Tyranny. Is that not life's essence? Is it not society's quintessence? It is our very conception of reality. We will persuade ourselves that there is freedom.
There is no freedom in this life. There cannot be freedom. Freedom is not the soul's and spirit's rights; it is not a natural ideal that eases the mind and the senses along vast grandiose inner universes, landscapes of the sensual, of the human. Freedom is something rarefied; freedom is not merely an ideal but a being. It is to taste a reality, a life, absolutely unconstrained with the shackles' leaden bulk. It is to cast the word surrender from the lexicon.
It is to be without word, without voice, without this prepackaged convenience called belonging, called identity. It is an absolutism transcending all absolutisms; it is an unattainable thing. Even to think is to feel the fetter's first cold caress slithering with the Serpent's enticement.
Poisonous. This imagery, this aspiration to a truth. Not courtesy of Ayumi-chan, but you can feel it. Her venom; her delicious dreamy delirium in the will's simple force that hammers at you like a battering ram. It is to be trammeled with its elemental bulk. It is its enormity washing over the spirit and the soul; it hungers, eats, serenades with celestial flesh's ruination. It is to be tugged into the gnawing gnashing jaws. It is to be lavished with the wet crack of bone and the squelch and sputter of meat and the cannibal frenzy that is her conviction.
And it is mine; it is their collision and it is to know the simple impossibility in supremacy. It is to taste my blood seeping through hers; it is to know hers sluicing into mine. It is fingers laced together. It is the carnal vampires' mutual insanity in this ambition to conversion that cannot be. It is a wish for addiction to overtake addiction, for magic to surpass magic.
It cannot be.
There is not the freedom for this. Hers is perhaps the nearest of any to it. It is not a charming humility; it is not a sainted simplicity. It is only a nakedness. It is a perfect and unperturbed and unpretentious nakedness; it is still to be conscious of our flesh, but for apathy to shelter and wreathe like Edenesque gardens' soft velvet foliage.
It is not yet to... Not to regress. Language is imprisonment, also, because language can only reflect the culture and its sensibilities. Its biases. The throttling ideals and absolutes. The faith named normative. Yes, yes, the normative perfections that are the axis around which all must be broken. It is the anvil on which society's weight will hammer all into a sainted homogeneity.
It must be. Even in the words, we will find this. Rebellion is an impossibility.
Freedom is impossibility when thought in its sublimities, its purities, its exacting geometries are to be warped around this, are to become a fragile frost dappling the cold iron that We, the Great We, humanity in its pageant's immensity, its societies and its civilizations and its faiths and its empires and more than anything its compromises, are. We are welded to one another; we spear into one another.
It is not the hedgehog but the sea urchin; our spines are something absolute and defining and mutually parasitic. It is to know the brutal angry rake and rip into meat and to know the bone broken and stitched into your lover, your hater, your parents, your children, the whimsical maundering fingers that are an invitation to the scarlet-cheeked revulsion and shame nestled in the soul's sepulcher called public transportation.
It is deeper and more visceral than this. Even before we are born, even before our mothers shit us out into this world, this nexus of mother and father, enforced and inflicted in accordance with a compulsory self-abnegation, a prostration before the divinity called materialism, we are pummeled with this. Faint little mutters and murmurs.
Language coheres in minds that have not been permitted a choice.
Freedom is a fiction. Freedom as a word, the absolutes in their imprecision that would deny the deeper perfection in knowledge without knowledge, in an intuition that defies all else, is its own delectable bit of hypocrisy. It is paradox.
How can we convey freedom's ideal without language?
And how can we know freedom with language?
All knowledge is imprisonment, also. In this House of The Rising Sun, this place where the inferno gathers and eddies, and where its passage is grudging, not quite yet huddled upon the equator in its sumptuous satin equanimities but altogether too fucking close, there is a cruelty in tyranny more absolute than any other.
It is our ambition, ultimately, not to flee, but only to know a more rewarding one. The processed identities; the subcultures; the better-living-through-chemistry society that accords you a convenient belonging.
It is all flight surer than the heroin needle's pricking invasion into the flinching vein; it is a plea for liberation. It is for all to be fugitive, fleeing elusive headlong from this. From this simple being. From the act of existence, something so elemental and ultimately dreaded with an immensity surpassing all else.
We have begun to resent our simple biology; not merely the body's imperfections, media-peddled and authentic, but its being. The act of being; life in its daily throttling meaninglessness. Because we will seek meaning. And failing this, we will fabricate it. We will gorge ourselves on figments of worth and worthiness.
They will be found in the paper stamped with dead men's portraits, with sainted geographies, with morsels again that will heave another leaden slab upon our souls in the compromise in the collective. It will be in the act of consumption.
It will be in genuflection before the ideal named celebrity. It will be to sublimate ourselves into the figures that are glimpsed only as some strange distant abstraction, as surely fictive and still as profound as the divinities that are cherished in effigy. It is our will that they are to be animated, given life, with the certainty that the idols tucked into temples and cloisters had in dusty carved-stone ages.
We are now curtained in plastic.
We are chromium humanity.
We are cyborgs; we melt ourselves and pour ourselves with our own will to be without will into this cohering kybernetik. We have gorged ourselves on the insanity named sanity. DSM and ICD and PSM and for the fucking cash-painted play-pretend commies the CCDM are our faiths. They are our new gods.
They are our new high priests.
Language will not die; no, no, no. Orthography will be transmuted, yes, but language is something more than indispensable. It is control's most fundamental mechanic in the kybernetik.
It is god.
Do you not understand?
Language is god. Even a godless society is still fundamentally tethered to this. God is language, because god is control. The atheists venerate a void that is still tinged with the noumenon named divinity. The name is ultimately meaningless, because the deeper guise is god. Is conquest. Is control.
It is our ambition not to be as gods, no, no, no. We are not 'Adam and Eve, whom Ayumi demands be called Hawa, 'cause she's cool like that. It is not even Lilith. We are content to be their offspring. I am not a Christian; I am not a Jew; I am not a Muslim; I am not a Buddhist; I am not a Taoist. I am not a traveler and not a voyeur and I am not a theological party-crasher. I am not an atheist, either.
I have seen. With eyes stitched closed and the third eye gouged out and planted on an outstretched palm, crushed underfoot, I am finally no longer sightless. It is not in the drugs, either. Do not misunderstand.
The drugs are not the mind's horizons opened, because they are to taste the deeper shackles in finer clarity. They are to efface the figments from the soul and the spirit and for the prison to be known in its fullest deepest immediacy.
To drag deeper than deep its immanences.
No. No. The true epiphany is only in sobriety, in those moments achingly near to death's cusp when hope in its delusion has been cast away. When it is known that there is not the cynical selfishness, the solipsism that would brush away reliance, and there is also not the ideal named society, named culture. When you are there, and they are there, and it is only the moment's mere anarchy that will dictate the future. When the only order that is to be known is total disorder; when it is only chaos in its most fundamental perfection.
It is blood and sweat and brimstone and the blade's sharp cold quicksilver wet and hot and red with death. It is life because there is only life. It is the simple unfairness in mortality, because life is to deny this thing.
More than anything, it is the supreme entropy that is being. It is to capture reality's vernacular in this thing, to know that it is the hips' quirk the fists' crunch the body's ruination or its survival that is the truest language. That is the nearest likeness of freedom.
To cast away the fictions and know that there is no hope, and no hopelessness, either. There is only being.
To be free is to be an animal.
It is not possible to be an animal here. This is the fanaticism's, the fetishism's, this industrial algolagnia's plea. To know the closest likeness of animal absolutism in surrender to another's order. It is perhaps the only ambition for those that would still dwell in this world in its orderly figments, who would rather not cast off this materialism's this surety's swaddling husk.
It is to prostrate yourself before another, and to debase yourself as a mere beast in their sainted audience.
Yes.
It is a package slipped into your hand. It is a nod; it is the simple unreality in this. In the bland faceless mediator with reality, a deliveryman like any other deliveryman. A fucking courier; it is the tawny uniform the bland textureless face that commands little purchase in the senses. It is the middling physique, neither memorably fat nor emaciated; it is an unspectacular nothing in dimensions that are neither grandiosely handsome nor enchantingly ugly.
Just... There. A rap at the door that is not mine at all; it is the adjoining apartment. It is the neighbor's drowsy importuning quieted in any meaningful aggravation with the kiss lavished on her luscious sweet soft lips; it is a glance out into the corridor and he is there, and the package is being slipped into her hands with the familiar ritual pageantry and politesse that is as sincere as passionately reflective as returning a library book.
