Taking no prisoners. Including herself.

NaNoWriMo off to a… er… um… start. Not sure what kind of start. Forgive me, Oh God of the Written Word! (Forgive me NKS readers) Now I remember why I don’t write fiction… Chapter 1:

This is a story about a man who is beautiful. He will be named Picasso. Picasso is stoic and strong, small in stature but a spirit with as much rigidity and ice as a frozen bag of coffee. The smell of him is just as amazing. Soft. His wrist alone could slay princesses in Morocco. When he shifts — throws it into 5th as he goes speeding along the damp freeway overpass, just newly dewed upon — he is fluid and powerful as water. He drives lightly and with arrow-straight speed, no wasting vectors, and his lips are always pursed as he looks 12 cars ahead – as skillfully as a chess player thinks 12 moves ahead – and even though you could say he was Driving Itself, it is cold-as-snow-apparent in his caramel face that he is condemned to self awareness.

I think I am in love with this Picasso.

He never orgasms. Or rather, does not ejaculate. Has not ejaculated in 12 years. (His orgasms, say those who have experienced them, are dry and powdery as chalk). He’s had a plentiful basket of colorful lovers (Asiana, Latina, Europa, Scandanaviana, Inuit) but at the end of each lovemaking row, as the blonde or brunette or black or charcoal-color haired goddess of the night turns to him and asks, “…so?” or “did you…?” or “is there anything I can…?” or even “ey, papi: you come?” he brushes off the clinging piece of blonde or brunette or black or charcoal-colored bang from the goddess’ forehead, slightly sticky with salt, and replies (husky and sure): “I don’t need to.”

“Don’t need to?!” She is so doll-like and covetable with her forehead so wrinkled like that, isn’t she, he thinks and give a quarter-inch smile, which disappears as soon as it appears.

“Control,” says he, and pats the girl on the head.

* * *

Picasso was born in Barcelona. He was born there, and lived the first 15 years of his life there, but remembers none of it. Except maybe he remembers the flamenco dancers, the male ones, with no shirt and tight black pants and flamenco shoes (which looked a lot like tap dance shoes, to him) who pranced and tapped and stomped, with feet like horse jaws that bit into the cardboard slabs that were tossed down to serve as dance floors. They’d throw sand under their skipping heels and let the grit friction grind away, live or recorded guitars, no matter –(on weekends maybe they’d find live guitarists, but every night, every night, they would dance, and sometimes an old scratchy cassette was the only accompaniment to the sand – scratch for scratch – and they’d go on like that, grinding and stomping and sweating away.) Olé!

It is significant that he remembers the flamenco dancers and nothing else (when pressed, he might admit , too, that he remembers one other thing, or the many other things, which were the beautiful Spanish women of Barcelona, vibrant and classic, sophisticated and noble, but only when pressed, and under several jigs of gin would he recall these memories of black lace and black hair, manes like horses). He remembers the flamenco dancers, surely most pronounced at all, because he wanted nothing more, and only, to be one. He was shorter than was ideal, but just as svelte and fit and limber. Tap, tap, tap! Oh, he would make a dream of a flamenco dancer!

He studied and sidled up to old men who had flamenco-ed before him, bought flats of cardboard and huffed until flattened holes would erupt from the sand and sweat and friction and sand and sweat and friction; holes born of promise and guitar strings and pink dust, as if the sand had turned to love. He spent hours replicating moves in the mirror. ONE, two, three, ONE, two, three and it was two years after his parents had moved to the UK that he had still studied under the fabios of flamenco. (Papa had a job opportunity there; Mama was mucho triste, but that’s what we willingly give for money –our happiness — and well worth it, quipped Papa).

He had adopted himself to Aurtor, the most fiery and established of the dancers, who promised to care for him, and train him, and keep him out of trouble with the girls (he never kept him out of trouble with the girls). They worked together like brothers, like father and son, like mentor and student, like soul and soul, until Aurtor tossed Picasso out of the dancing nest like a stunted-winged bluejay and let fly his masterpiece of a student. (And he was nothing short of a masterpiece of footwork and blood).

But then things changed and Picasso wasn’t a dancer and never would be.

-799 words

§708 · November 6, 2009 · NaNoWriMo · · [Print]

1 Comment to “Picasso, The Story.”

  1. alia beeton says:

    WHY?????? What happened to him????????????????

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