This story was written with the restrictions to use present tense only and no dialogue. The following words had to be used: footprints, red lacquer, Camembert, perfume and Rolling Stones. I liked writing it; I hope reading it will give you just as much pleasure.
Water, swishing back and forth over the sands, makes a soft sound. A gentle breeze rustles the fronds of the palm trees and every now and then a coconut drops in the sand with a dull thud. I feel funny, as if I am somehow detached from the world around me. I can hear the sounds, I can feel the warmth of the day lingering in the air and I can smell the salty tang of the ocean mixed with the spicy scent of roasting meat and the sweetness of ripe fruit and night blossoms. Maybe it's that tropical perfume that makes my head spin a bit.
I walk along the waterfront, stepping carefully to avoid the shards of shells, the odd bits of dead coral. The water makes little ripples in the sand, cooling my feet as I keep on walking. I have no specific goal, I just like to walk on the hard, wet sand with the smells and sounds of a tropical night enveloping me.
My feet carry me on while my head is not completely there. I am dreaming on my feet. My eyes do not see the waves and the beach and the palm trees. My eyes see only the image in my head, the image I see off and on since I am here in this secluded piece of paradise. I do not know where the image comes from, it is new to me and it is enticing. Perhaps the image is the result of the hot sun on my skin, or too much beer Bintang with the rice and the saté kambing. I smile at the thought. I know it has nothing to do with the beer or the food.
The image. I sigh because I realize I have to do some serious thinking instead of going on with daydreaming. The locals already call me mataglap, crazy. I live almost on the beach in a tiny house, just big enough for my books and me. I go to the market every day because I have no electricity for a refrigerator. The water I need comes from an old-fashioned pump and in the evenings I light candles. They cannot understand a white woman, a blanda willing to live like that. They themselves are grateful every day for the modern amenities tourism has bought them.
Turning around I walk along the shoreline back to the big boulder sticking up out of the sands. The beach is almost luminescent in the tropical night and the moon paints a path of silver on the waves that are gently licking the land. I stand next to the piece of rock. It is flat on top, forming a natural seat, a perfect place to sit and think. I hitch up the sarong, the colorful piece of fabric I wear like a local wrapped around my hips, covering me from waist to ankles. The vibrant red, white and yellow of the batik are muted now. Only the white of my top reflects a bit. I draw my knees up and fold my arms around them, resting my chin on top. I still feel not completely in touch with reality. The image in my mind keeps interfering, demands my attention, lures me away from every day life.
Wiggling my toes is not really helping. I notice that the red lacquer on my nails is nearly black in the moonlight. I know I am stalling and I know I have to address this... this... image. I sigh because it is not even necessary to recall it. It's right in front of me, nearly all day. I see this picture of a man bending a woman over his arm and his knee. They are both naked and the woman radiates a feeling of surrender that is extremely erotic. She presents her body for him to make use of in whatever way he sees fit. Nothing very unusual so far, except that the woman is me and the man in the image is totally unknown. I have no idea who he is, but I see him very clearly. I cannot dismiss it as an erotic fantasy because it keeps coming back. And worst of all, it turns me on but I seem unable to cope with that.
The heat of the tropics always makes me feel horny, but nothing I try gives relief. For some unknown reason I cannot make myself cum, no matter what I do. Neither my fingers nor my little battery-operated friend can call forth an orgasm. The result of this madness is me walking around with all my thoughts turned to sex. I feel myself hovering on the brink of release every minute of the day. In addition, the nights are not really any different. If I sleep I dream of this unknown lover, but even then I cannot let go. I wake up every morning with the same wetness and the same throbbing between my legs, waiting to explode. I feel as if I am the embodiment of that song by the Rolling Stones: "I can get no satisfaction" and that does definitely not honor me.
I try to see this tormenting lover more clearly. His body is muscled and has a smooth brown skin, suggesting he is one of the locals. However, he is too tall for that I think. His face is beautiful with broad planes and a wide mouth. His black hair is long and lies in a braid across his back. What really gets to me though, are his eyes. The are like black holes with a flame of lust in them and the way they sweep over my body makes me feel so desired it is almost painful.
