Nausicaa's Hot Rod Ride
by Christian Prigent
 
 

Nausicaa, to make herself felt, drools here on the shoulder of the self, who himself drools his own ego like a snail oozing out snot. In her eyes, though closed, I see her flesh flowering the bottom space of the deep cave, and her face fills the syllabic site. That puts the final tough to the panorama, that piles up present into past tenses. It was, one says. We were devouring what we were drooling, it made for a kind of slow-motion sedimentation of action, we were not moving much, we were particpating in the present exhaustion of secretion, of course one cannot wiggle all the time, one cannot extort energy endlessly from things while juicing, one does not escape ankylosis, one mixes one's roses to a necrosis of inspiration after ejaculation. At such moments, in more relaxed scenarios of the lower back, one releases the suction cups while puffing on a butt, often one even talks, this reactivates movements in a well composed past. Nausicaa, and me too, sometimes, we play that movie under the blankets. But that day, beneath the obscure overcast, it was harder. Why? Mystery! Misery! Hystery! Pity! Things were rather numb in conjunction with the sedimentation that follows sexual excursions out side of unexciting time. Perhaps because of the exiguity of intimacy inside the cockpit of a demolished car beneath an extremely wet and ashen October sky. It was, evidently, extremely interiorized, extremely crowed in there, an inextricable thicket, we could hardly feel daylight around us. No way to aerate this love nest. Only solution: to produce an homeopathetic acceleration from the inside. To rise and take off through an internal bouncing action, by assuming fully the rarefaction of aeration, by inhabiting the cave entirely, by gnawing full- blast in this semi-darkness while shaking the inner springs of automovement in pithecanthropic trances. Therefore, we settled into the back seat. It is somewhat tattered and bumpy. Inside the seat: metallic spiral sausages covered with cheap vinyl. Their meticulous coldness sticking to the back of our legs. These moldy skirts of plastic reinforced with vulgar iron are not very pleasant as an alcove, but one gets used to this kind of stuff in moments of mischievous leaning toward the sordidos! But dammit is it cold in here! We're freezing our asses, in spite of the tepid vapors emating from our preliminaries. Let's activate a bit, we said in unison in the midst of dental shattering. Our exhalations of exhortations definitely fogged all the windows around, behind, before us. We found ourselves inside a steamy laundromat. The air became stale, and like cake-icing, bubbles of saliva foamed at the corners of our mouths. I was licking it off. Nausicaa's orgeat lips smeared with spit-crust on each side moved, and I heard her say: I want your cock your cock inside my cunt. That really gave me a shock. What an adequate introit to coitus! What adaptation to the situation! What competence of utterance! No need to rewrite. What openness on the sexual level! And how beautiful she is when she makes these noises, as if concentrated by an inner force, her hair glued by the suction of tensions from inside this referent. My toes were, I must admit, quite numb, but I am not deaf and dumb, at least not to that -- that musical note. Ergo, end of the prologue. Let's get into the core of the episodes. Let's pull the strings, that stretches the elastic inside our meat. A little outburst follows. Acrobatic tractions of retractions, very rock, very snakeman-womanrubber, rotor! Big Eight! Little scaly Loch-Ness wagons! Roll on youth! Nausicaa is supple, me less, I squeak a bit in the bony elements. It's very sportive, like a lascivious pommel horse, so we spur each other's sides with rotulas and olecranons. In the past we were less active, not as primary, less on nerves, in a more diluted mood. We would stick our fingers with precision inside naked holes turned greenish by leave- wiping, we would appreciate more slowly, in a sort of slow- motion, the ectasies of calendars, we would come gently, very surprised by the taste of pipi flowing in open space on top of watery bucolic decors. It was not any better, let's not pretend, let's not play the polymorphous nostalgia of cowdungs under stormy skies. It's only in the black mess of memory that we make it voluptuous, in truth it was not, if you go on like this you're going to fuck-up everything. Now it's always the same aloneintheworlditude, but we are more muscular, we push, we fuck-in-the-ass, we knot full knots in the hollows, we embox, but a bit stiff in the legs for fear that we might miss the target. It's no longer the pond of mixed urine-rhum with cow-milk, idem epidermic perfume mixed with drops of cunt-cider dripping from grass-leaves. Nausicaa was posting a light blue dress, her chin stained with plum juice, her socks oily from having pedaled too close to the swamp, in her grandmother lowcut, trembling ostensibly as she crossed the bridge above the laundry near Salles-Dallo. The sea could be seen beyond her bike. These retrovisions disorganize my libido. Here, however, everything is much more sprinted, exhausted by nervous bicycling. It goes, we go in. Full- blast, we blast in. That's called sexuality, a way to articulate the daily. One cannot be reborn as one was born, one must adapt. Let us adapt. Motor! R'action! Quick, in the pistoned cadence of dogs, to feel good, to feel almost nothing. It's good, good like nothing. It's coming. For once the tip is stiff like a needle and the hole is threaded. It's good. Wow is it good! Ah, groans Nausicaa. I echo that Ah. It's good, good like an Ah! It's this minimalist duet which is called rapport. Body-fusion. Waht a good rapport and a good confusion this cuntfusion! How far can one go in fusion? that's what the rest will tell us, but let's not anticipate too much. Meanwhile, various arrangements of positions are made. I skip. Still, I say that it's good, the positions. Then we stretched the springs of this action so much that it almost -- so much that! What? Here goes the metallic sausages inside the seat which start burning under our asses. To our great confusion (it's good), the vinyl melts. Climax: fusion of matter under an erotified action. What a switching on of light and delight! What an embracing inside this blazing! All is cooked for the final intercourse! Something is burning, she says. No, it's only smoking. That means it's going to burn. No. Yes. No, I tell you. Rheu rheuheuheuheu. You see, you're coughing. No. Yes. I'm getting out of here. Wait! She scampers out of the jalopy full speed while it locomotizes from all four doors. That makes for extra vapor into the autumn smell of burning leaves. Fire! Fire! Oh fires! Burn! Literature! Eradicate! Erase! Naked, laughing, flavored by a foggy effect, Nausicaa looks at the car which is gradually calming its fulminations. Standing in the cold wet vegetation, her bare feet sinking in the reddish juice of vulgar polypodies, she's very touching like this, and suddenly my own flesh remelts with emotion as I let the rest of my energy drip on leaves full of rain end of the story.

Translated from the French by Raymond Federman