...a deathly serenade...

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AA
now, standing up, but I was in the experience or
an experience in itself and felt compelled to get
her to continue, especially since I had a few more
bites of egg left. I then asked her: How did they
look? I told you... she said sitting back down,
One, I think I’ve seen him before, I don’t know
but he was the one with the moustache, who was
just fucking me! And he didn’t even smile or
anything, like he was going to fetch milk...at least
the one without the moustache was making all
the noise, the stupid little one is so angry he is
just holding me down with all his strength while
the other two just fuck away! She didn’t seem
tainted as much by the sexual act in itself, cool by
it in a way, I thought to myself as I decided to
calm her down (noting that even high-octane
atmospheres needed valleys), but she seemed
more erotically charged now: taking heavy
breaths that came across as the same had when in
the thick of her heated sex. If anything else she
seemed embittered by what came across as a
distinct feeling of powerlessness—Her constant
repetition of: I couldn’t. I had only just finished
those eggs by this time but the violence of the
situation acts in a strange way: did she cum? I
wondered, but I didn’t ask her this, even though
the thoughts occurred that if a person is raped,
might that person let themselves enjoy the third
or fourth time of its single happening? Would an
orgasm accuse itself? I savoured the taste of the
eggs, feeling fortunate that I had used three eggs,
like some bliss I had only experienced in
Anarchistic happenings, at the time. Of course
149