Enter the paradise between your legs,
the paradise of your throat, of your lips sliding on my chest,
of your moist lips pressed gently against my ass,
of your tongue sliding all around my body,
of your kind words:
“I want you to do whatever you want to me.
I don’t care if I live or die, but I want you to come …
I want you to come harder than you ever have …
if it pleases you for one moment,
if just having the experience amuses you,
if it makes you come just one more drop,
then kill me, strangle me, beat me, cut me.
I don’t care when I see your pleasure.
I’m yours. My soul is yours. This body is yours.
Yours to dispose of. Yours to command.
Yours truly.
Yours to use however you want,
impossible to abuse any more than a piece of paper.
Write on me.
Let me be your canvas.
My body is your computer screen.
I will obey your every keystroke
and love the form your guiding hands mold me into,
composing me,
releasing me like a statue trapped in marble.
Come.
Relax and use me.
I am your possession.
I want a year, a decade, a lifetime in hell if I ever resist you.
Let yourself enjoy the writing.
Inscribe yourself on my soul with your dick.
Only a god can do this.
Only the muses give such a phallus such power.
Let me nurture you, care for you.
I love to caress you.
I would come if I saw you fucking someone else,
if I saw you composing some other text, enjoying her,
using her, sculpting her. I would keep you in line, master,
and steer her soul into compliance.
This is my religion.
I am your medium, pour yourself into me.
Let yourself go, write instinctually with [62 | 63] your dick and hands on my body.
My soul complies even when my body breaks.
I’d never say ‘fuck me.’
Nothing so pompous, so conceited as that.
Do whatever you want with me.
Fuck whomever you want.
It’s your right. Just do whatever you want.
Just enjoy yourself. Just make good things.
You’re all that matters in this world.
I worship you.
I am disposable.
Every girl and boy you meet is disposable.
I hope you’re so happy with my pussy that you want more,
that you want others. Let me hold her head down as you fuck her,
let me tell her these things.
You are a lover, you fall in love.
Let me know who you fall in love with and I’ll help you screw her,
I’ll hide myself if need me. I’ll meet you in secret.
Just let me have the joy of helping you
in whatever small way I can.
Let me see you, talk to you, even from afar.
And now, let me do a little nothing for you,
offer you un petit cadeau.
If you sliced me into little ribbons while you fucked me,
it would not be rape. There is nothing you can do to me at any time,
in this life or the next, no matter what happens between now and then,
no matter what happened between now and then, that would not be
consensual. This is what it means to be loved.
This is what you deserve.
A body and soul in love with you,
eager to please no matter the circumstances.
Relax.
Let me suck and caress you.
You don’t have to save the world right now.
I am your reward.
My breasts, severed and stuffed on the wall, are your reward too

if you’d like.

I’ll cut them myself.
Is my face too pretty?
I’ll scar it deeply down its entire length if it pleases you,
if it amuses you.
Is my face too ugly?
I can live with that. I’m grateful for your honesty.
This isn’t about my ego but about how best I can serve you.
Point out a prettier one and I’ll get her for you.
If she has a boyfriend, I’ll tell her he slept with me.
I’ll tell her you’re not my boyfriend but that you were [63 | 64] the only one who cared
about how terrible hers treated me. I’ll tell her how sexy every woman finds you,
I’ll tell her about your writing, I’ll steer her and guide her,
make her an instrument for your pleasure as my love has me.
I’d spend the rest of my life covering up your affairs if you had them,
celibate always except if you cared to, if it pleased you to.
I’d work for you, slave for you, get out from under the seat and suck you off,
enjoying the taste of her cunt fresh on your cock,
when you got into the car after meeting her.
I don’t care anymore.
How dare I know you and care about anything else?
You are my everything.
If a man stood in your way,
a publisher, another writer, a committee member,
I’d kill myself and frame him
if I thought I could serve you best that way.
I’d do it with ease if I knew you had another woman who loved you as I do.
It’s my duty to find you one, even if you only want me,
because there may be some day when you’ll need to replace me,
when I’ll need to be sacrificed,
when you grow a little tired of fucking the same woman,
or I’m a little older or sicker.
Steer me in the right direction to select your replacement.
Point out who you find stunningly attractive,
who you’d love to fuck, and I’ll ascertain her other skills,
her sexual past, her education, her inclinations.
I’ll give her your writing and walk her through it.
And, if she’s good, if you still want her, even to fuck,
I’ll do this for you. If you want her for a relationship,
in the honesty of conversation at home, away from her,
when no rationalizations and justifications of not pursuing her apply,
just say so
and I’ll work to make it happen,
selflessly.
I come so much harder, sometimes, watching your leg shake in passion
as you fuck some other girl’s pussy,
watching another suck you selflessly, caress you as I’ve taught her,
hearing you moan in pleasure no matter what the cause.
I know how hard you come, how deeply you enjoy it,
as I lick another woman’s vaginal lubrication from you
and caress you and enjoy it
and you feel me wetting, moaning, pouring down my leg,
loving to please you and you loving my loving to please you.
This is paradise. [64 | 65]
This is unity.
This is a meaning to life.
This is my response to you.
Use me.
I know that you love me but I have to protect you from that.
I am not what’s important here.
I trust you to take care of me,
to never hurt me unless it’s good to do so.
But you need to know that I want this
-- oh, my god, do I want this --
that I want you to write what you want, achieve what you want,
get what and who you want,
that I’d die and suffer eternally if I thought it would help
-- not even give it to you, but help.
If it only pleased you to watch me suffer in hell,
attended by a thousand demons
solely occupied with torturing me precisely,
targeting my weaknesses expertly,
I’d love every moment of it if I thought it had pleased you

for one moment.

