Jon Ureña's Blog, page 28
August 16, 2023
Life update (08/16/2023)
After I spent the last hours of yesterday afternoon playing Baldur’s Gate 3 (a 97 on Metacritic, well deserved), and this morning on the train rereading Asano’s Nijigahara Holograph (one of his earliest, lesser works), I entered the office only to be greeted by the secretary and a coworker giving me a weird look. I greeted them, I walked to my workstation, then I heard them speaking in hushed tones, which, as far as I’m concerned, is extremely disrespectful in an office. I felt someone looking at me, so I glanced over my shoulder only to realize that the secretary was staring at me. What the fuck is wrong with people so early in the morning?
What was wrong is that the prick whose medical leave I’m covering has returned to work, and is currently sitting at his workstation. I have covered his suspicious leaves plenty of times (they sometimes take months, for no apparent reason), and whenever he returns, he never informs anybody of it, which is the least you can expect from a worker who knows that someone’s contract will end the moment he comes back.
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What was wrong is that the prick whose medical leave I’m covering has returned to work, and is currently sitting at his workstation. I have covered his suspicious leaves plenty of times (they sometimes take months, for no apparent reason), and whenever he returns, he never informs anybody of it, which is the least you can expect from a worker who knows that someone’s contract will end the moment he comes back.
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August 11, 2023
Life update (08/11/2023)
This morning, as I was reading on the train to work, I found myself unable to comprehend the printed symbols: I could tell that my eyeballs were capturing images, but my brain refused to process the contained information. I closed my eyes and tried to snap out of that confusion. In the darkness I spotted a jagged line of glitchy light. I was coming down with a migraine.
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August 7, 2023
Life update (08/07/2023)
As I mentioned at least in one previous entry, ever since I returned to work after my six-months-long break, the vibe at the office has changed for me. Beyond objective changes like the main boss refusing to greet me nor look me in the face, and some other coworker doing pretty much the same (in addition to whispering and murmuring about me from two meters away), I’m getting the feeling that something else is at play: last Friday, as a different coworker was whispering nearby, I caught a glimpse of him glancing at me, and I felt myself going into fight-or-flight mode. What’s your beef with me, motherfucker? But that same guy had been talking to me normally the previous day. To this minor incident I had to add numerous other impressions I have gotten at the office since I returned to work. I feel that plenty of the coworkers, as they pass me by, are projecting malice at me.
On top of that, there was a moment when I realized that my bowels weren’t complaining as much as five minutes ago. But I didn’t go to the bathroom, did I? My rotten guts never stop hurting spontaneously. Yes, I recalled having taken the decision to get up and walk to the bathroom, but I hadn’t retained any single memory of having done so. I don’t remember any other recent instances of such clear-cut short-term memory loss.
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On top of that, there was a moment when I realized that my bowels weren’t complaining as much as five minutes ago. But I didn’t go to the bathroom, did I? My rotten guts never stop hurting spontaneously. Yes, I recalled having taken the decision to get up and walk to the bathroom, but I hadn’t retained any single memory of having done so. I don’t remember any other recent instances of such clear-cut short-term memory loss.
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August 2, 2023
Life update (08/02/2023)
Jeez, it feels like I just wrote one of these. But I have nothing better to do now other than wait for tomorrow afternoon to come, so I may as well write about a few things in my mind.
First of all, the vibe at work has worsened. In short, back in January my contract was about to end. My boss offered me a finagled new contract that I’m sure wasn’t very legal, but I refused because it lowered my wages by thirty percent. I also was sick of working there, had experienced my second episode of arrhythmia recently, and I wanted to rely on unemployment benefits for a while. Last month I returned to work only to find out that the aforementioned boss (main boss of the place) no longer wants to acknowledge my presence. I could understand that. However, recently I have realized that another coworker has gone from speaking to me cordially (before my last contract ended) to refusing to look at me as well as return my greetings, and is generally being a dick.
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First of all, the vibe at work has worsened. In short, back in January my contract was about to end. My boss offered me a finagled new contract that I’m sure wasn’t very legal, but I refused because it lowered my wages by thirty percent. I also was sick of working there, had experienced my second episode of arrhythmia recently, and I wanted to rely on unemployment benefits for a while. Last month I returned to work only to find out that the aforementioned boss (main boss of the place) no longer wants to acknowledge my presence. I could understand that. However, recently I have realized that another coworker has gone from speaking to me cordially (before my last contract ended) to refusing to look at me as well as return my greetings, and is generally being a dick.
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July 31, 2023
We're Fucked, Pt. 108 (Fiction)
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---
My brain concedes that this East Asian woman standing before me will stick around, instead of dematerializing as suddenly as she manifested naked in Jacqueline's bedroom. She's in her early twenties. Epicanthic folds narrow her slanted eyes. Their black pupils and charcoal-gray irises scintillate like tiny galaxies in the twinkling candlelight, that also caresses her pale skin devoid of wrinkles, blemishes, or visible pores. Her flat nose culminates with an upturned tip framed by small nostrils, followed by lips like painted watercolor, pink as blooming roses.
Although I remain intoxicated by the candles' scent, the shock has snapped me out of my sex haze and rebooted the paranoid routines. As I gawk slack-jawed at the intruder, my lips part in speechless confusion. Jacqueline has vanished. My hands have gone cold, and I realize that I'm clutching at the bedclothes. I have become a child again, lost in a bustling city, desperately searching for a familiar face.
When the Asian creature opens her rosebud of a mouth, a feminine voice, clear and pure like a stream trickling over smooth stones, drifts between her gleaming white teeth.
"Take as long as you need."
I can't mistake that hint of a French accent. I swallow past the lump in my throat.
"Tu parles... le français?"
Her brows knit together in concern.
"Oui. It's still me, darling. Fluent in French, Spanish, and English."
My chest swells, then releases the pressure with an exhalation that comes like a first breath after holding it underwater. I'm a child who has found her mommy. However, a flood of questions crashes against the walls of my skull.
"H-how can you turn Asian? Is that something humans can do and I had failed to notice?"
As her eyes squint into two thin slits, a giggle, melodious and infectious, bubbles up from that exquisite visage, sparking an ember-like warmth in my chest. Jacqueline-but-Asian tilts her head, and her waist-length tresses cascade over her bare shoulder in a gleaming onyx tide. She stretches her lips into a mischievous smile.
"As far as I know, I'm unique in that regard. Who can say for sure, though? Until a few years ago, I would have thought all of this impossible. But I can change my form, and you, ma chérie, can communicate with beings from other dimensions."
"I-I guess. Sounds like I've gotten the short end of the stick."
Jacqueline lowers her head. She wipes at the corners of her eyes with her delicate fingers, brushing away the dewy beginnings of tears, even though she's grinning. She lets out a soft sigh.
