Fools for Lust (13 page)

She sighed.

‘Do it now, then.'

But I knew I couldn't shoot her. Not like this. Not after seeing the wonder and questions of her nude body, feeling the tremor of life and softness coursing through her skin, the unknown history buried inside her soft Southern voice.

If I shot her, it would be showing her total disrespect, assimilating her to that piece of shit now dripping dark blood over there by the door on the hotel room flooring.

She deserved better.

I nodded to her, indicating the window that opened on South Figueroa Boulevard. Her eyes questioned me silently. I blinked once and she understood.

The flight of her naked body through the air was not unlike the dance of a butterfly in the summer breeze, weightless and beautiful, as she swam towards the ground in slow motion, fluttering her invisible wings, the bruises like a kaleidoscope of colours inked across her white skin, floating, smiling.

I looked away before she hit the ground.

I am waiting for the long Californian night to end so I can catch the first flight back, wasting the remaining hours of darkness in an almost empty bar called Phillies. The couple across from me are still communicating in total silence.

Not long to go.

I have a bit of a cramp, a muscle giving me grief in my right shoulder, maybe caused by the recoil of the gun earlier. I must be getting older, no longer absorbing the reverse shock wave in my gun arm. I shift imperceptibly in the high stall and, across my shoulder, I see a man outside in the street sketching on a pad. For him, I suppose, we must be in an eerie pool of light and an image worth remembering, just anonymous shapes in a composition of light and darkness. He is quite tall and balding, an imposing Patrician man.

As I turn around a bit more to look in his eyes, the artist draws a final line on his pad and, satisfied, closes it and begins to walk away, almost immediately melting into the night's surroundings.

I adjust my position, take another sip from my glass of coke.

Edward Hopper was smiling.

It never was better than the first time. Later occasions might prove more sensual, longer, more kinky or perverse, more skilful or lasting, technically outstanding or just proficient, but it just wasn't the same.

And every first time in initially unknown hotel rooms was the best of all.

Years later, when the thrill of the chase had faded, or when he just couldn't find the mental energy within his soul to embark on yet another transitory relationship that could only tread a road to nowhere, he would swim willingly back through the reef of memories and vicariously treat himself to a sensurround movie of past, long gone moments, secure in the knowledge that those times would never be his again to taste, enjoy, experience, struggle with, all those first times. It would be like a private library, a unique collection where sensual, tender memories would rival the space customarily devoted by the collector within to books, CDs and DVDs. A scintillating gallery of moments, of mental impressionism.

A hotel room near an airport where no one was likely to recognise them, the smell of ozone in the air and the distant rumbling of jumbo jets on their approach or departure: that indefinable feeling of burning up inside because the lust is just accumulating at a rate too fast for the heart to burn it off like mere calories, the nagging fear of the unknown, the unusual surroundings of the leisure chain's identikit room. This is what they have been building up for three agonising months of on/off/on/off/on debates in city bars, ‘Do we sleep together or don't we?'

A tentative kiss. Her mouth is warm and soft. As ever. The look in her eyes. Pleading. Scared. Eager. Submissive. Defiant. They both have wife and husband back home, in ignorance. Their first infidelity. Adultery set loose that would change their lives for ever.

His hand, finally, moving to her body, the pliant elasticity of her thigh. The undressing. The foreplay and, like a holy proclamation half an hour later, her cry of need: ‘I want you inside me now ...' The first time he fucked Kate. The way her brown eyes watched his every movement and thrust inside her. Her sounds. The white alabaster landscape of her body and the scarlet tinge of the orgasmic flush that sometimes overcame her shoulders and chest. Memories that can never be erased.

Then, a hotel in Amsterdam, overlooking a grey canal and parked bicycles. The awkward and slow rise of the elevator up to his floor, following their furtive, eyes down turned, passage by the night porter's desk and an endless walk through the red-light district, both knowing that they are going to end up in bed, but delaying the inevitable on and on. The frantic fumbling for each other's lips and hands roaming freely over willing bodies, the tugging of clothes. He gets on his knees and slowly, in the semi-darkness, pulls her panties down. Her pubic hair is all curls and slightly damp. He sniffs, but all he can smell is the remote fragrance of soap. He inserts a finger inside her cauldron. She is on fire. She moans. He quickly pushes her back against the bed and she allows herself to collapse with languor over the drawn bedcover. He is hard as hell and almost bursting with a rage to tear her apart, this soft-spoken girl with the lovely accent and her tales of past woe and problems. She is already so wet. He remembers a past conversation and guides her around on to her knees, her stated preference to be taken doggy style. She angles her rump towards him. The view of her exposed openings is like a salutary slap in the face, unforgettable, powerful, indelibly obscene. He moves into her in one swift movement, all the while storing the memory in the safety of his grey matter.