You mean this much to me.
You are my world.
You are my life, my soul itself,
my god, my love, my only pleasure, my only pain.
I’d rather suffer eternally like that than hurt you in the slightest,
but I won’t forget you’re better off with me, even when I fuck up.
I know you’re better off with me because I give you far more pleasure than pain,
even if you decide never to speak to me again,
even if you tell me you don’t want to know what I’m doing
and I’m working for you until my death in secret and in obscurity.
You are it.
And life doesn’t mean anything if I don’t have this.
I’m smart enough to know that I don’t want to live my life
like someone whose petty human jealousy
caused her to abandon Christ
when she knew in her soul what he was
but doubted out of some human weakness,
out of the massiveness of it all,
only to wonder what her pathetic life means
when she’s cooking for herself and some other meaningless fool
when once she cooked a meal for Him,
only to the doubt whether she’s thrown away greatness

too great for the mind to grasp,

only to later suspect or hear or see the truth
and realize she’s made the mistake of her life,
made a mistake greater than almost anyone in the history of the world, [65 | 66]
that she could have caressed him with a fine oil one more time,
given Him the slightest pleasure,
a small gift to Him greater than all her life and all the world.
There is no coming back after that.
Not just after Christ, but after Dante or some other great, Great man,
on whom all history hinges,
not only on whom the gods smile,
but to whom the gods bow.
I doubt.
I am human.
But I have nothing without you but regret,
mind-numbing, soul-destroying regret,
and a hope that hell might only be a few billion years
instead of an eternity,
but a knowledge, even when such a bad place is doubted,
that such an eternity is more deserved than I will ever know, at least in life.
And, if I am wrong,
that it doesn’t matter anyway,
that if death brings an end to the soul as well,
I was better living my life for a cause,
that I had a meaning and a purpose, even if illusory,
and a love greater than anyone has known.
You are one greater man.
I am one greater woman.
Let the history of proper obedience and humility
and joy in being so
hinge upon me.
You the history of art, of literature and letters,
and ultimately of the gods themselves;
I the quiet history, for which Caesar killed a slave who did his work
by killing his master in defiance of hierarchy,
patron saint of too many these days,
the quiet history of quietism, of passive obedience,
of loving submission, of sympathetically and politely advising
but obeying to the last, of passionate, loving stoicism,
a non-exclusive history of messiahs, female in soul if not in body.
And, more than anything, there is no joy greater
than helping one so great,
no pleasure as a woman greater than pleasing such a man,
His pleasure mine, which pleases Him and me and Him and me.
When you can watch the man you love caress another woman’s tits,
watch him fuck her, come, come hard, get sucked by her, love her,
profess his love, tell her how good she made him feel, how sexy she is,
and you can come from watching,
then you know you’re a woman,
then you know you are free: [66 | 67]
free from jealousy, from fear he’ll cheat,
liberated from his glances elsewhere, from fear he’ll leave
after he comes back and you clean her off of him with your tongue
and love doing it, and he fucks you and you please him
and you know you’re strong enough not to cheat in response,
not to act like a little child, like some insecure little trollop.
That is freedom,
that is love,
that is a liberated woman worth praising.
There is beauty.
There is security.
There is self-esteem.
Colonize me.
I am your toy, your tool,
your disciple, your loving pussy,
your pussy, shaped to please in response to your shape,
moment by moment, immediate and intimate.
If sex is beautiful, this is beautiful.
If women are beautiful, this is beautiful.
You are my heaven incarnate.
Your smile at me is worth more than my life, my soul itself.
If I could but see our souls,
put on eyeglasses of greatness,
you would tower over me like a whale to a gnat,
and I would ever be in your shadow,
but I would tower over all but perhaps a few
of the entire world’s population, of world’s entire history,
like an elephant to a gnat,
and you over them like a whale to a bacterium.
I thank you that I am in a body that does not reflect this,
that I may help you in this prison of a body,
that this whale of a soul may gain pleasure by fucking
this gnat of a soul in a body of the same size.
You are everything, this bed the altar on which I sacrifice
my body, my life, my soul.
I don’t care if you never touch me.
You’ve already touched me deeper than the mind can decipher.
If I am too fat, I can give you money.
If I am too poor, I can please you by spreading your word to others.
If I lack social skills, I can do so online.
If I can do none of these things, I can search for someone who can.
Any of these is the perfect relationship.
There is no reason for me not to be your lover,
even if I am not your type in bed.
I have no excuse -- and no one, male or female, does -- but my own weakness,
my own insecurity, inability to recognize your soul, your writing, [67 | 68]
you Art, the love you show to the world,
the kindness of you speaking to anyone, whether in anger or in kindness.
My world begins and ends with you.
You are my Australia, my Africa, my oceans and continents.
You are my America: everything is possible through you.
Any failure is mine.
I pray to you, to your ascended self,
freed of this human form,
that surrogate physical dick rotting and your soul erect and on fire,
penetrating even gods at will, the gods who pussy to you
and know, even the most defiant of tricksters, their place,
their conflicts all within their pantheons,
their reason overtaking them with you
like a difficult man with a gun to his head.
This is not joke, no jest, no exaggeration.
I’ve seen it in dreams, over and over,
dreams I now believe your ascended self put there.
This is my fate, period,
whether I choose to accept it or not,
as yours is yours, the history of letters and minds.
There is no suffering for you, only triumph.
Suffering for self, working to afford CDs and other nonsense,
means nothing if one begins to comprehend you.”

And she says, “allow me the pleasure of licking your feet.”
And she wets while doing so:
I pull her up and feet her cunt before I bend her back and fuck her,
neither of us saying a word,
and it’s wet, wonderfully wet.
And I know that I am loved.

She wears a collar and leash in the house.
On command she hikes up her skirt and leans over the couch
and I fuck her, there and then, spontaneously taking her because I can;
then she kneels as cleans her pussy off me with her tongue and throat.
I’m fucking her mouth, leaning forward for deep penetration,
gagging her, fucking her face,
then pushing her down on the floor, hiking her skirt over her head,
and her legs as well, before fucking this anonymous cunt,
coming quickly in that wet pussy,
pure release and pure dominance,
because I can, because she’s mine.
I tell her she’s anonymous, push down her hidden face
through the fabric of her skirt,
telling her she’s nothing but a pussy to me at this moment, [68 | 69]
calling her by the name of some woman I’m curious to fuck,
and I feel her pussy wet and tighten and shake
in the pleasure of knowing that I’m released,
that I can remove her personhood, change her identity,
eradicate her and just fuck, just fuck,
erasing and changing her face,
use her pussy and partake of this physical joy I so deny myself,
that all the inhibitions are dropped
as much as if I were alone,
her in the comfort of anonymity while utterly known,
her coming because this is good for me,
because this inhibition, this closeness, this freedom,
the comfort of her lover to treat her like this as she knows he want to,
is the sexiest thing she can imagine,
that this comfort in me, however manifested, is worth a million orgasms,
is what it’s really all about.

