Cotton

girl-before-a-mirror1
Picasso-The Girl Before the Mirror 1923
Why were boys so oblivious? She watched and waited, wet and oh so ready, just inches away from their blatant erections. How ridiculous —a hard-on with nowhere to go. Would any of them even know what to do if they managed to get a willing partner to fuck? Had all their primal instincts been so dulled that a layer of cotton was enough to obstruct what their senses should have detected? What was it going to take? Her guiding a pair of shaking hands to her overheated, soaking flesh? Shoving him flat on his back to sit on his face and drown him in the flood from the delta between her thighs? She bit her lip in frustration.

She liked one boy in particular. Gloomy, androgynous and so very pretty —she had been immediately attracted to him. He was just her type. And although he was initially curt and surly, she could tell that he liked her too. They inevitably found each other at the same parties. And though his attitude remained inarticulately hesitant, his eyes told a different story. He wanted her. The question was how to transform this unstated desire into a demonstrated reality. Surely she wouldn’t have to make all the moves?

Back in her room, she slowly undressed in front of the full length mirror. She studied her body with clinical detachment. What would he see when he looked at her? Would he find the shape of her breasts pleasing? Would he stare at them, unable to resist touching them with his long, clever fingers, caressing them with his palms, running his tongue over the stiffening nipples and across the bruise-colored aureoles? And then would he suck them? Pull each tightened peak into his mouth, simultaneously gaining comfort and driving his lust? Maybe he would French fuck them, thrust his cock between them, rub the tip against her nipples until, at last, the moment arrived and every drop of come had been squeezed out, adorning her elegant neck with a glistening pearl necklace. The girl in the mirror touched those taut peaks, feeling them pucker in anticipation of something more. Would the boy know what to do? Would he know how? Would he be shocked and offended at her lust, the desires that she needed so desperately and immediately to fulfill?

She ran a hand over her heated skin to her navel. Maybe he would flood her belly button with his semen. Maybe he would trace a finger through it and write his name on her stomach or across her rib cage. Her own fingers swirled the four letters of his name. She was soaking now, heart beating rapidly, breathing quickened. What else would he do to her? Would he stroke the peeled wands that were her slender arms, the serpentine smoothness of the skin in the hollows of her thighs? Would he find arousal at the overripe strawberry of her anus? Or would he be satisfied with her breasts, her eager and willing mouth, her slick cunt? Her fingers trailed lower. The girl in the mirror sighed.

Absorption in such questions while you are alone and naked in a room in front of a mirror can only lead to one thing. Her body flushed with the heat of arousal, her depths drenched and aching to be filled with his length, she took one last look in the mirror and moved to the bed. She imagined him coming to her as she lay back and spread her legs wide. With both hands she lightly caressed the inside of her thighs, her need now urgent, the delay a sweet torture. When finally parted her labial lips, she was so wet she could easily insert three fingers. With a soft moan, she pushed in deep.

(This wouldn’t have seen the light of day without the invaluable editorial advice of Megan from Murmer and Sigh. Please visit her wonderful site.)

Super-Imposed Love

2218[1]

I was seeking a greater resolution
Wishing to bring life into focus
Love, I thought,
Would throw into sharp relief
The chiaroscuro background,
The shadowed contours
Of my hidden existence.
Yes love would lend clarity
To the inane hours
Expose the precious beauty
Of everything that happens,
Just because it happens.

Compare, for instance,
The blunt contrast
Between the monochromatic
Intercityscape
With it glistening rot;
Everything is hard here
Oh so fucking hard
Surfaces bodies smiles
All so unyielding
So potentially damaging
If you happen to
Fuck it up,
The concrete is unforgiving
Of accidental missteps
If you happen to fall
You will find
That plenty
Take advantage
Of weakness
They are unforgiving
Towards failure;
So different are
My fever dreams
That I dream of you
I envision you
Bedecked with jewels
Dripping with pearls
Surrounded by
Blank-eyes studs
And pretty doll-
Like girls that smell faintly
Of honey and vanilla,
Throughout the night,
They anoint you with oils
As they fondle
Your heavy breasts,
Tender lips bruise
Your neck
Loving finger caress
And part your sex
Many hands glide over
Your contours
Travelling to the places
Where your pleasure
Resorts:
The whole world feasts
On the banquet of your body,
Beloved slut,
Divine whore of my heart
You reside in a region
A timeless azure realm
Beyond good and evil
How I envy you
For reasons you can never know.
If I unlock the cage
And set you free
Would you one day
Return to me?

A Curious Quaint Appeal

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Courbet-The Origin of the World 1866

You possessed certain attributes
(And still possess I so dearly hope)
Namely an uncertain smile,
A naive, gauche charm
But most of all a unique,
Curious, quaint appeal.

