Erotic Sentience by Anisa of the Sunflowers

Published in Qwani 02

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The Confessions of a Sensualist.

If this was an autobiography I'd want the first lines to read:

"I am made of landscapes and of layered multitudes. I am half-woman half-universe. My heart is punctuated by ancient aches. I ache and I breathe and I love. I long to dance and to laugh and to cry, I am a vast planet making its shape, forming. I am nubile, desolate, dark, fiery and full of water. I am a girl and a woman and a crone, I am all parts of myself, a wild woman. My heart expands and expands and expands. It may never stop expanding."

But it isn't...

I take a deep breath and look up at the lanky reporter seated in front of me. His eyes are very eager to listen and to unravel me, I can tell, such hungry eyes have devoured me for ages. Maybe it’s the red lipstick on my lips. I'm way past my charming days but I am still a woman. (Laughing) I should scold myself for even entertaining such a thought. Reporter: Oh wow, absolutely gripping. What inspired you to write down such words?He has the charisma of a dog on its first day to the park. He grips his notebook and leans forward. I wonder what he’s been scribbling this whole time.Me: (With a light nervous chuckle): I mean, I was going through something at the time, and as much as it was emotionally disorienting, it gave me some clarity. It's like the concept of duality; how an occurrence can have vast outcomes, and at that time they were each equally good and bad.

I smile softly ignoring the ancient, not-so-ancient aches that have just been evoked.

Why did he ask me about this entry?

Reporter: Interesting, can you elaborate more on that?Me: (Laughing) I know you want all the dirty details from me to make a spicy little article, now don’t you?

Leaning forward looking straight at him. The most fun a woman of my age can have is utilising the subtle art of a very specific form of intimidation.Reporter (Laughing nervously): Is that wrong…

I observe him awkwardly sitting up straight. He’s trying hard not to fiddle with the pen at hand.Me: No, no it isn't. It's oddly flattering.Reporter: You're a very intriguing individual. I found your entries to be deeply… moving and very raw, they evoked something in me. Quite frankly.

He lingers onto my eyes for a moment and I let him. Suddenly, it feels like I’m twenty again and I’m caught in yet another unprovoked undressing.Me: So you’ve read my book, obviously…

Reporter (Without breaking the contact ): I have … (nervously chuckles, breaking contact, looking down for a moment) a couple of times actually. Must admit.

An ancient feeling

Me: How did you find it?

I crossed my legs and observed him, anticipating.

Reporter (Again with his nervous laughter ): Really?

I nod.

Me: I want to know, be honest.

He begins to fiddle with his pen.

Reporter: You have a way with your words, it’s… Peculiar. You’ve lived an extraordinary life. It’s an honour (Glancing at his crew behind the scenes ) to be bearing witness. I can’t wait to… to explore the depths of your world from a deeper perspective… (Exhales)

I like how his displaced breaths give him away.

An ancient feeling . An ancient ache.

 We sit with it for a moment.

This is familiar .

Reporter (Clearing his throat): Could you elaborate on the journal entry you just read out to me…

A consuming ancient ache.

I want this to be profound and I want this to move people. I don't want to talk about love because then that's all it would ever have been.

Me : (Exhaling) Okay, you’ve earned it (Glancing at him and the movement of his fingers on his pen) When I used to be a brothel maiden, I was always brought for the most… intriguing clients.Reporter: What do you mean by intriguing?Me: They always had a sort of distraught quality to them. Like they were looking for solace. (A short breath) I know, everyone essentially is looking for some kind of solace, but this was different. (Glancing at the hovering light above me and how its yellowing tone appeals to mine, the camera observing, the silence. Trying hard not to lightly shake my foot.) They were kind of distant and difficult to crack. It was very annoying and (We both chuckle expectantly) slightly pretentious on occasion, but sometimes… (I hold my breath for a moment. It pricks.) You know (Inhales) It profoundly… intrigued me. (He smiles) I exploited that.Reporter: How so?

Me: I’m an explorer. (Trying not to sound ridiculous) I explore landscapes, and I explore people. You can see why pleasing the kind of ‘troubled’ sort of man would be my area of expertise (Laughs awkwardly breaking character for the first time). I was an idealist and I was chasing (Lightly giggles in great remembrance) something like a philosophical concept that just hadn’t been revealed to me quite yet. (Getting increasingly excited) It was remarkable, and of course, in my travels, it occurred to me that human beings are the most exciting landscape, and so I explored, and I was physically attractive enough to get paid for it. (Exhales) So I explored. Reporter (Watching how she slowly begins to defrost, the way her feet slip out of her clear heels and cross comfortably between her and the cushion of her seat. The Paper’s intern brings her a cup of coffee. The room’s silence gives away the subtle heat dancing around the room, gently): The book is a collection of your encounters then, obviously. Did you find what you were looking for?

He flicks his pen.

The dagger finally pierces through into my heart. It is precise and deep and subtle. I welcome it humbly.

Me: (Inhaling) I could read out the last entry, see if it answers your question.

I flip the pages in light brisk, having to remind myself to slow down. This was a terrible idea.

Reporter: Did you ever fall in love?

The final breath…

Me: (Laughing) You’ll have to pay me for that information… (Continued laughter) I’m joking, (Clears throat) I’m joking. Uh, I never mentioned falling in love in the journal… It wasn’t the job for that (I smile).

Reporter (Chuckling): I apologise. I know it seemed to be a very (He smiles. I laugh) leading question, it just sounds important to ask, after that description. Anyway, how exactly did this intriguing relationship with your clientele play out?

He adopts a sternness to him, filled with scolding restraint.