Yesterday she brought home a beautiful woman for dinner,
then slowly seduced her, asking over sushi she prepared,
“isn’t he sexy? Oh, don’t worry, I’m not the jealous type,”
setting the stage, prompting the right thoughts in her.
She was a student, this one, found in an art gallery,
twenty-ish, fantastically sexy. She saw an opportunity
and gave this girl a message, lifting her shirt to do so.
She had such slender arms, this student.
It was a long message.
She’d had this girl read my writings,
taught her to revere them, opened her to being moved by them,
let this girl’s amazement grow that she really knew this man.
Meeting her, she’d shaken my hand and stammered what an honor this was.
These visits happened a few more times,
proving this student intelligent, a conversationalist.
She’d kneeled down and leaned forward as if to kiss the floor
and thanked me for my writings.
One time, during a message, my woman had told her,
“if you want to show him your appreciation,
I’m sure he’d love to fuck you. I know he thinks you’re beautiful.”
And she’d gone right on messaging like there was nothing amiss,
nothing even odd. When she’d assured my woman
“I’d never do anything that might hurt you,”
my woman leaning in and whispered into this girl’s ear,
“I think I’d come just watching him enjoy you,
knowing he was getting what he found so beautiful.”
And, so they started talking, my woman preparing this girl,
teaching her the right attitude, to not be embarrassed to kneel,
to strip, to admit she wanted to be used. [69 | 70]
Before long, this girl craved it, and she’d get what she wanted:
the two had stripped; my woman had bathed her, cleaned her, oiled her,
given her a collar, attached her own, and told this girl what to say.
They’d knocked and entered my room together, naked,
my woman collared and this girl carrying hers.
They’d gotten on their hands and knees, faces to the floor
just before my feet. My woman said, humbly, that she’d brought this girl for me.
And this girl, not moving up her head,
lifted her collar and leash
and told me, “I am yours if you desire.”
Her voice was nervous, crackling tensely.
I’d taken the collar, kneeled beside her, inspected her
as she shook nervously, naked.
I held the collar by her neck and asked her,
“Do you want to please me, however you can, to any extent?”
And she’d said, “yes, I do.”
And I asked her,
“Are you prepared for hell eternal should you ever disobey,
no matter the reason, no matter the circumstances?”
And she’d said, “yes, I am.”
And I asked her,
“Do you promise to love, honor, and obey me,
in sickness and in health, in this life and forever more,
no matter my actions, no matter my treatment of you?”
And she’d said, “yes, I do.”
And so I told her,
“then you are now my pussy, my property, my lover,
and you shall be until I say otherwise. Your soul is mine.
Your life is mine. And I love you for your loving submission.”
And I placed the collar around her neck,
then began to caress her.
I took both leashes in my hand.
“Sit up and face me.”
Their beauty when they did,
those four breasts awed me,
four legs, two cunts between them,
two leashes running to my hand.
“Your life begins here and now,”
I told the girl.
“I name you,” I said, and added a name.
“Suck my dick.”
She unbuttoned my pants, looking up nervously.
“It’s okay,” I told her, caressing her cheek.
And she put my dick in her mouth.
She was a poor fellator, didn’t know what she was doing. [70 | 71]
And so I, holding her leash, pushed her back on the bed,
climbed on top of her and pushed back her legs in one motion,
then felt her pussy as I prepared to enter her.
“You are his now,” my first woman said, getting on the bed near her head.
“Let this pain remind you of the fact that you are his,”
she told her, and I pushed myself into her.
She screamed, her insides torn out,
and I waited, fully inside, for the screaming and shivering to subside
as my first woman held my second woman’s head
and soothed her like a mother would a child.
“Let him enjoy you,” the first told the second.
“Cherish this pain. It is the pain of your death
and of your birth. It is the death of,” and then she said her old name,
“and the birth of,” and then she said her new.
And, her body still whimpering,
I slowly began to move,
slowly began to fuck her
as my first woman reassured her,
soothing her with sounds,
cradling her head in this moment of death and of birth,
their nudity on each other,
telling her that she is chosen now, privileged among all women on Earth,
reminding her that this is the pain of birth into a new class, a new species,
the feeling of dying as a stupid human girl
and of being born as a demi-god, a minion and lover to a god.
And soon it began to feel good amidst the pain,
and she knew,
and she understood.
After I was satisfied,
my first kindly whispered to her that she had been christened,
that her insides, her soul, had been sanctified,
and then she (my first) licked the afterbirth from my godhood,
and let my second hold her head and I fucked her mercilessly,
let my second, her insides torn, hold her and see her future,
hear her future pleasure, feel her future oneness, calm, and happiness
deeper than any species of happiness she had ever felt before.
Afterword, my second, still hurting, licked away the taste of my first,
and they lay there together, my first comforting the new initiate,
soothing her into her new status,
talking with her about how they’d shared communion,
both been forever altered,
been united as the only two women on this planet
with such intimacy with divinity.
I cleaned myself, my erection harder [71 | 72] and more satisfying to the slight touch
of the water than I could ever remember.
I slept between them that night, both of them holding me,
my erection proding at the nude buttocks of one of them
(I know not which, nor does it matter)
as we drifted into sleep.
We repeated this criss-crossing the next day,
and the day after that,
my first instructing kindly my second in the ways of pleasing me
with her tongue, her hands, her quoint.
And my second watching how it was done afterward.
I was shaking as I came so hard into my first that I thought the world had ended,
and I felt her pussy tighten as my second held her, watched her,
and my second saw this orgasm, felt her compatriot’s pleasure,
knew that this union could be hers,
the three of us united in pleasure,
not competing but with a single goal.
Years later, when I fucked my second more than my first,
and my first could caress me and stimulate my erection by telling me
“you like that young pussy, don’t you?”
without any hint of jealousy, feeling my erection shudder harder at the words,
bringing in my second and directing her in my pleasure with contentment,
with the happiness of the soul that comes with the erasure of the self,
that artificial construct.
One would let her breasts dangle across me, let me strangle her
or slam her head or twist her nipples
as the other slid me deep into her throat again and again,
all my pleasure directed through me and onto the other.
And the day eventually came when my second brought a woman home,
some young thing who’d read my work and who worshipped me,
who seemed intelligent and couldn’t believe she was meeting me.
They had their pictures on the wall, taken on their knees looking up at me
in adoration, placed in sequential order with their names beneath,
demonstrating the honor they’d received, their distinction from the
animal-women, their transformation into works of art,
of love, of this community of support for the world-transformer while yet he lived.
Selfless, never needing to justify their pleasures,
the youngest admiring the oldest,
their knowledge of me over the years,
our conversation in the study that the newest couldn’t match,
the youngest prized for my love of their youth, their beauty, [72 | 73]
all training and helping each other, instructing,
cooking, cleaning, the oldest editing, all worshipping
but the oldest understanding it better.
How wonderful to, after conversation with one of the oldest,
tell her to bend over and fuck her, there and then,
this pussy I knew so well, this body I knew better than my palm,
this old friend enjoyed nostalgically, taking my come like some young thing,
a different kind of sex for a different kind of mood,
all taking care of each other, never leaving
and knowing I’d never left any one of them, right down the line of pictures.
The look of the fresh ones as they saw the young, lithe body of the oldest few,
evergreen in the photograph above their name,
the wonder they must feel,
the continuity, the honor, the simplicity, the love.
The security.
The peace.
This ridding of the world’s values from love,
from simply enjoying sex.
This army of submission, of soft breasts and moist vaginas,
kind but stern, a community that knows what it’s like
because everyone else has been through it as well.
Gods, the simplicity.
A uniform of collars, of the liberation of obedience, of belonging,
of immediacy with one’s god,
of tradition, honor, respect.
When a bedfull of women can drip with pleasure as one is fucked,
when each participate in the slightest way, enjoying the moans of those they love.
This is paradise.
Supporting each other when ill, when sad, when tragedy comes.
Letting go.
When a woman can enjoy in her soul, coming vicariously,
when she has one of four pairs of breasts caressing the body of her lover
as he shivers and rolls with pleasure as he pounds another’s cunt,
truly loving this man, knowing he’s not about to leave,
loving her submission securely, letting go of social programming,
knowing she has this god as her only lover,
in love with his pleasure, stimulated by his pleasure,
coming to hear him come and let go with his hands and thighs
on some woman who is her compatriot, united in common cause,
both secure, both dripping, both coming.
Multiple simultaneous orgasms between three or four people,
only possible out of such love, [73 | 74]
properly centered.
A community of lovers epitomized.
Who let slide what they can really let slide,
coming so easily, not embarrassed by their enjoyment of pleasing, of serving,
not nervous out of jealousy.
Raising any children together, each serving in different ways,
common cause, common cause.
But the orgasms … .
No woman has ever come as hard than a woman in such a position,
who has let go of self, of jealousy,
who feels only love and has the security to let herself,
to find the depths that love can reach when unencumbered by these taints.

