vefmey spinnur

Svo skal ég lofa að hætta að tala um þetta

Hér er brot úr bók sem heitir The Alchemy of Desire og er eftir indverska rithöfundinn Tarun J. Tejpal. Þar er aðeins önnur sýn á píkutalið hér fyrir neðan og ólíkt fallegri. Þarna er sagt frá manni sem er sjálfskipaður sérfræðingur í fagurfræði kynfæra kvenna, eða svo skilst mér, þótt ég hafi ekki lesið bókina. Ég þakka Stellu kærlega fyrir þetta textabrot.


„He most loved that last inch where the flesh was the softest and the thigh flared the final time before melding into the mysterious ridge where the hair grew. Sometimes he closed his eyes and felt that final spot with just the tips of his fingers and was transported. But what he cared for the most was the looking, the careful examination and analysis; and like an outstanding scholar he inspected his material patiently and with love, and with a photographic memory filed it away for future reference.
Many women were shamed by his frank gaze; others moved to exhibit themselves lasciviously. The study of women taught him that the great lord was an artist without limits: with creative flicks of his finger – a twist here, a curl there – he endlessly made the same thing different.
There were secret places that were set close to the skin, opening up like a wet cut in a tight tangerine; there were those with softly puffy ridges, lovely as a peach, the unseen image in every schoolboy´s imagination; there were those that were hooded like the cobra, flaring at the head, guarding all ingress; there were those that opened on the wings of eagles, ready to soar; there were those that hung low like the wattles of a turkey, demanding a suckling mouth; there were those that were set so far at the back that they were best approached from the rear; and there were those that were set so boldly upfront that they could be entered without the bending of a knee; there were those that were lush and tangled as Amazonian forests; and those that ran smooth as the desert sands of the Sahara; there were those with roots that stood out like flagstaffs, the muscle of their stems thick between the fingers; and those whose root continued to elude even after days of probing; there were those that yawned open in listless anticipation; and those that stayed tightly shut, waiting to be importuned; there were those whose depths could not be fully plumbed with the longest finger; and those that bottomed out at he insertion of the smallest; there were those that wept copiously all day with desire; and those that barely moistened even when laved with love; there were those that were a bazaar of alleys,
maddening in their subtleties, capable of endless charm...“