Lust (20 page)

woman. Did you hear thunder just now? So why not get out of the way and let me have a look at the video people wrathfully plumping up their genitals? Over there on the substitute bench is where you belong, where no one can see your scrawny arse and sagging bitch dugs as you labour away, blowing on the glow. Rub in the creams to rub out the distinctions between yourself and decent Grade A human beings. Go and pour forth your woes to the Gentleman one storey higher, but don't wake the dead! Apart from a swift jet, nothing comes from Michael's sting, people are drawn to him from over the fields. The mountains overhang the lake, the hands row alone. These girls stand and watch, the voice ceases to pour from their cracks, they claw at their own curls, their own wily sex that can tempt, they are ready and willing to wrap any man in it who might chance by and whom they have learnt to assess by his haircut, his clothing and his vehicle.

Michael's whole small-page ad is plugging loud specialist products. On TV the senses smoulder in little heaps. They are intended for consumption by our youngsters who sport in the snow or in the water and barely need to take a breath. Yes, this young man really is a fine rascal. Poor Gerti. Tested so wrathfully in the school of life. Mutely they look at each other. Consider each other food. The mountains are motionless, so why take the car to shove them apart? To be merry takes little. Isn't it enough for you to go playing by the river banks and the saving banks and buy yourself a place in the gilt-edged network of the sports trade?

One more word about these girls. They have just arrived (I almost said: just come) within themselves: luscious bushes of pubic hair grow like lush rhododendrons on their gentle slopes, a breeze of health comes off them, they who dwell so pleasantly in themselves and are watched through the windows of magazines. Now they

lean over the woman. Heavens, they're drunk already too! At the drop of a hat they'll be off. Where were they sent from? And what do they talk to their divine little diaries about? Where do we want to be — in the curls in their laps, perhaps? Thus the mountains, where the trees ruffle, see us. Today these people will be moving on to a birthday party, where they will look at the other little well-built guests. Like children, blown in and blow-dried, they will dangle from the belts of our envious looks, ladies — ladies, you whose charms are wearing thin, you who submit to the charms of TV soaps. We can't contain the water within us once it's boiling and wants to overflow. Let's be honest, we resent their faces of many colours, while age is fading our own to the one standard likeness, no matter what costly waters we cannily wash in. So why don't you take a rest as well, on your narrow bank! Each to his own, my little dears! But these aren't the limits of our company, purely a recommended retail price, if you please.

So as I was saying, Michael has it out in the daylight, hjs prick, to show that he can't or won't be stopped. First he has to tank up again. Laughing, he sits on the woman's chest and clasps her arms together over her head. He dangles his noodle into her mouth so that she can benefit from his nourishment. Gerti can follow everything very clearly, and something happens in her half-dropped panties: she passes a hissing jet of wet, yet again she's had too much to drink. Laughing, the girls pull off the wet knickers they had dragged down her legs. Now Gerti's feet are quite unbound. Everyone takes a pull at the hip-flask, but Michael's prick is still limp, to be plain about it, no good pulling there. They dunk Gerti's head, that little outhouse built crookedly on to the villa of her sensations, into the water. Her dear little cunt and dear little anus are fingered and prodded, ah, if only she could be in the arms of sleep again, soon! Where do we want to be? Where do we want to stay? Like a frog's, the

woman's legs jab and snap shut. She thrashes about wildly. She isn't really hurt, why else would this company that never assumes liability for anything have been founded? Michael pokes a twig in her rather bald hill for a while, boys do love to play about, it keeps them out of mischief. Wait, one thing more. He pours what's left in the flask into her pussy then clips her round her ear, but not too hard. Ow. That burns.

