Free Fermentation by Angelica J. Page B

tip of a cock pushed itself through the hole, nervously at first as though it were trying to see what lay beyond. I touched its neat round tip with the end of my tongue and immediately felt it being pushed through harder. I placed my hands against the partition and now leant into the wall, running my tongue up the long shaft of the erection. I knew that the man I had been following was on the other side of the wall and it was himI was sucking on and taking into my mouth and I pushed hard against the wall as I plunged down over his cock, moving my tongue against the taut silky skin until finally the liquid spilled forth and I could hear a groan from the other side of the wall like death.
    Outside men were still queuing at the stage and the girl who giggled sat quite still waiting for the next in line to pick up a flute. I stood to one side of the tent at the flap where I had seen the man enter and waited for the man I had been following to emerge. But he did not come. Instead a cripple hobbled out, his back deformed like that of a hunchback and his face twisted into a smile.

ROQUEFORT
    A sheep's-milk cheese with a strong piquant flavour sometimes made with rennet from the lining of sheep's stomachs. The greeny-blue veining must have fanned throughout the velvety mass, lending the cheese a dark, throaty quality. You should not buy Roquefort that has a grey complexion or a watery mould.

    As my body grew steadily larger, my craving for cheese continued and my desire for stronger and more brackish cheeses increased. I would eat the cheese at lunch and lie down every afternoon to rest. Genuine sleep was illusory. I spoke to my doctor and he gave me iron tablets to take, but it had got to the stage where the only thing my body would allow past my lips was the cheese and even if I did manage to swallow a pill or two they didn't seem to help. Eventually I threw the bottle away.
    The old man was very sympathetic and would allow me to rest whenever I visited his shop. He could see how tired I was. One particularly hot day when I arrived he looked at me and shook his head.
    ‘You are too tired to take anything in today. Berthe,’ he spoke to the young girl behind the counter, ‘go and fetch the chair from upstairs, please.’ I heard her climb the stairs to the apartment above and moments later she returned carrying a beautiful wooden chair which he placed at the back of the shop. ‘This is your chair,’ he said, ‘for you only,’ and every time I visited the shopthereafter, either he or Berthe or one of the boys would usher me to it. They even placed a cushion on it to make me more comfortable.
    The old man taught me much over the months: which cheeses were best during which season, which wine to drink to complement each cheese, how to distinguish a good goat's cheese from a bad, a good Chaumont from one that was inedible.
    ‘With a Roquefort what you are looking for is the distribution of the mould. Examine how much the mould has spread through the cheese's mass. Imagine a peacock fanning its tail and the blue spreading through the sunlight. At the centre is the bird itself. It's the same with this cheese. The fermentation should have begun at the centre and worked its way to the edge,’ he said, looking down at my stomach. ‘It's really not that different. Your child is growing within you.’
    ‘It had better not be mouldy.’
    ‘Your blood is running through its veins, though. And vice versa. Fermentation is like a swelling. Physical, emotional, edible. It's all the same.’
    ‘And then what happens?’
    ‘The child is born. We eat the cheese. It doesn't really matter. Fermentation is neither the beginning nor the end, but if it goes well then the end is always a much better prospect. A watery Brie or a runny cheese in general is a pleasure to no one. Excessive fermentation. When's your child due?’ I laughed at this and the oldman smiled. ‘You've never spoken about the father.’
    ‘He's not around.’
    ‘Do you