Sexul de dupa cafea

Incepe cu „esti treaza?” sau „esti in bahamas?”. Nu-mi aduc aminte exact. Asta doar in teorie. Apoi afli ca cineva primeste mesaje de la altcineva.

E simplu la inceput, desi dureaza o perioada pana te hotarasti. Si apoi raspunzi cu „bine ca ti-ai tinut promisiunea”. E simplu, sambata dimineata nu ai nevoie de scuze.

Urmeaza, cu greu, prima cafea, dar asta dupa doua, poate chiar trei saptamani. E doar din cauza ca ai prieten, si nu pentru ca n-ai vrea. Si el are prietena, dar nu conteaza.


Cafeaua e perfecta, e calda si il ascunde dupa aburi, ca si cum ai vrea sa-l vezi, dar ti-e rusine. Lui i se aburesc ochelarii pentru ca, pentru prima oara in ultimul an, e fata in fata cu o tipa fara ochelari.

Zambetele se nasc timide, un pic mai inocente decat mesajele de pana acum. Daca cineva s-ar uita in telefoanele voastre, ar vedea chestii voalate, cu tenta flirtatioasa si numai bune de ascuns.

– Ce faci, esti treaza? Esti in Bahamas?
– Dormeam. Bine ca ti-ai tinut promisiunea.
– N-as fi avut cum altfel.
– Mergem la un film?
– Tu n-ai prieten?
– Tu n-ai prietena?
– Conteaza cafeaua sau sexul?
– Doar sexul de dupa cafea.

In cinci minute, pe masa au ramas doua cafele, nebaute nici macar pe jumatate.

Sursa poza.

The Princess

I was born in Lake Placid. Everything I ever did was in self defense, just trying to hide myself from me.

As I grew up in my father’s house, I began to understand that stairs and blankets don’t shelter me, and I began to believe that somebody touching you would be the greatest achievement.

My room was filled with dolls and nice clothes and I even had a telephone in my room. In my dresser I used to store all my clothes and all my dreams, and I used to play in there.

I started reading at the early age of five, but mostly because my mommy was busy drinking and my daddy was away again. Cartoons were boring, so I had my books and my music to keep me warm, and Maria would come at 9 pm to tuck me into bed.

Our home was surrounded by big fences and tall trees and I was so little, I couldn’t see past them. But my books taught me to see beyond the horizon. I started dreaming about the world outside, and I started hearing the music so much louder…

As I grew up, so did my mother’s habit to drink. And as I grew up, my father started to come by rarely and every time he brought with him different scents and hairs on his coat, and also lots of presents for me. But nothing for my mother. She was busy with Jorje.

I left my big home at 15. It was the first time I went away by myself. Well, not technically by myself. It was just a private school, where I could be with people of my age, without any parents around.

It was a mixed school, so I remember so well no fitting in with the girls. I remember the first time I drank vodka in the bathroom, with one of the boys. He later asked me to suck his penis. Which I tried to do, but it grossed me out.

I remember how no one used to sit with me during lunch , or dinner. I used to sit all alone, and I devoured a book during a week’s time, because no one would talk to me.

The first time I went back home, nobody came to pick me up from the boarding school, so I had to take a bus home. I remember that first voyage as a defining one, because I remember looking out the window at the people outside and thinking how much I loved their freedom, their carelessness, their simplicity. And at home all I had was broken parents with money.

Years have passed, and with each bus that I took, I grew closer to the people in those small cities. They were so abrupt and so sincere, at first they used to look at me all grossed out. But as the time passed, everything seemed easier and they accepted me eventually.

I used to admire the motorcycle gangs. They seemed so wild and so free, like they had not a care in the world. Their hair was all tangled and mostly dirty, and they had tattoos all over their bodies. Their leather jackets would fascinate me, the way they molded over their bodies. I used to look at them, but mostly at their women.

The women were so independent, and they weren’t scared to say to their man „fuck off”. That was what I liked about them. I used to look at their jeans, hugging their bodies, and those biker boots that looked so feminine somehow…

On my last trip home, I stayed with them. I let the bus pass by me, and I entered the bar. All eyes were on me, but I just blushed a little and I went to the bartender. I asked for a scotch and he looked at me. He wanted to say something, but he just nodded and gave me my drink.

For a while, I just sat there. The smoke was becoming more like a fog, and I hadn’t finish half of my drink. The music was not that loud, but I couldn’t understand what it was. My dress was white, with ruffles. Over it I had a denim jacket, and I had some tan cowboy boots. Next to me, my backpack. With everything. Money, IDs, memories.

