(NSFW)The Sun is Wet Under the River [Part 3]

There was a bit of a fire in the village. First there was one house. One. Pretty. House.

But there was none. It was not even a house. Is it a giraffe? Oh goat, who is the greatest of all time when it comes to putting out fires? Maybe the cops know.

It was 3am. The window framed the city lights. Inspector Mills run his hand through his hair. Thinking. Breathing hard. "Tonight you are mine", said the Inspector to his lover. "Tonight, I am ALL yours" the young man replied submissively, as he unbuttoned both their pants. Their masculine silhouettes wrestled and fought each other in the dark, as the city was burning.

By now, the little fire was already city-huge. An woman, early 40s at least, was running on stiletoes, carrying her beloved 30-inch flat screen television, a sign that she has succumbed to the promises of a neoliberal capital economy, which promises progress, the life of luxury and prestige, but was actually built on the backs of ill-paid, and overworked sweatshop laborers in the Third World country.

Just the same, her thoughts or none: which she actually had plenty (if not for the tireless idea that had been bugging her all day), she rested. She wept.


"What better time!" What better time indeed, for no sooner than his brain uttered this thoughts past through the complex neuronetworks of itself (the very same brain), that she found herself wanting some warmth for the early morning - the fire was just not enough.

Or maybe it was a Tomasian fire, one that burns within. Not of this world but in my heart. The Pope knew of love too - Deus Caritas Est. God. Is. Love. Is. He is Alive. Inside me. Fireman, please fill me up inside! I want that fire to burn bright inside me.

It was 3:05 in the morning. There was nowhere to do it so we did it behind the fire hydrant. A 2-foot metal tube covering our sizzling body. The world in chaos. Yet nothing is more important. Not for my longing 42 year old body. Not now.

6:00. PM. The night, now a distant memory. Or is it.

"Ding Dong!"

I rushed to the door of my hotel room. "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
Could this really be... Is this really...

Slowly like a dying cat, or an elephant sleeping in under a tree in the savannah. I pulled the envelope. It was old, and sterling. I flipped it over.

From... JACQUES... SAUNTERE...

A little hummingbird, at once red and silver, happy and vital, perched, not on the sun, where it would burn, and could not fly to, (by the way, I thought to myself, Could hummingbirds fly to the sun? I'm sure if I asked my mother, she would tell me they don't, they CAN'T, but what do adults know?) but on a lovely, is a bit poshy, Mouth of the Alligator.

It may not mean much. Birds come. Birds go.You touch them and they do it. Birds are like that. Nature is like that. Not much of course, unless you consider what time of the day it is.

"Come home Johnny, come running home." It was late and it was raining, so I guess she was right. Ms. Schulkz was always the nicest in the neighborhood. She knew how to keep her mild German pose. Except for that night when I saw her emerge from the bushes with a homeless man. I was young and I was proud that Ms. Schulkz would do anything to help anyone, even a dirty homeless man who had no pants.

But by this time, the hummingbird had already flown near a hungry cat.

"Bad move," I thought.

Mouth of the Alligator is the tenth vertical bar in the picket fence, and was directly under the shade. Near a hungry cat was the exact opposite. Unlike the majority of the bars, it was painted green and lie just near the gate itself.

This is where all pretty thoughts died.

It was more than ten years ago that that very same place, a quaint rustic low-lying wooden gate where I was introduced to love. Love teaches you about love. But for me love only showed the way, SHE, the angel who has stars for eyes, taught me love.

I met her in my dream when I was 5 or 6. She would often drop by after I slept, when the world became magical and love was free to reign.

Years passed and forgetting this infantile love never occurred. Love just grew stronger. I finally had the courage to find her. But I didn't know her name. I didn't even know who she was or where she lives. But I have love. And I know she does too. Love finds love. Love conquers all.

...

I was already 17 when it happened. It was autumn and everything was sad. I sat by a bench on a park, read a book, and imagined myself as a character in a Luis Buñuel film. I was soon nodding to sleep, the crisp wind singing lullaby and the gentle calmness of the place made me offer no resistance.

"May I join you?"

I glanced up slowly, still feeling the force that had just pulled me to sleep. A small Asian girl, about the same age as me, black hair, a shy but honest smile, small button nose, and stars for eyes - the girl of my dreams.

I waited more than a decade for this day.

I knew it. She knew it. No words were spoken. None was needed.
All we needed to know was love. And love is exactly what they say it is.

It was pure. It set us free - from the mundanity of everyday life, from the pettiness of some people, from the cruelty of life. Whatever happens, we had each other.

We made love and laughed and danced and cried and built a home and made more love and suddenly we were both 25. Every minute of those years was a blessing.

It was the right time. And it was about the same date when she first came to me in my dreams.

It was going to be this night. As early as noon I was eager to get out and prepare for the evening.
I went to the flower shop to make sure the right colors and volume was achieved.
I checked with the jeweler to get the ring. I dropped by my friend to pick up the cake that I had requested just for this day.

6:23:22 pm.

"Hi love, come home quick. Dinner is almost ready."

Ah, I almost forgot about the wine. A quick turn at the liquor shop to pick up a bottle of 1998 Veuve Clicquot La Grande Dame. We would have nothing less on this special night.

Night was winning over when I finally arrived home. The sky was still ocre, but darkness was falling soon. I looked on the kitchen window to see what she was doing before I enter the house.

There she was, on her favorite pink apron, humping up and down to a guy who's sitting on the chair. His cock was long and hard inside her, every thrust almost disembowels her, her clitoris and the insides of her vagina almost spilled out. His cock was wet with her juice. She moaned and cried for more. On her face was the happiness only a small Asian girl could have. He was a big and strong fellow with African-American origins. She was loving every second of it. A lone candle lit them from behind.

I stood there. Stunned. Stiff. Blood rushed to my head. I was very angry. I tried to hold it but it was very hard for me. until I couldn't hold no more.

I unzipped. Took it out. And masturbated as vigorously as I could while watching my girl, the lady, the angel in my dreams, reaching just another orgasm.