The young man slips the dressing-gown off Gerti's shoulder. The woman cannot come to terms, she squirms, she worms about on her seat as if she needed more space. Tenderly though her inmost self is calling from her cleavage, it wants to stay in, where it is,, and maybe take a stroll out where the trees are (what else). Gerti has barely escaped the safety belt of her house but this young man of law wants to grope in her glove box. To think how many cavities there are in a healthy body! And, heavens, in an unhealthy one! The woman bares her soul and her bosom with words. And the student will get his chance to pinion her with opinions and shove his love into her. At last, Michael has stopped his car at an enclosure where you can feed the game. She's game. The powers that be and their forestry workers like to lay out these enclosures, each a manmade paradise where Nature, clumsy, all thumbs, can enter in. And women are promised paradise if only they will create it on this earth for their husbands and children and season it properly. And the seasons go by without a moment's respite, to torment them.
From the woman, hopes the young man, a stream of longing and desire will flow. Lying contentedly on his stomach, he pokes the ants out of their hill with his stick. The tiny creatures are fast, they're coaxed out and scatter in every direction. They're hard to catch, but at times they come of their own accord, like dreams. Then you can add an extra load, even your big log. Bodies have to be kept alight. We use everything we've got to make sure they are. Just to keep our members atremble and our genitals at-it-againital. We can't let it be, we always have to be setting fire to things with our lighter. Trunks that used to seem safe have to be felled too, purely so that we can spread our arms open wide and cook and gobble life again, which we have been given as a gift in any case. And the dribs and drabs of women's lives, the rivulets that presently run dry, are always looking for some other torrent, as mighty as can be, to flow along in. Signals of love, a whole corps of them, flags run up poles. And troughs where animals dip their tongues or are done out of their own fluids by electrical gadgetry.
The stuff that Gerti's dreams are made on is torn from her shoulders and crumpled on the floor. She spills out her ruined life over this Son of Man, who only wants to feel her up and fill her up as fast as he can. Stubbornly she stays stuck in the nest of light the car provides. And tries to stand up again. Hop off into the life she's just come in from. On the roof that affords shelter for their bodies, skis are securely strapped in place on a rack. And she is insecurely on a rack. Here they are, two lovers, together, forever ready and willing to take a tumble off the ladder of emotion if something in their partner's beatific eyes isn't what they ordered off the menu. In a while they'll be getting better acquainted. And they'll be better at balancing platefuls of fate.
In the car it is so pleasantly warm that the blood shimmers in their bodies. By now, Nature is a gaping emptiness. In the distance, no children are screaming to their hearts' content. Right now they are screaming to their hearts' discontent in the punitive rooms of cottages where the hail of their fathers falls suddenly upon them. It's dark early and the women get their husband's full pay packet in their hands, here, cOp a hold of this. Outside, your breath freezes on your chin. This mother is already being sought by her nearest and f earest. Her Almighty, the mill Direktor, that horse of immense physique, still steaming with roast, wants to wrap his arms and legs about her. Peel her fruit impatiently. Lick the juice. Before he rams his ever-ready in. His battering ram. Salt and battery, very tasty, the woman's good enough to eat. He could go for her lower half, he'd wolf her down, still steaming, with some of his own sauce to taste. Between his thighs his member waits, not stupid, this one. His bag hangs heavy, not long and he'll be unloading into her bowed head. One woman may even be enough for the Man, tumescent though he be with greed. He wants to go knocking his giblets at her nether regions to see if anyone's home. Reluctantly her lips will part, they definitely will part, and he'll compare them with other similar lips he knew once upon a time. In any case, this man prefers oral and anal sex. What can you do but cool off, remove your cap, shake out your locks, and dive in cheerfully? No one goes astray. And there are no dying echoes.
The Direktor's wife is envied by most other women in these parts, heavy-hipped women with great pelvic basins into which their menfolk, feet in hot water, open their veins and sluices. These hefty mares have only one way of becoming the chosen ones: they can cook up a home from garbage and rubble. Their figs grow out into the yard, but their menfolk like to go watering other furrows. And the women stay at home and wait for the magazines to show them how good they have it. Snug and dry in the disposable diapers of their wretched housework. But ah, what happiness – their kindly riders so like to get astraddle their saddles!
8
IN ALL SERIOUSNESS I call upon you: air and lust for one and all!
The woman will be with you in a moment, can you hold? First she has to collect herself: for a kiss it'd be best to be collected, all five senses, collect the set. The student is well developed, a perfect picture of a man, no need for touching up, so she lets him touch her up. He places his arm between her thighs. With his eye on the way ahead and the main chance, he rummages under her clothes, which consist chiefly of a plain dressing-gown, which won't be in the way for long. Many have to take terrible buses and regret it terribly when they remain on the wrong genitals for too long. The owner, or rather the passenger of his three-in-one wishes, grows too used to us and won't let us out of his ground-level hospitable apartment. Let me explain that three-in-one: Woman is a trinity of pleasures, to be grabbed up top, down below, or in the middle! Till at length they can move on to various amiable kinds of sport, possessing each other without understanding. Bawling and brawling. The woman is eager for the driver to drive her around a little, step on it.
It can't simply be because the toilet's in the corridor that we feel impelled to go out at night and, in front of the door, look slyly around to see if anyone's watching as we stand there with our hands to our sex, as if we might be due to lose it before we can place it in its hand-painted chipboard box.
Of the many kinds of accommodation he might choose, the young man opts for this one alone. But the closet won't keep still, no, it's even hurrying off ahead in the dark and the cold! This Gerti beats him to the enclosure. Many a one has talked of kissing here. Spread their torchlight wide. And cast great shadows on the walls, so that for one other person they will be greater than just anyone, just anyone on a ski lift. As if sheer carnal desire could make them greater, bigger! As if they could draw themselves up so erect that they'd slam the ball straight in the basket! Players can be mighty fine specimens, tall and erect, and there they stand before their partners, fully equipped, with all the necessary tackle. So many requirements, all of them pressing, pressed into the service of hygiene and filth alike, simply to possess each other. As the phrase inaptly goes. This dusty junk shop's where we end up. Two household objects. Of simple geometrical design. Wanting to fit together and be good as new again! Now! Suddenly there's a woman in combinations in the corridor, a jug of water in her hand; has she been casting spells, calling forth a storm, or is she only going to make some tea? In no time at all a woman can make a home of the plainest, barest, most spartan of places. That is to say, even the plainest of women can make a man feel at home by baring all, in no time he places his spar. This young man who has entered her life might be the great intellectual? Now everything will be different from how it was planned. We'll make a new plan on the spot. Our heads will swell good and proper. Oh, your boy plays the violin as well? But not at this very moment, surely, since no one's punching his start button.