She was almost handsome, a jawline close to perfect it appeared round and squared at the same time; he was almost beautiful, a round face with high cheek bones, if only they had the perfect symmetry of an Egyptian Prince. It had crossed their minds that if they had a baby together, he or she would be the complete version of themselves--handsome, or beautiful, and not almost one or the other.
He loved her but didn't know it; she loved him, and they both felt it. But her love was seasonal, as she often slumped into bouts of melancholy, during which times she wanted nothing to do with him. She did not want to see his face, hear his voice, or even see his shadow. He, on the other hand, was impatient. A lot of times, when they conversed, she stuttered, trailing a thought then digressing just when he found the topic amusing. It made him angry, caused him to spiral into a kerfuffle.
"What the fuck is wrong with you? How can you start saying something then break along the line?" he would say.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," was always her reply.
She'd had few sexual encounters, and he'd had a dozen. He wanted her for comfort, for solace, the sex did not have to play an intricate role. But she was a sexual being, a Greek goddess, a beauty with dark kinky hair and fair legs. Whenever he dreamed of her, he imagined those legs, those open thighs which were a different shade from her face. He imagined parting them and thrusting deeply--in and out(quivering, sensuous, and rhythmic)--into her rosebud.
He liked being in control; other times preferred giving up control, and she knew this, he'd told her, so it was easy reversing their roles. Sometimes she sat and watched him play with himself while she was fully clothed. During these times he stood in the centre of the room, butt-naked, and she spanked his butt with a horsewhip and said, "Continue," every time he took his hands off his cucumber. There were days he came close to hitting her when she whipped him from behind, days he grabbed her by the neck and shoved her to the wall. It was almost as if a spirit had taken possession of his body. When he realised he had her up against the wall, he gently let go, bawling--they both did--and he said to her, always, "Why am I so
fucked up?" and she said, "Aren't we all?"
He loved watching her play with her freshwater pearls, how she licked them ball by ball and slid them between her swirling rosebud. Once he'd come close to slipping his fingers there, and she slapped them. "Nah-ah," she said. "You can watch, but don't touch."
On Sundays, they dressed in identical attires and went to church. There was always the sermon on adultery, fornication, masturbation, all of which they did but felt no guilt; for, through mutual consent, in time past, they had brought strangers into their beds and enjoyed every bit of it.
For them, sin was the equivalent of guilt, and because they felt no guilt, they didn't think their actions sinful.
Soon they started a cult. Every Saturday night held a dinner for friends and relatives. Then, as the months went by, they excluded family and left only friends. Friends kissed each other's wives and husbands, traded partners dancing in the largest room in their two storey mansion. Once they invited their pastor over. He thought he'd come for an innocent dinner but, as the night grew dimmer by the hour, she made to take his cloak off, and, as if hypnotised, he let her. She kissed him while he sat on the table before other strangers, and he kissed him, too.
Dead-quiet, pin-dropping silence, they and all the visitors waited to see his reaction and, he kissed back.
Every Sunday afterwards, on the pulpit, he spoke about love(Eros as he called it) as that which is mystical, unexplainable and can only, actually, be felt with the third eye and not the heart.
Now, every night, when he, the pastor, sleeps, his soul leaves his body, transforming into a leather belt and lashing through the darkness to their mansion, where they all--in spirit--make love, love never experienced in history. It is the afterlife. And here, no faces--beautiful or handsome--exist, just living objects contorting into one another, stealing each other's soul, and gliding to the rhythm of the dark.
Me.