It is now snowing with all the heartiness we expect of winter. The last bottle has been thrown away. Nobody seriously wants to take a swig at Gerti, even though she would give herself away till the green of spring shows through. Her cunt is merely opened up and then, laughing, we've seen this brochure before, folded shut again. The flaps smack in practised hands. None of this is that important anyway. Further away, up there where we shlepped Gerti away, the skiers are still cheering in their little lakes of beer and brandy. They beam and bawl. The floor of the forest is already heavily soaked in their pleasure. Gerti's skirt, in which she waits to be warmed up amid the trademarks, has been pulled up over her head like a sack. The suspender belts have no bad side effects if a man fancies giving his tool a thorough go. Michael wags his tail around in her face. She does not see it, and beneath her skirt she awkwardly twists her head now to one side, now to the other, thinking of Michael's unattainable ambrosia, his jelly congealed in a perpetual mould, to her it's no trifle. Her face, upon which trees gaze down in silence, is got out again and the mouth forced open. Her cheeks are slapped lightly, you can feel the teeth underneath keeping the face in its present shape, with an effort. Keeping in shape is what you should do too, dear boys and girls. Though you do so in any case, in your skintight T-shirts! With your chicaning hands and chic caps! Let's pretend, as we watch each other, that we're looking at a movie. Really moving. Now they open up Gerti's top and reveal her two breasts.

They topple out of the silk, whoops! — another moving picture! Nature, it seems, has slapped down two ill-judged meatballs from its catering supply can. Laughter. After the TV show, my dear fellow Austrians, you can go off and mix with each other. Often a finer fate lies beneath soft footfall; but wherever did I stick the wallpaper? Silly me, there it is — on me! What a fool. Gerti has to prise her mouth open and suck this thing in. Incidentally, tobogganing is good fun too, but — please — never ever where people are skiing: the last upright citizens in this world, they cannot stand it if someone squatting on one dumb lump of wood disturbs them. It affronts them. Their middle class sledges, fully paid off, are in the parking lots, and they open their doors to their owners as they return from the fire a little too late, having turned a little brown. This is the very place you'll find them. See the map attached! You just have to believe absolutely in something really smashing, and then smash someone else's teeth in. And meanwhile in Gerti a fine fire is still crackling, a whole metre of pork sausage like a fire hose in her mouth. Well now, gentlemen, heroes all: let me take a look down my sights, and see if you haven't all got a cock of your own, cocked and ready to fire!

No, there are no spare parts for the moment. The storm caused by our god, sex, sends us all to our ruin by the shortest route. Leave the man his senses, so that he can make sense of himself in peace and quiet. We women have to fix ourselves as best we're able, and then hark to the distant, echoing silence from your lifeless gadgets, oh gentlemen, still trembling slightly at the thought that the guarantee might have expired. Of us the men think last of all! A stranger Michael came, a stranger he must away, and so must his thing. Contemptuously he dribbles a droplet or so off his semi-stiffy into Gerti's face, which cannot make it to safe cover in time. The lads and lasses, faces glowing with smiling and living, withdraw to warmer places too, to stretch their stamina a little before

they enter the higher working echelons. Nothing to be done about it. So get out of the bar and into life and don't worry! Gerti's freebie picnic is packed away again. Michael, who couldn't even warm to a foreplay prologue, laughs heartily. Now all of them, a refreshing stream, propose to see wholl be first sliding down the Alps. And so they start a war in this bright light, just so that they, the sons of the valley, can go cracking their very own whiplashes good and proper. Impatiently they take their place in line with those who will soon have departed. And even shove to the front. Not that those who were born poor will complain! They well know the Father's commandments. Let there be no misunderstanding: outside the chairlift station, where the ground is strewn with paper cups. These dimwits who have driven to strange territory and meet there, now they're pushed aside and must take a stop at their own inn. In themselves. Patiently queue, with all their nice long-play cassettes that they've been collecting a whole life long. Their princes are singing in chorus now, and much louder! Anyway, Youth goes by all by itself, and not at all badly either.

I've grasped ... it. And you . . . feel warm.