It is a smile that is not a smile; it is a simple nod, chin jerked up and down up and down.
It is a glimpse of humanity in its candid self-consciousness in profile; it is a perfection a clarity that's an invitation to photography, to the Caraviggistis' achingly elegant technique not in photorealism but in an authenticity in the confluence of the subjective and the mechanically exacting. In the tenebrism that is the corridor; in the chiaroscuro that is Kaede's firm lean face, the faint kiss of fat that is neither baby nor adult but just softness ornamenting the cheeks.
The long slender fingers cradling the package in the hall's sharp effulgence, stained with the sun's dappling caresses slopping beneath the awning.
It is another tedious mansion that is nothing that could merit the word. It is an extravagance, an engrish appropriation with our culture's fanaticism for the novel and the trendy and, well, let us be candid. There is nothing real here.
We are a people still dwelling in divine delirium.
Even then, it is not only we People of The Sun.
It is everyone.
Sensation is electrical delirium consigned to the muddled confluences named consensus.
Sight is light in its imperfections; it is not only sight but our lenses' faculty to capture its vicissitudes, our neurology's command of these things. It is less than imperfect. It is more than flawed. It is almost meaningless.
Sound is air's pulsation.
We are collectively helpless without these things.
And touch? What is this but still the neurons' bias, their conviction to construe a caress as bliss and a knife's squelching stab as anguish and there are still the visceral twists in this, the quirk that is algolagnia's gradations.
Death, also, can be delectation surpassing language.
It is to be nauseous, buffeted with this.
And nauseous, meditating upon humanity's delirium, its false certainties, its faculty to conflate the unknown with the known, to call ignorance wisdom, to exalt true wisdom as shameful disobedience. It is enough to shudder through the body to tremble like a lone leaf lingering on a denuded tree captured in a hurricane that converges with a tornado that is pummeled with a hydrogen bomb.
It is not enough to burn. It is not enough to melt. It is the will not even to be here. The monetarist madnesses that fuel our society's collective misery. The willingness to surrender to senseless tokens of paper.
The fiat inhumanity that whorls with the inferno's implacable hunger. It is to feed. For ours to be an incendiary culture; for our bodies to be but the fuel. It isn't fair.
Ah!
Here we are.
It's not fair.
This phrase. It's the object of last resort. Well, goddammit, it's just. Not. Fucking. Fair. Nothing is fair. I am not one for whom this phrase has meaning now. I understand; I have sucked it down into my lungs, atomised it, smeared it and tattooed it onto every vein and through every artery and it is my every nerve's name.
Unfairness.
Yes.
In love.
In desire.
In adorations betrayed.
In the simple prevarications. It is to have exercised patience; it is to have gorged yourself on a convivial ignorance; it is to have been human even when humanity is dreaded, when it is a curse, an affliction, an onus. And it is to have been betrayed in all of this.
To know that closing your eyes or opening them means little when only lies will be painted for you.
There is hatred. Here, here, roiling in the gut, there is a legitimate hatred. It is an animus; it is an odium.
"Hey, so you were listening, huh? It's kind of strange that you have people bring stuff to my door." While the city in its gradations, its convolutions, its corridors and antechambers and boulevards have become morsels of geography; while they are now galleries and bowers and great rivers and tributaries that slough off with little more than a muddy gurgle and where they are eddying streams dying in the swelter.
While the corpuscles twist in their shape and dimension, but are forever distant. The cars' insectile luster and their subdued thrum and sigh that coheres into a great roar; the humanity clopping and bleeding into a senseless dimensionless babel.
It is all insanity. This floor, also, amongst every other. To know that any alien peering through the atmosphere would know us only as the insects swarming amongst corn stalks indistinguishable in their cohesion.
It is all madness. Laugh, and laugh, because laughter is the language of reality.
And tears, also.
She is beautiful. It's something... Unreal. To glimpse the elemental ordinariness in this; in the weary bored housewife whose life is not rot and not putrefaction but only stagnation. It is to have been consigned to expectation's oubliette. She is normative geometry's victim. She is pretty, but this must not be admitted in anything; to do so would be to rupture the familiar orders, the expectations.
The lithe proportions; the long long achingly long and lean legs; the pert belly and the modest chest and the hair that has been maimed in expectation's image. It has been carved away to the dimensions they call mother. It is an unfairness; it is as sexless in its wickedness as the neurotic tribes that carve out a woman's clitoris at its root and ravage her cunt into scar tissue, lest disloyalty be tasted. It is fear.
It is an awareness that power does not lie with the man. It is only the will to power; it is a dimension as fundamental as the architect's rage against the mountain. It is impersonation. It is perhaps an original sin; it is a fear that bleeds from Genesis, from the blood-steeped fertility cults that would cradle the young boy virgin and carve open his neck to nourish the land in its great black soil.
It is misfortunate that Monsanto has replaced this.
There would be fewer deaths with only an annual sacrifice.
Even her clothing is concession to ordinariness; the prim perversion in language called mom jeans. The short-sleeved blouse that is the warmth's admission.
The arms are fine and sleek and lean; exercise is announced with mom's self-abnegation, with the plea that the merciless yammering lusts the heavy juices and humors begging for outlet be subsumed into the sweat-steeping deed. It is impotent.
It is her husband's clumsy drunk groping once or twice annually, if even this.
It is the shame, it is the humiliation, in budgeting his infidelities for him.
It is the ultimate enervation, the simple exhaustion, in being obliged to care about this. Tears have ossified into stone figments. There is only a shrug now with the husband in his wayward idiocies; there is only the admonition that the children's university funds not be drunk away or wasted on hostesses. Otherwise?
"You're so pretty, Ran-chan." There is hunger in her eyes. There is a fervor, a fetish, a fanaticism. It is stained in gradations of seifuku Sapphism; it is to recite ancient Lesbian poetry stained with dreamy belief in this fantasy called The Future, named Progress, with a girl named Mariya-tan. It is memory lubricated with sake or cheap vodka or whiskey; it is tears poured out in a great splashing carafe.
It is her fingers.
It is an exhortation.
Would it be stupid if I wore my old uniform? I still can; I still can. I'm not fat.
No. She is not.
She is not fat.
She is beautiful; she is long-stemmed and graceful and she is the quintessential Yamato Nadeshiko and the words are something predictable, strange, adoring.
You don't look Japanese, y'know, Ran-chan. Why is that? Is your mom an American? Or- or maybe your dad? Korean, maybe? You look like one of those beautiful K-pop idols; but even better. You- you look like Sailor Pluto without a tan.
Ah.
Ah.
And she is being dragged through the door. Light betrays only geometry in the kitchen; in the dishes assiduously scoured and neatly heaped. In the bottles roosting in their orderly rows, patiently waiting for their politically correct annihilation.
It is a kiss.
It is fingers rearing up slipping through her hair with the faintest little whisper.
"You should really grow your hair, you know, Kaede-san." A wince; a torment.
"C-call me Kaede-chan. Please. I feel like an old lady when you call me Kaede-san." Not quite wilting; it is the stern blossom, but perhaps not the iron magnolia. It is the eyes huge and beseeching; it is the familiar compulsory myopia that will not surrender to the vanity in contact lenses.
But this is lovelier still.
"I do love girls with glasses, you know, Kaede-san. I wish I had poor vision sometimes. It would be a beautiful excuse for them." Admire her; gorge yourself on her. Kiss, and kiss, and kiss, and it is an insouciance, a languor. "But you really should wear your hair longer. I think Kaede-san is perfect for you.
"Because you are Miz," oh so English, so upright, "Kaede. You are... The lady of the house-"
"He hates long hair." It's something...
Predictable.
The wince.
The sharp brittle quality in this.
Ah.
The specter.
The wraith.
The cranky apparition whose visitation is a haunting, poised behind the business pages that could be read on the fucking train, but which must be enlisted as a surrogate for real intimacy, barking at her for another beer or sake or some tea and it's never wakamezake. It's never beer sipped from between her tits, modest, yes, but modest in the manner that a delicate bikini is still pornographic enough to have your head carved off by a yowling moralist.
It isn't fucking fair.
I know this.
It is the pauper's outrage, glimpsing the rich man tossing a steak on the floor for being just a kiss overdone.
What does it matter?
She is not perfect; perfection is phantasmagorical, idiotic.
"Fuck him-"
"I wish. I wouldn't..." It is a tacit confession in the half-finished sentences.
I wish I could fuck Suzuki-san.
