Ah Mr Salter. We have you to remind us of foreplay. I sink into the first chapter and you are whispering in my ear. Now you slip your tongue in and I flinch but it is gone again as quickly. Your words make my eyelids heavy. Your light scattered like confetti after a parade is a knee in between mine, slowly parting my legs sentence by sentence. We are barely at page fifty and the women are all gorgeous in their plainness, little socks, aging skin, thin with agitation of big and generous. I ease into the beauty of normalcy in your hands. Nothing is extraordinary and yet under your touch it becomes so.
I have not yet got to the sex. So far it is all about the build up. Page fifty and no sex yet. What if I were to make my sex book in your image? Would my readers shrug and put it down and walk quickly away? You make it difficult for us, clutching at but never quite knowing where we are. Your country slips easily into a city street, your isolation becomes a sudden party. I must have my wits about you to come with you on this journey. I grab for a pen, underline. It is there in each combination of words. I am penetrated by the ideas, the language. Teach me. Salter. Take my hand. Teach me.
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