Or, again, this time a hotel in Paris, with exposed wooden beams crisscrossing the ceiling and far wall. He has barely known her a month or so and their first meeting in the flesh, so to speak, was at the railway station just an hour ago. Their only contact prior to today was by email or telephone. It's a crazy situation, but it somehow makes complete sense. She was so much taller than he had expected but her breasts are a wonder to behold. Fingers, lips and feelings have already played a mad dance of lust and their clothes are in disarray. ‘Wait,' she says and rises, divine areas of flesh exposed, and tiptoes quickly to the bathroom.

A few minutes later, she returns. She is quite naked. He holds his breath back as he stares at the smooth, shaven area of her cunt. Of course, he already knew, not only had she told him but his exploratory fingers some minutes ago had certainly double-checked, but the vision is just too much. He feels as if his heart has stopped. She signals for him to lie down and her mouth envelops him. He has to think of books and such to avoid coming inside her throat prematurely. Shortly after, she confesses she loves him. Lust and feelings, an unholy mix, just like romanticism and pornography.

The safety of unknown hotel rooms, as anonymous as internet forums or chatlines. The cosy coexistence of unbridled sexual excess and mundanity. The rooms, the women, the acts.

They say that, at the moment of death, your whole past parades in front of your eyes, like a film on a loop, fast, out of control, out of reach.

He sometimes wonders whether, when the moment finally comes, his own epiphany will be full of hotel room horizons and beautiful fucks.

He hopes it will.

1- She sends me a photograph in the mail.

Together with her book.

A collection of her short stories.

Published in Florence.

Her bare back on Kodak glossy art paper.

A yellow glow illuminates her skin, her hair, a darker shade of blonde breaking across the top of her shoulders like a wave on an unknown shore. I think she is looking out of a window. That's where the light is coming from.

Right now, I desire her. Intensely.

I have unreasonable appetites. I languish for the past and all those women, luminous, wonderfully obscene, distant and no longer available, impossible. I dream at night of their vanishing embraces, my heart beats a melancholy rhythm for them all, sad in the knowledge none will ever be part of my life again. So instead, greedy for more than just memories I daydream of the future, of the roads still to be taken, of the life still to be loved.

Who cares about the present?

It's too ordinary, so much less glamorous than the republic of dreams.

2- She is blonde and a frequent night bird at the Caffe Cavour. Here she whiles away the hours of southern night discussing The Clash, punk attitudes, the many shades of noir and drinking Russian vodka and local wine. The debates can sometimes be fierce and there are times when the barman thinks tempers are heating up just that little bit too much and is just a word away from demanding silence. But somehow they sense his irritation and the flow of words abates naturally, and they move on to another subject to ping pong between their fevered minds, whether Chet Baker's
Almost Blue
is better than Elvis Costello's or even Italian crime writer Carlo Lucarelli's novel partly inspired by the song. She mostly wears black, a short dress that reaches to her knees or black jeans that mould her delicate rear. Her photograph gives no indication of her height, but I guess she isn't specially tall. Call it intuition. Her nose is sharp, angular.

3- Her ex (they lived together five years) is an actor and travels all over Italy for his work. She pines for him. Badly. Which is possibly why she recognises the same notes of pain in my stories and identifies with the profound sense of yearning I just can't ever shake off, hard as I try. What is this: a mirror image of me? Hell, I'm no blonde; my hair has almost turned grey since she-who-must-not-be-mentioned-any-more, even. But it's like a hesitation waltz of the damaged as we exchange emails, letters, books, song lyrics and music in quick succession after our initial contact. I follow her online diary, her blog, like a furtive spy, gleaning information, hints, ideas. For what purpose really? Maybe the fascination and the implied unknown promises of the unknown.

I wonder what I should do next.

Should I ask her for her telephone number? If the answer is yes, go to paragraph 5. If the answer is no, go to paragraph 4.

4- We keep on corresponding in a friendly manner, one writer to another, endlessly moaning about the pain every word drains in its wake, as you seek to find the right one to express emotion, feeling, reality. It never gets easier even with thousands of pages or more to your credit. You'd think it would, wouldn't you? But she lives much too far and anyway, reading between the lines of her online diary, she now appears to be living with another man, so any progress down this particular road is fraught with problems, effort, dangers. Oh, the sheer futility of it all ...

So I fly to New York and meet up with the Swiss-Spanish academic who believes in the Kabbalah and astrological signs. Her hair falls down over her shoulders and her breasts are heavy and heavenly. Her skin smells of strawberries and she closes her eyes when we make love. Pretending I am another? Two can play that game ...

The sex is wet, but hollow and by the moment I come I already know there will not be a second time with Pilar, whatever her own feelings and desires. She is not what I ultimately seek. But then I don't even know myself what I am questing for, do I?

I return to London. Autumn is flaring and the cold chills my bones so accustomed to the extended heat of the past summer. An editor in New Orleans is asking me for a new short story. About an erotic woman. I am lost for words, for inspiration. Isn't every single woman erotic? Am I really a man with no discrimination?