This is no lie, no illusion. I have felt a pussy
tighten and convulse in mad orgasm at the sound of my moan,
at the feeling of my letting go and enjoying so deeply, so directly,
so utterly without mediation. I have felt a pussy shake and constrict,
wetting immensely all of a sudden, when I’ve moaned deeply but not even
had an orgasm, then to do so again when I do.
I know what it’s like to give a woman a hundred orgasms or so
because I’ve opened her soul to such love,
and to have nearly as many myself
at her utter lack of inhibition to pleasing,
of the immediacy of that love.
I’ve felt a woman, after sixty orgasms or so,
beg to find me another woman,
beg to watch me fuck her savagely,
to let loose on her flesh,
beg to be allowed to find me someone I found sexier
because it would please her so much to see me so pleased,
to give me this wish, this fantasy.
I’ve felt and heard a woman come at the thought of it,
of imagining it herself,
of fantasizing of finding a higher level to my sexual satisfaction.
I’ve felt a woman’s orgasm tighten and become a river
as she begs me to kill her if it pleases me in the slightest
and as she imagines it, hears herself saying this instead of thinking it.
As she knows this is nothing to look down upon,
that this inclination in her isn’t to hold in disrespect
but is to be praised, to be celebrated, to be actualized if the desire be there.
As she knows that this kind of devotion is beautiful
and opens herself up to trust enough to let herself feel it
and knows that I love this in her, [74 | 75]
that this is strength nearly unimaginable and not weakness as she’s been taught,
that the weakness is feeling this way and suppressing it,
that the weakness comes in choosing the wrong god,
in trusting a man untrustworthy,
in giving this gift which she knows invites all these thoughts,
all these feelings,
to some idiot and never being able to give it afresh again.
As she knows that I love her more for opening this in herself,
for spreading her heart as my sacred tool spreads her cunt,
as she knows that I’m coming a hundred times harder
because she’s not repressed,
because she is a woman,
because she would die or go to hell for love at a moment’s notice.
Because she knows my ascended self
will reward such love and devotion
and will punish those who close their hearts,
who repress their souls out of fear
and live mistaken, senseless lives because of it,
who would commit the mortal sin of fearing this in themselves,
of fearing me, of fearing what I open in themselves.
The soul of a woman would stay with a man who beats her.
The soul of a woman would enjoy being beaten if she thought it pleased
the man she loved. And the bodies of women,
which filter this beautiful, loving soul through their minds,
their brains which apply poor logic to what they know it true,
feel is true as simply and as truly as seeing an object before them,
truer even because that object is transitory and their souls are not,
these bodies fear this soul because they fear abandonment,
not because they fear that the man they love fucking another
might lead to him preferring her over themselves,
if it so pleased him,
but because they fear that such a man might leave them,
remove this repository of such love, this subject to invest their lives,
their hearts into,
and thus destroy them worse than any earthquake,
any physical attack.
The soul of a woman is such love.
The soul of a woman loves being used by the man she loves,
by a worthy, superior man who owns her
and will treat her as a cherished possession,
who is not fucked up by his own insecurities,
his own barriers to restricting his soul, his self,
his desire to love as a man loves,
to command but to love those he commands,
to care for them, to nurture them, [75 | 76]
to nurture their loving souls and make them more themselves.
The soul of a woman comes, I tell you,
it comes, orgasms in joy and peace and bliss,
so sexy, so kinky, yet so profound,
when a worthy man runs his finger across his slit,
sampling his possession,
his source of joy, thinking of this joy,
thinking of using her, abandoning himself to this joy
through abandoning himself to the paradise of her body.
That she can produce this in him,
feel and see and hear and smell this in him,
this letting go, this true self, helping him find such depths,
the intimacy of a man finding his love, his hatred,
his ecstasy, his passion, through the use of your loins,
the claiming of your soul, honored by the gods.
The soul of a woman comes, I tell you,
to see this in a man she loves,
that her soul knows to be worthy,
and you can feel it, can feel this soul beneath you,
and she yours on top of her, behind her,
taking her, letting loose of inhibition, finding yourself,
burying yourself deep within her,
using her utterly out of utter love for her,
finding utter comfort with yourself through her comfort with yourself,
and her finding utter comfort with herself through utter comfort with you,
with dying for you moment by moment if it’s part of your quest,
because to do so is her quest, an utterly different path,
though no less noble.
The soul of a woman knows love to move mountains,
just waiting to be unleashed
by being leashed.
The soul of a woman makes a god of her lover,
and his soul of hers a heaven.

