The Twelve Rooms of the Nile by Enid Shomer

Author:Enid Shomer [Shomer, Enid]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Literary, General, Historical, Fiction
ISBN: 9781451642988
Google: wburDE_tLZUC
Amazon: 1451642962
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Published: 2012-08-21T00:00:00+00:00

While Max of the still-pimpled prick took his pleasure upstairs, Gustave paid two almas to pose instead of servicing him. New entries for L’Encyclopédie du Con.

Yussefa’s mons venus is more merkin than mound. A springy thicket of curls rises up like an evergreen forest in the midst of a desert. . . . Fatima, smooth as sea glass, shaves or waxes her entire body. Her pubis, oiled and plump, is a hillock cleft by labia edged with a frill of looser skin the same color as the dark circles beneath her eyes. Gazing at her face, one cannot help but recall those ribbons of purplish flesh bedecking the sweet gift package in the declivity below.

At his signal, one alma refreshed her pose, the gold coins dangling from her jacket pleasantly clicking. The women were naked from the waist down.

Kenneh was small enough that word of their arrival had spread quickly. In Egypt, windows and sometimes doors remained open in fair weather, with much of life conducted within public earshot.

It was all so different from home, where narrow vestibules and locked doors led to the place of greatest seclusion and seat of family power, the bedroom, as if every citoyen were expected to harbor secrets. Living out of doors, like the Egyptians, a lie carried no farther than the human voice.

The models lay side by side on their backs with their knees raised up.

Vertical grins, vertical grins! Like the professional girls of France, whores here are happy to display their bottoms. What could be more enticing than to watch from behind a woman bending over until that second little mouth appears in a pout. Below the crack of the derriere, the assholes, too, are charming, the entire assemblage like an exclamation point, as if their behinds are perpetually elated or surprised.

It was heartening to write something obscene and unpremeditated. On the other hand, it gave rise to a vexing old question: Why did he write exclusively of saints and whores, as if there were nothing of interest between the two extremes? Max had remonstrated with him for this. Write about regular provincials, he’d urged, going so far as to suggest the case of a woman named Delamare who had shocked the hamlet of Ry with her adultery and suicide. But he could not stomach the thought of writing about ordinary people, people whom in reality he would despise. To inhabit the cheery smugness of the grocer or pharmacist, the clerk or banker’s wife with their endless platitudes?—unthinkable. Nor did he wish to write about himself.

Rossignol came to mind. Would she be a suitable subject? Unlike rebellious men who took up dissipation, high-minded women like Rossignol turned to religion for solace. O for the days of temple whores and pagan bacchanals! What had befallen the practice of sacred copulation? Now there was a way for the English lark to converse with God! Actually, if he believed in God, Gustave, too, could have warmed to the religious life. He had experienced a diminished

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