These are not the children of sorrow. They help the woman to her feet, brush her down, the snow crunches a laugh underfoot. She has not had to suffer too too much for the sake of these sons. Someone thrusts her wet knickers, a postcard souvenir, into her hand. Her coat is even buttoned up for her. Her body's nutrient production begins to grease her hair properly. And she has already signed the cheque, it's just that the new clothes will have to be altered at the boutique. She's been wanting to re-cover her body, and yet with every day that comes she is the more aware of the heavy bags her skin has to carry. That wasn't the way it was meant, that stuff about the sons and daughters, the gold eggs in the nests of high

schools. We too could be knocked right off our feeble trunk at any moment! Like leafage we would fall into the beautiful gardens of the owners, mildewed, and no matter how often the Frau Direktor does her calculations she can't come up with a decent number of incinerators. Only the children, led by the angels, sing in chorus when they enter into this house on a magic carpet and laugh at their parents. We won't hear it later. Michael feels like talking now, now that it's too late. He grabs roughly inside the front of her coat and dress, and, laughing, tugs and twists her nipples. His other hand he jams between the cheeks of her behind. And then he puts a civil tongue in her mouth. He has already retracted his shlong of his own accord, to give it an overhaul. He's always glad of an opportunity to pick up where he left off. The fellow's always out somewhere wanting to be picked up! And the whole thing has been nothing but time passing. The car doors slam, they talk of pleasures and friends that have been paid for and to which one entrusts oneself, like the fitness trainers they possess or in fact are. AH in vain! The angels will never be just like human beings. Only they can experience pleasure and go within themselves. Helplessly the people retch with drink. They bring it up when it ought to be having a lie down. They puke in the snow, leaning on their cars. The women fuss, the children moan. Fine. The car drives off, but the content of these people remains behind, asleep in nature, where the true and good dwelleth and goods are lied to by their own labels. In a rage they all cry out to make a stop, for ever, and hold an attractive human being in their arms, for ever. But the rulers feed the animals only once a month, and then we exert ourselves too much. Time will bring everything to light.

Gerti is put in her car. Quiet, now! How shall I put it? She has been at the mercy of hands and tongues. She almost made off, angrily shifting her sticks and belts and apron strings. A mere safety belt will suffice to hold her back.

Others in bondage have advised her to use it. Just as the artist finds his way to art, so too the village children find their way to her, to endure their rhythmical trials at the hands of this woman. The child bows over its violin, the man over the child to punish it. The works choir sings on Sunday to express itself. Many of them sing, and yet they sing as one. This choir really exists, so that the members all tug as one man at their vocal chords while the factory crouches in wait high above them. Every now and then it's thirsty and swallows up the herd, and then the pylons far and wide can hear the humming of poor people getting in line. Like children. Many came but few were chosen to sing a solo. The Direktor has his work for a hobby, so he's okay. The youngsters pour into their vehicles, now they are off to their holiday homes, where they can stuff yet more into and out of themselves. The rooms are booked out. Blessed highway, crossing the flatland, preserving the peace and quiet for all but those who live there, whose ears bleed with the racket — till they themselves can get away for a holiday.

The woman tears across the countryside. Her mind is rioting in her head, banging at the walls of the skull it is contained in, that is to say: it goes to the limit. She is chased off by the skiers, who for their part are blown back on the wind, chirping in their nesting boxes (which can sometimes be as big as wardrobes, and still there's no more than a couple of little nuts in them!), to their cages. We contemplate the peace Nature has seeded in our hearts and promptly eat it up from the carton. The light bulbs shed their solitary glow on us. The last of the litter is cleared up. The fathers of families obey their whims and fall upon their dependants. They scrutinize the remains of the day to see if there's anything left to eat. At the edge of the sullen forest a deer appears, we'll take it, it'll fatten up nicely on our sandwich wrappers. They chew it over and over, then they relax with a nice book and a nasty programme. For the last of them, who just

won't stop, there's a trek up a narrow path which they will presently come plunging down again, while down on the banks the wild creatures are already slinking about to whose keeping the landscape is consigned after 17.00 hours. Out of laziness the locals stay hidden away in their houses. The men give their attention entirely to the TV set, where they can look at the animals and countryside and learn about their own nonsensical customs. The women are unemployed. The wind breezes about the peaks and soothes the pain as much as is necessary if one's to be entertained by a series about beer brewers and farmers who grow sunflowers for the oil. Yes indeed, TV doesn't pull its punches, and the viewers punch the buttons and are knocked out by what they see.