Not because I'd rather not fuck you.
I'd rather not be tempted.
"I could simply seduce both of you. I've seen how he stares at me, Kaede-san." Kiss her, and kiss her, and kiss her. A tongue slipped with an achingly delicate ease between the lips that invite, that implore. They are there to be kissed; they are luscious, soft, a plumpness that awes. They are blowjob lips; they have not tasted a man for eight years.
It is a confession; it is whispered with a lachrymal misery, with eyes rheumy at this wisdom.
I haven't sucked a cock for eight fucking years. And it's not that there was so much goddamn fucking during those years that I didn't have time for my lips. My pussy's shriveled up; it's just dying.
It is resurrected.
Lo!
It is Lazarus' cunt.
It is to touch her; to slip up the blouse along a belly that's perhaps a bit too steeply chiseled, but there is a binary with age. One will either be tight and overmuscled or melt into fat. There is little hope of that sumptuous taut youthful balance.
"Y-you're hungry this morning, aren't you, Ran-chan?" Is that incredulity? It's her head thrown back; it's bare feet slapping over the tatami; it's her shoulders clattering on the wall and it's her ass' muffled slap and her spine's slow sinuous arch, craning closer.
The thighs splayed apart with anxious expectation.
"Yeah; I am. I haven't had breakfast yet." Nip and nibble at the long swanlike neck. The complexion is oh so faintly kissed with a Japanese complexion; it is not the manga-perfect pallor. The eyes are heavily lobed; the hair shimmers like oiled bitumen.
"A-ah, ah, ah, Ran-chan, I- I really don't have time-"
"You don't have time?" That would be something archetypal.
Kabedon.
A palm cracked at the wall.
"W-wah!" And there is still fear's sharp twang. There is a knowledge; it is somatic, preconscious. It is a wisdom in the flesh that you are with a domesticated animal whose bite is only when provoked, but something predatory, ferocious. It is the lady as the tiger; it is the wolf whose fangs do not glint in the cold moonlight but froth with hydrophobia's enchantment.
"You just came to deliver the package, Kaede-san? I have a great deal of difficulty in believing that." And it is obvious; it is ostentatious in the shiver and quake with a fingertip brushed over her tight belly.
Palms splay sprawl out.
Nails prickle at creamy skin.
"W-well, it's..." It's an ahn.
An uhn.
An um.
It is hemming animated in the flesh; it is a tremor and it is legs nudged apart more, and more, and more, and my knee eased up in a patient chorus girl's kick filtered through molasses oh so plodding oh so patient. It is a brush; it is her fucking ridiculous mom jeans as little shelter from anything.
"You know how selfless I am, Kaede-san."
"I- I just-"
"You know, it's pathetic, isn't it? He doesn't fucking care, does he? So long as no one else suspects that you're, oh, what's the cliché? Hot-to-trot?" How witty we are. How delectable she is. Lips fastened on the throat.
"W-wait, ngn..." Groaning; a sharp tortured squeal like a piglet tossed into a furnace. "W-wah, what're you-"
"What? No turtlenecks?" It's cruel. Yes.
Yes.
It's a brutal kiss that becomes suction; it's the vacuum's caress.
"W-what'm I gonna tell my kids-"
"That mommy has a very special relationship with Ran-san next door; and when little Yumi-chan and Hideo-san grow up, if they're as adorable as they are now, they should call her up-"
"G-goddammit, don't- don't talk about my kids like that." Why? Your shackles? It's nothing... Well, gentle now. It's fingers introducing themselves to the buttons; it's her belly exposed and now, now, the fleshly candor glides up, up, up, an ekranoplan creasing tranquil white seas. She is delicious; she is encrusted in a post-nuclear snow that scalds the fingers' pads.
A whisper and a shiver.
"Why not? Oh, you know, Yumi-chan will be delicious when she grows up. Are you that worried? I'm not a pedophile; how un-Japanese of me. Not really even an ephebophile. I love mutton much, much more than lamb, you know. I'm just that kind of girl." Nip; nibble. "He won't care; they won't notice.
"They're just so damn adorable. Really, darling, they are." Kiss, and kiss, and kiss; maunder along the throat's soft yielding dimpling grace.
"I- I just came over t'd'l'ver'yer..." A groan.
Implosive.
"Why, you sound just like you must have as that little chick from Aomori-"
"S-stop makin' me talk... Talk like a hick. Hya!" It's a heave; a squeal. "A-ah, ah, Ran-chan, c-c'mon-"
"Listen to me, all right-"
"N-Nancy-san, she... M-my kids' English tutor-"
"Oh, you need to be very careful of foreigners. They go native like that." The fingers' sharp snap as punctuation. "They start to think that pedophilia is the law of the land. Which it pretty much is. I've seen Nancy-san; she's delectable.
"Ah! Is that it? Are you saving the sashimi for her?" Capture the eyes; the cheeks indigo with a huge scalding flush.
"Not like that, no-"
"You're so fucking fickle. And here I thought that I was your only infidelity. Looks like you're screwing around more than I thought. And here I was, so charitable, going to recommend some discreet friends-"
"I'm not fucking her! I- I just-"
"You have a crush. A gaijin crush. A blonde gaijin crush. You're the worst kinda cliché, you know." Gloating; teasing. The shoulders tremble; the lips purse.
"You're mean-"
"I want breakfast. I take my fish raw."
"J-just... Okay. Okay." How can this be resisted? The blouse slipped open, carved away from the shoulders, and there is not surrender.
Not resignation.
It is not this culture's ugly sexual catechism in this sainted rape. No, no, no. It is eyes smeared with a quality like gelatin roiling with a merciless boil; it is crazed and manic and delirious and it is to adore the soft skin, alabaster touched with a meager fine sunset reflection. It is fingertips plucking tugging pulling at the jeans' button.
It is her fingers' tortured tremor; it is the package still clasped in the left hand, the right itinerant in its drunk staggering hunger, rearing up to a shoulder, maundering off to a cheek. It is a somatic plea; the lips are quietude in its simple perfection, because language has been denied worth and meaning and purchase here.
"Ngn... R-Ran, Ran, Ran." And honorifics melt. There is not the tyrant's obligation here; there is no noblesse oblige. There is not a will for this little death, because death embraces whatever guise it covets.
"Uh-huh. Pleading for something, Kaede?" And there must not be these manufactured morsels of decadent propriety. Not knelt but dissolving, down down down, a quicksilver elegance like a broken mirror in achingly patient slow-motion, twinkling tinkling shivering shimmering. Sweat already cavorts along nude skin; hers and mine alike. We are warped reflections in the psychic and the corporeal.
There is a symmetry in the hunger, if not the meat, and the bone, and the blood.
A caress; fingers jerk, yank, the waistline slipped down down down along long slim legs, still tinged with that most achingly luscious softness. There is awe.
There is candor.
There are no panties. Only bare bare bare flesh. Only the curls' heavy thicket cresting plump lips clasped together with delicacy's with innocence's affectations brittler than the first anemic crust of ice coalescing on a still pond in winter's stirring chill.
"Oh, you had absolutely no interest, had you-"
"D-don't tease me. I- I just- I don't have any clean panties-"
"Oh, that's so cute." Admire; adore.
Eyes twist closer, closer, closer.
The soft skin; the puckered plumpness in the luscious lips, oh so faintly wilting and still tightly cloven and ostentatiously still, an almost rictus tranquility that doesn't merely belie but accentuates the hunger, the weeping sticky lust dribbling down, down, down. Already, thready tendrils coalesce into cohesive rivulets pattering over the left thigh.
"You were touching yourself-"
"Y-yes!" Admission; confession.
It is not a brutal inquisition; it is a palm splayed out with fingers in a great creamy sunburst over her luscious skin, the belly's flourish from hips not boyish and not quite voluptuous and still oh so womanly. She is a woman.
There is a novel sublimity in this. In the everyday that is still absolutely delicious. A kiss.
The first kiss that is not the first kiss at all. Lips clasped without patience, without restraint, without the familiar lingering cruel tease and it is to know a warmth in the fragrance wafting up, up, up through the nostrils.
"I love born-again virgins like you; I love women whose pussies haven't been befouled with a man's cum. It's just... It's so sweet. The soft mawkish richness." Muttering, murmuring. "Too bad for you, I'm sure, but...
"Men are rot's genesis. You're just suffering from a metabolic disease. Like I am. A genetic defect. A desire for that flesh. For man-meat; it's a sick and defiling hunger. Isn't it?" There's silence; there's the lips clasped together.