He asks: “Whom do you love best:
your father, your mother,
your husband, your lover,
your friend, your god?”
She replies: “You are my father. I sprung from your head
like Zeus’s. I had a mother and a father in a past life,
in which you found raw material,
but no parents in this life save you. You
are my husband and only love, my master, my lord
my only friend and only foe come death
and my day of judgment at your feet,
when I shall marvel and cry in awe before you, [76 | 77]
nude in soul, more vulnerable than a child before you,
my only god.”

“If you point to a clear sky and tell me it is cloudy, it is so.
What is your authority and what is the sky’s?
Has it mind or consciousness? Have I to yours?
What is a word but a god, a thing but a toy of the gods.
What am I but a tool of this god.
If you point to a thing and tell me it is another,
it has always been so and always will be.”

She cleans and messages my back each day,
then, knowing I’m sometimes insecure about my back,
she moves her hands to caress me, begins licking me,
and begins to lick my cock, to lick my balls,
to get her head held and her face fucked,
to get her throat used as a pussy,
before she’s pushed back and over
and fucked and fucked and fucked
and held down and pressed upon and came in,
claimed, violated, penetrated, spread, fucked, ripped apart --
possessed, possessed, possessed.

I come home to her lying naked on the bed,
white sheets in disarray, arms at right angles over her head,
dead, a katana emanating from her pussy, six inches inserted,
blood running down her slit and onto the bed between her legs.
But I know better. See, she’s read this poem.
And so I pull out the sword, noting it’s not sharpened,
lift up her legs and fuck her corpse through a bit of watery ketchup
as she plays dead until she’s fucked too hard
and then she slowly wakes up, her lubrication pink all over the bed,
a sleeping beauty who took more than a kiss.

Come out of your cage, it’s time to be fucked.

Dear Mister Darius,
I am writing you because I have read and been moved by your books.
I feel that I understand, or that I have some understanding, of you,
of your thought, your concerns -- though I would never presume to pretend
that I know you utterly, and I know the difference between fiction, between
self-formulations and the author himself, if such a construct exists,
or at least the biological human being who dons the author’s mask.
I came three times while reading your Fragments of a Formerly Active Sex Life. [77 | 78]
You see, we’ve never met and yet you’ve made me come.
Though I’ve never had sex -- my sexual experience is limited
to kissing a girl at a party, to seeing my brother’s penis, and to being harassed
by crude boys -- I have friends who have had multiple lovers
and not had a single orgasm, much less three.
You are a celebrity to me, a celebrity of the real culture,
of any culture that celebrates art and the mind,
of any literate culture concerned with divine things.
I identify with your loneliness, given my own high standards,
and when I think of the idiot males I have met -- men of every class
and level of education -- I cannot hold the idea of sleeping with any of them
in my mind for too long. After all, they pale by comparison to my ideal,
and I have only one virginity to give. I’ve invested in that virginity,
in preserving it as much as I can -- even by avoiding kissing --
and I’d be foolish to throw that investment away and compete sexually --
I don’t have the heart of a slut, who can just get fucked. I detest that I have
done as much as I have, and I detest the behavior of my friends
even as I love them. You see, Mister Darius, I believe in love.
And I would be a fool to abandon myself to some everyman,
even some rich suitor without a heart or mind for subtlety,
but I fantasize, as your books sit by my bed, that I have met you,
that you were taken with me, that you’re on top of me, taking what you want.
I hope that I’m not troubling you with all of this,
wasting my time and yours. Be assured, I’m no stalker:
I don’t want to hurt you, I don’t even want to be your girlfriend as such.
I’d just like you to know that I’d do anything for how much you’ve moved me,
that I’d rather devote myself utterly to a man of your caliber,
that I’d rather belong to you, work for you, have you take my virginity
and be my only lover in this lifetime, and have you not be monogamous,
than have some brain-dead twit, in comparison to you, and have him
be monogamous, and have some dissatisfying marriage,
likely ending in divorce, and the feeling that none of it was really worth it.
Or even the suspicion. I don’t even know if I’d be attractive to you.
I’m young, between 18 and my mid-twenties.
I’m fairly smart, well-read, at college, have wealthy parents with a library --
all relatively speaking. I’m about 5 feet, 8 or 9 inches or so. I’m a brunette
but willing to die. I’m skinny -- maybe too much. My hips at their widest [78 | 79]
point, around my ass, are only 29 inches around. My waist is 19. My breasts
-- I don’t know any woman who’s happy with her breasts --
aren’t exactly gigantic, I confess. About 29 inches around. I’m not bulimic,
I bathe regularly, don’t wear jeans or T-shirts except ironically.
Oh, my wrists are small too. And my arms and legs.
I’ve avoided that fat on the inner thighs that too many women have.
The truth is that I don’t like most people too much.
My hair is somewhat curly. I don’t go to rock concerts.
I know all this may sound strange, but there’s nothing really strange
about a woman writing a man to tell him she’s interested in being with him.
This may be an act of desperation, but I don’t expect a yes --
I don’t expect you to be interested, nor do I expect you to be perfect
if I meet you. If you were, your triumphs, your writing, your mind,
wouldn’t mean anything. If you were a bum
and I could contribute to your next book with my mouth,
my hymen, my loyalty, my body in full, my heart, my soul …
I would do so gladly. I’d pay whatever I could to know that I’d helped
that next book when it came out, to meet you and have coffee
as I gave you my donation. What I’m saying is that I’d like to make a donation
of my life. I’ll undergo psychological tests and a gynecological exam,
of course at my expense, and provide you the documentation
of my virginity and my sanity. In any case, I wish you well,
and let me know if I can do anything -- anything.
Much love,

