Fixation Trio (André Hencleeday, Hernâni Faustino e Felice Furioso)

SMUP, May 11, 2023, 9:30 pm

I could tell you here the eloquence of my days. There is absolutely nothing different. In fact, everything changed naturally.

The storm over the leafy orange trees. Times change, carpets change. Rebellious breezes stir in memories. My face muscles ache, around my lips, which were once succulent. I could tell you that over time I didn’t notice anything.

I sat quietly watching the seagulls agitated by the sea. The storm left the orange trees and took over the dune where I stayed.

Purging old, accumulated, enraged secretions. I could tell you that the shaking of your hands on me makes me run to the bottom of the well of memories.

That ginger and lime flavor, the smell I have of you. Sandalwood notes that suffocate me like a black bag over my head.

Sometimes when you are silent, sometimes when you insist on keeping your hand closed over my mouth. We have something in common.

The empty tunnel that fills with drama. One or two slaps later it goes away. Slaps given with the back of the hand. Between 2 maritime pine trunks. Nailed in the brambles that burrow into my white skin.

Dye me red. Small rivers that run hot through my body. I like this feeling. Chests erect in the cold, hot blood flowing, bare feet stained by the wet earth.

I feel a shiver that runs through me from my feet to my buttocks. You laugh as you caress my belly and lick my neck, hard.

I hear whispers in the distance. We remain stuck in the brambles. From the viewpoint I see the seagulls while you remain uncontrollable. You pour out what is in you too much.

I contemplate and let the warm guide me to you. Ginger and lime between my lips. Between my breasts. We enter a vicious cycle.

There is no better dance than one in which one foot is drastically stepped on. Pain subtly merges with pleasure.

I wake up wet. I scream with my fingers inside me. Lying down, I look up. The orange tree filters the sun that hits my face.