Lost in thought, I let my gaze wander around the room. This wandering is uncontrollable. Time to go as soon as I’ve finished my drink, I think when you sit down with me.
“Hello!”, you say and I return the greeting, noticing how I try to smile. It happens automatically.
“Nice to see you,” you continue.
“I think so too,” I say lightly.
“Could it be that you are avoiding me?”, you ask suddenly.
“Could it be that you are going astray?” I reply automatically.
“You are a good-looking woman,” you continue undeterred.
“Oh yes?” I interject, but in the end it doesn’t matter what I say, because you would say what you intended to say, no matter how I react. It’s so well-known and accordingly boring. And I feel how the layer of hoarfrost around me hardens, in the winter of the traditional and every day, like this well-known game that can commonly be described as courting.
“And I am an attractive man who has a lot to offer,” you continue and your look clearly reveals what you have a lot to offer. I am polite enough not to question that, also because I have no empirical basis to show and do not wish to have it.
“Let’s cut the whole game short,” I suggest, “I’m too tired to enjoy it.” Actually, I’ve been bored with the game for years because it’s always the same and that makes me tired, but that I don’t necessarily have to add, instead I add, with all due respect: “I’m going to say no right now. And let’s leave it alone.”
“Look, we can give it a try. You will see, you will like it,” you reply unmoved and I realize that I am inferior to my usual mistake, namely that men understand no. You don’t understand. That’s why they always claim that women don’t say no or when they do, they don’t mean it. Women say and mean it, only men don’t understand.
“Or are you maybe a lesbian or something?”, you ask.
“It’s exciting that you push me into the lesbian corner just because I’m not interested in an intimate relationship with you,” I answer undeterred, while anger rises inside me because it sounds like I am justifying myself. A no is a no is a no. Should it be.
“I’ll tell you what, the girls are only into pussies because they haven’t had a real cock yet, but that can be changed very easily,” you explain to me. I look at you openly while I try to assess whether you actually believe that.
“The lesbian world has to recover on the cooks of this world,” I reply.
“I didn’t say that like that, but in your case, I can certainly have a healing effect,” you mean, obviously still with your goal in mind, but without realizing that you are giving me further confirmation with every word why I am say no and stick with it. But there is also something that I don’t want to explain. Copulating bodies, sweaty, moaning, groaning, wedged together. His fingers dig into her back. She doesn’t feel it. Through the hoarfrost of isolation. Not even the pain can penetrate it. Even less the warmth of a body. Convulsive twitching indicates the end of what serves only the purpose, ultimately, to create life. Nine months later it is spat out of the cunt. A slimy, bloody bundle that can do nothing but scream. The mother is not responsible for the blood and mucus. This mere hope in a person is made clean. Then the teats are put on, urged to drink. Perhaps it will be possible to break through the hoarfrost coating for a moment.
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