Me: Well, I had my secret weapon… I was curious , excitable and oddly (Smiles awkwardly) relatable. We’d always start out with short conversations. My clients preferred a little unpeeling before the intimacies. (I appear lost in thought) They had very interesting stories, very emotionally complicated individuals. I was delighted to explore them. After all, mental stimulation always proved to be more… Pleasurable (Smiling)… Off the record, (Looking at the crew right by them) Do you promise? Reporter (Noticing my blush): No come on. Who was the most interesting?

Me: Sorry?

Reporter: I mean, I’ve read the entries. You’ve found a way of emotionally removing yourself from the encounters while still maintaining a sensual touch, but I can’t help but notice the romantic undertone. That’s why I ask, Maria (I look up at him, scared) Did you ever fall in love with a client?

Me: How?

Reporter: Pardon?

Me: The romantic undertone, the one that allegedly haunts the lines of my journal. How did you decide on its existence?

A heavy silence. He’s so intent on finding out.

Reporter (Flipping through the pages keenly): I highlighted some lines, can I read them out?

I chuckle under my breath, my feet stretch onto the tiled floor. He watches them.

Me: How much are they paying you, should I be concerned? (Some members of the crew chuckle, the reporter unclenches)

Reporter: Let me quote a couple of lines…

“I want someone to bear witness, to observe me keenly as I slowly undress. To notice how intricately I move…”

This is the first entry that you spoke about yourself. It came after the entry where you said you’d met a lonely traveller.

I grip my coffee cup tightly, then gulp it all down suddenly.

Me: You’ve clearly dissected the book.

Reporter (Considering her visible discomfort, tempted to explore its depth): Second account if I may…

Me: By all means.

I sink my nails onto the fabric of my seat.

Reporter (Observing her red fingertips, clears throat): This was on a Saturday, after you mentioned how the lonely traveller would pass by your chambers the previous Friday night;

“I am a haunted woman. I’m possessed by a loneliness as loud as the words I keep sealed inside me…”

Me: How does any of this matter?

Reporter: Maria, please. Who was the lonely traveller?

Deep breaths, I sit still as the memories resurface. Drowning.

Me: Okay, because you’ve read the book so keenly. (He thanks me under his breath) There was a man who was sent to me on a Friday night wearing a suit. He seemed withdrawn, like he was drowning in thought. He came to me with two bottles of wine, red and white because he didn’t know which kind I liked. They were Portuguese, from his travels. (To the crew) I’m sorry, can I get a glass of water? As usual, I was prepared for a little bit of talking; asking him about his day, finding cracks into his true character and exploring that…being the attentive one for the night.

Reporter: Did you do that?

Me: No. (Smiles gazing into nothingness) He asked me the questions. He came into the room, gazed at me and how I had positioned myself on the bed and then very casually asked, “Will that be on for the entire time?” Referring to my masquerade mask, the golden one, that I always had on. I said yes and stood to take off his coat. He was very intense, it manifested through the intensity of his eyes. How he watched me. By the time we were seated I was already puzzled out of character.

Reporter (Noticing how her lips slightly quiver as she speaks): You liked him?

Me: I was curious. It was nice to be seen for a change.

Reporter: So what happened?

Me: We talked. He was interested in me and my thoughts. (Chuckling) It was almost like …he was interviewing me.

We stare at each other for a second.

Reporter: … Someone to bear witness.

Me: The great beholding.

Reporter: When did you fall in love?

Me (holding onto my glass of water): I don’t want to answer this.

Reporter: I just need to know…

Me: Why? Why is it so important?

Reporter (Grabbing a book from the bundle beneath him, noticing the frown on my delicate face): I don’t want to offend you, sincerely. I’m just coming to some literary conclusions. (Hesitantly) Are you familiar with this book? (I glances at him quizzically taking the book)

Me: Rohini… The Dream Sequence…(Looking up at him) I don’t understand, (Looking at the equally puzzled crew members) Should I know this book?

Reporter: Do you recognize the author’s name? (I shake my head) Maria, what was the alias you went under in your brothel?

Me: (Shaking head) No, no… I was an astrologer, my name had an astrological connotation. This is just a mere…(Hating myself for what I was about to say) coincidence.

Reporter: Could you please read the highlighted paragraph on the marked page, I promise it’ll be worth your while…

Me: Okay… (Flipping through the book, staring at the particular page).

Reporter: Do you recognize any of it?

Silence

My fingers trace through the highlighted words, the tugging feeling in my chest is too agonizing to hide. I inhale and look up. My eyes meet his the moment a tear escapes mine. I wipe it off.

Me: Where did you get this book?

Reporter: We review many books…

Me: None of this makes any sense?

Reporter: You were Rohini and you did have a golden mask that you only removed for the lonely traveller, (Referring to the newly unveiled book in her hands) the pilgrim, who encountered the temptress with the heart of a deer in his travels. This is you. Maria, what was the name of the lonely traveller you met that Friday night?

His beautiful name.

Me: I can’t be here right now…

I said in shock, sliding into my heels and heading for the door, taking the book with me. The article was released in two weeks. There was no mention of the traveller or Rohini. Still, its words tormented me.

“She looked at me with those eyes that I could not say no to. Her hand pulled at the ribbon at the back of her head dropping her mask, revealing her face to me. Her delicate face…She tilted her head and smiled. I made love to her for the first time that night…”

THE END.

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Who is Anisa of the Sunflowers? I wish we could answer that. But to describe Anisa is to box her. To describe Anisa is to confine her within the limits of a couple of words. Yet Anisa of the Sunflowers can’t be confined. She is… Anisa of the Sunflowers.

To communicate more with the writer, find her on:

Email: anisam580@gmail.com

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Photo by Connor Scott McManus