A female Buddha,
the way she sat, not
love making, that some
other. Cross-legged,
he remembered her,
on that blue sofa, the
Mahler playing from
her hi-fi, her oval face,
soft features, that loud
laughter, the Glaswegian
accent cutting through
the attempted English
tones. The bottle of whisky
opened, the glasses filled,
supped, sipped or what
ever the word is, it happened.
It’s no good taking some
people out of the slums,
she said, you need to take
the slum out of the people.
She looked then nothing
like the former nun she
had been, he thought,
perfume invading the nose,
her hair piled in some out
of date Beehive, some
French queen prior to
revolution, she sat, glass
in hand, other plump
hand toughing his thigh,
rubbing her fingers up
and down. She wanted
to stir his pecker, wanted
motion through his jeans.
He listened to Mahler,
gazing beyond her at the
painting on the wall, that
tat she collected. Her
hand rubbed higher, her
soft tones suggestive, her
talk of slums and slum
dwellers put aside. An
evening of *** ahead, in
bed or on the sofa, with
the female Buddha, her
plump *******, thighs,
arms, maybe lost there
amongst the folds of flesh.
She despised his Marxian
philosophy, loved his
****** prowess, his proud
perfect pecker. He loved
her whisky, her soft to
touch skin, her *******
to allow him in. The female
Buddha gone now, her
heart gave out, he was told,
and looking back, years after
years, his youth misspent
at times, too much *****,
*** and moral lack, he had
moved on, improved, but
loved to smile and look back.
