by Eurydice (c) 1999

 Once Upon a Real Woman: My Dyke and I

    Ever since her cunt ran away, Ela's loft, replete with glass and bones, repulses Ela.  She needs the energy of a crowd, she craves a quick charge. She covers her lips under a black silk "purdah" like a Rajput maharani, and like the night she descends on the city in a little red lace dress.  A towering hulky woman in blue velvet overalls, with breasts bulky and hard like grapefruit, with curly red hair a la Cher and with no fingers past her crumpled knuckles, grasps Ela's loose unsuspecting hand with the gesture of a medieval knight and calls her:      "Sister!" 
     At once Ela drops her silver head face down into the stranger's stupendous cleavage and wonders if she could actually manage to decuntate such a huge woman. As the fingerless lesbian spontaneously hugs Ela, Ela disappears inside that ingeniously comfortable chest.  The lesbian's breasts smell like cayenne pepper, old seaweed and moist scouring pads.  She wears nothing under her ample overalls, so that Ela can see, from where she lies buried, only the big off-white pores and stretch marks of those flabby long tits.  Ela sneezes.  The lesbian invites her to her house, and amplifies: "I hate talking about myself, believe it or not.  I lie all the time.  I have two kids.  They are nice accessories.  I don't breastfeed. I prefer having my bottom spanked.  I am casual but avid about sex. I am not oversexed!  Have you always been an exception?" 
     Ela: "I too am a congenital liar.  It is true.  I never say the truth."  She speaks fast and breathlessly, so that her listener is overtaken by the terror that Ela will suffocate at any minute, give out three tiny spasms and expire.  Her voice purls and scintillates innocent of all sense. 
     The big lesbian booms: "You have the voice of a soothsayer."
      Ela tries to understand and clarifies: "A seafarer?" 
     The big lesbian blares: "Call me any names you see fit." 
     Ela hums: "A rose by any other name..." 
     The big lesbian, alias Proserpina, hollers: "You may call me a symptom of nature.  I will pass." 
     Ela lies happily cuddled in the grandiose peppery tits and senses a vague deja-vu that washes her in a wave of sleepiness.
     The big lesbian, a.k.a. Desdemona: "These days, our witches carry themselves as queens.  They dress elegantly and raid our cities, looking so beautiful that no one notices their gold blank eyes.  They quietly steal our children from the candy aisle while lightning strikes outside one afternoon and a tired cashier makes a punching error.  These rebels teach our youth to love horror: the horror of a belly that thinks, of an eye that reflects rather than sees, of an ear that absorbs like a sponge of memory.  They swallow our children whole with the bones like game birds, after they have danced with them in the light of old desires.  Don't be fooled by these women's fresh tormenting smells and painted shy smiles.  They have come to eat our sons who are beautiful like daughters and our daughters who are strong like sons." ?
     Ela is lulled by the lesbian's fairytale.  She thoughtlessly follows the big fingerless lesbian home. 
     The enormous unweildy breasts, heavy like exotic giant mushrooms, bounce and slap Ela's tender face as she walks backwards with tiny uncertain steps, still hiding between their mounds.  The two women make a striking couple. 
      Ela whispers: "I draw pleasure from sweet and wild fucks that are born away from men; I like coming in the mirror."   
     Soon after, Ela lies on her back on a blue waterbed that swirls and swells and swishes and caves in, like a sex-doll's rubber mouth opening up to swallow her. 
      The pink room is submerged in haphazardly heaped '50s memorabilia: Coka-Cola bottles, long car fenders, red Dorothy slippers, a "Cabaret" black hat, a pink juke-box, a yellow soda-counter, an original "Gone with the Wind" poster. 
     A tremendous strapping naked Aspasia pounces through the bedroom door: gone are the overalls, the high heels, the bobbed perm, the lipstick and the tight girdle that made her look human.  This Hecuba bursts in with her red hair pulled back, her puffy cheeks flushed, biting her bloated lips, looking like:
     a. a hungry dishevelled seamstress turned Jacobite rebel who is breaking into the Bastille and later haunting Marat's home;
     b. a hefty Spanish butcheress who has just killed her husband in a moment of bad temper;
     c. a mean chunky Nazi colonel in charge of a concentration camp with a fondness for heavy sweets and thin cocks;
     d. a female Sumo wrestler;
     e. the robust runner in Picasso's "The Race."
     Big-footed, soft-assed, flop-titted, thick-waisted, red-faced, bulb-eyed, rough-hewn, Beiruta holds out her fleshy arms to Ela and makes it clear that she doesn't care what happens.  Ela dives freely into that mountainous lumpy softness and sucks it at random. 
