Wednesday, December 14, 2011

It was only natural to laugh.

I remember it very clearly. It was midnight and I was on something; it kept the dull buzzing down and replaced it with a stillness, like wood. Through this, I could hear the soft rustle of the rain, gentle and persistent against the walls and the roof and the ground outside.

I kept the door unlocked those days, for visitors. They would have been welcome regardless, but it was only polite. So the water pooled into the house, slowly, as the doorframe caught the drops at a certain slant of the wind.

At the end of the trail of rain and lightning, your shadow was stooped in the dimness of the corridor. You were drying off your feet. I didn't get to see your face, not again, but the slope of your shoulders and the arch of your back let me know that your eyes were the colour of tea. So they were, and it was only natural that you wore nothing.

"How is the weather?" I said loudly. You made conversation. Of course, it was wet. And it had been a long journey here, so long, the route winding and mazelike, the kinks turning to dead ends. The road twists and turns, you see.

"There's hot water in the geyser, if you want."

I watched, fumbling with my nightshirt, as you picked up your towel from the rail and traipsed to the bathroom. As the steam seeped from the open door, it carried with it the smell of that dust-scented shampoo I was so fond of. Dust-scented shampoo, and soap flavoured in soil. When did I buy it? I must have gotten it because I liked it.

I went into the kitchen, brushing the cobwebs from the table with my hand. There were still five beers left from the six-pack in the crisper, and I brought two out, uncapping them against the counter edge. When you came to join me, I had already finished half of my beer. You thanked me, and we sat in the greyness, with the moulding table between us, your hair weighed by your shower and dripping into your drink.

"I thought I'd try a microbrew," I said. You told me that it tasted like sand, which I disagreed with, but the beer was definitely bitter. It stained the lips. You told me about that time we went to the fair together, the funny story about the draught and the beer tent and the ambulance. It was the first time I heard that one. It was only natural to laugh.

After a while, I noticed that you had turned your head towards the kitchen entrance. I thought you were getting ready to leave, and reached a hand out to your silhouette.

"It's too windy. Will you stay a while?"

You wanted to know if I was going to finish my drink before we left the kitchen. I shook my head.

"It's not a good idea for me to have more. I shouldn't even be drinking."

So we went to my room, where the bed was made. You on the left and me on the right, as it was. I turned so I was facing your curled body. Closer to you, the pillow was already wet, and the low buzzing returned and became louder. Sometime then, it became very loud, because I could see it clearly, even with my eyes closed.

In the morning, I took the two empty beer bottles outside, and set them on the ground next to my doormat, next to the other one. The rain had stopped, and the rising sun lit the flat plain with the pink light of the dawn. I had stood there for a while, hoping you'd get home safely, as there were no footpaths.

But of course you had. You had come at midnight.

I had woken to an empty bed. You must have made your side before you left. The pillow on your side was still damp, and smelled faintly of dust.

You passed away two years ago. I know, because you told me.

South Africa and the 2010 Soccer World Cup

"I knew you were something special from the moment I set eyes on you."

South Africa blushed, and felt the summer heat rise in his cheeks as he looked up at the 2010 Soccer World Cup straddling his hips. The clocked ticked December and his growing excitement throbbed, anxious for the Soccer World Cup's touch. The Soccer World Cup smirked, and reached forward to unzip South Africa's jeans, fingers brushing lightly over the neatly-trimmed fynbos shrubbery of South Africa's southern regions.

South Africa's breathing quickened. "Soccer World Cup...please..."

Soccer World Cup pulled off South Africa's trousers and leaned down, brushing his lips over South Africa's in a light, teasing kiss. South Africa moaned and kissed back, embracing the Soccer World Cup fully as he writhed in drunk anticipation underneath the sporting championship.

"You know what I like about countries like you," said the Soccer World Cup devilishly, as he kissed down South Africa's neck, "is that you virgins are always so fucking eager..."

"I - I was molested by the Dutch and the English when I was a child," gasped South Africa, barely able to keep his thoughts together as the Soccer World Cup's hot mouth grazed his overwhelmingly sensitive ecosystem, lingering over his delicate flora and fauna.

"Doesn't matter," said the Soccer World Cup, and he disrobed, revealing the massive economic promise that until then had been hidden inside his pants. He flung his clothes aside with a flourish. "You developing countries are all the same. Always dreaming, always craving, always hungering for thick, hard financial gain, with no regard for the consequences..." He bent over South Africa again, resuming his actions on South Africa's attractive geography.

