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The astral body of the indian
Act IV of an erotic tale of adolescence.
You You the cariboo
Yes you with long legs
Yes you with long ears
With the abundant mane
Seen from far you are as little as a louse
Come fly toward me like a swan
Come come great cariboo
Come on in and move yourself
Move you bones and your legs
Come and give yourself to me
I am there and I wait for you
I am there for you
For you only cariboo
Come on in
Nakasuk
Repeated fire shots, anguishing tumult, I wake up suddenly. The ground is cold under my naked body, I am lying over the cold morning's ground. I can hardly understand what happened to me.
Strange night! I squeezed her into my arms; woman from another world, witch from beyond grave, Indian young girl escaped from the "time of the dream". I remember, I squeezed her in my arms and we loved each other.
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Men approach, Indians from the Salishan tribe, Shuswap or Cowichan, Okanagan, Thompson, Skwah, Skway or Kwaw Kwaw A Pilt, Nootkas and Kwakiutl, Lillooets, Songhees, Chicotins, Masqueam and Wakashan, or are they Ghosts, Sasquatch or Satanachias, Astarots and Lucifuges, Sargatanas, Nebiros, or still, are they
Spirits, Hokhokw, Baxbaxwalanuxsimes, Tirawa or Wakan Tanka or would they be Pale faces, offended Fathers, Soldiers, Foot soldiers, Missionaries, Servicemen, all armed; I hear their heavy boots beating the ground, the jingles of their weapons, their Crucifixes, their sarcasm's also, they are almost close by me, they noted my presence.
She wrapped me with her bare arms of bloody flesh; her legs extend very high over my sides; the jewels that furnished her rough body plough my fragile flesh; as fetish objects, they exacerbate my sexual impulses. She moaned already, her embrace became more and more intense, we were going to merge into one another.
Men close by, soldiers, armed foot soldiers, almost touching my face with their heavy and dusty boots, they are there close by and agitated, the excitement of the conqueror over the lifeless body of the savage, of the offended Indian, of the defeated enemy.
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I raped her with strength, plunging my penis into her warm and welcoming vulva. She struggled strongly as to accelerate the invasion of her vulva by this Trickster, eager to conquer her inviting yoni. Her legs resting on to the ground, she propped her body upward, then downward, in a rhythmical gymnastic that aggravated the movements of my penis in the secret deepness of her uterus, already loaded, I could sense it, by a sticky mire smelling bitterly. I dived there and dived back with the whole ardour of my young age.
She moaned, she moved in a hysteric way, grinding my flesh, drawing there, I could feel it, deep furrows, stigmas loaded with blood. She was like an animal in fury, she stirred, she stood still, and stirred again to better devour me slowly. Like a vampire, she had emptied my body of its vital substance; my Mana I could feel it, escape slowly, some sweet euphoria seized my Being, I was going to die, transmitting life to her; I already lost consciousness I could feel it and like Pygmalion I was going to transmit life to her, my own life.
- "son of a bitch, you're damned fuck'n dead."
I was bare, humiliated. The cold barrel of a weapon slid outrageously on my painful penis.
The soldiers raised me up with strength, feigned the firing squad, enchained me, then they burst out laughing, shouting vulgar and racist comments to me.
- "We got you damned frog, you're our goddamn prisoner, move your fuck'n ass out of
here, you're just good to park on a fuck'n reservation."
I always have in memory, the soldiers taking me far off, while they where savouring, arrogantly, their short-lived conquest, the bare spectre of the Indian young person. I try to imagine that this was not a dream.
Marco Polo or the imaginary journey (Contes et légendes érotiques, translated from french, août 1998) © 1998 Jean-Pierre Lapointe
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