I read Paul Auster's Invisible.
Humming with the potential for sex and damage. There is sex but it is hidden from us. The magician pulls the curtain and there is just the knowledge that it has happened. We hear pale skin, the softest ever and we imagine the buttery girls that have been at our fingertips.
Do all girls taste the same? You think they might, but I remember something acidic on my tongue, a strong scent to it and I would have pulled away if it had not been impolite. I tasted disease or lack of cleanliness or her nasty edge, bitter sticky. No, nothing to do with her mean streak I suppose because another was all sugar, honey sweet when I suspect that she was more insidiously manipulative.
Auster and his triste and my mind wanders to the girls I have known because this girl, Auster's beautiful poised older woman with her striking face and her femme fatal body, this girl is someone I am having on the page. I taste her in the missing sentences. I feel her fingers in my body. Auster's empty sex. I open the curtain and reveal it.