That was the day she realised that she had always hated the taste of cinnamon, that the feel of a satin bra slipping down her chest was about as liberating as sliding her hands into a pair of handcuffs and swallowing the key.
(more) It wasn't, she told her mother later over the phone, that the sex was bad. The sex was fine. It was just what came with it that bothered her: the late night parties; the drinks trickling down the back of her throat and leaving a sour taste in her mouth; the extra glass of water gulped down over the kitchen sink to ward off next morning's hangover; the reluctant departure of a one-night stand, shirt still in hand, hair damp from the shower.
Cinnamon, her mother said. Why cinnamon, of all things?
It wasn't, she said, because of the web. Choking down a spoonful of the stuff was all the range these days. She didn't need to try it to know that it would clog in her throat like mucus after a bad bout of the flu, leave her sneezing and choking on her own spit for the next hour.
It was, she said, a reminder.
Nobody likes to think about the ones that stopped loving them, after all.
She remembered everything about her, and about that night, THAT night. It had been raining, and the kitchen had smelled of curry and saffron, hot and golden-stained. They'd been watching reruns of the X-files, laughing and pointing out the transparency of the special effects.
Something had broken, inside of them, between them. There'd been shouting. Someone knocked over a container of cinnamon on the counter, spilling it across the kitchen tiles, mixing the smell of one spice with another.
This room, this world, and this life is soft. Smooth. Attractive. Warm, forgiving, and extravagant.
In this room of satin, I cannot stand. Every movement is greeted by indulgent, gentle, pleasurable softness. There is nothing pushing back, no hardness to confront the purpose of my limbs.
My hands sink into sweet, plushy, endlessly gentle fabric. My hands push deeper, my chest stays unmoved. With the endless giving of the satin room around it, my heart and chest are free to stay unyielding and immobile.
When my lungs make the slightest gasp, the satin and silk of the room is anxious to give. But my lungs do not gasp for shimmering cloth, they gasp for everything but the cloth. They gasp for empty space, so that I can give back space, and take back space, and give back space.
But the cloth only knows the gentle sweetness of surrender.
The floor endlessly surrenders to my hands, and I sink further and further into the warm womb of pleasure. The walls answer the call of my gasps, filling my eyes, my nose, my mouth with warm, delicious satiety.
Violence does not exist. Difficulty does not exist. There is nothing pushing back.
In this sweet, comforting room, I am stifled, suffocated, chained and imprisoned by pleasure.(less)