I tell him I’m not wearing any and lie down in the grass, beneath some shade, and lift my skirt all the way up, covering my chest and face with the light fabric, and I feel the man take a few steps and sit down and place something in my pussy, something I imagine as a clover. I feel the long, narrow stem, something fuzzy fit perfectly into my lips, just brushing my clitoris. I stay there like that, with the warmth of sun rays crisscrossing and stretching out, simultaneously calm and unsettled, across my legs. And with an erect clover crossing the lips of my vagina.

4

HE OPENS the door for me. I watch the black cat go in. It smells like piss and dirt again. I’m used to him not talking now. He looks at me, and the questions he wants to ask but won’t swirl in his gaze. Nothing bothers me, however, and I hug him. I grab his long hair and tug on it while I unbutton his shirt and reveal the paleness of his chest interrupted by two raisin-like nipples I lick. I’ve never sucked a man’s nipple with this kind of love. I suck it imagining black milk will flow out, and I feel like I’m buried up to my neck in that chest. Then he kisses me, softly pushing me onto the mattress, and when he finally enters me, I’m on the edge of madness; with my tongue out and vagina open, I feel it, the madness, frothing. He rubs the thickest part of his cock against my clitoris, and right when I come, a bat appears from behind the beam that crisscrosses the room. A bat that’s lost its way and can’t hear itself over the violins blaring from the computer. A bat that flies up just a little and gets closer to sniff. There’s an intense fear in my chest, but the bat’s blind vision, its icy gaze, its clumsy sight, provokes enormous tenderness, and the man who doesn’t notice it comes, and as he comes, in his final thrust, a clumsy one, he startles the animal that looked like it was about to land on his back. It then flies through the open windows, into the night, and I keep staring into the tenuous darkness and, with it, the grimace of pleasure, that discreet grimace with which this man releases his semen. This man doesn’t touch me. No. He sinks into the pleasure and in every thrust his cock swells and oozes, but he doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t grab my ass. He doesn’t mess with my tits. Sometimes he softly squeezes my hips with his fingertips. Sometimes, only sometimes, he sniffs my neck, like a baby would nuzzle me, looking for my breast, giving it a gentle nibble and then going back to my mouth to kiss it or softly cover it with saliva before moving away. All this no touching makes the penetration feel pure. This is quite imprecise, but what does it matter. I’ll try again: he doesn’t grab, he doesn’t take hold of anything, he only offers his cock to rub and in this rubbing it’s possible to feel the strange connection of the penetration; everything else consists of having revelations or orgasms, one after the other. I’m getting off track again or sentimentality is overcoming me. Again, this is where I’m going: with his cock being the only thing touching me, the rubbing being the only touch, his erect cock against my swollen clit, nothing else, the difference or the fusion produces a little collapse that takes place between the material and formless, between the fragile, soft flesh of our organs and something beyond them. The world as such, entering and exiting through my hole. And a bat that, about to touch his body, shoots off into the night. A vague idea of my husband, where the hell he might be; he who makes everything his, who grabs it with the anxiety always making his hands sweat.