Golden D

I always wondered why most animals cannot see colours. Why should colours be reserved only for humans? Perhaps, I thought, if smells make our life more palatable and music gives voice to the unspoken, then colours are our guardians against the prosaic. It may be that colour is our last refuge in the face of mortality. We die, yes, but not in a grey world. We die with gardenias and mother's walnut cake and Chopin's revolutionary opus 10 and Carmina Burana. We die wearing a patch of blue sky. We die with a lock of hair in our pocket, chestnut brown, given to us by someone we once loved. It almost does not matter then...

Golden is the first light that we see, when coming out of mother. Golden is the sun, now and forever. Golden is the first kiss. Golden is a friend's smile, now and forever. Golden are our dreams. Golden are the oceans, now and forever. Golden is the first flower in spring. Golden are my memories, now and forever.

In the old days, people used to call me Golden D. It is a funny story really. This is how it goes...

One day, M asked me to prepare myself very carefully. I washed my hair, dried it and put it up in a bun, with a few golden strands bobbing up and down around my face as I walked. I have this strange way of walking, or so they tell me. Up and down I go on my high heels, a bit unsteady. I put on a golden dress. It was pleated and sported a low cleavage. It was very impressive, because I had got the dress was one size too small. I wore golden sandals on my feet and a golden chain with the letter D around my neck. I always wear that, so as not to forget who I am.

M was very pleased with me and said I looked beautiful and elegant. "You are Golden D," he said, "and you are mine."

That evening we drove through the streets for a long time, on our way to a location in the countryside. We finally reached our destination, a secluded area in Halkidiki, near the sea. We parked the car outside the gate and entered the garden on foot. It was a lovely garden, with lots of trees and flower beds and huge palm trees. A few lanterns here and there lit the place minimally. A high stone wall hid us from any curious passers-by, though I could not imagine that anyone would be walking around there at that time of night.

It was a large detached house made of stone. There were lots of lights on inside and I could see people silhouetted through the curtains. There was loud music playing. It was heavy metal music, which I do not like at all. M uses it on me sometimes to confuse me. I hardly ever lose my self-control any more. I have somehow learned how to preserve my composure, even through great hardship. This makes things a bit difficult when M wants me to surrender in his hands. He says he likes to see me lose it. Not for any other reason, but for the way I manage to pick myself up afterwards. A woman in a thousand pieces, that's what he called it. He thinks it is a kind of art and I a living art object.

We knocked on the massive wooden door. A man in his forties appeared at the threshold. He was handsome, a bit on the heavy side, with long black hair.

"Welcome," said the man. "We have been expecting you."

Through the open door, I saw lots of people inside, men and women, beautifully dressed, drinking, talking, laughing. In a corner, two men had tied up a slender brunette with an oval face. She looked familiar to me. That moment they were placing clamps on her nipples. Further along, near the fireplace, a beautiful mature blonde was sitting on a man who was taking her for a ride on all fours, like a pony. That was all I had time to see. The host, if the man who had opened the door was indeed the host, half-closed the door behind him and showed us to the garden, making a vague movement with his hand.

"I have prepared the pole for D under the lemon tree. There, at the edge of the garden," he said.

My heart stopped. Just for a few seconds. Then it started beating again, but ever so slowly.

The man pointed to a lemon tree with small lemon flowers in bloom, near the stone wall. A wooden pole had been driven into the ground.

M held me by the back of my neck, very softly. My golden hair was still up in an elegant chignon. I lost my balance for a moment, up on my golden sandals, as I walked towards the lemon tree. The man who was the host held me by the arm, so I would not fall. M made me kneel in front of the pole, placed a dog's collar round my neck and tied me with a thick chain to the pole.

"Be a good dog," he said, caressing my golden hair tenderly.

He turned and walked away with the man, without looking back.

It was very dark in the garden, but there was a lantern near me that shed some light. I kept looking around me, thinking how difficult that night would be for me. I must admit I have never outgrown my fear of darkness.

As I often do in difficult situations, that require patience, I started searching in me, unearthing all the stories and all the poems that I have read and all the things I have written and all the films I have seen and all the men I have loved and all the men who have loved me and all the seas that I have swam in. If M wanted to have some fun, keeping his dog tied up in the garden, all I had to do was comply. I have discovered that the more I react in me, the more it hurts. So I made my heart very soft and tender, like a traveling cloud and sat under the lemon tree, traveling internally wherever I wanted. I was feeling kind of light in the head.

Suddenly, the door opened. A man and a woman came out of the house. He was around 55, with black hair and a white beard. He was wearing a dark suit. The woman was petite.

"Where is she? I am bursting," said the woman. "Ah, there she is." She pointed at me.

They approached me and stood in front of me. They did not say another word. The man unbuttoned his pants, took out his penis and started pissing on me. He pissed on my golden hair, on my golden dress, on my cleavage, on my face. When he finished, he buttoned up and then it was the woman's turn. She lifted up her skirt and I saw she was not wearing any underwear. She pushed my head lightly with her foot, until my face was close to the ground. Then she sat over me, half standing up, the way women do in public toilettes and she peed on me too.

They left laughing and returned to the party. I stayed there, in the mud, looking after them as if lost. I was cold now, really cold. In a while, two men came along and a little later another couple and then a tall blonde and then a big man with a beard and then, and then, and then...

I was not crying. I was not thinking about anything anymore. I could not travel internally. I was there. I was tied to a pole and I was the toilette of the party. I was Golden D.

Once upon a time, I thought: "How foolish men are! Chasing butterflies with a rifle? Don't they know the only way to catch a butterfly is with a net? Then you can pin her on blue velvet. And she can be yours for ever."

Sometimes I travel internally, sometimes I despair. Other times I lose it and break down into a thousand pieces of woman. The pieces are golden. It almost does not matter then.