"Oh, what a relief. I've been dying to drop the bombshell on you ever since our first date in that Irish pub, but I thought I would never dare. The what-ifs drove me mad. Now that I have entrusted you with my burden, will you accept it? Will you stay by my side and make mommy happy?"
My heart swells. I want to spring off the mattress and throw myself at Jacqueline even in her Eastern incarnation.
"Don't you know the answer to that question? I have come to terms with far more outlandish shit. In love, we accept each other even when we violate the laws of reality."
Jacqueline presses a palm over her breastbone. A blush has tinted her cheeks, and those irises, deep as a starless night, shine in the candlelight like mirror-coated buttons.
"So... can you turn into other animals?" I ask. "Non-humanoid ones?"
She flashes a coquettish grin.
"Why, would that get you off?"
"Most things can get me off. But I'm just curious."
"I was reluctant to try, in case my intelligence disappeared along with my human form. I worried in vain, though. When I attempted to transform into a dolphin, it didn't work."
"Why a dolphin?"
"Pretty sure I read that dolphins have a similar brain size. They're also graceful and adorable."
I shrug.
"They do hold a special attraction, perhaps a precognitive certainty about humanity's doom. Did you attempt this transformation in a pool...?"
"Nope, in our living room. I planned to switch for a couple of seconds, then transform back into my gorgeous human body and laugh it off."
I picture a bubblegum-pink dolphin, its skin shiny and rubber-smooth, flopping and hopping about, slapping the living room carpet with its flukes. A pair of meaty breasts squeeze and jostle against each other, nestled between the pectoral fins. Mommy stranded forever as a Delphinidae, her squeaking pleas unheard or unheeded until the SWAT breaks into our humble home and the operatives shoot their harpoon guns.
"I asked the universe for help," Jacqueline continues, "and this is what it granted me. It's been a fun if somewhat hollow ride."
I rub my eyelids, trying to dispel the image of those dolphin tits.
"You are so unique, yet you waste your precious life working at our office, filling Excel spreadsheets with Arachne knows what unholy nonsense. You should be employed by an international spy ring to infiltrate criminal gangs, corrupt governments or evil corporations."
She tosses her head, causing her obsidian mane to billow around her naked torso, and giggles like a schoolgirl.
"We need to keep our little miracle going, my love." Jacqueline tucks in her chin, giving me a coy glance under her inky lashes. "Now I wish you had the power to turn into a cute little kitty."
"Sure, I have often wished I could transform into a beast and escape humanity. But what would you do with a kitten me? Stroke my furry tummy? Cuddle me to sleep? Feed me milk?"
Her mouth widens into a toothy grin.
"I would put a collar and a bell around your neck, then take you for walks around the neighborhood. I'd let you sniff the asses of stray cats and dogs. Once you had done your business, I'd reward you with a bowl of milk and catnip cookies."
My pulse picks up, and heat creeps onto my cheeks, but I'm too stupefied to get horny.
---
Author's note: today's song is "Anthems for a Seventeen Year-Old Girl" by Broken Social Scene.
I keep a playlist with all the songs mentioned throughout this novel. A total of a hundred and seventy-three videos so far. Check them out.
I produced the audiochapter for this one. Check it out.
A little bug has gotten inside my monitor and died there. Apparently that's a thing that happens.
---
My brain concedes that this East Asian woman standing before me will stick around, instead of dematerializing as suddenly as she manifested naked in Jacqueline's bedroom. She's in her early twenties. Epicanthic folds narrow her slanted eyes. Their black pupils and charcoal-gray irises scintillate like tiny galaxies in the twinkling candlelight, that also caresses her pale skin devoid of wrinkles, blemishes, or visible pores. Her flat nose culminates with an upturned tip framed by small nostrils, followed by lips like painted watercolor, pink as blooming roses.
Although I remain intoxicated by the candles' scent, the shock has snapped me out of my sex haze and rebooted the paranoid routines. As I gawk slack-jawed at the intruder, my lips part in speechless confusion. Jacqueline has vanished. My hands have gone cold, and I realize that I'm clutching at the bedclothes. I have become a child again, lost in a bustling city, desperately searching for a familiar face.
When the Asian creature opens her rosebud of a mouth, a feminine voice, clear and pure like a stream trickling over smooth stones, drifts between her gleaming white teeth.
"Take as long as you need."
I can't mistake that hint of a French accent. I swallow past the lump in my throat.
"Tu parles... le français?"
Her brows knit together in concern.
"Oui. It's still me, darling. Fluent in French, Spanish, and English."
My chest swells, then releases the pressure with an exhalation that comes like a first breath after holding it underwater. I'm a child who has found her mommy. However, a flood of questions crashes against the walls of my skull.
"H-how can you turn Asian? Is that something humans can do and I had failed to notice?"
As her eyes squint into two thin slits, a giggle, melodious and infectious, bubbles up from that exquisite visage, sparking an ember-like warmth in my chest. Jacqueline-but-Asian tilts her head, and her waist-length tresses cascade over her bare shoulder in a gleaming onyx tide. She stretches her lips into a mischievous smile.
"As far as I know, I'm unique in that regard. Who can say for sure, though? Until a few years ago, I would have thought all of this impossible. But I can change my form, and you, ma chérie, can communicate with beings from other dimensions."
"I-I guess. Sounds like I've gotten the short end of the stick."
Jacqueline lowers her head. She wipes at the corners of her eyes with her delicate fingers, brushing away the dewy beginnings of tears, even though she's grinning. She lets out a soft sigh.
"Oh, what a relief. I've been dying to drop the bombshell on you ever since our first date in that Irish pub, but I thought I would never dare. The what-ifs drove me mad. Now that I have entrusted you with my burden, will you accept it? Will you stay by my side and make mommy happy?"
My heart swells. I want to spring off the mattress and throw myself at Jacqueline even in her Eastern incarnation.
"Don't you know the answer to that question? I have come to terms with far more outlandish shit. In love, we accept each other even when we violate the laws of reality."
Jacqueline presses a palm over her breastbone. A blush has tinted her cheeks, and those irises, deep as a starless night, shine in the candlelight like mirror-coated buttons.
"So... can you turn into other animals?" I ask. "Non-humanoid ones?"
She flashes a coquettish grin.
"Why, would that get you off?"
"Most things can get me off. But I'm just curious."
"I was reluctant to try, in case my intelligence disappeared along with my human form. I worried in vain, though. When I attempted to transform into a dolphin, it didn't work."
"Why a dolphin?"
"Pretty sure I read that dolphins have a similar brain size. They're also graceful and adorable."
I shrug.
