Egon Schiele Painting

His fingers on my zipper, an expert craftsman, an artisan of mechanics (maybe he assembled computers or complicated tiny watches) his graceful fingers opened me up so delicately. There was no awkward moment, no adolescent fumbling. His lovely palm between my legs made me want to be even taller than I already am. My back arched like a cat as he roamed freely in my most intimate places, sounds welled up in me and spilled out of my mouth beyond my control. Primal sounds, maybe the sounds of birth or of death filled the room. I recognized them as my own although I had never heard them before. They came up from somewhere so far away from my everyday life, from so far away from this moment.

He pushed me onto the bed like one might push aside a stone in the sidewalk. Effortlessly. I shifted into a different plane of consciousness, a place with no sharp angles, only blurry edges and the grain of old photographs. He was taking off his shirt, his pants. He laid them down on the back of a rosewood chair. His erection was still confined in the space of his undergarment. It seemed to be begging for freedom, a caged animal sensing a door left ajar. The room was filled with animal odors. My body was no longer my own. It had retreated back to ancient times.