Through this tubular entry here, to be exact, which yet awaits proper discovery, yes, right here behind the door of shame, the hairs of which are being tugged and tucked and plucked. Pop music grants the listeners' requests, Gerti's legs are straddled as wide as possible and the Walkman is held to her ear. Now she has to lie just like that. Her cunt is plucked at regardless, it's juicy, her husband normally goes in and out of her with rapid strides. He comes from afar off, we can hear him clearly. It's unbelievable how you can stretch and flex the labia to change their shape, as if that were what fate intended for them. For instance, you can pout them into a pointed pouch. And from the higher ground the hills are bowing down from Gerti's dress. That hurts, doesn't that occur to anyone? Right, and now laugh a bit, and pinch, and thump, that's it. These kids get about in the world, they like doing so and they talk about what they do. Any permanence in the hairdresser's beautifying treatment is already- no longer apparent. Behind these mountains, Gerti has collapsed, a butt of ridicule like her entire sex, who switch on the electrical domestic appliances but have no say where their own bodies are concerned. Just as grass subsides humbly beneath the cutting blade. This flesh parts as in a game, and then it rests, and in sleep is rewarded still more: this is truest of the young girls, when they laugh their own teeth tear their faces open. Their hair doesn't need special preparation yet, it can be enjoyed the way it comes. They are in love with someone or other. Just as the eagle hatches its young far far up, practically in nothingness – having first had to shlepp the eggs the whole way up. And those who are older detest kids. And a pair of trousers is eased down a little way.
Well now, let's not go so far, slaves ourselves, as forcefully to take what is ours from Gerti. Seeing that the wind and this whole loving band have immoderately made an immodestly blown up cloak of her. They totter about aimlessly, there's not much to it. Now I don't know if Michael really does have to show that his mother and particularly his father endowed him handsomely as far as his member goes. He struts his stuff, but it doesn't quite rise to the occasion, his freshly-squeezed sex with ice cubes floating in it. He brandishes it in front of the woman. Did you hear thunder just now? So why not get out of the way and let me have a look at the video people wrathfully plumping up their genitals? Over there on the substitute bench is where you belong, where no one can see your scrawny arse and sagging bitch dugs as you labour away, blowing on the glow. Rub in the creams to rub out the distinctions between yourself and decent Grade A human beings. Go and pour forth your woes to the Gentleman one storey higher, but don't wake the dead! Apart from a swift jet, nothing comes from Michael's sting, people are drawn to him from over the fields. The mountains overhang the lake, the hands row alone. These girls stand and watch, the voice ceases to pour from their cracks, they claw at their own curls, their own wily sex that can tempt, they are ready and willing to wrap any man in it who might chance by and whom they have learnt to assess by his haircut, his clothing and his vehicle.
Michael's whole small-page ad is plugging loud specialist products. On TV the senses smoulder in little heaps. They are intended for consumption by our youngsters who sport in the snow or in the water and barely need to take a breath. Yes, this young man really is a fine rascal. Poor Gerti. Tested so wrathfully in the school of life. Mutely they look at each other. Consider each other food. The mountains are motionless, so why take the car to shove them apart? To be merry takes little. Isn't it enough for you to go playing by the river banks and the saving banks and buy yourself a place in the gilt-edged network of the sports trade?
One more word about these girls. They have just arrived (I almost said: just come) within themselves: luscious bushes of pubic hair grow like lush rhododendrons on their gentle slopes, a breeze of health comes off them, they who dwell so pleasantly in themselves and are watched through the windows of magazines. Now they lean over the woman. Heavens, they're drunk already too! At the drop of a hat they'll be off. Where were they sent from? And what do they talk to their divine little diaries about? Where do we want to be – in the curls in their laps, perhaps? Thus the mountains, where the trees ruffle, see us. Today these people will be moving on to a birthday party, where they will look at the other little well-built guests. Like children, blown in and blow-dried, they will dangle from the belts of our envious looks, ladies – ladies, you whose charms are wearing thin, you who submit to the charms of TV soaps. We can't contain the water within us once it's boiling and wants to overflow. Let's be honest, we resent their faces of many colours, while age is fading our own to the one standard likeness, no matter what costly waters we cannily wash in. So why don't you take a rest as well, on your narrow bank! Each to his own, my little dears! But these aren't the limits of our company, purely a recommended retail price, if you please.
So as I was saying, Michael has it out in the daylight, hjs prick, to show that he can't or won't be stopped. First he has to tank up again. Laughing, he sits on the woman's chest and clasps her arms together over her head. He dangles his noodle into her mouth so that she can benefit from his nourishment. Gerti can follow everything very clearly, and something happens in her half-dropped panties: she passes a hissing jet of wet, yet again she's had too much to drink. Laughing, the girls pull off the wet knickers they had dragged down her legs. Now Gerti's feet are quite unbound. Everyone takes a pull at the hip-flask, but Michael's prick is still limp, to be plain about it, no good pulling there. They dunk Gerti's head, that little outhouse built crookedly on to the villa of her sensations, into the water. Her dear little cunt and dear little anus are fingered and prodded, ah, if only she could be in the arms of sleep again, soon! Where do we want to be? Where do we want to stay? Like a frog's, the woman's legs jab and snap shut. She thrashes about wildly. She isn't really hurt, why else would this company that never assumes liability for anything have been founded? Michael pokes a twig in her rather bald hill for a while, boys do love to play about, it keeps them out of mischief. Wait, one thing more. He pours what's left in the flask into her pussy then clips her round her ear, but not too hard. Ow. That burns.
It is now snowing with all the heartiness we expect of winter. The last bottle has been thrown away. Nobody seriously wants to take a swig at Gerti, even though she would give herself away till the green of spring shows through. Her cunt is merely opened up and then, laughing, we've seen this brochure before, folded shut again. The flaps smack in practised hands. None of this is that important anyway. Further away, up there where we shlepped Gerti away, the skiers are still cheering in their little lakes of beer and brandy. They beam and bawl. The floor of the forest is already heavily soaked in their pleasure. Gerti's skirt, in which she waits to be warmed up amid the trademarks, has been pulled up over her head like a sack. The suspender belts have no bad side effects if a man fancies giving his tool a thorough go. Michael wags his tail around in her face. She does not see it, and beneath her skirt she awkwardly twists her head now to one side, now to the other, thinking of Michael's unattainable ambrosia, his jelly congealed in a perpetual mould, to her it's no trifle. Her face, upon which trees gaze down in silence, is got out again and the mouth forced open. Her cheeks are slapped lightly, you can feel the teeth underneath keeping the face in its present shape, with an effort. Keeping in shape is what you should do too, dear boys and girls. Though you do so in any case, in your skintight T-shirts! With your chicaning hands and chic caps! Let's pretend, as we watch each other, that we're looking at a movie. Really moving. Now they open up Gerti's top and reveal her two breasts.