"They do hold a special attraction, perhaps a precognitive certainty about humanity's doom. Did you attempt this transformation in a pool...?"
"Nope, in our living room. I planned to switch for a couple of seconds, then transform back into my gorgeous human body and laugh it off."
I picture a bubblegum-pink dolphin, its skin shiny and rubber-smooth, flopping and hopping about, slapping the living room carpet with its flukes. A pair of meaty breasts squeeze and jostle against each other, nestled between the pectoral fins. Mommy stranded forever as a Delphinidae, her squeaking pleas unheard or unheeded until the SWAT breaks into our humble home and the operatives shoot their harpoon guns.
"I asked the universe for help," Jacqueline continues, "and this is what it granted me. It's been a fun if somewhat hollow ride."
I rub my eyelids, trying to dispel the image of those dolphin tits.
"You are so unique, yet you waste your precious life working at our office, filling Excel spreadsheets with Arachne knows what unholy nonsense. You should be employed by an international spy ring to infiltrate criminal gangs, corrupt governments or evil corporations."
She tosses her head, causing her obsidian mane to billow around her naked torso, and giggles like a schoolgirl.
"We need to keep our little miracle going, my love." Jacqueline tucks in her chin, giving me a coy glance under her inky lashes. "Now I wish you had the power to turn into a cute little kitty."
"Sure, I have often wished I could transform into a beast and escape humanity. But what would you do with a kitten me? Stroke my furry tummy? Cuddle me to sleep? Feed me milk?"
Her mouth widens into a toothy grin.
"I would put a collar and a bell around your neck, then take you for walks around the neighborhood. I'd let you sniff the asses of stray cats and dogs. Once you had done your business, I'd reward you with a bowl of milk and catnip cookies."
My pulse picks up, and heat creeps onto my cheeks, but I'm too stupefied to get horny.
---
Author's note: today's song is "Anthems for a Seventeen Year-Old Girl" by Broken Social Scene.
I keep a playlist with all the songs mentioned throughout this novel. A total of a hundred and seventy-three videos so far. Check them out.
I produced the audiochapter for this one. Check it out.
A little bug has gotten inside my monitor and died there. Apparently that's a thing that happens.
July 28, 2023
Life update (07/28/2023)
Yesterday, as the train was carrying me back home from work, I reflected on the unique strain that my job provides, one that I didn’t experience as a programmer. I work as a computer technician for a big hospital complex, big enough that the tasks sometimes pass through a few departments before they get solved. However, our office receives most of those tickets first, and deals directly with the users. Once we determine that we can’t solve the problem because we aren’t supposed to (hardware issue, some printer needs ink, it’s related to a malfunctioning machine that belongs to the electromedical department, etc.), we push the tickets away and hope that they don’t come back. However, whenever I do that, it injects a growing anxiety in me; those other groups may take days, a week, or even more to solve them, but I’m the one that will receive angry emails and/or calls from the users, who seem to believe that our office solves every little issue that involves machines in this hospital complex. As a consequence, I dread every email I receive, and particularly the phone calls. In fact, virtually every interaction with human beings in the context of my job is bad news.
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July 25, 2023
We're Fucked, Pt. 107 (Fiction)
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---
Naked as I crawled into this broken world, I pad barefoot through the doorway to Jacqueline's bedroom. The blinds have been rolled down, which would have engulfed the room in darkness if it weren't for the lit candles arrayed on the nightstand, and on a stool at the foot of the bed. The flames, glowing gold, dance gently as they cast honey-colored light on the cloud-white bedclothes, and tint the walls and ceiling that one day we'll repaint with the ashes of our enemies. I breathe in an aroma of rose, jasmine, and sandalwood.
Warmth permeates my skin as if I were wrapped in a blanket. Jacqueline has gone out of her way to craft this sanctuary for my sake. I'm reminded again that someone cares for me, chooses to keep me around day after insane day, even though I'm a relentless monster. I swallow hard, pushing back tears, and quietly close the door.
From behind the towering wardrobe that cuts my view, a sultry voice, soothing as a lullaby and with a hint of French accent, wafts over to me.
"Leire, be a doll and lock the door, s'il vous plaît."
My hand reaches out, my fingers curl around the lock, then twist it into place. The metallic click resonates in the vault of my memories; how many times have I waited for that sound so I could feel safe alone, separated from the outside?
When I step past the wardrobe's side, Jacqueline captures my attention: she's standing by the mirrored door, between the wardrobe and the bed, like a medieval queen in her private chamber. My lover's feminine figure is bathed in the golden hues of candlelight that makes her eyes sparkle. Her form-fitting silk robe glimmers like an oyster-pink oil slick, which accents her dark tresses. The ivory-white skin of her face and neck and chest and bulging cleavage glow. My gaze lingers on her mouth: the Cupid's bow, the plump lower lip. I ache to feel that moist softness against me again.
"I love your fresh-from-the-shower afterglow," Jacqueline says.
"Well, I'm glad you don't find me hideous."
"Hideous? Darling, you're as beautiful as the dawn."
I blush even though I'm disintegrating, even though the blood in my veins must have turned to sludge.
"Th-thank you for preparing this romantic setup, by the way."
She chuckles, then gestures toward the bed.
"You're most welcome, ma belle. Now sit on the edge. Get comfortable."
The plush rug cushions the soles of my bare feet as I approach the bed. When I sit down, facing my beloved, the mattress dips under my weight. The lavender-scented, cottony surface feels cool against my ass and the back of my thighs.
"I'm programmed to loathe surprises, but I'm sure I will enjoy whatever you throw my way."
"I hope so."
Something in her voice gives me pause: an alien hesitation. Jacqueline turns away from me, drawn to the mirrored wardrobe. In the reflection, a shadow of doubt replaces the playful mischief that usually sparkles in her cobalt-blues. She presses her full lips together as the corner of her mouth twitches.
Jacqueline straightens her spine, maintaining a rigid posture. Her raven-black locks cascade down to the sash that hugs her hips. From under the strip of fabric, wrinkles in the robe fan out, mounting the swell of her buttocks. Her fingers find their way to the knot at the waistband. With gentle tugs, she draws the fabric out until the knot comes undone. Her hands part the sides of the robe, then she shrugs it off her shoulders. The garment flutters with a silky rustle down her voluptuous curves to the bedside rug, revealing a curvaceous frame clad only in a satin bra and a see-through thong.
The flickering glow of the candles paints Jacqueline's curves in golden highlights: the elegant slope of her shoulders, the smooth expanse of her ivory-white back, the arch of her spine, the twin dimples above her coccyx, along with the rest of her physical attributes that suggest the abundance of a bygone age, such as her sculpted calves, her thick thighs, her wide hips, and the voluminous breasts that could make a corset explode. At this sight of my beloved, whose presence has rendered the universe irrelevant, a powerful sexual charge has stoked my loins, causing my breath to hitch. I want to bow down and worship her divine splendor.