"God, you're so beautiful," he breathed, leaving his carbon footprint on South Africa's natural environment as he trailed lower and lower, until he finally reached South Africa's stiff public sector. He wrapped his fingers around the shaft and flicked the tip of his wet tongue across its swollen head, swirling it around the tip as he took it into his mouth. South Africa moaned and arched his back, longing for more of the Soccer World Cup's ministrations.

The Soccer World Cup grinned at South Africa's reaction and bobbed his head slightly, letting his lips slide down just enough to cover the top before sliding them up again with gentle suction. South Africa groaned and panted at the teasing gesture, before the Soccer World Cup's mouth left his hard public sector, leaving a string of saliva trailing to its tip.

"2010 Soccer World Cup!" South Africa let out a strangled yell, wanting more - but the Soccer World Cup had other plans.

"A - ah!" South Africa cried out in pleasure as the Soccer World Cup took him deep in his throat and slipped a finger into his private sector, his other hand reaching to pump his shaft to the rhythm of his oral assault.

Time passed as the clock ticked to June. South Africa panted heavily, desperate for release as the Soccer World Cup stimulated his public and private sectors with the skill of one experienced in his years.

Suddenly, the Soccer World Cup stopped. South Africa nearly cried in desperation, before he felt something big pushing against the entrance of his private sector.

"You want it," the Soccer World Cup's voice sounded, and the country looked up at him, upright in all his glory. "You want this, don't you?"

"Please," moaned South Africa feverishly, "Please give it to me. I'm ready. My people are ready. My road infrastructure - "

The Soccer World Cup cut him off. "If you want it," he said with an evil grin, "beg for it..."

"Please." South Africa was on the verge of tears with wanting. "Please, Soccer World Cup...I want to feel your massive profits inside me. I want your long, thick investor's confidence to stimulate me...please..."

The Soccer World Cup laughed, and plunged into South Africa suddenly. South Africa gasped at the pain, unprepared for the foreign intrusion, as the Soccer World Cup fucked him, bringing in a new wave of tourists with every thrust.

South Africa screamed as the Soccer World Cup held him down and ravished his susceptible infrastructure, violating him in a mix of pain and pleasure.

"God," panted the Soccer World Cup, unrelenting, "So close - "

And with a shout, the Soccer World Cup came, flooding South Africa's insides with soccer players as he pulsed inside him. He withdrew himself roughly, and got off the bed.

"Serves you right, you whore."

South Africa lay there, weak with economic downturn as the soccer players dripped out from inside him, and watched the Soccer World Cup leave his apartment, never to return again.


"I don't know any others, apart from this one."

Our legs are almost touching. Leaves, pavement, leaves. You're wearing that blue parka again, and today it is as crisp as the ripples of air between my fingers.

I asked if you knew mine. I did not expect that you would be as short with me as you were then, and your words struck me with their dispassion.

"I said already. I don't know any others, apart from this one."

So not even me. That was strange, because I knew what your hands were doing in your pockets. You were winding the loose threads around your fingers and breaking them with the force of your tugging. Slowly. I wondered if you noticed it too, that you would do this when you were irritated.

You do it often.

So I followed your eyes, onto the grey pavement. I wondered what you were thinking. I wondered if you were thinking at all. I smiled a little and tried to be wry. It was working, and now your eyes were narrowed as you faced me, your stare as hard as your words.

"If I closed my eyes, if I walked away, if I unsaw you, what would be the difference?"

For the first time, I was at a loss, and against the dead-end of your question all I could think of was how your hands were writhing, snapping those threads. Even without seeing them, I knew how they were moving; your palms folded and your fingers tense with urgency. If there was none, I thought that it was odd that you took my silence for agreement.

Cross, uncross, after which your feet were pointing to mine. You had an interesting way of sitting. On this bench, in this cold, your neck and your shoulders sloped gently to meet with the curvature of your spine. I looked up, across the road, and made a remark about the trees. You agreed, and we talked at length about them. You had a nice smile, and spoke with your hands. You liked trees. You were fascinated with their self-similarity.


"You're shivering. Why don't you go home?"

Perhaps I should have, but I shook my head.

"Well, I'm going to go. Maybe if I'm alone, I can stop pretending."


"That I'm not."

I opened my mouth a moment before you got up from the bench, so that I was balking at your legs, face-to-face with your knees.

"Maybe I'll see you around."

In that sudden rush of air as you straightened, I lost what I meant to say. I looked up at your retreating back, trying to remember, until you disappeared.

You avoided my eyes as you turned to leave, so I could only look at my palms and tell them that they were everything to me.