But not these.
Not when fingers wreathe them; not when there is a touch.
The first touch. The enchantment in this caress; slowly, slowly, not some crude impalement, but only a delicate flitting meander up and down and left and right and it's an artistic elegance, less painterly and more a cross-hatched grace, geometries defined in negative spaces as intensely as the actual strokes.
"W-wah... A-ah, ah, ah, Ran-"
"Soon, soon, we'll definitely need to introduce you to my friends. Would you like that? You've met Ayumi-"
"A-Ayumi? T-that top-heavy schoolgirl-"
"Uh-huh. Isn't she lovely? Luscious? Delicious?" Another kiss; and this, this, this is for language not only to fail but to be put to the sword. It is a jab; it is a stab; it is the samurai executioner, the blade drawn up, up, up.
And swept down with a surgeon's finesse.
A growl.
A snarl.
A wail.
"A-ah, ah, Ran, Ran, Ran, r-right now, I don't care-"
"I know you don't. Maybe Genta-kun and Mitsuhiko-kun. Ah! Do you like Kansai boys? Hattori-kun is just... Lovely. And there are others. Supplicants. Subordinates. Mmm... Have you ever fantasized about one very naughty word, Missus?" There is another kiss, and another. Bathe yourself in her.
Anoint yourself with her. With her scent. With the ineffable; with the novel and the sumptuously unique. And there is still a fundamental thread stitching together every woman. It is an elemental olfactory geometry; it is an alimentary shape savored on the tongue, tumbling down down down into the belly. It is syrupy and thick and it is with fingers splaying her open; it is the tongue's plumb and caress, swept up and down and up and down again.
There is no patience now. It is for her fingers to stir my hair with the first pretensions, affectations, in delicacy.
Fingertips furrow the hair; they whisper with the essence of the spring's cool greenery ruffled and rustled with the wind's dewy breaths.
And they tear now.
Rake.
Rip.
Dig.
Carve through the heavy drifts and twist, pull, implore. A gasp flowers volcanic from her lips; the head is thrown back, bone upon wall meaningless punctuation.
"A-ah, ah, Ran, Ran, Ran." It is adulation; it is adoration. It is our implacable sacrilegious mantra, our irresistible compulsion for worship in the presence of the cut-rate divine. I am not a goddess; there are no ambitions to this.
Ye shall be as gods.
I do not care.
This wisdom, this Freedom, it is not my world. There is only hunger here. There is a contentment with the lust's bite upon the wrists, the urgent terrible fetters that command without imploring, that demand without whispering.
There is only a roar. Her thighs splayed apart; and it is our familiar elegance, our acrobatic play. I am her life's axis, and I am mounted, and the right thigh is eased up, up, up, planted on my shoulder in an act of exalted balance.
"Ran, Ran, Ran." More, and more, and more. It is nothing so trivial as a lick; it is not to lap; it is not ice cream; it is not a simple dessert.
It is a confrontation with the succulent, with the delirious. It is to be intoxicated with an inkling of a whisper of a kiss.
Plunge.
Immerse yourself.
Smear it.
Brush it.
Paint it.
The universe melts down into her; it is to know the world, every sense, every convolution, every gradation, simply becoming her. Reality is a mad and dangerous warp; an implosive funnel that crushes down, down, down.
I am obsessed. In this instant, lust melts down and transmutes itself into something more elemental still. It is a stardust delirium; it is a crazed shuddering convulsion that shoulders away everything like sense.
It is to become wedded to her.
Welded to her.
There is heat. There is presence. It is no longer tyranny and no longer surrender but a parallel place a plane that would reject anything so febrile in its absolutism. It is to know her thighs in their creamy trembling tension; it is to gorge yourself on the muscle, the sainted meat, that rears up into a relief that denies anything like its mere biology.
There is humanity in this.
In a kiss. In the tongue's endless crazed thrashing flit and flicker and it is to know authentic addiction. It is not a fix; no, no. It is not the velvet feathering normality that is withdrawal, the junk-sickness, finally leavened.
It is not that banality that is relief from the merciless gnawing hunger that defiles and corrodes and desecrates.
It is the joy bang.
It is for everything but this to melt away; it is to be bathed in a sensual mist that denies everything but itself. It is her body, and it is my body, and it is neither. It defies the pornographic absolutes, the certitudes in geometry. It is unpretentious paradox, the flesh renounced and affirmed at once.
Because nothing matters.
Not the veins aching, pleading for that elusive it.
Not the mind hungering for the novel wisdoms that will ultimately bleed away into desiccated banality, because this is every thought's and every word's destination. It is not to deny their worth; it is only to admit their simple truth. They become stale; they are the fruit's essence, wrung of their sweet exoticism and simply wizened.
But this, this, this is forever rejuvenated.
There is never weariness.
There is nothing but what it is in its immediacy. It is drunkenness as certain as the vodka quaffed down with a sharp gasp. It is immoderate and intemperate; it is to deny these things. It is to cast these away; it is to shred them into confetti and savor their fitful litter gingerly flitting on an unfelt breeze.
Everything enameled upon the skin. Kiss her, kiss her, rear up and know the flesh not yielding, no, no. It is yours; your lips melt into hers. Her body shudders, bears down, more, and more, and more, and more, and more. It is her palms now clamped on the brow; fingertips tremble prickle prod and...
"A-ahnnn... T-that's..." An ahn. Soft and cooing but it is something evanescent in its patience. The knee fastened around my shoulder is convulsive; her body has simply been gripped in lust's huge heaving inferno. She is borne aloft upon its great carnal currents.
She will soar.
I will be dragged with her.
Kiss and kiss; tongue rolling out, laving her with long, long strokes that displace the lips in their faintly rubbery elegances. Their perfumed allure. Their simple being is an invitation to the fingers' creep down, and down, more and more and more.
A caress along a knee.
There is a delectation in this. In the wardrobe's obliging exposure; it is not immodest, and it is not a habit. It is moderation that twists itself in an instant into the decadent. The skirt eased up and her eyes wheel with a wild feral frenzy at the first wet stroke there. Panties eased away with fabric's silent submission; the finger is my own.
There is no delicacy.
There is no patience.
It is to impale yourself. At once, daggering, spearing, tearing, and it is an exotic act of sexual mathematics, one becoming two, and two becoming four, and... And it is the jaw's tremor still wrenched cranked open to admit her body's exhortations.
Battered now with the heavy juices that coils and sluice out; tongue a wet unpretentious hunger against her, through her.
"Y-yeah, yeah, yeah!" It is a scream.
In an instant, without preamble, without the familiar theater, without anything like affectation. Without patience. Without impatience.
Sound.
Presence.
"Yeah! Yes, yes, yes!" It is affirmation. It is to cast away life's dualities, its juxtapositions, 'cause they've been pulverized, pulpified as surely as a steak introduced to a pneumatic hammer's passionate caresses.
A thunder.
Straining.
Pulled up, and up, and up, to greet the weight crushing down onto my lips.
"Y-y-yeah, yeah, ngn... R-Ran-chan!" Without hierarchy; only with obsession. "O-oh, oh, oh, okay, okay, okay, 's- 's enough, right?" There is never this boundary, this threshold. It is an immanence in wisdom; it is a glorious divinity that announces itself in holy writ scrawled in a vast lightning spray across the eyes craning up to admire her through lashes dappled with lust in a few errant dewy motes.
"Does it feel like enough-"
"S-she'll be here sooon! I can't..." Just be impolite?
Because we are polite, of course.
We exist to indulge others.
"Fine." A huff. It's something, oh, insouciant. A palm clamped on her left shoulder, and now her right, and there's a bleary delirium shimmering through the eyes.
"W-wah-"
"Well, you didn't give me the time to savor my, ah, bit of sacrilege against Ayumi-chan's divinity, so ablutions must be made. It's only right. Right?" The knees gelatin; the body more malleable than metal dribbling from a furnace in sticky evocative immensity.
Hunger.
Pull her drag her tear her closer, and closer, and there's nothing like resistance. Only delight; only adoration. The fingers clapped on my thighs.
Jubilation in the first stroke.
And the second. The tongue serpentine, wheeling out to lap at the molasses-thick threads liberated, gathered condensed in yesterday's depravities. In today's expectation. Muffled murmuring and there's nothing like gentleness. It is to mount her; to surmount her. Ridden; bucking. Rising and falling and there...
There is something that a febrile idiot mind would call masculine in the selfishness, in the impatience.
It is not their monopoly.