The lace edging of her thong curves over her pelvis, and the back strip has disappeared in the crevice between the toned globes of that supple, fleshy bum. I lick my lips, then bite down on the bottom one. I should fall to my knees, grab mommy around the waist, and bury my face in those sumptuous globes.
She turns around to face me. Her ivory-white skin is stretched tight across the sinuous curves of muscle in her abdomen, toned abs that flex with each exhalation, whose grooves seem carved in clay. My gaze glides upward. The candlelight dances on the satin cups of her midnight-sky-black bra. Those cups encase snugly the massive mounds of her tits, an eruption of breast tissue that threatens to tear through the mesh that restrains it.
Jacqueline reaches behind her back, and unhooks her bra. As the straps fall down her shoulders and slide down her arms, the titanic breasts spill forth to first bobble then hang like twin moons. Those blessed milk-makers, immaculately-formed melons, the most mouthwatering pair of juggernauts, attract lust like metal fillings drawn to a magnet, and justify the pain of enduring this horrid life. A film of moisture glimmers on the upper slopes of those gravity-defying spheres now bathed in the color of honey, and capped with coral-pink areolas that encircle dusky-rose nipples.
A shiver courses up my back, sending goosebumps along my arms. My heart is thumping, my blood seething with arousal. I feel lifted in slow motion by a blaze that risks incinerating my sanity.
Instead of just feasting my eyes on those buoyant mountains of flesh, I must plant on them the palms of my hands, sinking them slowly. I will squeeze and knead the tender, creamy tissue for milk as the tips of her erect nipples graze against my palms. I will cup her breasts, then draw trails of saliva with my tongue on the bumps and folds of her areolae. I will kiss the stiff nubs, nibble them, tease their pliant peaks. Once I close my mouth around a nipple, the universe will concentrate on my desire to suckle the sweetness of motherhood, a taste and scent that will conjure memories of summers spent lazing about in the garden of Jacqueline's childhood château.
My head is swimming with hormones. The feverish warmth that pulses within me, radiating outward from my core, melts the tension from my muscles like ice under boiling water. A pair of hands press the naked skin of my shoulders, pushing me back. With a slick and abrupt noise, like a wet kiss breaking, the succulent flesh that had filled my mouth suddenly leaves it. I stumble backwards onto the mattress with an inelegant flop.
Jacqueline's cobalt-blues are glazed over and half-closed, and her pupils have dilated. Her cheeks are flushed as pink as peonies. She runs her tongue along her lower lip, moistening it. Placing both hands on her bosoms, she lifts them, then smooths and massages them as the engorged nipples poke out like flower buds, begging to be pinched and sucked.
"Of course you want to dive right into my tits," she purrs. "And don't get me wrong, mommy loves her baby's attention."
My pulse is thudding in my temples, in my throat, in my loins. My brain, fried from the hormonal onslaught, struggles to form coherent thoughts.
"Jacqueline, if you'll allow me, I shall kneel before you, tear the thong off your body, and devour your steaming box with eager slurps." My voice echoes within the dark chasm of my mind, my words slip out as if I were dropping them through a keyhole. "A voice is asking me if I understand what I'm seeing, hearing and feeling. It tells me that the red tide has come to consume this world, and soon enough we will be floating face down in cosmic sewage. Death will be cold and wet and lonely, so before we dive into oblivion to join everyone else in the swampy pits of purgatory, I want to squeeze every drop of pleasure from this life."
Jacqueline chuckles throatily.
"Tu me fais trembler, ma chérie. Don't worry, I'll have you kneeling at my feet soon enough, but first there's something I'd like to show you, something you have the right to know. I want you to become privy to all that makes me who I am."
She hooks her thumbs under the thin straps of her thong, then bends over to pull the triangular piece of satin and lace down her shapely thighs. The candlelight caresses her mighty globes as they wobble and jiggle to the rhythm of her body. Once Jacqueline slides the thong off her ankles, she tosses the garment, soaked in her moisture, at my face.
Before the thong drops, I hurry to press it against my features, sticking the moist fabric to my nostrils and lips, warming them, smearing them with juices. I inhale deeply, drinking in mommy's sexual tang. The intoxicating scent, salty and ripe with an earthy muskiness, fills my lungs and soaks into my brain like a firehose spray through the skull. I let the perfume melt my synapses while a sudden dizziness rushes through me as if I were getting high.
When I open my eyes, I find myself looking into a puddle of molten gold. I blink repeatedly until I recognize Jacqueline, whose brows are furrowed in worry as she wrings her hands.
I peel the thong off my face, then put it down beside me on the mattress.
"Mommy, what's wrong?"
Jacqueline takes a deep breath. She combs a silken, gleaming lock of hair away from her face.
"I'm not sure, darling," she says timidly. "What if you reject me?"
Have I heard her right? I grimace in disbelief.
"Well, that's a silly fear for you to have."
"Silly?" Jacqueline repeats, eyebrows raised, but the tension is easing from her shoulders.
"Jacqueline, you could reveal that you're actually a three-eyed alien from Mars, and I'd still follow you to the end of the world."
Her features brighten as her lips stretch into a grin that deepens her dimples, unveils her pearly teeth, and sends a wave of lust through me. Her eyes are glinting like blue fire.
"Alright. Check this out, Leire: a part of me that I haven't shown anybody else."
I blink. Wasn't I staring Jacqueline in the eye? Instead I find myself looking at inky black hair with bluish reflections and parted in the middle. When I slide my gaze down, my head snaps back, and a shiver runs down my spine. Two monolid, almond-shaped eyes are staring at me from a face as pale as rice paper, that would belong in a medieval drawing of a Japanese courtesan.
---
Author's note: today's songs are "La bohème" by Charles Aznavour, "Engine" by Neutral Milk Hotel, and "Sunshine Superman" by Donovan.
I keep a playlist with all the songs I've mentioned throughout this series. A total of a hundred and seventy-two videos. Check them out.
Hey, I heard you enjoy audiochapters. Got a fresh one right here.
I have been sick since last Thursday, mostly an excess of mucus and feeling out of it. It's not covid, according to a couple of tests. On top of that, I'm working full-time. Due to my permanent heart issues thanks to a certain biological/technological weapon, I can't consume caffeine, and I'm taking beta blockers. By four in the afternoon, my head is buzzing with exhaustion. I have changed my schedule to preparing the next writing session in the afternoon, then going to sleep at nine and waking up at four or five in the morning so I can inject the needed meaning into an otherwise pointless day. My job remains as shitty as usual, or even worse, because I'm rarely in the mood to tolerate any bullshit. There's also, of course, the issue of constant anxiety and my IBS, which keep me locked in the most basic sphere of survival.
