I had sex in Central Park.
It happened in the bushes by Cleopatra’s Needle, the needle pointed straight to the only star in sky, the Metropolitan museum dug its roots still further into the ground and deceased Indians were standing by with honour.
The grasshoppers sang like a seductive choir of angles in the dark, and only the light from a lamppost sneaked its way through the bushes, the foliage quietly said its words of blessing like in a Celtic cemetery.
He was black and I was white. Never before in my life had I given it thought that I was white.
Then we made love in the park, once and then again. It was like a magic prayer.
He came inside me. Inside my temple there is a fountain which then filled with me juice and made me soft but him hard, and he went crazy with joy like on a wild horse running across the vast plains, then he fucked me fast and brutally or he fell into slow, hypnotic movements. My temple was filled with white doves; the world came inside me and I came inside the world. I am always on the look for an orgasm which will tare me to shreds and recreate me; maybe it will never come because I call my vagina a temple instead of my dark, dark hole and I never let my mouth being filled water without feeling guilty and pore myself over someone. And then the tears that would fall to the ground never come and I get an intellectual epiphany.
Before we made love he shook the bushes, as if to shake off the serial killers, patted the ground and lay his shirt on it. His movements reminded me those of an animal searching for a place to sleep. In dawn, when the joggers started to appear, we laid down in the sun in an open area. I couldn’t sleep and I looked at his shoes, which were fine but old looking shoes and could have been from the Salvation Army, and I wondered if I had slept with a bum or a homeless man; perhaps he spent every night in Central Park. He was sound a sleep as if he were in his home; however I watched the squirrels run by and the other people, while worrying about not having taken my medication.
Everything was in my favour that night, I grabbed his shoulders and told him I loved him in the middle of things and that way I prevented him from cutting my throat and cover me with dirt in this world famous park that was paradise at day but a nightmare during the night. Even my temple started to crumble and ever since, my heart is buried in Central Park and I who had always thought that it would be buried in the Icelandic quiet wilderness along with moss and spring bird, but here I suddenly got to know the world in a forbidden place that was like created for me. The wheel of fortune all of a sudden started spinning after having being stuck for so long.
I was on my way home the other night, when he suddenly appeared, as if from the dark, and offered me a drink. I told him that I was a passive (ineffective) alcoholic. He thought my answer was so impressive that this must have been the pick- up line of the century. I thought he must be a junkie, maybe because how he appeared from the dark or because of the look on his face, the one of pleasing, which characterizes so many junkies. I shook of my suspicions; he was just a black man, in addition a trumpet player who made hats. I was completely enchanted. I sat with him for two hours, tried on all his hats and finally I bought the nicest one, which was golden. Then I got a private concert that he magically pulled out from his bag. There were the weirdest instruments I’ve ever seen; an African calimba, the flute and the jambee-drum. I noticed how he changed and became much more of a man when he hit the drum. He was supposed to be having a concert at the bar however it turned out that the only audience was me. I was wearing a red dress and I felt good in his presence, he was very interested in my play and he wanted to hear everything about the blind and kind woman who had herself buried twelve times. His name was Algea. I bought him a bear and gave him a ticket to the premier. I had rather expected to get a meteor in my head than he’d show up.