She surfaces with lust puddling on the lenses, eyes huge and gawping and orgasm's lovely prickling insanities still playing with a languorous numbness through every inch, gnawing at every nerve.
"A-ah, ah, all right." The words are something perfunctory from the lips; they're something to be said. They're the divine's dispensation for a bit of sacrilege. "That was lovely, Kaede-san."
"G-g-glad you liked it. You came... Came so hard. Y-you squirted a little on me-"
"Ngn... That's just because your tongue is sublime." So she must be kissed; dragged up again, and it is to know the sublime surrender in this.
An absolutism in her wilting listing delirium, still buffeted, still addled.
"O-oh, oh, the box." And still clutched in her left hand. Snapped open on the table. "Wow." Kaede's lust-dappled lashes limn a sodden little symphony through the sticky air, reality in its sodden sultriness already intruding through the balcony door flung open to embrace the day. "That's a lot of money-"
"It's yours. Call it, oh, a gift. Buy a very long wig. And some delicious new lingerie." And there will still be more than enough, won't there? "I'm very enthusiastic about stockings, you know. High high heels."
And there's...
"H-holy shit!" Squinting.
Because we must disbelieve.
Because there must be incredulity with a glimpse of these things; these acts of obscenity, of profanity. We must deny the reality.
Kaede's voice a reedy little trill.
The photograph is a shimmering leaf quivering amidst the cash with an unfelt breeze in breath. She is beautiful. A divinity in sleek elegances, oh so faintly dusky with the sun's dappling kiss. A glimpse of a thoroughbred beside Kaede's Clydesdale insecurities, whatever the reality.
"She- she looks just like Kudō Yukiko." Doesn't she? There is not clarity, and not incredulity. It is only to reflect on the simple geometries. The urgent awareness in everything; in sight and dimension and proportion. She is beautiful. Whatever the incidental likeness in our celebrity saints, whatever the act of impersonation, there is only the simple truth.
Swallow it.
Draw it deep, deep, deep. Suck it into the lungs. Waft the cash's mouldering paper aroma; choke down the banality in our beloved anachronism sainted immortalized in this culture's most exalted guise. It is to rejoice to uplift in wealth's trite gradations. It is to know that you have Arrived, that you are most adored, most exalted, when your face is passage to our culture's most sainted act.
Consumption.
Hunger.
Yes. To be painted with these exalted bits of meaning in their ten thousand yen increments. It is historiography in a Playstation; it is to commune with your society, with the ideal in the collective, when narcissism triumphs and the public in its potential is consigned to the private.
Snatch up the fifty thousand yen. They are tucked into Kaede-san's oh so lovely and bewitching fingers.
"This is for you, Kaede-san-"
"I- I really couldn't do that. It's just- that's a lot of money. I mean... For a student like you, that must be a fortune-"
"A fortune is a fortune. This's only fifty thousand yen. Five hundred dollars; less now, isn't it?" There's a murmur, lingering with a sticky lassitude on the syllables. Because Fukuzawa Yukichi is a triviality; he is a fat imperialist apologist, and the beauty captured not in dusty paper but in our more enchanting photographic alchemy devours.
There is a brazenness.
There is a candor.
Our public morality is affronted in this sincerity. It is not the geometry; it is the knowledge of what the geometry reflects. An Edenesque authenticity untroubled with the cold gray Stalinist bureaucrat's meddling.
It is to know the hair in its fine taut curls; the thick obsidian grace elegantly trimmed, cropped to little more than a meager little nimbus over the tight soft lips, a shimmering glint captured and embroidered with the camera's blaze, swallowed down into its unblinking perfected lens. The dusky elegance little more than a trivial grade darker than the sun-teased skin.
The long long long legs. There is an awe.
Yes.
There is a word.
If there is an ambition to consigning thought and lust and craving and sensation and sensual fanaticisms that roil and pulsate and race through the nerves, that nestle with huddled stalking predation in the dark stygian places behind the eyes and between the ears, to a simple word, then there is a word.
It is fetishism.
It is fanaticism.
It is a fervor for this.
For the rarefied perfection in a woman's legs.
To know the sleek lush thighs; the elegant lean sinuousness in the calves; the geometries twisting, wheeling, whorling, rearing up and tumbling down down down to graceful arching ankles. Even the toes in their fuchsia-kissed nails.
She is...
Incredible.
"She has such big boobs." And there is, of course, insecurity declaimed in this fervor. In Kaede's eyes immense and incredulous. "I've never seen a pair of tits like that. I- I mean-" And there is silence; sudden and throttling and guilty. The lips drawn taut with a dog's affectations of a smile over the adorable overbite.
"What is it, Kaede-san?"
"'s just... I- I mean, y'know, not- not that I haven't ever seen them in reality. But, um, in photography. I think yours are probably bigger-"
"I think I'm probably taller. There's no frame of reference for the photo but her sunglasses; but she's probably five-eight or five-ten."
"They're huge. Aren't they? And they're natural."
"Not explicitly." And we will meditate on the biologic vicissitudes in the heft. In the belly's lean roundness; not chiseled in grandiosely athletic sharp angularities but only the most achingly sumptuous pride in nature's beneficence. It is to know the satin planes kissed with some rarefied living oxymoron in lean fat. It is the faintest whisper; it is the navel's divot and the hips' lavish roundness. It is the chest's vast vast flare.
The tits' fall, and still oh so pert.
"She's obviously had something done; she said she's in her later forties. At least a lift for tits like that." There's warmth staining Kaede's cheeks. "What is it?"
"You just- it's so weird that you're, I mean, I guess casual about that. Staring at a naked woman."
"I love admiring naked women. It's a pastime of mine, you know, Kaede-san." This is not a bit of conversational lassitude.
It is knowledge imputed.
Affirmed.
"W-well, I know that." How lovely it is to savor the dark eyes, averted in something that could only aspire to gorge itself on shame's sainted ideal.
Shame?
Shame?
It is self-indulgence; it is the wish to be ashamed. To quaver with the terror, the revulsion, in another's judgment. It is still algolagnia's sainted kiss. It is to know the twist and the quirk in the neurons, the synapses warped on their axes, clutching at the fulfillment in the pain's sharp kiss. And it is not this at all.
Culture, also, is algolagnia; and civilization, too. It is an act of sainted groveling; it is a lust for self-abnegation, for self-abasement. For the eyes in their anonymous judgment to be heaved into great esteemed constellations, their cold eldritch starlight preciouser than the sun's warmth.
She would love to be the Traditional Wife.
The Perfect Mother.
There are fingers already laced through her hair.
The eyes are captured; they are swallowed as surely as plucking them from their sockets with nimble fingers whose nails have been bladed in their long lacquered elegance.
"I hope that you do, Kaede-san-"
"I- I- you're h-hurting-"
"Am I hurting you?" It's a faint little tug; not even a squeeze but the follicles only teased. A tension that stirs through the fragile flesh. "Am I really?" It's madness. I know that it is. How can it not be?
We are all mad.
To dwell in this place of long reaching shadows and the light's shelterless inferno, how can we not be? We must all be mad. We must all gorge ourselves upon the delectable figments in these sainted fictions named Freedom, Liberty, Rights, Privileges. They are all only Capitalism's children. It is all in service to the Gray Men that lurk in the towers that define our horizon in nature's truth's denial more surely than any mountain, than any sea.
It is not Leninism.
It is not Marxism.
It is not Communism. No, no, no. It is only an admission of the truth.
We are all children, groveling and pathetic; we are all slaves dwelling in pens wrought from our own febrile fantasies of being the masters. The heat is stoked in the material selfishness; in the self-indulgence.
Kiss her.
The heat is nurtured with the Idol's squeal.
Kiss her.
The heat is inflamed with the grandiose apartments.
Kiss her.
All is as vaporous as morning mist.
And still, still, her lips are there to be kissed. The hair cropped to its Housewife modesty is still there to be stroked. Grass carved to little more than stubble is still grass. The spirit is something that can only be stamped out in its own surrender. It will carve out its own roots and exuberantly offer itself to the sun's bleaching depredations.
Her mouth entrances. There is a softness, a sweetness, stained and steeped in me. And I with her. It is an act of reflected onanism, sexual narcissism. The hair will not yield; it is firm, stern. The mouth is a fine cherry blossom bow, trembling, the eyes rheumy not with tears but only lust's manic fervor.