There was a girl who, after sleeping with me and knowing who I was,
slept with someone else and broke my heart.
It took some time, but she realized the mistake,
came to say that she had met the man of her dreams
and broken up with him, slept with others --
a heavy burden, surely, to know that one has sinned such
and to have known the god one has sinned against, rather than
being in a state of wonder. The benefit of my position is
that, while I’m heartbroken far too much of the time,
suicidally depressed, I’ve no doubt that the lovers who’ve spurned me
will face such hell and realize, if only upon death, how terrible, terrible,
and terribly, terribly stupid, they’ve really been. So this girl,
she knows she can never redeem herself,
never blot out this sin from her soul, and she knows
that she’s off-limits to me sexually, that whatever the physical temptation,
her sex is disgusting to me as it is to her -- so this repentant but unredeemed [79 | 80]
traitor decides to spend her life in service, living in a small apartment
despite a sizable income, sending me the surplus,
never letting a man inside her unless he pays a fee that she sends to me,
some small recompense for the same violation she used to betrayed me,
for he rest of her life, no matter how old her relationships -- the older the better,
the more they know they must accept her closeness to me
that he’ll never be able to compete with, a situation that causes jealousy
but turns others on, and eventually led to a few more readers and a friend.
Paying with the tool she used for treason, poetic justice,
swords to plowshares, private, utterly free receptacle to public, expensive one.
The rich are used to paying for things anyway.

Hey, nonny, nonny. Gotta get one of those in here (so to speak).