Do you remember that morning
(I definitely remember
But how I ever possibly forget)
It was summer, humidity was high
The stifling atmosphere
Was almost unbreathable
You called, I came
I rang the doorbell
Anxiously waited on the step
Until you open the door
Undressed but for a duvet
That you let slide to the floor
Revealing a naked miracle
I stood there rooted
Torn between illicit desire
And the better angels of a nature
I had never thought existed.
I had a hundred and one perfectly
Valid reasons for leaving
Right there and then:
But maybe there
Is salvation in sin
Maybe the glamour
Of evil and betrayal
Will outweigh the guilt;
Maybe the heavy load
Of a troubled conscience
Is lighter than the
Billion dying spermatozoa
Seeking their only destination
That is within reach
As my fingers testify
As they glance and skirt
In a preliminary skirmish
Through the thickets
And lush undergrowth
Towards the entrance
Of your flooding hollow
You reach down and by
Interlacing our hands
Lead me towards
The bedroom where
Beneath a portrait
By your sister whom
I would never get to meet
I traverse the territory
Of your exposed body;
The sleek Modigliani neck,
The scallops of your ears,
The peaks of your aureoles,
The curvature of your belly,
And deeper still my tongue
After gliding over every
Pore and inch of skin
Penetrates your lips
Into the cavern of
Your mouth with its
Stalactites and stalagmites;
Again you hands lead me
To where I always wanted to go:
Ever since the first moment
That I saw you and I was stunned
As the blood left my brain;
You guide my head down below
And I practice my cunning stunts
To taste your essence
Unusual in its scent
Of honey and vanilla
With biscuit-y undertones
And I dive for oysters
While hunting for pearls
Hidden in this marine realm
Your long legs wrapped
Around my head so tight
That I don’t hear the phone
Ringing out over and over
But you do to infinite regret
And eternal sadness.
To amuse myself I fondle your breasts
And whisper sweet nothings
As you try to cut the call short
But already my work is messaging
To ascertain my whereabouts.

Time, alas, wasn’t on our side
And the circumstances never presented
Themselves to be repeated:
But still to this day I wonder
About your curious, quaint appeal.

Unmade Again

arnimhugoill21Murky, very, very murky, definitely, decidedly so—how else could I describe my motives for not fucking Margot? Before getting in the car I stared up at the window where I had just left Margot lying unclothed and spread-eagled on the mussed up bed. That thought made me hesitate for a moment but I got in the car anyway and started the ignition.

As I drove at speed through the somnolent streets of her neighbourhood, I was in considerable physical discomfort. Pressing my crotch against the steering wheel afforded some relief, but what I really needed was the release that can only be obtained though the agency of the other, the rapture of bodies mingling and dissolving in unison until the mutual, desired annihilation of orgasm. Continue reading

An Unsentimental Education

7713.7[1]

I refuse to be
Just another sentence
In your story.

Loitering around
Like a skiving schoolboy
Hands deep in shapeless pockets
Vainly searching for loose coins
Or bent cigarettes
Restlessly looking out
For amusement
To keep me occupied
Until the instant
When you remember
The mystique of arousal
Yes those fires of summer
Will rage again
I will not let you
Deny your desires
To yourself again
Persuade you to admit
The depths of attraction
Stage manage the occasion
For your surrender
And listen with delight
As you whisper into my ear
Long contained obscenities
Teach you with a truly
Sadistic patience
My philosophy in the bedroom
Nice and slow
Whoa now
Sleazy does it
Until the moment comes
When you’re good
And willing
To go out into
That great beyond
And divide others
And conquer accordingly.

The Moment

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Along with a very sweet tooth I share with the Marquis De Sade a quasi-mystical obsession with numbers. Certain numbers that have cropped up recently suggested a piece on the 18th century libertine tradition in French which the Divine Marquis radically re-envisioned at its culmination.

Originally the term libertine was used to describe political opponents of Calvin in Geneva, and went on to develop connotations of atheism and dangerous free-thinking. However by the 18th century the definition had narrowed to describe someone who was a sexual adventurer and debauchee. In the narrow homogeneous confines of French aristocratic circles in the Ancien Regime there flourished a literature which was entirely dedicated to examining the erotic manoeuvres and cynical mores of a fashionable society that pursued pleasure at all costs yet had to hypocritically maintain face .

Several novels including Diderot’s Les bijoux indiscrets (The Indiscreet Jewels) and Crebillon fils La Sopha (The Sofa) transposed the setting to Oriental locations to disguise the political satire of the court of Louis XV. Others were less cautious and set their novels in a contemporary setting with thinly veiled portraits of famous influential figures; the resulting scandals ruined careers and damaged reputations. Laclos the author of the masterpiece of libertine fiction and to my mind the greatest novel ever written, Les Liaisons Dangereuses (Dangerous Liasions) never escaped the notoriety that the book brought him; he unjustly became the byword for cynicism and Machiavellian scheming.

