Buscador

martes, 2 de febrero de 2016

Smoky night in Amsterdam, fragment of a long story I do not want to tell




[...] 

So A. and I bike, and bike, struggling with the wind on our way to Rembrandtplein. We arrive to the shop, a woman with little patience and a lot of piercings looks at me as if I’m in the wrong place. “Hello” I say, “I called this afternoon, I want to get a piercing, they said I could come without an appointment.” “Yes” she says, bored. Her hair is red, her ears are full of colorful piercings, her nose is invaded by rings “where do you want your piercing?” she looks at me as a communist would look at a petite bourgeois-“in my nipple” I say - “Both nipples or one?” she seems annoyed - “one, the left one” I say sort of nervous - “ok, 50 euros, pay here and go downstairs”. I did as she said. 

I went downstairs, the guy has blue hair, a lot of tattoos, a lot of piercings and a beautiful smile, he must be 60 at least. He asks me to take off my shirt, he shows me the bar he will introduce in my nipple, I told him I wanted the one with diamonds. He asks me if he can begin cleaning my nipple, I say “go ahead”. He says my breasts are very firmed, he asked me if I had implants. I laughed, said no and said I was flattered, he laughs too, as he rubs my nipple between his thumb and index finger to erect my nipple. He marks the places where the needle will trespass me with purple ink, he keeps on rubbing to make my nipple bigger, he blows some air on it with his mouth, I laugh. He asks me to lie down, he smiles and shows me the clamps and  the cannula he will use. “Will it hurt?” I ask, he smiles and says “Yes, it will hurt way more than that tattoo of yours” pointing to the verse of Pizarnik on my ribs. He presses my nipple very hard with the clamps, it hurts enough as to think that the process is over,, but it is not, he's just starting. Why do we insist with pain? He says “here I come,” and a pain pierces my whole body, I shake, I close my eyes, tears come out of them and then I laugh ... and I laugh as if having an orgasm. At that point I remember the Belarusian girl, whom A. fucked twice and the stories of her laughing every time after an orgasm. I have the two of them in my head, having sex, making love, whatever they called what they did, as I feel the second sharp pain, I moan, I look at him, I laugh again, I wonder if the Belarusian girl understood about pain and pleasure, or if she only laughed out of shame. There’s an intimate relationship between the person who pierces you and yourself, it’s like having sex, but shorter.

 He puts a gauze over my new wound saying “I notice you don’t wear a bra, better have a gauze.” We shake hands I said maybe I'd see him again someday, he says “sure, maybe for your right nipple.” I laugh and say goodbye, feeling drunk. 

A. Praises my piercing, he keeps asking why was I so obsessed to do it, so sudden, so fast. “To avoid killing you,” I say, and kiss him on the mouth.


We had Mexican food that night, we went to sleep at 22.00, we woke up at 1.30 a.m. and we cried.


CR- VocalesV


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