“I was talking to Jason about relationships, and he said that I was nuts to expect a woman of the caliber I want, as beautiful as I want, as smart, et cetera.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“That’s what I thought. But he said, ‘no offense, but … what do you have to offer?’ I was floored. What do I have to offer? I have a lot to offer the world, let alone a person. ‘Associating with a person after whom the world is not the same.’ That’s what I should have said. I said, ‘think of it this way. You’re designing a character in a game and you have a certain amount of points to spend -- you can spend them on looks, intelligence, demeanor and charisma, education, et cetera. Even assuming you get a lot more for your money -- or your points -- with intelligence -- that is to say that intelligence is less valued, is thought cheaper -- and I think this is a sign of a corrupt society, of corrupt social values -- than looks, I’m still more expensive than people who’d be rated a 10 in looks. Somehow we got on -- oh, I remember, he said that I’d probably be with someone decently intelligent and that -- he implied there would be a greater gap between my looks and my woman’s desired looks than her intelligence and mine. I thought this was ridiculous; I’ve had too many people say how sexy I am to think otherwise. But those were higher people, people with the values of private liberal arts schools, not hayseeds. I’ve been rated a 10 by people; I think that’s a bit high, but obviously not so far off. I had a group at college, with nothing to gain or lose, rate my looks after I’d shaven as a 7 or 8. And am always told I and the sexiest woman in the room look good together. But when I said that, even if I were a [80 | 81] 5, I’m unlikely to find a 5 in intelligence compared to me, he laughed. And kept stressing muscle tone.”
“Muscle tone?”
“Right. That’s his point. That I don’t have enough muscle tone. That I’m unattractive because my muscles aren’t toned. That’s what it comes down to.”
“That’s ridiculous. Who gives a shit?”
“Exactly. No one I care about. I mean, how much lower class can one get. I guess that’s middle class, very middle class. To me it’s lower class. Does anyone really care about that nonsense?”
“I guess he does.”
“Right, right. It’s ridiculous.”
“Yes. Bourgeois. It’s a fucked up set of values.”
“Well, I think so. I mean, it’s like Albert Einstein being told he’s not attractive because of his crazy hair. At what point does one say, ‘I’m so sorry -- I solved unified field theory, but you’re right -- I don’t have any muscle tone. I guess I’m terrible.’ What the hell is that. ‘I’m so sorry.’ Is this really what we’re talking about?”
“Why are you having trouble imagining that it is?”
“I guess it flabbergasts me that someone could really have those values. I told him -- I said, I’ve given lectures at universities, had the freshmen show interest, had a dozen of them ask to blow me, these young little things, because of my intelligence, my charisma during the presentation, my ideas, the vigor of my ideas. That’s sexy. That’s seductive to a woman. Not some idiot woman with lower class values, who I can’t understand for a second why she sleeps with anyone -- it seems so like a dog, this arbitrary, capricious decision of these people that, yes, I’ll sleep with you. Though they don’t even say this. They just put the ass in the air like a cat in heat. Make pretend that it’s love with Billy Joe-Bob, as his hick face kisses her in front of the knitted ‘God Bless This Home’ sign. Give me a break. This guy … this guy’s had a ton of lovers -- a ton in more ways than one, probably. All that experience compared to my three. But he hasn’t had any lovers, he hasn’t looked into the soul of a woman, he has sex, bestial, not sex, passionate. He wouldn’t understand. It’s a different species, it really is. We may be able to change our species, though not without difficulty, but it’s that level of difference. There are so many men who’ve had hundreds of sexual partners and know nothing about women, have never had a lover, a single lover. I’ve chosen quality over quantity. It’s not that there aren’t days when I regret this decision, but I regret it as a lover, as an artist, as a contemplative. I couldn’t live that ass-in-the-air, cat-like lifestyle. It’s not even sex.”
“You’re right about knowing women. These players … most women, for that matter … they don’t know the first thing. Not really. They think it’s muscle tone, it’s looks, it’s the feel of sex, nothing deeper than six and a half inches or so. All of it very superficial. And they [81 | 82] think they know women, know what women really want, which is rarely what they think they do.”
“And the same goes for men, that what they want is rarely what they think they do, what they’re conscious of.”
“Right.”
“What most people, men or women, really want is to relinquish control, to have the simplicity, the freedom of not having to think so much. ‘I got married because my dad told me to.’ Or ‘it was the right thing to do.’ The division of labor in any house, in the kitchen, the study. All of it couched if talk of empowerment, but that’s a word that usually means gleefully putting one’s wrists into manacles.”
“Which is what most people want. Ironically, by being your lover, I’m taking power for myself, showing control over myself that I don’t have sex with others, that I control my urges, that I know I enjoy obeying, relinquishing control. They think you’re so bad because they see the control, but it’s a gift … it’s a gift. I just have to obey. I have to be strong, let go of my pride, humble myself before you -- but that’s easy to do if you know you can trust the person you’re humbling yourself toward, that he’s trustworthy. The feeling that you’re giving your body entirely, now and forever, that you want your lover to do whatever he wants, without restriction, that’s liberating. And I love it. It makes me come. That trust, that intimacy, opening myself to devotion and seeing, seeing as clear as anything, that it’s deserved -- deserved a million times over. You know what turns women on? Integrity. I have to be strong, to let go of my jealousy, but that’s easy too. How liberated is it to believe that a man shouldn’t cheat? Aren’t I much more liberated in saying it depends on who that man is, who that woman is. If he’s a god, there’s no cheating possible. It’s like petting another dog besides your own -- go for it. I hope you enjoy it. A good dog does. It doesn’t mean you’ll stop being my master, that the special intimacy between man and dog is going to disappear. Quite the contrary. I don’t know where I was going with this.”
“Nor I this. I just didn’t understand this guy’s points. That Plato lacked muscle tone and no women would want him? Bullshit. No woman worth having would care about such trifles.”
“Exactly. These women, I detest them. I see them, whoring themselves in bars, sleeping with idiots … the worst are the attractive ones, long legs, thin, nice tits, who give their sex to these idiots … I see this guy and he’s nothing, he’s nothing, and these women, these fake women, these pretend-women, they give themselves, their sex, their bodies to these men, these fake men, these pretend-men and … and I hate it. I don’t understand it. You’re not a man if you’re a ditch digger. Or hardly a man. You’re not a woman if you sleep with someone you won’t obey without hesitation for the rest of your life. That’s right. It’s that simple. If you’re a woman who has sex, who gives a man the use of her pussy, to spread, to use for his [82 | 83] gratification -- because you know he’s going to come, you know he’s going to enjoy it, to enjoy it physically, to love it, far more -- far, far more -- than you ever will. And you can trick yourself to think otherwise, that you’re ‘powerful’ by laying on your back, by taking a dick into you from any position, but you’re not. You’re not and it’s disgusting. They make sex trite and make me ashamed for my gender. I hate the fact that I have tits, that I have a cunt, a disgusting, dirty cunt, because it’s not beautiful -- it’s beautiful with a man you give it to, really give it to, let him possess you utterly, but it’s ugly -- ugly -- when it’s anything else, when it’s this trite sex that doesn’t mean anything, that doesn’t count for anything. I want to kill them. And I can’t redeem them, I can’t make up for all these stupid women in the world.”
“Nor I all the stupid men who’ll fuck them.”
“But at least the men are honest with themselves, at least they’re not saying, ‘I love this woman’ or ‘I’m powerful for taking a dick, for letting a dick have access to my inner parts, to everything that gives me meaning as a woman, that I’m something for letting a man enjoy my body, use it, use it’ … I … at least those men are getting pleasure, at least those men are enjoying these whores, these sluts who don’t even acknowledge that they’re nothing but sluts, that once they’ve let a man spread it, there’s no going back, there’s no healing possible, this life is a loss except serving a man who really is worthwhile. Serving in whatever capacity one can. But when that pussy’s spread, that’s it. If you take another dick into you, you’re done. You’re a slut. A nothing. And these men are treating these women, these stupid women, like they are -- as nothings, as sluts. It’s deserved, it’s fair. And the men are powerful -- their bodies are contoured for invasion, designed to invade, to fuck, to rape -- their bodies were designed for rape and women’s bodies were designed to get raped. That’s it. That’s a biological fact. It’s not like sperm say, ‘no, we can’t impregnate this egg, she was raped.’ It’s not like the dick says, ‘better shrivel up -- don’t go in, this is rape.’ No, it’s rape as all penetration is rape. It’s a dick, what it does is rape. And you’d better get used to it. You’d better give that pussy to someone you love enough to let rape you, to use you like a thing because that’s what you fucking are -- a thing.”
“You really care passionately about this, don’t you?”
“I’m disgusted by them. That men fuck them, use them, lie to them and leave them? Good. They chose to be a sexual commodity, to let men in. And if they do, they have nothing to bitch about. Because it’s rape. Because it’s not nice. It’s beautiful when there’s love, when I’m on my back and you’re getting what you want and I’m dripping and … god, my god, you are my god and you’re enjoying me … that’s what life’s about, pleasing one’s god. But these sluts, these hos -- they’re holes, ache, oh, ell, ee, ess, holes. Just cunts getting fucked. So who cares if they’re treated as such.” [83 | 84]
“That’s, ah, pretty extreme.”
“Yes, it is, but it’s no less right because it is. Look, you let someone rape you, penetrate you, spread your body, change its shape for his pleasure, use you, violate you, fuck you -- and he comes, and he enjoys using you, so easily, enjoys the pussy, enjoys raping you because he was designed to do so. And then he leaves you, he doesn’t call you, and you say, ‘what an ass, he didn’t call me after he raped me.’ Bullshit. Fuck ‘em. They deserve what they get.”
“But it hurts. Even if they’re illusioned, it hurts.”
“No offense. You are my lord and master, and I defer to you in all things. Because I love you. Because I’m designed to be raped, and you enjoy raping me, and I love to give you that joy. But that kind of thinking can get you in trouble. Look, I want you to fuck them. There are a lot of pussies in this world and you haven’t had nearly enough. You’re a god -- your art is amazing. Even if I didn’t think you were a god-to-be, you’ve made incredible works of art, of poetry, and you’re brilliant -- the tests show it, your thoughts show it, the way you observe and walk and talk shows it. You are. Period. And you deserve all the pussies you want, however you want, and I’d be sacrilegious to stand in your way. I’d be stupid and selfish. And I’m not saying I always find it easy, but I want you to have that and you deserve it and I know it’d make you come. That you’d love to fuck that woman you noticed yesterday. And I’d do whatever I could to get her for you, to procure her for your pleasure, to make her appreciate you like I do and to know that she is yours, forever and unalterably yours, and that this is rewarding. To see you go from looking at her to naked with her, to biting her neck, feeling her tits, fucking her, fucking this animal, this cunt, coming in this animal beneath you … it makes me wet just thinking about it. And I want that for you. I don’t want you to catch a disease, I want to choose them well because I know it feels so much better for you without one of those condoms, those wretched inventions to repress male satisfaction, to hide the rape of it, the use of it, to allow women to be used and raped and just go on with their lives … anyway … .”
“Yes, anyway.”
“The point is that you can’t give too much of a shit about them. You can’t give too much of a shit about me. I don’t want you to not write because you’re thinking about me, wishing I was there. I don’t want that. I want you to enjoy me, I want to make you come, I want to send you money and know that you’re dining out and having a good time, hopefully dining out with some pussy, some fresh young pussy that’s clean and will feel good to fuck, with nice young tits and legs who’ll go down on you and service you. And I’d be honored to help that. But they’re disposable. I’m, ultimately, disposable. I’m a thing for your pleasure. I was designed for it and I accept my design. I won’t rebel against my maker. And I’m yours. [84 | 85] I belong to you. This world belongs to you. It’s one big cunt that should spread for your pleasure. But don’t over-romanticize it. Use the pussy, but don’t feel bad about it. Lie to get it if it pleases you. Give me that gift of knowing that you came, that you … that you came. I don’t care who it’s in. I don’t care. I just don’t want you to cry or feel bad at all over it. Enjoy it. Know what it means even if she doesn’t. But don’t get fucked up over it. It’s there for you. It belongs to you. You’re the focus here. And don’t feel bad for some slut, for some woman. So she feels bad -- who cares? Did you come? Did you feel a nice tit, get a nice suck? Because that’s what the universe cares about, that’s what the gods are going to take note of -- not some stupid bitch’s being upset, ultimately, because she’s a hole to be fucked and doesn’t know it, but that you enjoyed it. Does the world care about some slut Picasso picked up? Only in as much as he picked her up, as she was an instrument for him. Only in as much as he came, as he fucked her, used her, got an erection and pleased himself. If she’s important, if history takes note of her, it’s only for that. You’re doing them a favor. Just don’t get fucked up about it.”
“You want me to do these things? I wish it were that simple.”
“Then let me help. Let me find someone, big tits, long legs, thin … you like them thin, I know how you like them. And I’ll get her for you. And you can fuck this thing, enjoy this thing.”
“Gods. I’d love to, but I’m too sensitive for that. I want the love, to feel the love, and then I want her around, to be good to her and get good in return. I want another you.”
“Then I’ll get you another you. But if she’s bad to you, if she doesn’t see you’re erect and go down on you, if she doesn’t please you, then take what you want and leave her. Dispose of her. Because her inferiority to you will only make her go crazy if she doesn’t admit her desire to please you and you only, without limits -- if she doesn’t admit her desire to be raped by you and admit to herself how much she enjoys it. Let go of her. There’ll be another. I’ll find you another. But you have to let go of the pussy. It’s you that it’s about, not her.”
“I can only fuck like that when I’m in a relationship. When I’m in a relationship healthy enough to empower me to do that, to feel that I can.”
“Then let me be that for you. And if you tire of me, if you no longer find me attractive, really, then I’ll help however I can. I’ll send you money. I’ll still procure you pussy, blow jobs, and check the girls out, prepare them for a life of service. When I’m through, they’ll be more afraid of me than of you -- though they’ll fear, in their hearts, your ascended self more than anything. I can still be your pussy, wet for you, if you don’t want my body anymore. I’ll still have hands to send letters out for you, work for you, eyes still to find these girls for you, a will to train them, discipline them, a mouth to teach them [85 | 86] with, to preach the good news of you. Then be you. Then write. Then teach. Then give yourself to the god you will be, who’s in you even now. That’s what you can do for me. And if you want a piece of pussy, any girl you see, let me know and I’ll get her for you, however I can, whatever I have to say or do, however long it takes if she’s worthwhile. I love you. Enjoy yourself and get back to your writing, to your work, to your mission.”
“I love you too.”
“I know. I know precisely because I am yours. Because I know your ascended self.”
“I’m hard.”
“I’d love to suck you right now.”
“I know. You’re pretty worked up.”
“You’ll have a nice, soft dip if you take my pussy.”
“Then suck. And strip. And caress me. And let your tits dangle on my leg. And, in a few minutes, I’ll fuck you like the thing that you are.”
“I love you, my god.”