Why am I telling you this? Who are you anyway? Whatever. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and if you didn't, go read someone else's stuff.
---
Naked as I crawled into this broken world, I pad barefoot through the doorway to Jacqueline's bedroom. The blinds have been rolled down, which would have engulfed the room in darkness if it weren't for the lit candles arrayed on the nightstand, and on a stool at the foot of the bed. The flames, glowing gold, dance gently as they cast honey-colored light on the cloud-white bedclothes, and tint the walls and ceiling that one day we'll repaint with the ashes of our enemies. I breathe in an aroma of rose, jasmine, and sandalwood.
Warmth permeates my skin as if I were wrapped in a blanket. Jacqueline has gone out of her way to craft this sanctuary for my sake. I'm reminded again that someone cares for me, chooses to keep me around day after insane day, even though I'm a relentless monster. I swallow hard, pushing back tears, and quietly close the door.
From behind the towering wardrobe that cuts my view, a sultry voice, soothing as a lullaby and with a hint of French accent, wafts over to me.
"Leire, be a doll and lock the door, s'il vous plaît."
My hand reaches out, my fingers curl around the lock, then twist it into place. The metallic click resonates in the vault of my memories; how many times have I waited for that sound so I could feel safe alone, separated from the outside?
When I step past the wardrobe's side, Jacqueline captures my attention: she's standing by the mirrored door, between the wardrobe and the bed, like a medieval queen in her private chamber. My lover's feminine figure is bathed in the golden hues of candlelight that makes her eyes sparkle. Her form-fitting silk robe glimmers like an oyster-pink oil slick, which accents her dark tresses. The ivory-white skin of her face and neck and chest and bulging cleavage glow. My gaze lingers on her mouth: the Cupid's bow, the plump lower lip. I ache to feel that moist softness against me again.
"I love your fresh-from-the-shower afterglow," Jacqueline says.
"Well, I'm glad you don't find me hideous."
"Hideous? Darling, you're as beautiful as the dawn."
I blush even though I'm disintegrating, even though the blood in my veins must have turned to sludge.
"Th-thank you for preparing this romantic setup, by the way."
She chuckles, then gestures toward the bed.
"You're most welcome, ma belle. Now sit on the edge. Get comfortable."
The plush rug cushions the soles of my bare feet as I approach the bed. When I sit down, facing my beloved, the mattress dips under my weight. The lavender-scented, cottony surface feels cool against my ass and the back of my thighs.
"I'm programmed to loathe surprises, but I'm sure I will enjoy whatever you throw my way."
"I hope so."
Something in her voice gives me pause: an alien hesitation. Jacqueline turns away from me, drawn to the mirrored wardrobe. In the reflection, a shadow of doubt replaces the playful mischief that usually sparkles in her cobalt-blues. She presses her full lips together as the corner of her mouth twitches.
Jacqueline straightens her spine, maintaining a rigid posture. Her raven-black locks cascade down to the sash that hugs her hips. From under the strip of fabric, wrinkles in the robe fan out, mounting the swell of her buttocks. Her fingers find their way to the knot at the waistband. With gentle tugs, she draws the fabric out until the knot comes undone. Her hands part the sides of the robe, then she shrugs it off her shoulders. The garment flutters with a silky rustle down her voluptuous curves to the bedside rug, revealing a curvaceous frame clad only in a satin bra and a see-through thong.
The flickering glow of the candles paints Jacqueline's curves in golden highlights: the elegant slope of her shoulders, the smooth expanse of her ivory-white back, the arch of her spine, the twin dimples above her coccyx, along with the rest of her physical attributes that suggest the abundance of a bygone age, such as her sculpted calves, her thick thighs, her wide hips, and the voluminous breasts that could make a corset explode. At this sight of my beloved, whose presence has rendered the universe irrelevant, a powerful sexual charge has stoked my loins, causing my breath to hitch. I want to bow down and worship her divine splendor.
The lace edging of her thong curves over her pelvis, and the back strip has disappeared in the crevice between the toned globes of that supple, fleshy bum. I lick my lips, then bite down on the bottom one. I should fall to my knees, grab mommy around the waist, and bury my face in those sumptuous globes.
She turns around to face me. Her ivory-white skin is stretched tight across the sinuous curves of muscle in her abdomen, toned abs that flex with each exhalation, whose grooves seem carved in clay. My gaze glides upward. The candlelight dances on the satin cups of her midnight-sky-black bra. Those cups encase snugly the massive mounds of her tits, an eruption of breast tissue that threatens to tear through the mesh that restrains it.
Jacqueline reaches behind her back, and unhooks her bra. As the straps fall down her shoulders and slide down her arms, the titanic breasts spill forth to first bobble then hang like twin moons. Those blessed milk-makers, immaculately-formed melons, the most mouthwatering pair of juggernauts, attract lust like metal fillings drawn to a magnet, and justify the pain of enduring this horrid life. A film of moisture glimmers on the upper slopes of those gravity-defying spheres now bathed in the color of honey, and capped with coral-pink areolas that encircle dusky-rose nipples.
A shiver courses up my back, sending goosebumps along my arms. My heart is thumping, my blood seething with arousal. I feel lifted in slow motion by a blaze that risks incinerating my sanity.
Instead of just feasting my eyes on those buoyant mountains of flesh, I must plant on them the palms of my hands, sinking them slowly. I will squeeze and knead the tender, creamy tissue for milk as the tips of her erect nipples graze against my palms. I will cup her breasts, then draw trails of saliva with my tongue on the bumps and folds of her areolae. I will kiss the stiff nubs, nibble them, tease their pliant peaks. Once I close my mouth around a nipple, the universe will concentrate on my desire to suckle the sweetness of motherhood, a taste and scent that will conjure memories of summers spent lazing about in the garden of Jacqueline's childhood château.
My head is swimming with hormones. The feverish warmth that pulses within me, radiating outward from my core, melts the tension from my muscles like ice under boiling water. A pair of hands press the naked skin of my shoulders, pushing me back. With a slick and abrupt noise, like a wet kiss breaking, the succulent flesh that had filled my mouth suddenly leaves it. I stumble backwards onto the mattress with an inelegant flop.
Jacqueline's cobalt-blues are glazed over and half-closed, and her pupils have dilated. Her cheeks are flushed as pink as peonies. She runs her tongue along her lower lip, moistening it. Placing both hands on her bosoms, she lifts them, then smooths and massages them as the engorged nipples poke out like flower buds, begging to be pinched and sucked.
"Of course you want to dive right into my tits," she purrs. "And don't get me wrong, mommy loves her baby's attention."
