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With the recent exception of Dutra, to this point my whole sexual history, which I flattered myself to consider quite epic, might have been represented on my tomb wall with a single hieroglyphic comprising the principal features of the Byronic type. All through college with instincts befitting a bloodhound I’d unearthed variations on this theme, boys with long hair and tormented, hooded eyes and a cramp in the wrist from the thick hardbound Collected Journals of Kierkegaard they insisted on carrying everywhere without the benefit of a backpack. They all tended to brood and weep thrillingly, they were as sexually suave as castrati, and they were perhaps all in love with one another, not me. But by some accident of my early environment I’d been raised on them, as a person might be raised on an unnourishing, bland home cuisine, and then want to eat nothing else. In Brodeur I’d recognized the paragon of my type. Yet at each visible point he so exceeded the prior examples, I suspected he might be a superior type altogether.
Though the wine was, perhaps, the best-quality wine I had ever yet tasted, so that I didn’t perceive it as “very good wine” but, as her body had been though with many times less potency, as some entirely new category of pleasure; and though the food, Friel’s pesto and all, dazzled me with its goodness and elegance, for I had never seen cheese that resembled quartz stone, nor a cookie from France with a boy’s figure so neatly stamped in the chocolate that each of his coat buttons showed, nor a silken pink meat that was not boiled ham from the deli; and though we ate mutely, like wolves, as the light died around us, restoking our bodies of all they had spent; in truth we were not really tasting the food or the wine, and our muteness was swollen with words.
She winced at my touch. “Engorged,” she murmured. “Ugh, you’re all wet. I’m sorry. Because the kid wouldn’t eat.” Although her voice was calm she twitched away sharply when I peeled back the drenched cloth from her breast. “No,” she said, but I’d already felt the breast’s hardness and heat, as if changed by infection.
“No!” she repeated, and now I felt what she must have, overpowering me at the start of our day, when she shuddered and capsized, emanating a guttural, helpless, admonishing moan as I sucked on the nipple until with a shocking mechanical suddenness, like a shower head being turned on, her hot milk filled my mouth. It queasily tasted of vegetation, and of her, but mostly and sickeningly of itself, but I was so hungry for the taste it obscured, of her flesh, that I gulped it down just to get past it, and past it, and past it, until her soft breast moved and squelched, deflated, underneath the harsh probes of my tongue, and she’d groaned in relief and then grabbed my head literally by the ears, and forced the other hard breast in my mouth.
“You sick thing,” she gasped when I was done.
“I love you,” I told her gravely, but she brushed this off, nimble and devilish again.
“No!” she repeated, and now I felt what she must have, overpowering me at the start of our day, when she shuddered and capsized, emanating a guttural, helpless, admonishing moan as I sucked on the nipple until with a shocking mechanical suddenness, like a shower head being turned on, her hot milk filled my mouth. It queasily tasted of vegetation, and of her, but mostly and sickeningly of itself, but I was so hungry for the taste it obscured, of her flesh, that I gulped it down just to get past it, and past it, and past it, until her soft breast moved and squelched, deflated, underneath the harsh probes of my tongue, and she’d groaned in relief and then grabbed my head literally by the ears, and forced the other hard breast in my mouth.
“You sick thing,” she gasped when I was done.
“I love you,” I told her gravely, but she brushed this off, nimble and devilish again.
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