So I’ve been dating this girl for a while
and I think it’s time to let her speak to my old friend Emily.
“You realize you’ll never be good enough for him,”
she tells this girl. “Now, don’t freak out about it.
Just acknowledge it, get down on your knees, and worship.
Do what you can for him. He’s a good man -- a great man.
You’ll never know how good. Just do what you can,
be as good as you can. He deserves it a million times over.
Don’t get anxious about it. You’re not good enough for him
and you’ll never be. But you can help him, and I expect you to.
Now, go to him, get down on your knees,
and worship him. Make him happy. He deserves it.
Go. Now. Please him. Be good to yourself
by being good to him. Now go. He’s worth it.”

Disappointment seems inevitable, though we long for it like nothing else.
Having found a wonderful girl, who loves me madly,
who volunteers to suck my cock, who smiles the smile of the soul
when she hears me moan in her throat
or when she brings me groceries when I’m sick,
whose eyes light up to see me or to pleasure me --
having found this wonderful girl, she cries one night and
-- the real offense -- says she’s angry and refuses to talk,
calm though she departs. And the next day, alone and hungry,
I put off going out for food, wanting solace but knowing
I need a change of scene even if I don’t want it.
I go out to find a restaurant and, as I walk, myself feel angry.
And I think, this great girl in spiritual tow after so many years of solitude, [86 | 87]
this phrase: “because you’re a fucking piss-poor substitution
for what the girlfriend I should have deserve.”
There’s nothing before the “because”
except the contemplation of never talking again
and the memory of contemplating suicide at some terrible little fault.
This Mahomet’s Paradise of a fleshy hole, this blissful nothing
w/ a vulva and a bullshit relationship to go around it.
So you get to heaven, and you enjoy it, but after a few days you say,
“Is this all?”

[end page 87]