My pulse is thudding in my temples, in my throat, in my loins. My brain, fried from the hormonal onslaught, struggles to form coherent thoughts.
"Jacqueline, if you'll allow me, I shall kneel before you, tear the thong off your body, and devour your steaming box with eager slurps." My voice echoes within the dark chasm of my mind, my words slip out as if I were dropping them through a keyhole. "A voice is asking me if I understand what I'm seeing, hearing and feeling. It tells me that the red tide has come to consume this world, and soon enough we will be floating face down in cosmic sewage. Death will be cold and wet and lonely, so before we dive into oblivion to join everyone else in the swampy pits of purgatory, I want to squeeze every drop of pleasure from this life."
Jacqueline chuckles throatily.
"Tu me fais trembler, ma chérie. Don't worry, I'll have you kneeling at my feet soon enough, but first there's something I'd like to show you, something you have the right to know. I want you to become privy to all that makes me who I am."
She hooks her thumbs under the thin straps of her thong, then bends over to pull the triangular piece of satin and lace down her shapely thighs. The candlelight caresses her mighty globes as they wobble and jiggle to the rhythm of her body. Once Jacqueline slides the thong off her ankles, she tosses the garment, soaked in her moisture, at my face.
Before the thong drops, I hurry to press it against my features, sticking the moist fabric to my nostrils and lips, warming them, smearing them with juices. I inhale deeply, drinking in mommy's sexual tang. The intoxicating scent, salty and ripe with an earthy muskiness, fills my lungs and soaks into my brain like a firehose spray through the skull. I let the perfume melt my synapses while a sudden dizziness rushes through me as if I were getting high.
When I open my eyes, I find myself looking into a puddle of molten gold. I blink repeatedly until I recognize Jacqueline, whose brows are furrowed in worry as she wrings her hands.
I peel the thong off my face, then put it down beside me on the mattress.
"Mommy, what's wrong?"
Jacqueline takes a deep breath. She combs a silken, gleaming lock of hair away from her face.
"I'm not sure, darling," she says timidly. "What if you reject me?"
Have I heard her right? I grimace in disbelief.
"Well, that's a silly fear for you to have."
"Silly?" Jacqueline repeats, eyebrows raised, but the tension is easing from her shoulders.
"Jacqueline, you could reveal that you're actually a three-eyed alien from Mars, and I'd still follow you to the end of the world."
Her features brighten as her lips stretch into a grin that deepens her dimples, unveils her pearly teeth, and sends a wave of lust through me. Her eyes are glinting like blue fire.
"Alright. Check this out, Leire: a part of me that I haven't shown anybody else."
I blink. Wasn't I staring Jacqueline in the eye? Instead I find myself looking at inky black hair with bluish reflections and parted in the middle. When I slide my gaze down, my head snaps back, and a shiver runs down my spine. Two monolid, almond-shaped eyes are staring at me from a face as pale as rice paper, that would belong in a medieval drawing of a Japanese courtesan.
---
Author's note: today's songs are "La bohème" by Charles Aznavour, "Engine" by Neutral Milk Hotel, and "Sunshine Superman" by Donovan.
I keep a playlist with all the songs I've mentioned throughout this series. A total of a hundred and seventy-two videos. Check them out.
Hey, I heard you enjoy audiochapters. Got a fresh one right here.
I have been sick since last Thursday, mostly an excess of mucus and feeling out of it. It's not covid, according to a couple of tests. On top of that, I'm working full-time. Due to my permanent heart issues thanks to a certain biological/technological weapon, I can't consume caffeine, and I'm taking beta blockers. By four in the afternoon, my head is buzzing with exhaustion. I have changed my schedule to preparing the next writing session in the afternoon, then going to sleep at nine and waking up at four or five in the morning so I can inject the needed meaning into an otherwise pointless day. My job remains as shitty as usual, or even worse, because I'm rarely in the mood to tolerate any bullshit. There's also, of course, the issue of constant anxiety and my IBS, which keep me locked in the most basic sphere of survival.
Why am I telling you this? Who are you anyway? Whatever. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and if you didn't, go read someone else's stuff.
July 21, 2023
Review: Homunculus, by Hideo Yamamoto
We can speak therefore we lie, we have bodies therefore we hurt others, we have eyes therefore we can be seen by other people. It’s because we have forms that we can worry over a few millimeters-large pimple, get irritated over a few centimeters-large deviation in face or body, panic over the loss of a single front tooth… Eyes are drawn to other eyes a few millimeters too large, eyes peer away from noses a few millimeters too large, eyes are stolen by women a few centimeters thin, and a man a few centimeters too short can never find eyes to look upon him. Without forms, humans cannot suffer.
Let me get this out of the way: Homunculus is a masterpiece. I first read it a few years ago, but it lingered in my subconscious to the extent that I felt the need to reread the whole series, something I rarely do. It connects with my personal issues and artistic aspirations to such an extent that it’s likely my second favorite manga series, after Asano’s Oyasumi Punpun.
[Check out the rest of this review on my personal page, where it looks better]
July 17, 2023
Life update (07/17/2023)
I have spent most of my weekend in the capital of the Basque Country, named Vitoria-Gasteiz. I traveled there by train because on Sunday I had to pass an exam that would determine how often they would keep calling me to work as an IT guy at the local public health care organization, for which I’ve worked on-and-off since 2018.
[Check out the rest of this post on my personal page, where it looks better]
[Check out the rest of this post on my personal page, where it looks better]
July 12, 2023
We're Fucked, Pt. 106 (Fiction)
Check out this chapter on my personal page, where it looks better
---
Adrift in a fog of hormones, unsteady as if my bones had softened to clay, I unbutton my shirt, pull it off, and toss it onto the toilet seat cover. I kick off my sneakers into a corner. I shimmy my trousers down, leaving them bunched up around my ankles, then I step out of them. I unclasp the bra and discard it atop my shirt. I hook my thumbs in the elastic waistband of my panties and tug them down. After I shed my socks, the ceramic tiles send a pleasant chill through the soles of my feet, a contrast to the heated flush lingering on my skin.
From my peripheral vision, in the mirror above the sink, I glimpse my doppelgänger. She's daring me to confront that slimy abomination, the viscous goo dribbling down in thick trails, those gaping, ragged holes instead of eyes and a mouth.
An icy dread numbs my guts, the familiar fear that creeps up whenever I'm about to square up to my reflection. My heart is pounding. I take a deep breath that smells of floral air freshener, then I turn toward the sink. I lean forward to plant my left palm on the mirrored cabinet door, covering the reflected face. My auburn hair frames the pale hand, which has lost enough subcutaneous fat that the veins and tendons appear in relief.
