The taste of cheese

In the sweltering July heat, my father's desires soared. In the cramped space, I felt lost at a crossroads, wanting only to drift off to sleep. Yet, a slow, intense pleasure returned to my lower abdomen. The body, suffocated by clients hours earlier, found a soothing, scratching comfort. For me, sex felt like an existence, unlike client service, which was intercourse, not lovemaking. The bloated, middle-aged men, invariably heading in the same direction, pulled down their pockets, tore off the sheath containing their swords, and replaced it with another. Rough clients would pin my hands down as if interrogating me, feeling a sense of victory, but I felt nothing. Conversely, some clients were quite elegant, seemingly embodying the "I'm a good man" attitude, imagining inhaling every subtle fragrance from a woman. I was moved by this, but each time I finished and flushed, seeing the yellowish stain on the toilet bowl, I knew I would never lick it.
I looked at my mother across from me. Her face resembled mine. I remembered the first time my father saw us together; he seemed lost in thought, his hand instinctively reaching out to touch my mother's breasts. That was the first time he had ignored me. But my mother's body was different from mine. Perhaps it was the perfume, but I always felt that my mother possessed an indescribable allure, like a peach blossom among a sea of flowers, a sense of security that only mothers could provide, a feeling that tightly embraced men. Men derived Oedipus pleasure from her, a kind of paternal instinct that was killed, a willingness to engage in the skin-to-skin contact of a nursing infant. I don't know how my mother viewed my father, but I know very well that for her, my father represented an unfulfilled sonly desire.
In that final, intense moment, Mother, exhausted, collapsed beside them, having finished her unfinished dream. Father, meanwhile, continued to offer his food in my sanctuary, the animalistic scent lingering on his arms. Father greedily explored the frenzy within my groin. For me, lovemaking differed from intercourse because he wasn't "him," he wasn't a man, but "Father," and I was "Daughter." This role relationship was like eating out with anyone else—it was never the same as eating with Father. Every grain of rice felt like a warm winter blanket. Father's long whip, rising and falling, inevitably stirred waves of emotion within the flesh. The "Father's scent," so different from other men,
rose in climax, filling the small room with an intense, almost overwhelming, intensity. Every molecule swelled to the point of bursting, and the gushing liquid finally broke through all the barriers, spilling from my mouth. My father's penis, after my climax, moved so quickly it felt like a weekend variety show. Actually, there was a period of time, but I felt that impatient expression, and time passed without my awareness...
The sound of the fan was the final note in the exhausting atmosphere. The two people lying on the soaked sheets had transformed from humans into helpless lumps of flesh. I watched them, guided by the moonlight, completing their animalistic pleasure, experiencing the feeling of death. I immediately dismissed the thought, afraid I would become like that too. While rinsing, I deliberately avoided looking in the mirror, letting the water wash away my human skin, extinguishing my true self.
The view outside the iron gate wasn't actually bad, but I went out naked, gazing at the starlight, feeling that all the beauty in the world was on me, and everything else was just Christmas decoration. It got cold... I went back and put on a coat.
I recently discovered that looking back at my old diaries is quite interesting, even though they're just childish sentences. Like this one: "I went out with Xinyi today, but the big dog we encountered on the street was scary. I hope I don't encounter it next time."
And this one: "Lin Shaowei scared me again today. I hate him. I hope he'll be nicer to me next time, otherwise I won't be friends with him anymore."
Strangely, I didn't record the important things. When my father passed away, I couldn't write anything for a week. He wasn't a good father; you could even say that. In my heart, he was never a father, but a gambler. Although my mother is a gambler when she plays mahjong, it's a different feeling. I always felt that a father should act like a father; a gambler doesn't seem like a father at all. In any case, I was troubled by this thought for a whole week and couldn't write anything.
Until one day, my mother took me out to eat for the first time. She had never done this before; she always left me some money and told me to eat out. It was a winter night, and my mother seemed a little clumsy as she led me through the crowds on the street. I was puzzled; she seemed most helpless in the places she knew best. We went to one restaurant after another, but couldn't find anything satisfactory. Finally, I watched as she pointed to McDonald's, heading to eat the hamburgers she used to dislike the most. At the counter, the friendly saleswoman left my mother at a loss for words. For me, however, it was perfectly natural. I simply ordered a cheese-filled hamburger. My mother looked at me in surprise. I knew it was because of what I had done when I was little. I hate cheese the most, and that's where the atmosphere started. My mother kept staring at me as I ate my burger covered in cheese, lettuce, and meat, as if I were a homeless alien she'd picked up and taken in. I ignored her, enjoying the juicy, delicious meat. When I reached for my fries, I noticed the ketchup was with my mother. Reaching for it, I accidentally grabbed it, knocking over the Coke on her table, spilling it all over her. My mother was shocked and immediately slapped me, dragging me out without even cleaning up. The meal ended in this unpleasant atmosphere. But for some reason, this was the first time, and perhaps the last, that I felt she was my mother.
