He scared himself with the image. He never dared do it for more than brief moments, dip into it quickly, as with a spoon. To make discoveries about a woman via the quality of her cavities.
He had done it with Gyöngyvér once before, for a very short time, and now his mouth longed to repeat it. Meanwhile he was happy that he was finally forgetting she was just a country girl, a peasant. Which of course brought the thought back to mind.
As though with his tongue he could truly understand her fleshy labia. To stumble into the strong pointed arch of the pudendal cleft and then return to her deep vagina, to lick the dense bud of her clitoris all around, everything that is in such contrast to the airy lightness of her limbs and their movements, and where it is so hard to penetrate. To melt it all with his mouth, to dissolve the primal aroma in his mouth. And then to do the most meaningful thing: with a single unexpected movement to turn her around and knock her on her stomach — so that his nose could hang into her arching, sweet little ass. To pry open the cheeks of her ass, lick again her cunt spread open on the sheet, suck in and keep licking the brownish, wrinkled, tightly closed, and mildly shit-tasting asshole, sin itself, to commit the greatest sin, until it would blossom in the warmth of the sticky saliva dragged over from her cunt, so that with his cock he could enter there too. To do violence to the instinct of reproduction and to hand it over to finality, to beautiful death. But he didn’t risk it. Wanting to enter everywhere. To discourage her from even dreaming of this, he brutally pinned her shoulders under him with his sharp elbows. An agitated face with bulging eyes lay on the pillow in the vise of his arms, and in the waning twilight it seemed that her lips were turning blue.
Beautiful she was not.
There was no trace of trembling anymore, but the light body shook and quaked gently to its depths. Her small, domed forehead, with its little-girlish hairs at the edges.
The man was thinking that perhaps his entire life, anybody’s life, was nothing but a constant search for advantageous and ever more advantageous situations. For a situation worth getting into.
This is ridiculous.
Why does one search, at whose command. And how can one compare one situation to another if one doesn’t know what new situation the next step will bring, and if tomorrow one has anyway forgotten the old one. But now he has found it: there’s probably no more advantageous situation than this. Simple physics, this is simple biology, he thought dispassionately and wryly, as if thinking that although this was lovemaking there was nothing personal about it. He heard his own panting. Had nothing to do with his personhood or that of his lovemaking partner, even if she makes me pant or I make her pant. Everything is only physics or mere convention.
For the sake of perfection, he had to cool himself down a little.
Even if he was in the middle of fucking.
It doesn’t happen so often, though by necessity it could happen to anyone.
It rarely becomes perfect, perhaps that much is personal. Nothing more. One aspect of the eternal imperfections. Nothing more. But before the woman could make a fatal or irresistible movement with her head, loins, fingernails, vagina, or any other part, he spoke in a loud voice.
We’ve found the most advantageous position.
Which of course sounded ridiculous. What the hell had they found. And it echoed for a while between the cold walls. A little helplessly, a little threateningly, because his voice was as dispassionate as the way he thought about himself, or at least he believed it was dispassionate. They hadn’t found anything, but they might lose something, and perhaps with his talking too loudly he might have already gambled it away, though all he wanted to do was keep what they had and share his joy with this strange woman, to make at least this moment last.
Yes, came the response from the agitated face, from the depths, from gaping, parched lips, hoarsely, perturbed, yes, what could be better.
But she could not laugh at herself or at the man.
Like a seriously ill person, she signaled — but only with her mouth, her strong eyebrows, the deepening, vertical little furrows of her smooth and domed little-girlish forehead — that she preferred to laugh at such silliness. But Ágost’s declaration troubled her, profoundly shocked her. It opened up an unknown perspective. For the first time in her life, she had to take a deep, hard look at her own bodily phenomena. Not before or after, but right now in the middle of it. No man had ever done this to her.
Maybe with Irénke, when they made their nipples touch and could see what they were feeling; they talked about it, how their nipples grew hard at the same time, look, yours too.
Her breathing became so strong because of this uncalled-for thought, the smell of her breath so pervasive, not unpleasant but hinting of skin, saliva, teeth, and stomach, that for a second the man was shaken by a cold nausea of revulsion and disgust.
I could even make a child for you now.
Indeed, her vagina was ringed around his cock, which, with its swollen head, filled her beyond the brim.
Her hips rose and sank, her vagina convulsed in contrary directions, she wanted to give some rhythm to the spasms but the man kept her down with his arms and elbows, pressing her with his hips, not letting her move, wrestling her down to where he wanted her; she could only thrash about with her head, tossing it from left to right. On her neck a vein bulged and twitched, the vena jugularis externa, running in the muscles under the skin. As though her fears gripped her again precisely when she had managed to get close to the other person. That’s why she was doing it. She wanted to show the man what indignities she had been subjected to, how they had crippled her pleasure, and how unjust it was, as was her entire miserable life.
Which, no matter how hypocritical or self-disciplined she was, she could not endure.
I can’t bear it, I can’t bear this either.
Because she couldn’t tell whether this was happiness or pain.
Can’t get any closer, the man heard too, inside him, in his own voice. It sounded like an interdiction. Don’t try, you’re not supposed to. As if forbidding himself something, and the cosmos would crumble if he did not obey. He eased his hold on her a little so he could withdraw himself a bit, his cock. He felt as if he had fatally miscalculated something at that moment and could not see the situation clearly. Gone was the cool self-assurance, because not only did he not withdraw, but for a withdrawal he’d have to penetrate her even further, and he felt the length of the way he was to make inside the woman’s vagina.
Which his mind conjured up as a cave the color of congealed blood, where he had once before found refuge.
He could not resist forcing his way back to a place from which he should have been withdrawing. He reached a space that was in the time neither of memory nor of imagination. The light summer blanket must have slipped off some time ago.
If that’s the case, then everything happens uncontrollably, unguardedly.
Finally he found it.
Finally he left something in himself uncontrolled.
He saw an unguarded gate in the night.
It could be fatal. I am complaining like a child. Certain segments of time are falling away.
Though the possibility of something fatal made him happy. He had found it, at last.
You might even be able to make a child, yes, now, that’s right, whispered the woman; she seemed to be trembling and struggling for air.
Please, I beg you, she would have wanted to say this clearly.