For weeks on end, he was suspended in the belly of the ocean, in the watery expanse of light between Earth and sky. He had not touched land in three weeks and lived in complete solitude. At first, being alone was refreshing, but slowly it became a burden, a madness, a kind of poverty. His aloneness was morphing into loneliness, the greatest illness of man.
He kept himself busy on the fishing boat, but there was not enough work to distract him from the life he dreamt of on land, back in his village of Kamchatka, which now seemed like a place of possibility, instead of its previous air of depravity. There were at least women there.
Here he had fish, dozens of them to give his attention to. His hands were the extension of his work, rough and calloused, cut by nets, blistered from skinning the backs of silver trout. His days were always the same, he awoke as the sun rose, and spent his time in a patient waiting until the sunset, going through the killing motions. Outside of fishing, he smoked tobacco absently from a mahogany pipe and re-read his books, close to memorizing the words of Dostoevsky.
Once the sun had set, all the familiarity of his life on the sea vanished. He was plummeted into the depths of his subconscious. Sleep became a celebration. He hid in the oblivion of his lucid dreams. Fantasy laced his mind and curled like smoke around his cognition. His greatest fantasy was a woman, but not just any woman, his true beloved.
She was a delicate specimen from an exotic land, continents away. A Brazilian woman with sharp hips and generous breasts all on a slender frame. When he met her in his subconscious, they did not speak. She offered him her mouth and he kissed her lips, warm and fleshy. He tore off her cotton dress and exposed her brown nipple, already hard, and took it into his wet mouth. He devoured her skin with an animal-like bestiality. She enjoyed his brutality, her breathing choked and heavy as he clung to her body.
He did not need to touch her sex, she was already wet, and he entered her easily. His touch was unkind and he felt no remorse. He fucked her like a dirty whore he had picked up off the street, but after climax, they lay in bed and stared into each other’s eyes like old lovers. Her eyes were a light green, a striking contrast of color on her dark-skinned face.
When he woke up in the morning to the sigh of the old boat and no one beside him, he felt wronged. This woman was a phantom of the night, gone by the first call of dawn. He was used. The next night was another escapade, they met in a field of green and she wore a silken robe of a rich red shade. She walked towards him and slipped it off, her skin luminescent, bathed in the blonde glow of the afternoon. For the first time, she spoke to him “come here and kneel down.”
He obeyed, kneeling under her. She placed herself in his mouth. His tongue vibrated upon her most sensitive part. She tasted familiar, like home, the salt of the sea he lived upon. He licked her slowly, then with rapidity and fervor. Her orgasm was a burst of soft candle flames and she collapsed into his hands and cried. He held her and she slowly evaporated into a fine mist. His blistered hands were empty. Love always disappeared.
He woke up in a sweat, his pants sticky, a pool of cum below his waist. The sky was a dense gray and no sun could penetrate the fog. He realized he did not know what day it was. He looked out and saw nothing. His boat was in the thick of a cloud, as if it had sunk to the sea.
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