The next day in class, it rained incessantly. Exhausted from the previous night's activities, I had no energy to pay attention to a single word. The teacher was lecturing wildly, but no one in the class was applauding. Even though he's my father, I had to apologize to him. When I first started taking clients, I never expected that someone I knew would come. One day... it was early summer, I think. I saw a familiar, thin figure inside. He asked my mother in a lewd way if she had any young children. My mother pointed to my room. I habitually lay back on the bed, ready to welcome another intruder. But as soon as he came in, I wanted to shrink back. As soon as I recognized him as my teacher, I hugged him without saying a word. I understand my teacher's desires; they are like an unquenchable tide. I want them to keep pounding against me until every nerve in my body enters another world. My legs, like ivy, surrounded the armed warrior, swaying incessantly, hoping for a passionate duet, a dim tango, snake-like eyes, cunning toes, to crush the rational soldiers one by one, to reveal the marshal's true face. The marshal's conquest was brutal, blasting every inch of the enemy's land, leaving behind red bloodstains...
After that, the teacher often visited. I guessed he had never played with any girls. He felt no guilt whatsoever about having sex with little girls. This room of debauchery was the way out of his dreams. As the weather turned cooler, we took advantage of the break from classes to play around the school. I discovered that the school rooftops pushed one's senses to the extreme; imagining the entire school below gave me a thrill of being spied on. My fantasies about the toilets sparked my interest in the smell of urine. Only then did I find the toilet cute, its white surface sprinkled with gold. Like a cat, I would spread my tongue and make affectionate gestures towards the yellowish, cat-like object, as if we were kindred spirits.
Perhaps it had been a long time, but the teacher realized his foolishness and started an affair with my mother. Unexpectedly, they hit it off immediately, and their mating under the moonlight received the blessings of the whole class. Unfortunately, they didn't know it was a sordid transaction.
So the three of them became one bed, both slaves, endlessly whipped in the midnight haze, every emotion squeezed dry from their bodies before being thrown into the infinite, deathly, silent air.
You can take a look at the class I'm teaching now. How many of them truly understand this kind of hunger-like loneliness—constantly devouring, constantly tearing apart, constantly screaming—ultimately escaping only the desire for inner satisfaction? Whether it's satisfaction or not, I hope for an answer.
The answer's endpoint is irreplaceable. I dreamt of someone sharing this with me, Ya-yi, who actually sits next to me. In the dream, she's very far away, but the illusion of vision makes us incredibly close. We're holding hands a hundred feet apart, with an unfathomable chasm between us. When we reach our agreed-upon spot, we jump together. As we fly, I feel she's just as happy as I am.
Thinking of this, I pulled her back, but she refused. I knew her father treated her like a pet bird, and one day he would tear her apart. I thought…
When I told my father about this plan, I believe his expression was hungry, but he turned his back to me, saying nothing. The next day, the bird was to be released. At that corner, the struggle of the trapped bird couldn't escape the lust of the beast. And so, she spent her first week of growth in our house, enjoying the rollercoaster of entertainment without any other stimulation. In the second week of her release, as the shackles of her soul were broken, I already knew she was her lover. The only difference was the way she looked at my father; it was different from how she looked at me. I only learned one day at dinner that he was her father, not her lover. This confused me greatly. I had thought my father considered her his second lover, but he treated her like one of his three concubines. This was a family, but not a place for me.
I only learned before leaving home that Ya-yi had been mistaken for a mother. It seemed the teacher and Ya-yi were the real lovers. I thought about it for a long time. I heard Ya-yi's father was looking for her. I wondered if this eloped couple could truly stay together.
The flowers surrounding the grass were more magnificent than I'd ever seen. Even the bookstore, which I'd never been to before, seemed graceful and charming. The relaxed atmosphere was natural to those who understood, but for those who couldn't, it was like a secret garden behind a door. Wandering the streets for years, I never imagined I'd hear their innermost thoughts, their whispers in my heart. I stood for a long time looking at a doll in a shop, and then, completely unable to comprehend it, I burst into tears, for the life I once had.
Returning home, I found a pile of dead pork on the floor, the blood from the rolling mill soaking the flowers that should have been blooming. Three people had perished like dirt, only the unborn child was torn away. I stared for what felt like an eternity, then suddenly remembered my diary. Holding a handful of flowers, I went outside to find my love…

URL 1:http://localhost:909/htmlBlog/139987.html

URL 2:/Blog.aspx?id=139987&aspx=1

Previous Page : pregnant wife

Next Page : Sexual intercourse with a young woman in Jinghong during the National Day holiday

增加

comment Open a new window to view comments

Contact Information

The taste of cheese

comment Open a new window to view comments