“What’s your name?” he asks her.
“Bilquis,” she tells him, raising her head. “With a Q.”
“A what?”
“Never mind.”
He is gasping now. “Let me fuck you,” he says. “I have to fuck you.”
“Okay, hon,” she says. “We’ll do it. But will you do something for me, while you’re doing it?”
“Hey,” he says, suddenly tetchy, “I’m paying you, you know.”
She straddles him, in one smooth movement, whispering, “I know, honey, I know, you’re paying me, and I mean, look at you, I should be paying you, I’m so lucky . . .”
He purses his lips, trying to show that her hooker talk is having no effect on him, he can’t be taken; that she’s a street whore, for Chrissakes, while he’s practically a producer, and he knows all about last-minute ripoffs, but she doesn’t ask for money. Instead she says, “Honey, while you’re giving it to me, while you’re pushing that big hard thing inside of me, will you worship me?”
“Will I what?”
She is rocking back and forth on him: the engorged head of his penis is being rubbed against the wet lips of her vulva.
“Will you call me goddess? Will you pray to me? Will you worship me with your body?”
He smiles. Is that all she wants? We’ve all got our kinks, at the end of the day. “Sure,” he says. She reaches her hand between her legs and slips him inside her.
“Is that good, is it, goddess?” he asks, gasping.
“Worship me, honey,” says Bilquis, the hooker.
“Yes,” he says. “I worship your breasts and your hair and your cunt. I worship your thighs and your eyes and your cherry-red lips . . .”
“Yes . . .” she croons, riding him.
“I worship your nipples, from which the milk of life flows. Your kiss is honey and your touch scorches like fire, and I worship it.” His words are becoming more rhythmic now, keeping pace with the thrust and roll of their bodies. “Bring me your lust in the morning, and bring me relief and your blessing in the evening. Let me walk in dark places unharmed and let me come to you once more and sleep beside you and make love with you again. I worship you with everything that is within me, and everything inside my mind, with everywhere I’ve been and my dreams and my . . .” he breaks off, panting for breath. “What are you doing? That feels amazing. So amazing . . .” and he looks down at his hips, at the place where the two of them conjoin, but her forefinger touches his chin and pushes his head back, so he is looking only at her face and at the ceiling once again.
“Keep talking, honey,” she says. “Don’t stop. Doesn’t it feel good?”
“It feels better than anything has ever felt,” he tells her, meaning it as he says it. “Your eyes are stars, burning in the, shit, the firmament, and your lips are gentle waves that lick the sand, and I worship them,” and now he’s thrusting deeper and deeper inside her: he feels electric, as if his whole lower body has become sexually charged: priapic, engorged, blissful.
“Bring me your gift,” he mutters, no longer knowing what he is saying, “your one true gift, and make me always this . . . always so . . . I pray . . . I . . .”
And then the pleasure crests into orgasm, blasting his mind into void, his head and self and entire being a perfect blank as he thrusts deeper into her and deeper still . . .
Eyes closed, spasming, he luxuriates in the moment; and then he feels a lurch, and it seems to him that he is hanging, head down, although the pleasure continues.
He opens his eyes.
He thinks, grasping for thought and reason again, of birth, and wonders, without fear, i
n a moment of perfect postcoital clarity, whether what he sees is some kind of illusion.
This is what he sees:
He is inside her to the chest, and as he stares at this in disbelief and wonder she rests both hands upon his shoulders and puts gentle pressure on his body.
He slipslides further inside her.
“How are you doing this to me?” he asks, or he thinks he asks, but perhaps it is only in his head.