The halogen glow of the lighting fixture is throwing my form, the canvas my consciousness has been bolted onto, against the glass. A pair of ample, bell-shaped breasts hang in contrast to my thin frame, swaying lightly with every breath. Protruding ribs, stark as the rungs on a ladder, curve around the torso in an exhibition of skeletal architecture. Below, my abdomen hollows into a sunken landscape, and my flesh is stretched tight across the prominent hipbones.
I'm a revolting corpse-like wreck, but at least corpses are spared from having to face the outside world again.
"Look at you," I mutter. "An avatar of death in the guise of life."
At the bottom of the mirror peeks out a patch of auburn curls, perhaps a symbol of my unruly nature. I push myself off the cabinet. While keeping my gaze down, I stand on my tiptoes until the glass reflects my vulva: the hood that protects my button of joy, and the vertical flat mouth, coated with glistening moisture, nestled within the untamed curls like some shell-less mollusc.
Using my forefingers, I spread my pussy open. The white light draws stretch marks on the rose-pink insides of my flesh pocket. At its bottom, two pliant folds peel apart to reveal a black void. As I caress my labia, the clitoral hood retracts, unveiling the rosy bean. Suddenly I'm worried that if I keep my pussy open, a passing mouse might leap in headfirst to build a nest inside.
In a matter of minutes, mommy will recline on her queen-size bed, her head against some faux-fur pillows, and I will lie on my tummy between her thighs to lick her pussy like a dog after spending weeks away from its master. She better be ready; the sandwich I ate for lunch ended up as vomit in a wastebasket, so I'm ravenous.
As I slide my fingers along my slit, probing its wetness, a thrilling shiver shoots through me, arching all the way up my spine. My breathing has grown shallow, and my heart is drumming against my sternum. When I press the sides of my labia together, my engorged clit protrudes from its shelter. I rub that sensitive bean in slow circles.
"Eat me up," Jacqueline purrs in my mind, "slurp me up, my precious darling, and I'll take care of you."
A musky scent reaches my nostrils. The rosy flesh of my pussy, that shines in the mirror like slathered in petroleum jelly, is filling with a rush of warm juices while its insides clench around nothing, craving to be filled. I dip my index and middle fingers with a squelch into my leaking tunnel, whose slick fluids are gliding down to my ass crack.
"Oh, Jacqueline," I whisper, breathless, as my vaginal walls clamp around my fingers. "I never wanted to be human, I was only born as one, and until I met you, I hated everything about my life, every goddamn thing. La vie est faite pour la mort. If only I could take a piece of you and stitch it into my own flesh."
I pull my fingers back with a wet slurp. They are coated in an obsidian-black, sticky substance, and tethered to a catenary of goo that stretches out, clinging to my skin, like a thread of rotten honey.
As my feverish daze begins to lift, and the world returns in a carousel of blurred colors and shapes, I find myself gripping the edge of the ceramic basin. My body is thrumming with arousal, but I'm getting a whiff of the blob's stench mingled with my stale sweat; I picture a wet and moldy mound of garbage crawling with worms and roaches. I was supposed to wash off the grime, not make it stickier.
Once I step inside the shower cubicle, I adjust the temperature with the metallic knob. I turn on the shower to let the water heat up, and the showerhead sputters before it begins to spray a steady stream, filling the cubicle with a rhythmic drumming. I take a deep breath, then walk into the warm flow. Its droplets burst against my chest, against my face. I tilt my head back and stand stock still, arms hanging limp at my sides, eyes closed, mouth agape, surrendering myself to the downpour. As I lean forward, the cascade bathes my scalp with a tingling warmth. Rivulets stream down my back and neck, and trickle between my breasts.
I reach for the shampoo bottle that, tucked away on the corner shelf, with its bright purple hue, stands out like an alien splotch against the tiles. I squeeze a generous dollop of cream onto my palm, and the scent wafts up along with the steam: lavender and chamomile. At first I massage the shampoo into my scalp, soaking the roots of my hair, then I start scraping the skin with my nails, trying to purge every particle of muck buried within the follicles.
I snatch a bottle of shower gel with one hand and a loofah with the other. I pop the bottle's cap open, then I squirt enough rose-scented gel to drown the sponge. I'm scrubbing, scrubbing away, lathering every inch of my body, every crevice, to wash away the dried sweat and grime from my armpits, limbs, thighs, genitals; anyplace that may be drenched in the blob's filth. The cascade of hot water must be washing off the grime and layers of pollution, along with the viruses, bacilli and amoebae that tattooed themselves onto my being. The stink of sewage and doom must be fading as the liquid of life glides down my slippery skin. Yet, I can't shake the feeling of decay that clings to me, nor the black thoughts scrawled across my mind. I wish I were scrubbing myself with a wire brush, raking my flesh down to the bone.
I drop the loofah, then turn off the shower. My skin tingles. I shiver, I shrug, I press the fleshy bases of my thumbs against my eyelids.
"This is fine." Foam invades my mouth. It tastes bitter, chemical. "You, Nairu and I can live happily on our own private moon."
Down on the shower pan, the remnants of my day, a pit of brew turned shadow-gray, are spiraling and gurgling down the drain.
---
Author's note: today's song is "Tous les garçons et les filles" by Françoise Hardy.
I keep a playlist with all the songs mentioned throughout this novel. A total of a hundred and sixty-nine videos so far. Check them out.
Psst! Do you enjoy audiochapters? Check out this fresh new one.
I was introduced to Françoise Hardy and her music back in primary school. Our French teacher showed the music video of that song on an old CRT TV. I was enthralled, and from then on, French ladies became a matter of mystical beauty. It didn't hurt that most of the French girls I met when going to the beach in Hendaye, or that visited our town, were usually lovely. I have to assume that Françoise Hardy inspired Jacqueline's depiction, although I wouldn't be sure to what extent, as I don't plan those things consciously.
Last I know of Hardy, back in 2021 she was dying of terminal cancer, and begging the French government to euthanize her.
My septuagenarian father has covid. This Saturday I will travel to Vitoria so I can attempt to pass an exam on Sunday, that will determine how often they will call me back to work for the next few years. See you on the other side.
---
Adrift in a fog of hormones, unsteady as if my bones had softened to clay, I unbutton my shirt, pull it off, and toss it onto the toilet seat cover. I kick off my sneakers into a corner. I shimmy my trousers down, leaving them bunched up around my ankles, then I step out of them. I unclasp the bra and discard it atop my shirt. I hook my thumbs in the elastic waistband of my panties and tug them down. After I shed my socks, the ceramic tiles send a pleasant chill through the soles of my feet, a contrast to the heated flush lingering on my skin.