I write a vignette which is also a fantasy about the blonde sitting at the Caffe Cavour.

Do I send the blonde a copy of the story? If the answer is yes, go to paragraph 6. If the answer is no, go to paragraph 8.

5- Her voice is like a song. With an Italian accent of course. But a song with strong undercurrents of melancholy. Damaged people, those of us who have been through the heart wars, uncannily recognise each other. She tells me all about the sea coast outside the town where she lives and has grown up. Her tone reduces to a whisper when she describes the man she lived with for so long and whose intensity could not just match hers, and in a forlorn attempt to console her I lapse into the most abominable clichés of empathy.

I tell her about my own travels and evoke the rain falling on Canal Street and the way the pavement is dry within five minutes due to the tropical atmosphere. I talk of Greenwich Village and the mad way I, on trips to Manhattan, organise my film viewing like a military exercise to maximise the number of movies I can fit into the visit while wasting as little time as possible between performances and theatres.

She laughs.

Does the blonde respond to him? If the answer is yes, go to paragraph 7. If the answer is no, go to paragraph 4.

6- Her acknowledgement of my story is days in coming, during which time I log on twice an hour to check my emails, anxious for her reaction. I also shamelessly spy on her diary but there is no reference to me or her mood, just erotic thoughts on the vampire myth or music she has been listening to. My knowledge of Italian rock music is poor.

Finally, she responds. Her attitude is cool and remote. I realise I have moved too fast, betrayed her confidence. She doesn't say so but I can interpret her silences. From someone she once admired from afar, I have just become yet another cyber stalker. I have cannibalised her life without her express approval.

Our communications slow down and, one day, just stop. Just another missed connection.

I move on to my next fantasy.

7- She suggests we maybe should meet, somewhere, one day.

Now the complications begin.

Should it be Paris or maybe Vancouver? We must find neutral ground.

For wish fulfilment go to paragraph 9.

8- I am a coward and I shelve the story. Write another one which has unbearably descriptive sex scenes, guns, drugs and rock 'n' roll and in which every female character is a brunette and has a heart of ice. The protagonists race across the world from American highways to late-night bars near the Sicilian coast and leave a path of bloody destruction in their wake. The story is full of sound and fury but of course means nothing. It is a pure work of my imagination at its most commonplace and clichéd. The principal heroine is eroticism incarnate, with porcelain skin, lips that are made for kissing and sports the obligatory shaven pudenda, and her shapely arse as observed from the rear evokes nothing less than Nicole Kidman's in the opening sequence of
Eyes Wide Shut
. But despite those inherent attractions, it is a tired story and I know it. Crime and sensuality by numbers.

9- As ever, it's a hotel room, stuffy and overheated when they arrive and before he switches one of the radiators off.

He craves the feel of his fingers caressing her pale shoulders, the sensation of his fingers combing through her short blonde hair as a pockmarked moon ascends into the sky outside the window.

This is a moment like no other.

Decisions have been taken. Both parties have resolved to go through with this. But he doesn't want it to ever end. Sure, he wants to undress her with all the agonizing slowness he can conjure up until she is finally fully nude, innocent, helpless, arrogant, so totally exposed to his prying gaze. But what of the smell of her body, the fragrance of her fear, her sweat? He cannot know them.

Will her breath still carry the combined echoes of stale cigarettes and vodka? Will her skin remind him of rough silk? What of her breasts (B cup, he estimates), what of her cunt?

Will she ever be a vulnerable body in an anonymous hotel room in another city, another land, another time and life?

Every road in his past has been leading him here, every junction and side road ignored, like abandoned branches on a tree with a million ramifications. The worlds of what-if magnified to the nth power.

As much as he tries to imagine the moment, he just cannot guess what her first words will be, how she will sigh and moan when he touches her. She is just another blonde in a universe of women he cannot know, and he sadly realises the sheer obscenity of his imagination as it illegally brought her to this room in this city and land. Shame on me, he thinks.

He closes his eyes and keeps on typing, ever a slave to the tyranny of words.

10- The blonde turns her gaze away from her laptop screen. She sighs. For a moment, she is still entrapped in the story she is writing. She is still, flesh and blood, the incarnation both her female characters in their doomed odyssey. She looks up to the window. A moonless night. She feels like a beer. But she would rather go out and have it at a nearby bar. And maybe a Chinese meal. That would be a treat.

Her life, she senses, is at a crossroad.

Somehow her mind keeps going back to that book she read the other week, about the landscape after the battle, the life one is left with after the emotions have taken their bloody toll. She wonders about the character. She just knows the English writer had based her on a real person. It was unmistakable.

She goes online and calls up a search engine and enters his name.

There: an email address.

Maybe she should write and ask him what happened to the woman in question?

She smiles. No, why would he respond?

What the hell, she goes on typing, the beer and the Chinese meal can surely wait.