Tuesday, April 30

Mexican Thump

THE ARCHITECT IN charge of this thing preferred four sugars in his coffee. He wasn’t quite right, but he made a living and all of his peers thought – ‘He knows what he’s doing… Goddamnit, he’d better, he’s my son’s godfather!’ So he got along. He had very small eye-sockets and made a good choice of wife and never left a toilet seat up in his life. He was an ideal citizen. On Sundays he cleaned the car, taking careful care over the dirt that collected in the shapes of his tyres.
He made these hotel walls thin enough on that fateful day.
He was careless; he didn’t give a thought to such things; that day – the day when he was writing the specification for the hotel walls – he wanted to finish early because his wife had suggested a small picnic, after a messy argument the night before. He was very keen to make the picnic on time. Thoughts of the hotel walls were very low on his list of priorities; so he made a coffee with four sugars and set to work on the specification and, out of everything, the hotel walls suffered.
So, now, here I am.
She’s getting it against the wall. The way these rooms work is that the rooms mirror each other, so that my bed is against where their bed is, and, goodness, the beds are quite separate but, there is a god, so their sexual shudderings get back to me like playground rumours.
Thump.
I turn my music a little up a little down.
Thump thump.
She’s Mexican, naturally.
My imagination is a hero, so she’s Mexican. Mexican women have my heart. She’s Mexican. The dark meat that veins around her bones is thumped against my wall and shakes the whole damn building. She’s really getting it. She hasn’t had any children; her cunt is a labyrinth of purple tissue & labia delicacies.
I just lie there. I take it in. There is nothing else going on, so I put my hand on myself and feel her motions.
Thump.
I tighten my hand a little harder a little looser.
Thump thump.
I imagine that she’s Mexican, naturally, and coming down my nostrils so that her come sits in my sinuses for weeks and all I do is smell her when I’m waiting in the post office queue or brushing my teeth.
Now the thumping has stopped. She stands on the toilet and shouts through the hotel extracts ducts – ‘Come as if he were you.’
I probably will.
I’s not he, nor he’s I.
The thumps have stopped. I wish they’d start up again so I could paint the television set.

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