The Man in the Hospital
Andreas with a long curly head of hair, it fell down to his shoulders; he never put it in a ponytail. He was from the Bavarian Forest and, with thick meaty fingers, he laughed from the chest. He took her for a walk, she wondered what for, out of pity she suspected and, the whole time it took for him to show her the camel at the zoo, Ingrid imagined what their screwing would be like.
— I’m surprised there is a camel so close to the hospital, she had said. Are there other kinds of wild animals?
—It’s a zoo. Of course there are more wild animals.
—The tigers at the zoo aren’t wild. They’re always only sad. She turned to him. If you were a wild animal, what kind of animal would you be? She touched one of his curls, pulling it straight and letting go.
Too big for himself, clumsy and kind with a nervous smile of small teeth; Andreas seemed always uncomfortable. He had just come back from Africa where he’d worked with children in a hospital there. Otherwise she’d known next to nothing about him, except that somehow, one way or another, she’d managed to draw him into a janitor’s closet with a slight and leading pressure—the first time she’d taken his hand. Right beside the door, and unthinking herself, tugged lightly his longest finger, opening the door and, once inside, turning with great haste to press her mouth against his; he spluttered in almost protest, before pressing back, pressing both of his hands on the door behind him to keep it shut before putting his arms around her, creating a seat for her body that had already leapt up and wrapped itself around his coarse frame. His hands fluttered with uncertainty. He tried to be gentle.
Kissing fervently, pulling off his shirt, her desire unabashed now, with his tongue in her mouth, she felt the small spaced teeth in his, tasting the wet mush behind them, the warmth like a hot red cave. Thrilled, she spun her tongue around his until he sucked and she could not escape, delightful, paling a little only when he dropped his arms and pushed her back to the ground, yanked and tugged her pants down, round her ankles, roughly now the momentum of this sudden passion hiccupped between the awkward layers of clothing. She shifted with her legs around his torso, reaching with her fingers, insistent and groping as a child, she opened and closed her fingers asking, Come. Come to me, the cold clammy linoleum floor on her back. Except for their bodies everything smelled like antiseptic. Frustrated with his own groping he finally stood up, tore his own clothes off and threw himself on top of her, thrusting against and inside of her, his hand covering her mouth so she could make no noise. Heaving and hard, it hurt her sweetly, she could smell his breath like a thick slab of salted meat, and she whimpered and he grunted, his face turning bright and red and puffy and she let go, utterly, writhing under him, clutching his moist back, she pulled him in closer and closer. She felt his cock like a rod, it drove straight through her body, it drove into her stomach, through her spine, it pounded the base of her skull.
She began to cry, the sanguine dissolution of herself into him and vice versa, she could concentrate only on the thick hot weight and pinch of him inside her, between her legs, their heat and sweat, it lifted her away from everything, she could only feel his hand on her breast pinching the nipple there until it preened, she gasped, her face wet and his shining, Andreas, obliterated in ecstasy. She kissed him and he pulled out of her and stood up and she pressed her head into his thigh, languishing already, he came on her face and she licked her lips and crying a little still, curled into a naked ball where he patted her head a little. His cock still erect and quivering.
Smiling nervously, his little teeth shone. I have never done that before.
—You are crying, why?
She shook her head. It was hard to speak. At last she stuttered, I feel like the world is draining through my eyes. They sat in silence, her leaning on him and drifting, until at last, as she knew he would, he had to go.
—I hope you are O.K., he said, the door clicking after him.
Caroline Picard is a visual artist, the Founding Director of The Green Lantern Gallery & Press, and a Co-Editor for the literary podcast The Parlor. Her writing has been published in a handful of publications including the Philadelphia Independent, NewCity, Lumpen, MAKE Magazine, the Chicago Art Journal Review and Proximity Magazine.