One of the central features of the libertine novel is the conflict between sense and sentiment that readers of Jane Austen will be familiar with. However unlike Austen they resolve themselves as an unsentimental education where the hero or heroine is taught the ways of the world and learns how to exploit others for their sensual gratification. As the prophet of the enlightenment Voltaire noted ‘Pleasure is the object, duty and the goal of all rational creatures’, and the aristocrats portrayed are above all rational creatures.

During their education, which always involves seduction and a subtle corruption the characters are taught about the moment. The moment is a key concept in libertine philosophy, it is when the object of desire is most susceptible to seduction. The newly minted libertines are made aware of when the moment is approaching, how to take full advantage of the moment and even how to manufacture the moment in someone who is inimical to seduction. The classic novels of sexual education are Crebillon fils  Les Égarements du cœur et de l’esprit ou Mémoires de M. de Meilcour (The Wayward Heart and Head or the Memoirs of M. de Meilcour) and the Marquis De Sade’s La Philosophie dans le boudoir ou Les instituteurs immoraux (Philosophy in the Boudoir or The Immoral Teachers). De Sade of course is notably more extreme than his predecessors and combines elements of the Gothic and Baroque while pointing forward to Romanticism and Decadence.

Dreamlife

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Toyen-A l’entree du silence 1954

Here’s another,
Here’s another chance…

I have never really been present
In the right here,
The right now.
I am never fully awake
Until I close my eyes
And live the dreamlife.

Haunted by the memory of the woman
Who was in turn possessed
By another love
Who bore a supernatural
Resemblance to the original
Girl I loved long ago who was
Haunted by the memory.

But here’s another,
Here’s another…

You remind me of someone,
Yes someone I once knew.
If only you were a little blonder
And would change the clothes you wear
That shade of lipstick is all wrong
Here, try this on
It’s not exact
But maybe it will do
In this half light yes
You could even be her.
And while drowning in your grey eyes
I see reflected
Back at me my own copper eyes
Then I see myself
In your body and in turn
Your body in mine
If only we could come
Together as one
Merging indivisible
After all it may not be impossible
Identities can have a tendency
To converge at a certain intensity
When the world outside this room
Recedes and is finally banished
When the only reality
Is that of pure sensation.

So here’s another,
Here’s another, here’s another:
Here’s another chance
For you to be with me,
Just come to me
And I’ll turn you on to the dreamlife.

Possession

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Toyen-Eclipse 1968

It’s been a long time
Since I last saw you
But I don’t care where you’ve been
Cause you ain’t felt anything
Until you’ve been with me
So come here
This very instance
For tonight’s the night
That I’m going to be with you.

My love is like theft
A redistribution of assets
You always possessed
So many fine things
While I such little.
You’re a sensitive girl
You know it’s not fair
You know it’s not right
Isn’t it about time
That you aided and abetted
Become my accomplice
My partner in crime
Tell me it is just so
By opening the gates
Spreading your legs wide
Lying bare your defences
So that I may plunder
All the treasures buried within
Despoil the sacred sanctuaries
Until you admit defeat
Capitulate utterly
And surrender possession
Of yourself in all entirety.

Love is an assassination
An elimination of identity
Now I do not know
Where I finish and you begin
Is it your mouth or mine
That forms the words
That remain forever unsaid?

Mirror||rorriM

 

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All mirrors are inherently mysterious and magical. The moment when Narcissus looked into the lake and realized that what he saw reflected was at one and the same time the self and an image was the moment of a great divide, a second Fall, but as certain Gnostic sects argued about the temptation of Eve and the expulsion from the Garden of Eden this recognition was a necessary loss of Innocence.  It was the first experience of a mediated reality. All was needed was the technical expertise to manufacture mirrors to disseminate this heightened self-awareness to every individual. And from mirrors it was only a matter of time before the camera and then film which led to the media landscape that envelops and dominates our perception today.

Voodoo mirror 2

Mirrors are mentioned frequently in myth, folk-lore and religion; not to mention in art and literature. In Corinthians Paul says of our knowledge of the divine ‘For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known’. In Vodou, the syncretic religion practised widely in Haiti that combines elements of West African spirit religion, Catholicism and arguably Mesoamerican traditions, the altars of hounfours (temples) are decorated with mirrors as they are  conduits that the houngan use to contact the spirit world. Many cultures at many times held the tradition of covering all mirrors in the house when in mourning, this custom persists today in Judaism. In connection with a heresy held by one of the numerous Gnostic sects Borges states ‘Mirrors and copulation are abominable, since they both multiply the numbers of men.’