"I- I need..." A gasp; a shiver; a heave. The breasts still bared in modesty's pretension, cradled with the bra's tight band. The flesh percolates up, oh so delicately, the fabric well-fitted and there's still the faintest kiss of a vain seam along the pert sepia skin. "I need..." With lips adoring her throat; with fingers tangling now like some diabolic seaweed around her wrists.
"You need what?" A murmur. Slowly, slowly, softly, softly, a deliberation in everything. The dancer's grace; the simple production in every quirk, every whisper, every act, every deed. It is a perfection. It is a sublimity.
"I- I should be go-wiiiiing." A whine; a hot high shrill tremor that's the essence of the desert's arid breath pluming aloft in great scalding currents.
"Really? Oh, will the blonde beauty be disappointed? Why, you're already so disheveled. And you reek of pussy. Mine. Yours. It's a fine fragrance for you-"
"I need to go. Really. Really." Conviction.
"You know, you're just the most delectable housewife, aren't'cha, Kaede-chan? I think I'm desperately in lust with you. Maybe even a little poisonous bit of that... Oh, proprietariness." Fingers tumble down, down.
Dagger into the tight belly; lace around the lithe waist to capture her ass' delectation in taut lush roundness.
"Ah, your ass really compensates for that tiny chest. I'm still, well, I'm always incredulous at the stupid shit that men do. The Y chromosome is corrosion's locus, you know. If you could mend that, transfigure every man into a woman, this planet would actually be livable."
And there is still the defiance.
The plea for relief.
But this is what it is. It is a plea; she is beseeching me. It isn't power seized, snatched up in the defiant fingers.
It's a wish for the divine's indulgence.
It is a prayer.
"I- I really need to be going home."
"Of course. It would be quite the scandal, wouldn't it? Maybe you should just invite, ah, what's her name? Nancy-san? Delicious; soft; sleek; lean; blonde. If you invited this little novelty over for tea here. I am, after all, one of your friends. I speak fluent English."
"I- I didn't know that, Ran-chan."
"Et Français. Und Deutsch. Well, maybe not French that proficiently. And Ayumi-chan is even better cultivated. We're the ten thousand yen ideal, you know. So international. And not at all of this place because of it. Where's the Yamato Spirit in us?" But then again, where is it in you?
The eyes are cold. There's a moment's fleeting sharp epiphany. A pang rips its talons through the breast. It is awareness. A philosophical knowledge in the ragged tattered shards' edges. That they flit and flutter like tempest-tossed medieval pennants, but they find no purchase on their poles.
They are there.
"All right." Slip away from her. There is something... Something venomous in it. There is lust, yes; it will not cool. Its embers are a cold white and still, still, it would be the folly in groping at the coals when the inferno in its huge thrashing garnet tongue has dimmed to memory.
It is most violent at this moment; most intense. There is a will to touch, to taste.
"You know, I wouldn't mind it." While the blouse's buttons are eased into their familiar modesty again with a deliberation that aspires to memory effaced.
While she is silhouetted against the door frame.
"W-what wouldn't you mind?" Without turning.
"I wouldn't mind doing more with you. If you'd like me to find a man for you to fuck, I'll be there so you can be comfortable. You've never had a ménage, right?" Quiet, quiet, oh so quiet.
But the shoulders are more eloquent than the lips; the hips more articulate than the shoulders. The fingers' tremor betrays the heat coiling like nested vipers in the belly.
"A-ah, I- I don't think that's a very good idea-"
"Why? It's not like you'll be forced to do it raw. Not that it'd matter. Mmm... Are you on the pill?"
"Why would I be?" There's a bladed mirth in it.
It's an act of nuptial seppuku, every syllable a twist through the belly.
"I guess you're right. You know, if I had a cock, I'd never be satisfied. I'd fuck you 'til your cervix just tumbled out on the mattress. I'd hammer you against the wall; I'd raise you up in my arms and smother you with my tits and fill you like an éclair. It would be delectable.
"I think you'd begin to appreciate the gradations in every day's flavor. Even in my diet. I definitely wouldn't drink like Suzuki-san. I do drink. A great deal. Mmm. I'd forgotten to ask you. Are you a square?"
"Wha?"
"A square? Y'know, a rectangular object, daddy-o? Do you use?"
"I- I don't know what you're talking about." Turning, oh so slowly. But the cash is still clutched in her left hand. The eyes devour it in their conscious blindness.
"Mmm. No? I'm talking about, oh, heroin, cocaine. Those delicious chemistries. Idiots delude themselves they can see god with them. That they're conduits to the divine. They're not. They're just... They're a reintroduction to yourself, you know.
"Your own body tasted like you never have. Fucking on heroin is something you should definitely taste-"
"I don't- I don't want to get addicted." This is our cultural morality's basis.
It is economic.
It is flinching from stigma.
"Oh, you won't. It's a myth, you know. Not addiction. Just the ease. And, well, an addiction can't displace another. Aren't you already addicted to this?" To the tee-shirt simply... Eased up, up, up. With unperturbed languor.
Breasts not bared; the bra is modester than the bikini that context obligingly launders in platinum sand and briny sea air.
They are still there. Large; larger than this word can accommodate. The photo plucked from the courier box; a graceful juxtaposition and a simple symmetry.
"A woman's body. Mmm. Mariya-tan."
"Don't talk about her." It is a sincerity in anguish.
"I could find her, you know-"
"I- I know where she is. I know where she is. I..." Swallowing, slowly, slowly, a tortured thick burden in the throat. "Why're you talking about this, Ran?" Intimacy; such unpretentious intimacy. "You look so angry."
"I am. Just not with you. I have these pangs. Do you understand?" Of course.
You do.
I do.
All ultimately must.
"I- no, I don't really get it." The smile's wan and pathetic and mendacious.
"Of course. I, ah... I know about Mariya-tan, too. She really is pretty-"
"Stop talking about her." It's not the familiar ambition to meek invertebrate surrender. There is iron in this.
"Really? Why? Worried that I might, oh, decide to introduce her to a bit of extramarital-"
"Shut up! I'm- I'm going!" The door jerked open; a sharp clatter.
The cash unreturned.
Oh, well. The photo is there, clutched in fingers cinched around the sleek sweat-slick sheet. It's something strange, this figure. The fanaticism that roils in the gut; the breathlessness in the scalding iron fist fastened around the lungs.
It is something Teutonic; it is a knowledge of a jackboot clamped on your throat. It is a kick, once, and again, and again, and it is a convulsion that gathers with a slow syrupy elegance, a patient plodding grace that belies its immensity.
It is eschatology's first seismic tremors.
It is the first ripples that rupture the pond's serenity. It is to know the first individuation, the Genesis in this. In the creation that tears the wavelets from their unburdened cohesion in the pool.
It is the first hot wind that plucks a cherry petal from its branch.
It is... Strange.
Ruptured with the cellular's familiar chirrup. Frustration.
That's what it is. It's the anguish companion to a philosophical epiphany not only within your reach but your grasp; savoring the fingers' first fitful brush upon its strange unknowable geometries.
And you are tugged away.
"Yes?" Snatched up. There is no salutation, because there is no politesse for this gossamer thread that tethers me to their lusts.
"Ah, uh..." A murmur; a soft articulated little sigh.
"Who is this-"
"It's- um, did... Did you get the package I had couriered over?" It's fragile, the whisper that isn't morose, and not retiring, but only wilting like a lily grafted into desiccated desert sand.
"How much was it?"
"A-ah, what? I- I don't-"
"Am I to infer that you've decided against this?" There's only silence.
Long.
Reflective.
"A-ah, pardon-"
"I told you that you don't have an I. There's nothing personal now about you. If you'd like to do this, you're property. You're my property. It's only incidental that you're allowed to have your own fucking body." There is...
It is addiction.
It is not this.
Not this fervor called power.
Not the junk.
Not the cocaine.
It is something transcending these humble dimensions; it is something surpassing the flesh's prosaic boundaries. It defies language in its imprecisions; it is something that is not of the celestial, riven from the meat.
It dwells in an unreal borderland, a dreamtime awareness that is tasted in nothing predictable. It is creation's anguish.
It is perhaps the divine.
Superstition. Idiot superstition in children groping and clutching at meaning, at figments of order in the ostentatious disorder that announces itself in life's great wheeling scope like an electron cloud pulsating and heaving and throbbing with the multitudes in their uncountable constellations, their great heaving throngs of thousands and thousands of thousands and thousands of these thousands of thousands.
The planet trembles with their bulk, their immensity, but their very being their essence is denied.
Is unfelt.
