…and then I said to him, look Father the thing I like most about me is my penis. And I was half joking and half telling the truth. Half joking because the last thing you can say to a priest is something like that. Half telling the truth because I do like my penis, I really do. And I like it in all its stages, when it’s down to earth and when it rises up. I feel like it’s defending me.
Anyway, the point is that every time Sarah enters the pub, and I’m behind the bar drowning one pint after another, I feel like something is grasping my stomach and emptying it. This thing sucks me dry. I’m not sure what it is, I’m not an acculturated person, but I know that it hurts. And that’s for sure. Sometimes people think that we guys who work in pubs have lots of women. I don’t know where this idea comes from, and honestly speaking I don’t think what people think. The only thing I can make out is that in the last eight months I’ve been masturbating thinking about Sarah. My colleague Joe always says to me, Luke everybody knows that you love your Percy, which is true, but I am also a man, and a man can’t always do by himself. The good thing about masturbation is that no one can make love to you as you do to yourself. It’s a matter of knowledge and rhythm. The rhythm is actually the most important thing: you can’t keep the rhythm if you don’t feel it inside. But the bad thing about masturbation is that when you know yourself so well you get bored. Masturbation is a bit like dancing, and you can’t dance always alone. I mean, you can, but after awhile you can’t hear the music any more and you start wondering, What’s the point?
Anyway, the point is that yesterday she came up to me and asked me if I would mind keeping her bag behind the bar. No I don’t mind, I said. Are you sure it doesn’t bother you? she asked, Of course not but he bothers me a lot, I said, meaning her fiancé. She said nothing. She just smiled, with her head leaning slightly on one side as she usually does when she smiles. She has been with that guy for ten years now, which I think it’s quite a lot. In these last eight months they have been coming here every Monday and Wednesday. Peter says they never come during weekends, which is good because I work Monday to Thursday only. I call her fiancé “lame-horse” because he always goes to everybody in the pub to tell about things he wants to do but he never does anything, and I know that for sure because every time I ask her, What have you two been up to lately? She always says, Nothing, and then she falls silent again. But I think her silence is like a talk, and to me she talks a lot. I know I’m not intelligent as he is, I know nothing about chemistry and molecules, I just serve beers, but I do listen to people. Feelings are what women talk about all the time.
Anyway, the point is that I thought it was strange she was asking me to keep her bag, because she has never done it before. I thought that maybe she was using a code and trying to say something to me. I thought that maybe she wanted me to put my phone number or my address in her bag so she could know where I live and run away from her fiancé. Because once my mother told me that many women don’t leave their men simply because they don’t have another place to go, and their minds get frozen from fear and they stay motionless, so my mother said. I was here when the lame-horse asked her to marry him. He said, Would you marry me? And she said, Who else if not you. Then the lame-horse spent the entire evening jumping around the pub and telling everyone that he was going to marry soon. She stayed at the table. I’m not an acculturated person, but I do observe people. A woman needs a man who’s down to earth, a man who sees things as they are every day.
Anyway, the point is that I took her bag, and it was heavy, and I wondered why. Then I kneeled down like I wanted to place it in safe place, and I smelt it. It was salty and intense. It was a gamy smell. And Percy got tense in my pants, but then a customer called for a pint. She’s not beautiful, but she has some sort of posture, almost regal. Another thing I like about her is the fact that she’s never too naked. Nowadays you see women going around with almost nothing on them, and I don’t like that. It makes me feel stupid. But she doesn’t. Most of the time she wears long skirts. The one I like most is black with white stripes on the hips. The white stripes curve on the hips exactly as they should, gently and firmly. I like imaging myself following that path, and then raising her skirt, and moving slowly into the deep centre of pleasure. Because I’m not an acculturated person, but I know how to be poetic. My mother told me that the centre of pleasure is so deep and precious that it needs two persons to discover it and to protect it; one is not enough, so she said. The way I love most to think about her is in my kitchen, frying eggs for me, and I behind her lift her skirt and my penis caresses her back. Then I penetrate her. And she’s full of me. And I’m protected inside her. And we both feel this deep thing at the same time. That’s why to cook takes me a certain amount of time, because I get distracted and I masturbate.
Anyway, the point is that yesterday Sarah and her fiancé stayed in the pub almost until closing time. It was the last day before the summer holiday and everyone wanted to say hello to us. We have several regular customers who say we are like a family and that our pub is much better than their house. So, these regular customers stayed a bit longer than usual. I started cleaning the tables and moving up the chairs. I looked around and I saw that the lame-horse was busy in one of his never-ending conversations. As I came next to her, I swiped around her chair and I touched her skirt, and then I said, You look tired, and she said, I am tired, and I felt Percy in my pants getting straight as a ramrod.
Anyway, the point is that then I remembered her bag and I panicked because I hadn’t put anything in it yet, so I rushed behind the bar to write my phone number on the back of a coaster. I had written only half of my number, when I heard the lame-horse asking me for her bag. So I knelt down and put the coaster in her bag and I gave it to him. Then they left. Little by little everyone left the pub. We closed the shutters half-down as usual, to let in a bit of air. Joe put Keith Jarrett on just to relax. I’m not sure I like that Jarrett, it’s too sophisticated for me and I can’t really understand his music, but Joe adores him, so I didn’t say anything and went on cleaning. While I was washing the floor I thought I could have taken a little time to write the full phone number, I could have knelt down and let the lame-horse wait. But then I thought, You never know, most women are smarter than men, she can play a bit with combinations and work out my number.
Anyway, while I was thinking these kinds of thoughts I saw her sliding under the shutter. Without saying a word, she came up to me and hugged me. She was trembling. I caressed her back and moved my cheek over her cheek. Then I opened my mouth and moved my lips closed to hers. But at that point I retracted and said to her, Go back to the lame-horse. I had to say that.