‘You have to dress in black with really fine knickers and keep me on a leash like a dog. Your uncontainable tits should be bursting out of the bodice you’re wearing. Then you put me over your knee and give me a hundred blows with the Japanese chopstick, and if I complain you have to hit me harder. You ask me to undress you and I have to do it using only my mouth, like a dog. With the laboured breathing of a dog I’ll wait there on all fours, suffering and whining as you stretch out on the bed naked, showing me everything. Then you’ll let me get up and I’ll ram it into you while you continue to hit me with the stick. I’ll fuck you till I’m dying from either pain or pleasure. Until I know which of the two is stronger.’
Then one day, I was busting to pee and he ordered me to do it over him and it seemed to me a terrible thing. I was only going to follow this order on one condition: that he let me talk about my thoughts, about everything I have inside and can never tell anybody.
‘Cry away,’ he says, ‘There’s quite a bit of stuff you have to get out. Tears and piss are similar. Good girl. Let everything that’s inside you flow over me and submerge me. You’ll feel better.’
And so it all goes away: the hostile moon and the yellow pegs, the loneliness in pizzeria toilets and the fact that no boy ever falls in love with me and that I don’t know if God truly exists.
Then he tells me, ‘Now I’ll let myself unload on you. I’ll piss on you and you’ll lie there, stretched out, with your mouth open. And you have to drink it.’
I stretch out in the bath and with my eyes closed and my hands folded, like a dead woman in the earth, I let the rain wet me all over, like in autumn.
Little seed that I am, come springtime I’ll surely be unrecognisable, with so many leaves and flowers.