After his third set, breathing hard, the tendons at his elbows mildly sore, he paced for a couple of minutes, stopped and looked at the high ceiling. He noticed for the first time the sound of violins then a voice, a gorgeous contralto, whatshername, damn why can’t I remember, he winces with effort, aahaah Toni, Toni. Must have left the music on again. The reverent strains of Ombra Mai Fu wafted through the room. His feet left the floor with the first expansion and the next thing he knew he was a feather gliding mindlessly, without purpose, arms at his side visiting the spare chandaliere the thin cracks in the ceilingpaint, turning onto his back toes pointed like a dreamy ballerina through wafts of chords sometimes unstable but in Handel’s hands always justified, it was always like this, first one thing then another, or rather one thing and then the other, the airiness of just being one minute the weight of living the next, a fancy pirouette and then the clumsy trip and fall, the clunking into a wall, the wailing and the horselaugh, the clouds and the blinding sunshine. Ah yes, plenty of all those contradictions, plenty of them. They fill your cup, occupy the hours the days the years. One after the other. And always in a moment’s shiver POOF — gone. On to the next thing. But now it’s the largo, and oh that first retrograde, it got him every time, and that contralto, whatsisname, whatsisname, you’d think for certain it was a woman, that first long note, you could ride it like a young thoroughbred from here to . . . wherever and back, like a slipstream, ah there’s a nice word, but shut up and listen. And then it was over, replaced by another aria on a CD full of them.
She always like to suck my toes better than my cock he thought. His eyes were fixed on the sumptuous sectional sofa, sandycolored with delicate veiny outlines of leaves floating on it, white ovate slightly curved at the tips. God I didn’t know it would be so delicious he thought, electric . . . god what she did to them, he remembered cum all over the place, everywhere except in her mouth, all over himself the blanket spread over the sofa, a different one back then, that’s when she attacked him, intent on making him rise up to her this time, you can’t get away with that shit by yourself she growled, no room on that sofa to turn, to roll her over pin her down gain some ascendancy, he became her lollipop, that’s what she murmured to him, her icecream cone oh god, she mewed and licked and gnawed and swore like an avenging sergeant, her voice dropped a good two octaves, she kept at it until he hardened again and then she leaped to her knees straddling him and he came again and she did too loud and shrill, almost crying. He was wringing his hands now, bones and pliant skin, he loved her hands the small knuckles the soft veins, he loved her wrists her ribs her juicy mouths both of them, lips that swelled and twisted and sucked, his tongue lapping up her sap. His hands were down at the fork of his legs now, there was a resounding aria flushing his ears, Gheorghiu singing Vissi d’arte, his cock was turgid but not hard he came nevertheless, tense contorted and bent, a tight grimace carving expression on his formerly blank face, he felt sticky fluid oozing through the tiny pores of his cotton pajama pants wetting his hands oh oh he thought when he caught his breath, better get them changed, there’s another set in the bathroom he thought. Wiping his hands on his pajamas he turned toward the bathroom, spotted another painting on the wall, what’s this he wondered.