor, at the same time as they partially covered my feet, lending them mystery, knowing that they, bare and very white, powerfully embodied my coming nakedness, and soon I heard her breathing in deeply, over by the chair, where she had perhaps already given in to her desperation, struggling to take off her clothes, getting her fingers caught in the strap slipping down her arm, and I, still faking, knew that all of that was real, oh how I knew her nightmarish obsession for feet, and for my feet in particular, their firm step and well-shaped form, a little bony around the toes perhaps and nervously marked with veins and tendons on the instep, though they hadn’t lost the shy manner of a tender root, and I went to and fro with my calculated steps, lengthening the wait more and more with minimal pretexts, but as soon as she left the room and went briefly to the bathroom, I quickly took off my trousers and shirt and throwing myself onto the bed, I waited for her, stiff and ready, enjoying in silence the cotton of the sheet that covered me, and right then I closed my eyes thinking of the stratagems I would use (of all the many I knew), and in this way I went over alone in my head the things that we did, how she quivered at the first twitches of my mouth and at the shine I forged in my eyes, where I brought into plain view what was most vile and sordid in me, knowing that carried away by my other side she would always shout ‘so this is the bastard I love’, and I went over in my head that other trifling move in our game, a preamble nonetheless to unexpected later twists and turns, just as necessary a start as pushing a simple pawn up the board, in which I closed my hand over hers and straightened out her fingers, instilling courage in them, guiding them under my control to the hair on my chest, until they, from the example of my fingers under the sheet, developed their own masterful clandestine activities, or at a more advanced stage, after having carefully pored over our hairs, swellings and many smells, when the two of us on our knees measured the longest path for a single kiss, the palms of our hands pressed together, our arms open in an almost Christian exercise, our teeth biting each other’s mouths as if biting into the soft flesh of the heart, our eyes closed and our imaginations surrendered to the curves of our circlings, I also saw myself involved in certain practices, such as when, in a trance and already haughtily raised above the saddle of her stomach, I would prematurely fulfil one of her (of my) strangest whims, shooting sudden violent jets of milky birdlime which stuck to the skin of her face and the skin of her breasts, or such as that other, less impulsive one, slower to ripen, its fruit developing in a silent and patient crescendo of firm contractions, in which, me inside her, without our moving, with exasperated cries we reached those death-rattles of the height of exaltation, and I thought about the dangerous backwards leap, when she on her stomach would generously offer me another pasture, and in which my arms and hands symmetrically and almost mechanically gripped her below the shoulders, pressing and adjusting, part by part, our anointed bodies, and all the time I was thinking of my hands, and the broad backs of them, they were much used in this passionate geometry, so well devised by me, and which invariably led her to say in her perdition ‘magnificent, magnificent, you’re something else’, and from there my thoughts drifted to the restorative moments, the cigarettes we smoked following each poisoned bubble of silence, or during our conversations over a cup of coffee from the thermos (we would escape from bed naked and desecrate the kitchen table), when she would try to describe to me the confused experience she had when she came, always mentioning my confidence and boldness as I conducted the ritual, scarcely hiding her surprise at how I would repeatedly enlist God’s name in my obscenities, telling me above all how much I had taught her, especially about an awareness of the act through our eyes that often followed, stone by stone, each stretch of a convulsing road, and that was when I would mention her intelligence, which I always praised as the best thing about her in bed, an agile and active intelligence (even if only when I pricked her on), exceptionally open to all incursions, and that would lead to me talking about myself too, fascinating her with the intentional (and not so intentional) contradictions in my character, teaching her among other lies that I, the bastard, was pure and chaste, and, there with my eyes closed all this time, I was still thinking about many other things while she was out of the room, since the imagination is very quick, or its time is different, and it uses and simultaneously confuses separate and unexpected things, when I discerned her footsteps returning in the hall and only had time to open my eyes and check that my feet were positioned correctly, poking out of the bottom of the sheet, noticing as so many times before that the brown hairs that sprouted on my instep and longer toes gave them both grace and gravitas, but I made sure I quickly closed my eyes again, feeling that she was about to enter the room, and already sensing her fervent form nearby, and knowing how things would start, which is: she would softly, ever so softly, come up to my feet, which she had once compared to two white lilies.MoreLess
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