Friday, February 22, 2013


Last Saturday Paula turned 39. She didn’t go dancing with her friends. She didn’t leave for a fancy holiday at the sea. She didn’t have birthday sex. She couldn’t. She couldn’t for the past 12 years, since her husband had died. That’s right. No, she wasn’t the faithful type or the one feeling sorry for herself, or for her dead husband. She couldn’t because of the fucking accident. Her husband died, she survived.

“You won’t be able to walk anymore”, doctors said.
“Can I still have sex at least?” Paula asked hopefully.

The doctor looked down in sorrow, saying nothing. Since then, Paula stayed home all day. She watched TV, though she hated it. All these romantic movies, all those sex scenes, all those pretty girls with their beautiful long legs, getting naked, slowly, and being fucked so wildely in front of the camera. No, Paula couldn’t stand movies. Documentaries were not any better: even animals could have what she couldn’t. They could run around, freely, in the jungle, being screwed. The worst that could happen to them was being killed and die. Dying wasn’t painful after all. Her husband had always been the lucky one. Even that day, when the accident happened.

At least Lianne was ugly. “Life is fair”, Paula thought when looking at the white haired woman taking care of her. Winters were the best period of the year. Rain, snow, greyness: what a gorgeous day they announced. Paula loved cold. In the cold, people get sick, they look miserable in their beds and the idea of sex gives them extra nausea. How wonderful! Summer time brings unhappiness and frustration instead. Paula could picture bare legs everywhere: running in the street, cycling, standing at the bus stop. Dreadful!  She would then lock herself up in the bedroom; shutters down, lamp on, ready to write. The accident  might have taken her life away, but not her dreams. She wrote pages and pages of unmade sex life; her imagination guided her pen so wildly, for hours and hours. The only breaks allowed were the TV-watching sessions.

“Lianne, where’s the remote control?”

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