The brutal nipple murder with Gabriel 3
3
There are days at the beginning of summer when you can smell the sea on every corner of Tel Aviv. The wind blows, the sun weighs heavily on the skin, and the salty scent fills the air: in the market alleys, in the cafés, on the green rooftops in the heart of the city, and through the balconies of the new towers. At the edge of the beach, under a shaded canopy, the wind is strong in my nostrils, and the saltiness is soothing. I lie on the African mat, my surfboard beside me — music in my headphones, a massive joint in my mouth, hands behind my head. I feel my nipples burning and hurting, practically flashing and changing colors, screaming for help to the high heavens. Still, despite the pain, I feel a profound tranquility and deep satisfaction. I breathe deeply and grasp the moment. I’m happy. The sex with Gabriel was the best thing I experienced this year. My skinny body is broken, pierced, emptied, and content. My soul remains wounded and incomplete, but thank you, Gabriel. It was divine.
