The Stalker - Part 5
Interlude
There is a picture that hangs in my living room, dominating its surroundings. It is famous and I’m sure it will be familiar to you. It is called “Le Dejuner sur l’Herbe” and was painted in 1863 by Edouard Manet. The original hangs in the Musee d’ Orsay in Paris where they have a security system adequate enough to prevent its liberation, so unfortunately mine is a cheap print ... though now that I am an accomplished thief I hope that someday that will change.
Cheap print it may be but I do love it.
The picture depicts a party of Parisian dilettantes picnicking in the woods. The central group consists of two men and a lady, to the upper left of which are tracks running deeper and deeper into the ever darkening undergrowth. Behind them is a stream or pool in which a second woman bathes wrapped in what I can only describe as an ill fitting sheet.
I abhor this woman. I cannot understand what Manet was thinking when he ruined this perfect picture with her inclusion. I adore those tangled and murky paths; uncertain and inviting; where a lady may find her honour forcefully plucked from between her creamy legs, where her bosom may heave helplessly and the delicate porcelain skin of her back be rubbed raw on sandpaper tough bark. Down these dark and twisting ways a girl could lose her moral compass, drown in seas of discarded leaves whilst rough and merciless hands rip the torn and tattered clothing from her flesh and the waterfall of her arousal soaks her trembling thighs.
How I would wish to explore such trails; the cool earth and decaying vegetation uncomfortable on the soles of my bare feet as timid step by timid step my disreputable dining companions lead me deeper into the darkness. What an education I could receive in such a place. To what levels of debauchery could I be allowed to sink?
But her! She isn’t a participant. She stands in the water; head half-turned, keeping her beady little eye on me. She is a watcher, a chaperone, an interferer; and should my stiff, horny, lupine companions decide to lead delectable, delicious me to some place yet more private so that I might free their mighty members from the encumbrance of their trouser; or should I be invited to feast on them with my hungry, insatiable little mouth; or should they desire to devour me entirely; then this woman, this tittle tattle and tell tale will run home and besmirch my honour and my name.
No Edouard you should not have included her in my picture; she curtails all the wondrous possibilities!
In the foreground bread and fruit tumble from an overturned picnic basket alongside an unopened book and surrounded by my discarded clothing. Neither book nor food will be sampled today for this is no ordinary excursion into the forest; the picnic is surely but an excuse for these fine fellows to throw aside society's conventions and satiate their lust with my innocent flesh.