     But it is Ela who is being sucked into endless freckled folds and sweaty creases and fleshy canyons, like in the tentacles of a giant squid, or into the mouth of a mammoth clam.  Ela feels the various parts of her body crumpled up, spread out, warped, separated, and lost to her forever. 
     Only an elfin foot here or a narrow shoulder there spills out of the ample thumping female mass and indicates Ela's drowning presence on the squirming waterbed. Hilda is endowed with the fattest longest clit Ela has ever seen, easily the largest in the world.  A consummate mighty clit that fills Ela's field of vision and overflows beyond it.  Wanda's clit, larger than a homemade sausage, is in fact too big for Ela's tight mouth.  It resembles a towering taut juicy cactus the color of an eggplant, twice the size of Ela's pinkie. 
     As Ela bravely faces that quivering red monster, she wonders how she can ever affect the nerve centers buried inside it.  She spends the next hour yanking at it, whacking it, biting it, chewing it, pinching it, kneading it, slapping it, spanking it, stretching it, twisting it, scratching it, hoping to pass sensation through all that rugged muscle and fat.  It probably owes its awesome dimensions to countless such hours of fingering and pulling, Ela thinks admiringly. 
     When at long last Cassandra yelps inhumanly like a fatally wounded tigress, as if someone is presently piercing her heart on a sharpened spit and roasting it, Ela wipes her brow and falls exhausted on the red carpeted floor with the image of that purple demanding clit indelibly engraved in her mind. 
     But she has no time to rest.
Immediately after, the Great Barbarella lifts Ela up in her arms like a new bride and carries her to the nearby bathroom.  As she is being dropped in a single motion into a brimming steaming bathtub, Ela quickly notices a peach Laura Ashley wallpaper, a Francis Bacon on the moist wall, "9 & a Half Weeks" blinds on the window and many dozens of herbal soaps, lotions and Body Shop creams all around Imelda's bathroom. 
     Next Ela notices that Hedda's brawny arms rival her swollen face in duskiness and that her eyes are slits. Mata flops herself on a nearby stool with her massive thighs wide open, rewarding Ela with a continued frontal viewing of her powerhouse-clit and of the sparse stringy red pubic hairs on her purple labia.  Like a mythic laundress, Leona employs her mighty forearms, her vast shoulders and colossal swinging breasts to clean Ela.  Her gnarled stubs clasp a dozen bristly brushes expertly.  She scrubs Ela with loofahs and oils until Ela, submerged in burning lather, cannot breathe through the suds that choke her mouth and nostrils, and her skin is white silk thinner than a newborn's. 
     Thelma, looking porky, happy and out of breath, asks: "Do you love Kant?"  Then she sighs: "With a bar of soap in hand, a disinterested spectator would also wonder: could life be art?"  Ela gasps, rumpled and giddy.
     Zsa Zsa: "Sex is our only means of communication.  Women have a clit in place of a heart.  That's why we fall in love so easily." 
     Ela, regaining her breath: "I don't need to be loved.  Au contraire: I need to be received cordially and discreetly and asked for only my good manners in return.  A calm acceptance suits me best, but I always receive passion instead." 
     Charlotta, lifting Ela once again: "Would you be offended if I confessed that right before we met I was having a turbulent love affair with a monkey?  She liked to mince words." 
     Ela, in mid-air: "Who?  Max?" 
     Sandra, confidentially to Ela in her arms: "No. Cubby Hole."  
     Ela, also intimately: "Earlier, as I laughingly poked your breasts with the points of my manicured nails, your resilient heavy flesh repelled my hands and a dull pain still lingers in my fingertips.  I am at a loss as to what to do with my hand." 
     Renata, carrying Ela like a kitten: "From now on I'll be your bodyguard.  When I hold you, I can't be sure I am holding you."  Her heavy voice booms too shrill to reflect any feeling. 
     Ela: "Intense sorrows should bring special magic powers with them.  I am in despair over the poverty of human emotions." 
     Vanna, a smile spreading across her huge face: "When the ghost of death haunts our every step, we can only create the world inside our home.  My kitchen can serve a small hotel.  My stereo is concert quality.  I own every appliance I can find.  Machines make me feel loved."  The monotone of her unfocused voice grows threatening, developing into a downpour, and Ela feels the first drops of saliva on her forehead. 
     Ela: "I've never been comfortable myself.  If I lived like Fellini in a Cinecitta of my own where I could create huge ships and startling towns out of papier masse, I might be more open." 
     Lola: "I will be your vulva." 
     Back to the carnivorous waterbed, Aglaia heaves and dips and perches herself like a fortress on top of Ela, breasts first and heaviest, and squashes her so that they can fuck face to face and clit to clit, like fighting bulls.  Oprah's saliva burns Ela's face like astringent.