He came to me. He was taller than me, maybe 6 feet, maybe 6 and a half. He had the leather jacket of the MC I have been watching since forever, and he had a beer belly. His smile would’ve been so charming, if not for a crooked tooth. Still, he seemed like a good man. He wanted to sit next to me, and I understood he was 35. I said „yes”, and I ended up in his room. It had a pinball machine and that is where I had sex for the first time.

I remember nothing of those days, except that I had sex with him and we used to drink together. He introduced me to his gang, and the guys liked me. Not the women, though.

When he started hitting me, I used to wish my daddy was there. But since he wasn’t, I had to defend myself. But I couldn’t. Every time he hit me, he promised he wouldn’t do it again. And he would keep his promise, but after two or three days, he would hit me again.

His friends used to look at my bruises with pity, but soon they got used to them. Only one guy, a blonde one, even taller than the crooked tooth guy (I keep forgetting his name), he used to come to me and looked at me, saying nothing.

After a while, and after both my left eye and my upper lip were bruised, he came to me and said „Let’s run away together”. And we did.

His motorcycle was our home, the road was our bitch. We used to hop on it after two or three bottles of whiskey, and we used to race to the sunset. We never did reach it, but we always tried.

Those were the best days of my life. I was happy, truly happy. Even if I hadn’t had food or water, I had someone that cared for me. He used to run into the fields or into the backyards of the houses in towns we visited, and collect flowers.

One time, he climbed on the City Hall in this small town and he took the flag down and hand it to me. I stripped and I took the flag from his hands and wrapped it around my naked body. He started laughing so much and we made love right there, on the flag.

He used to bring me chocolate after we had too much vodka and he always got me vanilla muffins. We started thinking about getting a dog, while I watched him clean his motorcycle.

The road was good to us and I don’t know how much time we spent driving. I just know I was happy and it was the first time I didn’t need my daddy.

One night we were at this bar. Smoke all over the place, everybody was drunk. Country music was playing. And this huge, fat guy started a fight, out of nowhere, and my boyfriend went outside before I could stop him. And, before I knew it, he was outside, in the cold, dead. Just lying there, in the night. No one around.

I cried over him, but I went back inside. I drank myself under the table, I don’t know how much. I woke up in a room. I think it was a hotel room, but my memories were too fuzzy.

Next to me there was this guy, he must’ve been at least 50. With a bald patch in the front and a ponytail in the back. He was skinny and shorter than me, and he was covered with tattoos. We were both naked and I think… No, I am sure we had sex.

I woke him up and said he should go away, which he did. I was alone for a few hours, and around 4 pm I noticed a bottle of rum. It wasn’t full, but it still had more than half of it. I drank it all, and went back to the bar.

As I entered, the ponytail looked at me and wanted to say something, but I ignored him and he stopped. As I drank more scotch, another guy came to me. He was a normal looking guy, with glasses and a suit, and we went back to the motel room. We got drunk and we had sex, and at six am I kicked him out.

The same story happened the next day, and the day after that, and the days after that. I can’t remember why I did that, but I remember that I was alone. Sometimes, I asked the guys I had sex with to drive me somewhere. And they did. A few of them treated me badly, but I didn’t care anymore.

All I wanted now was booze and a roof. I was ever cold and ever lonely, and the bars became my home. I missed him and I missed my home, but I was so sick of me, I couldn’t go back there. So my place was nowhere and I was left to wander through the country, with a flag in my backpack and a bottle of something in my hand.

I wish I could’ve learn to ride his motorcycle. I could’ve run away with it, drive into this world, and not feel so alone. I wish I could just ride.

Nu mă ajută faţa! Help.

Viaţa m-a purtat prin multe locuri, unde am întâlnit, măcar accidental, tot felul de oameni. Mai buni şi mai puţin buni. De multe ori, doar dubioşi. De ceva vreme încoace, jonglez cu ideea că nu mă ajută faţa. Nu ştiu ce am, dar faţa mea exprimă ceva de genul „dubioşi din toată lumea, veniţi la mine, băgaţi-mă în seamă, eventual daţi-mi o palmă, vorbiţi-mi urât şi cereţi-mi ţigări, încercaţi să-mi puneţi mâna pe fund sau ameninţaţi-mă că-mi faceţi lucruri naşpa dacă nu vin cu voi”.
Aşa că, dacă-s singură pe stradă, am mari şanse s-o păţesc. Exemple am destule.

– 14 ani, urbea natală, blugi negri, tricou larg – un nene la costum, cu servietă, se opreşte lângă mine, îmi întinde o carte de vizită (pretindea că lucrează la o agenţie de fotomodele) şi-mi zice să vin la casting. Cum eu nu picam la faze din astea nici atunci, i-am zis mulţumesc, nu mă interesează şi am dat să plec, moment în care nenea a început să ţipe obscenităţi şi să încerce să mă pipăie – needless to say – nimeni n-a intervenit, deşi eram în buricul târgului.