From my peripheral vision, in the mirror above the sink, I glimpse my doppelgänger. She's daring me to confront that slimy abomination, the viscous goo dribbling down in thick trails, those gaping, ragged holes instead of eyes and a mouth.
An icy dread numbs my guts, the familiar fear that creeps up whenever I'm about to square up to my reflection. My heart is pounding. I take a deep breath that smells of floral air freshener, then I turn toward the sink. I lean forward to plant my left palm on the mirrored cabinet door, covering the reflected face. My auburn hair frames the pale hand, which has lost enough subcutaneous fat that the veins and tendons appear in relief.
The halogen glow of the lighting fixture is throwing my form, the canvas my consciousness has been bolted onto, against the glass. A pair of ample, bell-shaped breasts hang in contrast to my thin frame, swaying lightly with every breath. Protruding ribs, stark as the rungs on a ladder, curve around the torso in an exhibition of skeletal architecture. Below, my abdomen hollows into a sunken landscape, and my flesh is stretched tight across the prominent hipbones.
I'm a revolting corpse-like wreck, but at least corpses are spared from having to face the outside world again.
"Look at you," I mutter. "An avatar of death in the guise of life."
At the bottom of the mirror peeks out a patch of auburn curls, perhaps a symbol of my unruly nature. I push myself off the cabinet. While keeping my gaze down, I stand on my tiptoes until the glass reflects my vulva: the hood that protects my button of joy, and the vertical flat mouth, coated with glistening moisture, nestled within the untamed curls like some shell-less mollusc.
Using my forefingers, I spread my pussy open. The white light draws stretch marks on the rose-pink insides of my flesh pocket. At its bottom, two pliant folds peel apart to reveal a black void. As I caress my labia, the clitoral hood retracts, unveiling the rosy bean. Suddenly I'm worried that if I keep my pussy open, a passing mouse might leap in headfirst to build a nest inside.
In a matter of minutes, mommy will recline on her queen-size bed, her head against some faux-fur pillows, and I will lie on my tummy between her thighs to lick her pussy like a dog after spending weeks away from its master. She better be ready; the sandwich I ate for lunch ended up as vomit in a wastebasket, so I'm ravenous.
As I slide my fingers along my slit, probing its wetness, a thrilling shiver shoots through me, arching all the way up my spine. My breathing has grown shallow, and my heart is drumming against my sternum. When I press the sides of my labia together, my engorged clit protrudes from its shelter. I rub that sensitive bean in slow circles.
"Eat me up," Jacqueline purrs in my mind, "slurp me up, my precious darling, and I'll take care of you."
A musky scent reaches my nostrils. The rosy flesh of my pussy, that shines in the mirror like slathered in petroleum jelly, is filling with a rush of warm juices while its insides clench around nothing, craving to be filled. I dip my index and middle fingers with a squelch into my leaking tunnel, whose slick fluids are gliding down to my ass crack.
"Oh, Jacqueline," I whisper, breathless, as my vaginal walls clamp around my fingers. "I never wanted to be human, I was only born as one, and until I met you, I hated everything about my life, every goddamn thing. La vie est faite pour la mort. If only I could take a piece of you and stitch it into my own flesh."
I pull my fingers back with a wet slurp. They are coated in an obsidian-black, sticky substance, and tethered to a catenary of goo that stretches out, clinging to my skin, like a thread of rotten honey.
As my feverish daze begins to lift, and the world returns in a carousel of blurred colors and shapes, I find myself gripping the edge of the ceramic basin. My body is thrumming with arousal, but I'm getting a whiff of the blob's stench mingled with my stale sweat; I picture a wet and moldy mound of garbage crawling with worms and roaches. I was supposed to wash off the grime, not make it stickier.
Once I step inside the shower cubicle, I adjust the temperature with the metallic knob. I turn on the shower to let the water heat up, and the showerhead sputters before it begins to spray a steady stream, filling the cubicle with a rhythmic drumming. I take a deep breath, then walk into the warm flow. Its droplets burst against my chest, against my face. I tilt my head back and stand stock still, arms hanging limp at my sides, eyes closed, mouth agape, surrendering myself to the downpour. As I lean forward, the cascade bathes my scalp with a tingling warmth. Rivulets stream down my back and neck, and trickle between my breasts.
I reach for the shampoo bottle that, tucked away on the corner shelf, with its bright purple hue, stands out like an alien splotch against the tiles. I squeeze a generous dollop of cream onto my palm, and the scent wafts up along with the steam: lavender and chamomile. At first I massage the shampoo into my scalp, soaking the roots of my hair, then I start scraping the skin with my nails, trying to purge every particle of muck buried within the follicles.
I snatch a bottle of shower gel with one hand and a loofah with the other. I pop the bottle's cap open, then I squirt enough rose-scented gel to drown the sponge. I'm scrubbing, scrubbing away, lathering every inch of my body, every crevice, to wash away the dried sweat and grime from my armpits, limbs, thighs, genitals; anyplace that may be drenched in the blob's filth. The cascade of hot water must be washing off the grime and layers of pollution, along with the viruses, bacilli and amoebae that tattooed themselves onto my being. The stink of sewage and doom must be fading as the liquid of life glides down my slippery skin. Yet, I can't shake the feeling of decay that clings to me, nor the black thoughts scrawled across my mind. I wish I were scrubbing myself with a wire brush, raking my flesh down to the bone.
I drop the loofah, then turn off the shower. My skin tingles. I shiver, I shrug, I press the fleshy bases of my thumbs against my eyelids.
"This is fine." Foam invades my mouth. It tastes bitter, chemical. "You, Nairu and I can live happily on our own private moon."
Down on the shower pan, the remnants of my day, a pit of brew turned shadow-gray, are spiraling and gurgling down the drain.
---
Author's note: today's song is "Tous les garçons et les filles" by Françoise Hardy.
I keep a playlist with all the songs mentioned throughout this novel. A total of a hundred and sixty-nine videos so far. Check them out.
Psst! Do you enjoy audiochapters? Check out this fresh new one.
I was introduced to Françoise Hardy and her music back in primary school. Our French teacher showed the music video of that song on an old CRT TV. I was enthralled, and from then on, French ladies became a matter of mystical beauty. It didn't hurt that most of the French girls I met when going to the beach in Hendaye, or that visited our town, were usually lovely. I have to assume that Françoise Hardy inspired Jacqueline's depiction, although I wouldn't be sure to what extent, as I don't plan those things consciously.
Last I know of Hardy, back in 2021 she was dying of terminal cancer, and begging the French government to euthanize her.
My septuagenarian father has covid. This Saturday I will travel to Vitoria so I can attempt to pass an exam on Sunday, that will determine how often they will call me back to work for the next few years. See you on the other side.
