The Dream of the Fish's Lover

As the tips of my fingers lie resting in between the lips of your pussy, I wait. You slide a bit closer to me so that I can rest the palm of my hand on your soft, slightly wet with sweat, pubic hair. Slowly you stop talking, I try to anticipate you to go on. Since I’ve never been to the US, I’d love to know about breathtaking rough shores, endless seas, silent woodlands, with cool airs and dark green breathing trees. Everything feels damp. I imagine you driving by yourself through these parts, one of your arms more tanned than the other through the constant sunlight from one side. You stop wherever you want to and take long walks, or skinny dips in the ocean at night. I imagine scent of the car, leather mixed with salt, mixed with your perfume, the smell of your skin. I’d like to hear about these parts, the rhythms it has, the sounds it keeps, the clothing and items you brought with you. For some reason they feel like the rhythm of your heart, maybe because that is where it lies. Where it originates from, where it has histories and memories. The same rhythm I feel beating in your pussy when I slide my finger in, curl it up and hold it against the soft tissue inside. You start talking to me again, not with your mouth but with the beating of your heart. The soft motion you make by pushing your hips upwards. Steadily you’re becoming as wet as the sea I imagine you came from.

You know that in the end we all originate from the sea. Thousands, no MILLIONS of years ago a fish called Tiktaalik grew shoulders, elbows, legs, wrists and many other parts that we now have. It crawled the ocean floor, its slimy body sliding through the sediments and left overs of Dead Sea creatures that sunk to the bottom of years before. At one point Tiktaalik was sick and tired of the endless darkness surrounding it. It dreamed of land, and so it crawled and crawled until it reached the surface. Leaving the ocean for good. But the sun was way too hot and Tiktaalik started to melt, melt away all the shiny flesh that had never seen the sun before melted of its body, turning into a yellow goo washing up shores, smelling of salt and decomposing sea creatures. The yellow goo we now call sea foam and that is where we all come from.

As I lay you down on a bed of moss, it almost feels like velvet. So dark green that you feel like you could fall over and tumble into a void. Your skin so white. Your pink open mouth, piercing blue eyes and red open pussy form a beautiful contrast against the velvet green and the deafening silence of the forest surrounding us. The trees reach for the sky, these are pines that were planted a long time ago by humans to try and form a new forest. A forrest that they had cut down. The foliage of the trees form such a dense roof that almost no life is possible on the forest floor. From time to time you see an open space, here baby oak trees sprout from the thick moss. Where do these acorns come from, I wonder. With no oak tree around for miles, maybe these acorns are as ancient as the old forest was, and they have been waiting patiently underneath the moss for a glimpse of sun. Or they were taken by birds, eaten whole and then meticulously shat out precisely above this clearing. Trees are patient beings. Your body is not. Your rosy red tones are screaming in this silence. Your mouth slowly opening slightly and closing again, like a fish gasping for air. You have found your inner fish I think and are fully embracing it in this moment.

Are you awake?? Yes are you really awake?? Wake up!! Hello! Hello! I’ve come to disrupt, I’ve come to rupture open, spill you insides on the floor and bath in them…

Over the course of 2 hours and several performative courses, 5 performers (a fish, a lover, a bacterial host and two plus ones) get to know each other, fall in love, kiss, fuck, eat, cry and get drunk. The setting of a dinner table, familiar yet alien. A fetish play ground based on a fictional conversation the artist had shortly after their recent break up on a dating app called OKCupid. What started as a strange interest in tentacle porn ended in writing each other elaborate erotic short stories. The conversation forms as the leading thread throughout the dinner party. The characters, based on the famous print by Hokusai, inhabit the role of the artist and the match as the lover and the fish, the two plus ones as the public, the one that's enjoying and the one that's obviously not. The artist inhabits the role of the host. The body, the playground, the archipelago where imaginations run wild. Where bodies can transform into jellyfish and alien creatures fuse and slip and slide into countless sexual acts.