     Suddenly, Aretha changes her mind, gets up, giving Ela some breathing time, plays an overused gravelly record of the "Swanlake" soundtrack, pulls up her imaginary sleeves like Mama-bear ready to clean house and, dancing the White Swan pas de deux, launches a full-blown attack on Ela's unsheltered body.  Ofra uses her rough feline hard-as-a-shoe-sole tongue, her broken pointy teeth and brutal fingerstubs that are each thicker than an erect cock and do not wither with wear, to enter Ela. Then Maya buries her hot red face between Ela's legs in a gross crass attempt at 69 which is impossible as Ela's mouth can reach just below Isadora's breasts, and sucks hard like a vacuum cleaner.  Squeezed between the whopping bulk of this female gladiator and the wobbly wet mattress, suffocated in pain and pleasure, crammed and cracked and swooning under sexual overkill, as Acapella's immense mouth drills into her still healing vaginal cavity and sucks life from her, Ela realizes:
     a. her frame is too small and frail to withstand the coming lust, and this may turn out to be her last fuck;
     b. without its previous elasticity, her gaping cavity will experience unspeakable tortures in the hands of this maenad and may even get chopped up again before Ela knows it;
     c. if Ela doesn't rush into a quick exit at once, this stolid unfathomable body will put a claim on her own;
     d. Ela's mounting uneasiness is now slasher-genre terror;
     e. the waterbed is quickly breaking down under them.
     So despite her bliss at being fucked by such a grand female torrent, despite her urge to leave herself in the hands of this behemoth, Ela labours to rise from under Yalta's pressure and to motion to her that the bed is leaking.  But as she opens her mouth to shout, she comes from both mouth and womb in profusion.  It is Ela's first full orgasm since her separation from her runaway cunt and her subsequent bereavement.  It is such a joy to come, and to know that she can come!  She wants to celebrate. Wondering if this stark two-woman duel represents her new sexual pattern, Ela screams at the top of her lungs in order to let busy Matilda know that she has come and thus she now deserves a moment's rest. 
     Belinda lifts her big furious face, smiles proudly like a child who has pulled off a prank, notices the thin silver vomit trickling from Ela's mouth and frowns motheringly: "AIDS?" 
     Ela: "I am sorry, I can't stop coming." 
     Malta: "A funny thing happened to me as I was coming: I wanted to die for a noble cause." 
     Ela: "Waterbeds make me seasick."  Her post-orgasmic voice resounds sweet and heavy, like a priest's caress. 
     Ida: "Strong feelings never bother me.  Can I go on now?  I am enjoying you tremendously; like fucking my own cunt.   Redemption does a lot for me." 
     Ela points to the torn shrinking mattress that is reduced to a wrinkled bluish plastic sheet sunk under a large pool of stale-smelling water and cum, and then shakes her head emphatically. Splashing about, the two women progress into the standard casual post-sex chat which Ela has initiated.  Moving cautiously on her hands and buttocks, Ela struggles to pull herself away from the slippery bed without breaking her bones. 
     Paola, dripping streams of sweat that add to the wet mess, sits up and lights a Fidel cigar. 
     Ela: "I politely take my leave." 
     Luella: "Do you at this instant intuit the absence of God?" 
     Ela: "Who?  You know nothing about me!" 
     Lucinda: "As I look at your beauty, I want to sit on the curb or crawl into my bed and cry like a child, with snot running down my manly lips.  If I let you out of my hold, it is only to get a better view of your short slender thighs, your tiny pale waist and your hard round ass." 
     Ela, tempting the fates as she is making her escape from inside the wolf's hot wet belly: "You can crush me; you can put me in a crate and mail me to the Near East; crystallize me and drink me in your tea; cremate me and eat me in soups; crinkle me between the pages of your Bible or stretch me out on your roof to dry and then expose me in a fancy neon-lit glass case; you can start a collection.  But names will never hurt me." 
     Helena: "You look like a fast-spreading fire.  Some things simply don't die.  Be careful with yourself: is it windy out?"  
     Ela goes home and lights up the fireplace.  She listens to Stravinsky's "Firebird," crouches next to the mirror and hears a growl in her stomach.  She thinks: "I am not even a woman who bites her nails."  The firelight flares in her big eyes, and they in turn flare in the mirror.  She is stunned by the unworldly flowerlike youth that looks back at her, animated with shrill pleasure like a choking girl on a rollercoaster.  She suddenly resembles her cunt.  A new thought blazes through her mind: "Am I my own lost cunt?"  The fire blazes up.  Ela wants to jump in it.