In libertine fiction mirrors play a large part as they increase the pleasure of the moment and enables the libertine to view the erotic scene which they are  actively participating in. In the sparkling sophisticated jewel of a tale Point de lendemain (No Tomorrow) by Vivant Denon the artful heroine describes to her paramour the delights of her chamber with its reflective glass covering every wall, when he enters he is enchanted to find a ‘a vast cage of mirrors’ and then states that, ‘Desires are reproduced through their image’.

One of the most memorable mentions in fairy-tales of the deceptive nature of the looking-glass is the Magic Mirror of the Evil Queen in Snow White, which is a good illustration of William Blake’s quote  ‘A truth told with evil intent beats any lie you could invent.’

However for me the supreme moment for the mirror in literature is when Alice steps through to the other side of the looking glass. Ever since the phrase has been used to describe many different and varying experiences; the transfigured absolute reality glimpsed in insanity; the shifting contours of the nightly dreamscape, the heavens and hells of drug use (the John Tenniel illustration was reproduced on LSD blotters in the sixties) the transcendence achieved in sexual ecstasy, and ultimately death, that unknowing inevitable frontier where we hope that the outward appearance will vanish to be replaced for all eternity by our fundamental essence. For although mirrors are just surface and can deceive, distort and warp, they also always reveal something other than just ourselves.

Aliceroom3[1]


The Passionate Philosopher

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Man Ray-Hommage to D.A.F De Sade
Once the grave has been filled in it shall be sown over with acorns so that afterwards the ground of the said grave having been replanted and the thicket being overgrown as it was before, the traces of my tomb will disappear from the  surface of the earth, as I flatter myself that my memory will be effaced from the minds of men, except none the less from those of the small number of people who have been pleased to love me up to the last moment, and of whom I carry into the grave a most tender recollection.

Marquis De Sade-Last Will and Testament

Regardless of your opinion of the Divine Marquis, it has to be admitted that he got it spectacularly wrong in his prediction that his memory would be effaced from the minds of men. Although he certainly didn’t invent the sexual pathology that bears his name, he does hold the world trademark rights. Rarely has a writer, and a writer so rarely read, achieved such lasting notoriety far beyond the narrow confines of literature and philosophy. Sadism is an important concept in psychology, jurisprudence and is a boon to journalists, not to mention has given rise to an increasingly visible sub-culture, of which Fifty Shades of Grey is the most prominent and commercially succesful.

The pioneering sexologist Krafft-Ebing introduced the term Sadism in 1890 based on the content of his works. In many ways De Sade anticipated both Krafft-Ebing and Sigmund Freud by placing sexual desire and sexuality as the prime, motivating factor in human behaviour, and furthermore  categorising all the possible aberrations inherent in humanity.  It was another German psychiatrist Ewan Bloch who first published The 120 Days of Sodom, De Sade’s most extreme and surely the darkest book ever to be written, in 1904, further spurring interest in his work.

Although it was the psychiatrists who brought De Sade back to public attention in the 20th century, it was the poets who venerated him as the ultimate rebel . Apollinaire proclaimed him ‘the freest spirit to have ever lived’, and in the First Manifesto of Surrealism Andre Breton noted that ‘De Sade is surrealist in sadism.’ Georges Bataille entire oeuvre is a marriage of Sade and Nietzsche. Barthes and Foucault wrote extensively (and infuriatingly) about a figure they saw as an important post-modern predecessor.

Outside of France, Henry Miller was an early champion and a number of Beats either translated his work or produced Sadean erotica for the Olympia Press. In recent years biographies have proliferated (with good reason, De Sade’s life reads better than most novels, no matter how imaginative) and Penguin Classics just issued a new translation of The 120 Days of Sodom, the original manuscript of which was recently sold for 7 million euro at auction.

The Marquis or characters from his novels has made many a cameo in movies as well. In L’Age D’or by Luis Bunuel the coda contains the blasphemous suggestion that Jesus Christ was one of the libertines of the Chateau de Silling. Bunuel would later feature a vignette of De Sade in La Voie Lactee. A sardonic De Sade is the main character of Peter Weiss’s Brechtian film Marat/Sade, while more recently  the Philip Kaufman directed Quills  re-imagines the Marquis’s time in Charenton in gothic horror fashion. And one shouldn’t forget Pasolini’s highly controversial Salo or his influence upon the pornographic and sexploitation genres, especially Jesus De Franco.

Two centuries after his death it is safe to say that De Sade isn’t going away any time soon. Whether he is viewed as the destroyer of traditional values or the apostle of radical liberty, his vision of a total, impossible freedom will continue to haunt the imagination.

(For further information concerning the Marquis De Sade and his works please refer to At the Chateau La Coste, The MomentCitizen SadeYet Another Effort and Philosophy in the Boudoir)