It just isn’t working. Like before, like the other times.
The whole process had seemed so easy when Sinta was younger, exploring alone in the comfort of privacy. The parts were made for each other, what could be more simple?
Maybe if he changes their position.
Thick forearms, bearing small scars where the fishing hooks have snagged flesh, roll her onto her back. Sinta hopes that gravity will aid him this time. But it is not gravity or strength that Sinta lacks.
Aboard his trawler, he feels assured. Sharks are terrible predators, but Sinta does not fear them. He knows sharks better than they know themselves.
He knows how to call them by flinging chum into his wake. He knows how to hold the snare pole so the beast catches its own jawbone. He knows where to apply the heated knife to remove its fins without touching the bone, and he knows how to hoist a finless shark off the deck and back into the forgetting sea.
What Sinta does not know is how to control an organ which does not seem to be a part of himself.
In the dark bedroom the flesh underneath his hands looks like the pale blue of a fish’s underbelly. A cold, quiet part of his brain conjures images of his hands and the knife, the slick animal struggling under his sure grip.
And his body continues the mechanical, pointless motions without success.
The whole process had seemed so easy when Sinta was younger, exploring alone in the comfort of privacy. The parts were made for each other, what could be more simple?
Maybe if he changes their position.
Thick forearms, bearing small scars where the fishing hooks have snagged flesh, roll her onto her back. Sinta hopes that gravity will aid him this time. But it is not gravity or strength that Sinta lacks.
Aboard his trawler, he feels assured. Sharks are terrible predators, but Sinta does not fear them. He knows sharks better than they know themselves.
He knows how to call them by flinging chum into his wake. He knows how to hold the snare pole so the beast catches its own jawbone. He knows where to apply the heated knife to remove its fins without touching the bone, and he knows how to hoist a finless shark off the deck and back into the forgetting sea.
What Sinta does not know is how to control an organ which does not seem to be a part of himself.
In the dark bedroom the flesh underneath his hands looks like the pale blue of a fish’s underbelly. A cold, quiet part of his brain conjures images of his hands and the knife, the slick animal struggling under his sure grip.
And his body continues the mechanical, pointless motions without success.
