Saturday, 20 November 2010

Extract from The Urge

Tempered now into a boiling mass of flesh, finally the beach opens before me, but slowly, not all at once. First, the flat sea, flat as a reservoir, being sipped by the chalky looking sand, momentarily scarred by a pair of fleshy mounds that have been pinkened all over by the sun. Then, non-active knolls of pink, lying on the circumference of the water, submerge themselves at its will. As the sorry excuse for a road spits me out and into the mouth of the beach, more lolling, rolling, strolling, bodies of every imaginable origin and denomination appear, in all their beautiful glory. I smile, feeling at home, looking around. This is the honest root of human beings, no getting away from it; no getting away from the flaps of unwanted fat suckered by the skin and hanging over the mottled, natural cloth; or the sagging, flopping breasts that have no doubt nourished a newborn; or the flat pancakes that could no more prove gender than be gorged on; or the lumpy porridge of buttock cellulite; or the thick tufts of dark hair that grows under armpits or between our legs, around that man’s small penis but extremely large testicles, around the other man’s adequate penis but unbelievably small testicles, that forest of hair over there that really does need tending to; the short and the skinny, the tall and the fat, the old and the young, we’re all equals here.

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