– 14 ani, urbea natală, mergeam spre şcoală – un alt nene opreşte maşina lângă mine şi întreabă de-o stradă, îi zic că nu ştiu, şi dau să plec, moment în care domnul mă invită la cafea. Îi zic că nu, iar el a mers cu maşina pe lângă mine vreo 5-10 minute bune, până am ajuns la şcoală. Nu era nimeni pe stradă, I was scared shitless.

– 20 ani, capitală, prima călătorie cu metroul – un nene s-a ţinut din vagon în vagon şi din metrou în metrou după mine vreo 10 staţii. S-a oprit doar când am ajuns la Grozăveşti, unde a vrut să coboare, dar s-a răzgândit.

– 23 ani, capitală, 23 sau 24 decembrie, petrecut la serviciu până la 9, cobor la Grozăveşti – din metrou mai coboară un singur nene, şi nenea ăsta s-a ţinut după fundul meu, mergând în acelaşi ritm cu mine şi uitându-se dubios şi băgându-şi capul în dreptul meu, de parcă era atent să vadă dacă mă recunoaşte sau de parcă ar fi vrut să îmi spună ceva. Salvarea – căminul P1, în faţa căruia era un grup de oameni, printre care am zbughit-o, ca să scap de el.

– 25 ani, capitală, plină vară, lumină afară, cam ora 9 afară – singură în staţia de la Cişmigiu, aşteptând 601, să mă ducă la P2 de data asta. Ascultam muzică, când un nene mă ia de mână, să-mi ceară ţigări. Spun frumos că nu fumez, moment în care nenea mă ia de mână şi trage cu putere de ea, aproape să mi-o smulgă. Salvarea – nişte studenţi cu vreo 5 ani mai mici ca mine şi vreo 30 de kilograme în minus, care mi-au luat apărarea.

– 26 ani, capitală, magnifica seară de azi – vizită la stomatolog (era să scriu stomatogol, dar pe cuvânt că fără intenţie!!!), apoi o călătorie cu pitorescul 123 din Dristor, unde s-a urcat un nene plin de sânge şi alcool, cu mâna bandajată. Nene care m-a găsit pe mine, din tot autobuzul, de care să se ia, deşi erau fete mai aproape de el, băieţi mai aproape de el, dar probabil faţa mea a cerut palme, pentru că a încercat să-mi dea una.

E o aventură ce mi se întâmplă. Nu mă ajută faţa deloc. I am in dire need of saving…


1Q84. Haruki Murakami. Carte nouă, citită pe Kindle.
Când o citești, îți dai seama ce disciplinat e Murakami. Câtă răbdare, memorie, suflet e în toată cartea. Cum poți să scrii 3 volume despre 2 oameni, alternând un capitol despre ea, un capitol despre el? Câtă răbdare să ai să faci toate scenele în oglindă, pentru a le da greutatea necesară? Câtă răbdare să ai, să fii bărbat și să memorezi atâtea mărci de haine și pantofi de damă? Câtă memorie să ai ca să-ți dezbraci personajele treptat, la multe pagini depărtare de la ultima “dezbrăcare”, și să le dezvălui sufletul și secretele așa cum se debracă ceapa de foițele ei? Cam pe-aici s-au sfârșit întrebările mele. Au urmat mirările.
De ce e așa direct în vorbire, mai ales când sunt lucruri grave de zis? Murakami are gravitatea unui copil care nu înțelege un lucru rău pe care îl vede. Fiecare scenă de sex, fiecare violență, fiecare descriere a zonelor intime și a părului pubian de toate felurile – toate sunt parcurse cu inocența firească a unui copil care întreabă “tu ce ai acolo?” când te vede gol.
Tot citind cartea, ajunsesem să cred că momentul final – regăsirea dintre boabele verzi și plictisitorul profesor Tengo – nu va avea nicicând loc așa cum îl speram. Credeam că personajele sunt sortite unei treceri banale, în fugă, unul pe lângă celălalt, așa cum s-ar întâmpla în mod normal în viață.
1Q84 e ca și cum te-ai uita la paginile lui 1984, din altă dimensiune, printr-un geam care are pictat Persistenţa memoriei a lui Dali. Totul e suprarealist, totul se destramă, nimic nu are sens. Și cred că de aceea cartea este foarte bine scrisă, pentru că deși tot timpul ai impresia că Tengo și Aomame luptă degeaba, finalul fericit e chiar neașteptat. De mult nu m-am mai bucurat de un final fericit, care să fie și scris bine.
PS: aceste vorbe nu se vor a fi o recenzie, ci doar niște păreri. Cartea merită mai mult decât o recenzie – merită citită.