This is a question that I always ask myself; and the answer always eludes me, like a dream.
What is my country?
All-knowing Erica, never fails to give a right-on reply.
Good Old Filipinas as Told in a Sex Scene by my Spiritual “Porn-Queen” Mother, EJ
The story so far …
Isadora Wing, successful writer, was contemplating leaving her husband, Bennett Wing, who had been emotionally abusing her for the past 5 years …
There is no loneliness like the loneliness of a dead marriage. The bed might as well be a raft in a shark infested sea.
Sleeping alone in the same house, more alone than if we’d never met. Better to live in a cave like a hermit or to haunt singles’ bars, cruising for one-night stands.
The woman, degraded, past all degradation, gets up out of bed, tiptoes down the carpeted hall, and slides into the narrow bed occupied by that stranger, her lawful wedded husband.
They might as well have met in a bar for all the intimacy between them – yet it is also oddly exciting.
“Hey what are you doing?” he asks.
“Feeling you up,” she answered.
“I thought you wanted to castrate me.”
The seriousness of her voice makes him hard immediately. It is their old familiar dance.
She opens his pajama bottoms. He feels for her cunt.
He savagely stabs a finger in. It hurts, but somehow hurt feels right on this particular night.
He stabs another finger in. She pivots on the bed, swiveling on his fingers, and takes his cock in her mouth. She teases it with her tongue. She nibbles around the root with her teeth.
He moans, aroused. Now he is rubbing her clitoris and she wants him. She wants his strange root-shaped cock inside her. The sight of it excites her still more.
She climbs on his upraised penis, swiveling on it, rhythmically rocking. Her orgasm comes in great concentric rings like the water in a still lake when a heavy rock is dropped from a great height.
And then he is suddenly thrusting, thrusting, in search of his own. It is as if his orgasm were somewhere deep inside her and he had to find it, fish for it, hook it, reel it in like a wriggling fish. There, it catches … a nibble … he gropes blidly, then establishes a rhythm again.
Now! There … there … there. The trusting stops and he lies still again. No words. No grunts. Fisherman and fish both gasping at water’s edge.
She climbs off him and thinks:
They might as well be freight trains, locking together for a time, and then going off to opposite ends of the earth. For he doesn’t know any words. Words are the only langguage he cannot speak.
(adapted from: Erica Jong. How To Save Your Own Life, Signet 1977, pp 120-122.)
Note: The above is a VERY loose adaptation. Please read the real book to check the parts I left out. My nation is peopled by neurotics and psychotics who love leaving the bad parts out when conversing with respectable company.
(542 words !!!!! Hurray!!!! definite improvement 🙂 if I may say so, even if a majority of the words were not my own)
The best literature is the one that makes you think the writer was gossiping about you. — Anastasia Christina, disrespectful blogger
Totally unrelated, except in my imagination:
Conrado de Quiros’ article on US presence in the Philippines –