The bus was packed and warm. My back was stuck to the window, the sun hitting me from behind. Hard. A middle age woman stood in front of me, staring at her phone, with her expressionless face looking down, tired. It then came to me. A certain perfume of a certain past. Tiphaine, my French affair, my last lover. I could smell her in the damp air of the bus, and the humidity and the heat and sweat reminded me of her, of us. Her petite body, rhythmically grinding on top of me, as I licked on her small nipples and caressed all of her body, gently and rough, and gently again. I should have gone down on her. I never did. Now I crave the fragrance of an aroused vagina, the texture and wetness of it on my lips, its flavor inebriating me better than some fancy spirit.
Women. So many many women. I have entered their lives and bodies quickly. But they, also quickly, exited my bed and my path. And, just as fast, they left me empty. Completely empty, but full of words. And then, there’s no Eduardo anymore. This man who calls himself “The Writer” takes his place. Rejoicing in the erotic flashbacks of his alter ego. His lustful fingers toying with the keyboard, as if it were a clit, split in a hundred pieces.
It’s all over, though. I knew it would be at some point. I’m even surprised I could get away with it for so long. Sooner or later, they were gonna find out. Women would unmask me, finding the last layer of me; going beyond the nude, under the skin. Why would they sleep with me? Why would anyone? Can’t help but feeling fascinated by the mystery of it. Or of why I’m good at it. Another enigma. “Eduardo, the good fuck.” A joke without a punchline, that abruptly ends and leaves everyone confused and wondering “Was that it?”
I have 37 days left to go here, in the concrete jungle down south. The cars are loud on the streets and the smog poisons you and your dreams. The sun in Santiago feels heavy on your skin, whether there’s something under it or not. I’m tan already. And as horny as I could get.