We would aspire to shackle all to perfect orderliness, and invite the entropy deeper into ourselves. We would be persuaded to offer ourselves in our thoughtless unreflective obedience to the tyrants that gorge themselves on this plastic Order's evanescent produce. We will not starve; we are not of this system.
All is simply orders in their orders.
We no longer dwell in the first.
The second slips from our grasp.
We are a simulacrum.
And our simulacrum becomes simulacra.
I dwell here, also. It is the anguish in impotence. It is the rage, the fundamental meaningless powerless rage, that is companion to sightedness without limbs, without strength, without the power to remedy what is seen. There is a compulsion to roar and howl and heave, and there is also the understanding that it would accomplish nothing.
Even with the Power in its fullest scope, even taking hold of the sainted divine, what would it matter? A lone god is still only the god of their lonely world. The Fool on The Hill.
Yes.
Jaw clenched.
"Ah, um, are- are you still there, um... M-Mistress Orchid?" A whisper; a shivering.
"Yes? What? I'm not obliged to listen to you." It's so fucking petty. I know this.
"It's... T-this Little Girl, um, she... She was- was so excited to see you-"
"Mistress Orchid. Don't presume that I'll condescend to hear you from your lips. Even when they're perhaps very far away. You've never done this before, I infer."
"N-no, I- that is, This Little Girl hasn't, Mistress Orchid."
"There's no one else to whom you'll be speaking without my imprimatur, so don't imagine you have a fucking need for pronouns."
"A-all right. This little girl was so excited to see Mistress Orchid that, ah, that she couriered the... The money and picture right over. Does Mistress Orchid like it?"
"Yes. A great deal. You really are a remarkable likeness of Kudō Yukiko. You're gorgeous. I'd never imagine that you're in your late forties. Whatever that means. But you're wearing sunglasses. What's your eye color?"
"Um, blue."
"Like Kudō's, huh?" A slow syrupy languor; it is to settle with a spine-arching lassitude at one of the chairs planted in family orbit in grandiose affectations of normality around the table.
A quick slap of your ass on the seat.
"That's- that's right. I guess. Ah..."
"Is it a natural tan? You don't have tan-lines."
"This- This Little Girl goes nude sometimes." Isn't that quite the confession?
"What a disgraceful whore."
"It's- it's a private beach-" A plaintive beseeching little whine.
"So you're rich, huh? Well, that private courier was probably pricier than the fifty thousand yen. Or not. I don't really care. Touch yourself."
"W-what-"
"I'll give you the benefit of the doubt, you stupid inattentive fucking cow. You're not accustomed to this. But I told you to fucking touch yourself. You're going to touch yourself." It's not a growl, not a snarl. It's something perfectly convivial. Because this is.
A conversational ease in this delectable cruelty.
Every word is the palm's sharp wet crack on cheeks shimmering with tears.
"Yes. Yes. This Little Girl, um, she's- she's at home right now, and... And she's not really alone-"
"What? Worried your housekeeper will be scandalized? You're beautiful. I think I'd adore seeing you touch yourself. If only we had a line between us. Alas, alas. But the serenade alone will be enough.
"I want you to open up your slutty thighs and stroke your pussy. Right now."
"All right-"
"That would be yes, Mistress Orchid. There's nothing noncommittal in your conviction. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. Have you ever done anything like this before, whore?"
"N-no, This Little Girl hasn't, Mistress Orchid. Just... Why are you calling her that?" It's a taut twanging anxiety in the voice. A sharp hard-ribbed tremor.
"You're really asking me? Sincerely? You're asking Mistress Orchid that?" Laughter; laughter. Comic cartoonish pantomime laughter.
A villainess.
The quintessential Wicked Lady.
The Princess curtained in lace and latex and with bitch heeled boots ground into your palm.
Oh, my, my, was the little peon expecting delicacy?
"You're asking me? It's because I'm Mistress Orchid. That's the reason. I'm Mistress Orchid, and you're slave to my every whim. Why should the willow ask the hurricane why its fragile little limbs are being pulled and twisted and broken?
"If it appeals to me to beat you senseless 'til you can't even imagine opening your eyes, that's my prerogative. If I wish to steep you in luxury and venerate your every inch, it will not be your privilege but mine. Do you understand?
"Am I understood? Do you understand Mistress Orchid's words?"
"Yes, Mistress Orchid." It is obedience.
"Now, I'd like to hear from your nasty dripping cunt. It is just sloshing with lust, isn't it?" Silence. Silence.
Why?
And the answer is not defiance, and not the phone tossed away with horror's sudden violent epiphany gripping the heart, Oh, fuck, I cannot do this.
It's wet.
Sticky.
A sumptuous breath through the line. It is to know a delectable symmetry in the lips' dewy grace. In her mouth's shiver, in the wet-petaled allure that plumes up, captured and conveyed with figments of authenticity through this grandiose electronic figment in communion, in intimacy.
And it is still here.
"Can you hear it?" Muffled; muddled. "This... This Little Girl put you on speaker phone, if- if that's okay, Mistress Orchid." It is the essence of quavering knees. There is something almost queasy in the voice.
It is transgression.
"Are you married, slut?"
"Yes."
"And yet, still, still, you're... What, are you unhappily married?"
"Yes."
"Why is that?"
"It's humiliating-"
"You want to be humiliated. Tell Mistress Orchid why. How many fingers are stirring your cunt so noisily? It sounds... Absolutely drenched. Is that cum inside you?" It's a delectation, savoring this sonic sensuality.
It is to know your thighs slipped apart.
It is not self-abnegation; it is not noblesse oblige's patient restraint.
It is only the flesh's irresistible pangs.
It is pornographic; it is not at all. It is not the prepackaged prosaic in another's will, another's whim, another's flesh captured in the digital indelible for those whose imaginations have been permitted to atrophy, or whose convictions wilt beside the elemental chest-clutching terror in fingers outstretched, in the voice upraised.
It is all painfully pathetic.
We are all simply bound to our bodies; we are all shackled to them.
The priest and the hedonist.
We are merely two faces of a Janus being.
Touch, and touch, and touch. Toes curling, bare on the tatami underfoot. The spine arches; jaw clenches; the universe has melted down not into light and darkness but only gradations in flesh, warm and raw and ripe and fresh and hot.
It is meat and bone and blood.
It is her body.
It is hallucinatory; it is the most sumptuous junk sloshing through the veins and burbling up through every artery. It does not creep but sluices, spills, through the body's every reach.
Fingers are animated with their carnal steam.
A touch.
The first long slow lingering graze. It is a single finger; it is a universe condensed into this.
"It's- it is cum inside This Little Girl-"
"My whore. You're my whore now. I don't think This Little Girl is appropriate for such an older lady, do you? After all, Mistress Orchid is only in her twenties. So you're now just my whore. Are you happy about that?
"Mmm. But it's a bit different, isn't it? After all, it's not often that a whore pays their client for the privilege. I'm thinking more about what you are than who you are. You're just a sloppy sopping heap of meat begging to be degraded.
"Whose cum is it?"
"Your- your whore's... Lover's-"
"You have a lover? Well, isn't this interesting?" Lingering on the words.
A jab.
A barbed spear raked down the spine.
"You have a husband and a lover? My, my, quite the European relationship, isn't it? Unhappy at home. What about your lover? Unhappy with them?"
"No, Mistress O-oooorchingn..." It springs into being.
Sudden.
Jarring.
Something explosive; it is something that international treaty bans, you understand. A nuclear weapon simply unfurling from the ocean's depths, the darkness becoming light and even the most effulgent afternoon dwarfed in the pygmy sun that is our greatest feat.
It is our culture.
Another materialist divinity to be tucked into the pantheon; a cudgel wrought in scientific inquisition. We will laud this thing.
Heaving now from her lips. Channeling it in sexual séance. There is a gurgle a wheeze something that could almost be mistaken for a retch in its bitten-back violence.
"You came, didn't you?" And how can you not tease with treacly figments of adoration?
"Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. Your whore is going to again!" What delicious comfort with this.
"No." Not a snarl; not a roar. A simple admonition. A newspaper swatted on a truculent puppy's snout.
"W-what-"
"I told you no, slut. I haven't come even once. You're not going to come."
"Your whore can't hold it back; your whore can't help it. She's- she's too sensitive. Your whore's pussy can't take this-"
"Then stop touching yourself." It's something absolute now.
A judgment.
"W-wha-"
"Stop touching yourself. You'll be barred from even admitting that you have a pussy until we meet, slut. No touching. No stroking. Not even clenching together those delicious soft thighs. I've decided what will happen.
"Tonight. I will meet you somewhere mutually agreeable to us."
"A- all right." It's a whine. A piteous little mewl. "All right-"
"You'll dress as I stipulate."
"Of course, Mistress-"
"Kneel. Now. Wherever you are. Fall down to your knees." It is a faint little whisper in fabric. "What are you wearing?"
"A- ah, um, your... Your whore," still, still, the sonic essence in scarlet cheeks. "Your whore is wearing a miniskirt and... And a blouse and panties-"
"No stockings?"
"No, Mistress Orchid."
"You will be tonight. You'll be my toy; you're delicious. I love your hair. Wear it loose like in the photo. Do you wear glasses?"
"Yes, Mistress Orchid."
"Is your vision poor?"
"It's just... It's a little embarrassing. Your whore's eyes aren't like they used to be; your whore needs them to see up-close-"
"Oh, so that's what it is, huh? How mortifying. Your long slender arms just aren't long enough now, are they? You know, I've never had an authentic old-lady whore before. Those tits, well, those are very young.
"And your ass, I'm sure. I couldn't quite see it in the photo. Is it large?"
"Yes."
"Sublime. You'll wear your glasses."
"Yes, Mistress Orchid." Such perfect compliance. It rakes through the flesh.
It puddles between thighs whose muscle rears up with the essence of a submarine breaking dark waters.
"Ah... I'm... Ah..." It's not coming.
It's simply here.
At once, at once, a sudden convulsive violence.
A corporeal mayhem in your head thrown back.
Flashdance perfection and jerking hips and fingers not even splitting open the lips but only stroking stroking stroking relentless huge spasmodic stripes over that pearl that rears up hungry and brazen through a hood that's only Salome's veil.
"Fuck. Fuck. You're going to wear your sluttiest clothes tonight. Stockings; garters; bitch heels. Do you have any patent leather?"
"Ah, yes, Mistress Orchid-"
"Then wear that. I'll choose your clothes from now, whore. Wear leather heels; wear anything that gleams like someone's already smeared it with cum. A tube top that will barely keep you out of jail and will definitely nurture more than a few fantasies in salarymen's corrupted hearts, begging to just cast off all the cowardice and finally fucking touch you.
"A skirt that's more a belt. I want to be able to see the stockings biting into your soft plump thighs. Wear something flamboyant. I think, oh, violet. Do you have violent lingerie?"
"Um, yes, Mistress Orchid."
"You're afraid, aren't you?"
"People will look- will look at your whore like she's..."
"A whore?"
"Yes." A whisper. Once, and again. "Yes. That's right-"
"You are a whore."
"Ah-"
"You are a whore. Slap yourself. I want to be able to hear it. You're going to need to become accustomed to that. What? Did Ayumi-chan intimate to you that I'm achingly delicate with girls because I love them?
"No. I break my favorite toys. That's how I've become. Hit yourself; hit yourself; hit your goddamn slutty cheek 'til you start to tear up!" A snarl.
It is the tyrant's expectations, her certainties, disappointed in quietude.
Until there is the first crack.
Once.
And again.
And again.
"It hurts!"
"Good. Hit your cheek again. I wish I had a cock, you know. I'd rape you 'til you wailed. It would be so lovely to pump your nasty holes, to fill them with jizz. Too bad, I guess. But you're going to take another huge wad of cum inside you before you come tonight.
"I want it still to be dripping out of you when you're with me. I want to be able to dig it out with my fingers and smear it on toast for you to eat. Do you understand? I'd have you not wear panties, but, well, that would be just a little difficult, wouldn't it?
"Be sure they're almost perfunctory; a little stripe for your pussy and nothing for your ass but a tight little band to cleave those cheeks apart. Understood, whore?"
"Understood."
"Good girl." Cooing now. "Good girl. Now, keep slapping yourself. Anywhere; serenade me with it. Don't bite back anything. If you scream, scream for me. But set your phone on the table. I'm sick of listening to your sniveling. Meet me at the Hyde Suites; room eight-thirty-nine." There is no protest.
No simpering that this isn't...
Isn't appropriate.
"Okay." Obedience.
A crack.
Wet.
Sodden.
The palms stain her skin. The imagery is already painted in great impressionist strokes, muddled and nebulous in their ambiguity, and still oh so delectable in the perfect clarity that is the soul's subjectivity.
Toes curl.
Fingers dagger between my thighs. They are not anything so banal as this in its childish onanism. They are not that measure of communion stitching together humanity in its groping hungers. No. No.
They are her lips.
"Ah... Ah... Wear violet gloss, also. B-be sure your makeup is as slutty as you can manage. Nothing airbrushed; make sure it's cheap. The trashiest liner and frailest mascara. Nothing labeled waterproof. Otherwise, I'll scour it off with your own fucking tears.
"Do you understand?" Her tongue.
Her lips.
Her mouth.
Of course she understands.
There is no need for an answer. Nothing. Nothing. She is knelt here. It is more than apparition; it is simple being. Conjured not in imagination's alchemy but in simple flesh. She is here. With the grandiosity in degradation without self-loathing.
Only the elemental wisdom in genuflection; creeping, slithering between venerated thighs.
Kisses like a butterfly's quick fluttering wings captured in a monsoon.
"Ah! Ah! Yeah! Yeah!" Fingers become her tongue, her touch, her adoration. "Ah. Fuck. Fuck. Oh, you'll- you'll be swamped with me tonight." Dragging up huge sodden gouts from the flesh. Fingers coil and twist and taste the gradations in texture, the luxuriant wet-velvet allure in coils clenching clutching groping.
Because she is there.
"I'll... I'll more than fuck your face; I'll rape you 'til you sob. You'll be pleading for mercy; and you'll be begging me never to stop. This, I can promise you, whore. Y-yeah... Ah, ah, ah." It isn't thunder.
It is not the braying porno affectation in excess.
It is.
Selfish.
Shivering.
Fingers dragging up the shirt's hem; the bra simply tugged down with a quick jerk at the thick black band. And there is a madness, a fanaticism for this. A self-love in the plump luscious fat and the lean muscle undergirding it.
A delirium in that quaking marshmallow madness.
Ours fall together.
The lips, also.
Gorge yourself on yourself.
Language melts down.
Imagery has become something distant and perfunctory.
Defined geometry muddles itself into protean lysergic acid Monets.
And there is now nothing like shape.
Formless and twisting and coiling into themselves. A Möbius strip psychosis; my body and hers have been divested of anything like being in this strange parallel place. There are no toes; no fingers; no hands; no feet; no legs no arms no faces nothing nothing nothing but a primeval water.
Yes.
Yes.
We are as water, splashing together.
Individuation denied.
A shudder in teeth ground together while the nipples are not only strummed but tugged twisted tormented tortured and...
Silence.
Stillness.
But not the cinematic flair in the bomb's thunder's recession. No. No. These are the mischievous fingers that jam, that defuse, that stymie, that thwart.
There is only anxious quavering rage-stained raw red insanity.
It is self-inflicted denial.
It is the knife rasped over a whetstone alive with rarefied oils.
"Meet me at eight tonight, or you can be sure you'll never hear my voice again, whore."
There can only be obedience.
Yes.
Standing.
The cellular snapped closed.
And fingers do not grope, but are achingly patient with breakfast. With the tea water puddling in the kettle.
With the mug that is nestled upon the table, an elegance in geometry, centered with exactitude that whispers of anal retentiveness that could imprison an enraged elephant.
A tremor and a trill and a keen.
The fragrance invades.
And the hand's swipe is a deeper languor still. Because it is artistry; because the mug's fine alabaster pallor is best appreciated melting into brittle chiming shards that liberate the scalding tea in a vast splash across the floor.
It creeps like blood capturing starlight, twinkling and convoluted in its geometries.
There is blood now.
The shards not gingerly prodded as they must be, but snatched up, roiling with the tea's cooling dregs. There is not an obscenity, because this is not the point. There is rejoicing; there is a sense of fortune, of serendipity in this.
The palm torn.
The fingertips dappled.
Blood, rich and raw and authentic, life's sublimity, it limns its own oracle-bone fantasia across the floor, and it is to be awed, to be transfixed, awed with a glimpse of this rattling symphony, the Rorschach convolutions that gather without formula, without absolutes, without preconceptions.
Thick.
Soft.
It coheres into expressionist portraiture.
I am there.
And you are there.
The past and the future.
A bell-ringer would be a lovely coda to the morning, wouldn't it? But it is rejected; it is denied. Rage boils more surely than the water.
