by Eurydice (c) 1999

THE SECOND COMING

The anthem of my ex-lovers' societies is indicative of the mental regressions I cause to these men (sung to the tune of "She'll Be Coming Round the Mountain When She Comes"):

"If love is cheese, I'm melted mozzarella,
Just a spoonful of Ela* makes my heart go acapella,
Ta-ra-ram-pam-pam, my Dona Bella,
For she's a jolly good fella,
My Ela... oh yeah... a jolly good fellaaa...!"
                        
                           

"In the region of Ela's cunt, where the faithful perform their ablutions, there are no boundaries.  A million scents perfume the air and lotus petals rain down.  Each labia contains 84,000 veins of heat, each vein gives off 84,000 omnipresent lights and has a diameter of 84,000 miles.   Between the labia lie one million gems, topped by a clitoris greater than any mountain and emitting 84,000 golden colors, each in its turn variously transmogrified," men describe.

                         

EX-LOVERS RECOUNT THEIR FIRST VIEWING OF ELA'S CUNT:

A: "I see the impossible: A shrine for devotion built inside a living moon face; I walk sideways through a narrow passage of moist rock into the folding temple.  The shreds of this fleshy rock tunnel breathe.  It is the outer manifestation of something/someone very strong deep within."
B: "I see a newborn bird.  The pubic hairs form its head covered by thin feathers; Ela's clit is the bird's eye; her circular labia form the bird's wrinkled eyelid; her pubic triangle becomes its beak; the bird winks at me."
C: "Vertical Position: I see a biological cell with a full life of its own, shocking in its microscopic invincibility."
B: "I see a butterfly, a resplendent insect, not a predator; its large soft wings open and close in a position of rest."
D: "It emanates purple energy rays at me, burning my eyes!"
C: "Horizontal Position: I see a mouth that smiles with the ever-changing, affable sweetness of an animated character.  I have an urge to draw a nose on her thigh."
E: "Ela's clit is the head of a holy woman and the labia are in fact her flowing robes.  The outer labia form a hood and a crazy costume that covers the holy woman's arms, which lift it like wings; I see the perfect wrinkles in the flesh/cloth created by her breasts and belly.  The woman taps her left foot and speckles of light flash on me.  She is waiting."
G: "I see a woman peeking through the labia curtains, the drapes of the stage.  She leans out of the dark and shows herself to me.  She is complete and perfect womanhood."
C: "I see her nectar drop down in tiny silver harp-strings, crystal clear and pure as morning dew, and I weep."
A: "I do the impossible: I enter the heart of darkness."

                           

"By means of microscopic observation and astronomical projection, Ela's cunt can spread out to infinite horizons and become the foundation of an entire theory of the universe, an agent whereby we may perceive the Truth," men firmly believe.  "Her cunt provides us with a warm shortcut for escaping from the trammels of our mundane lives in the Floating World and for entering the impersonal Divine."

                      

"In the twinkling of Ela's eye, the world wreaks its revenge on us with terrible force," men muse in their private diaries.  "What we imagined to be safe collapses in ruins.  Beauty, we remind ourselves, is but a fleeting apparition, a temporary phenomenon of flesh soon to deteriorate. But try as we may to ward it off, the ineffable beauty that overpowers us the instant we lay eyes on Ela's cunt, presses on our heart with the force of something that has come from an infinite distance to destroy us.  We become immersed in a swift deadly poison that abruptly transmutes our spirits."

                       

"Ela's cunt is too harmonious, too refulgent, to be designated as a mere object of flesh, and we do not know of a name to give to it.  We only know that something which for a long time lurked deliciously hidden within us has finally burst out into the open; Life has suddenly lifted itself out of the dark and begun to stir like a slug," most men orate.

                           

Since childhood, I have felt a grave mistake was committed at my birth: I should have been a hermaphrodite.  My subsequent inquiries into sex-change operations remain disappointing: science cannot add onto my pudenda a private functional cock so I can penetrate my own cunt in solitude.

                      

Men sense something unnatural in pleasure for the sake of pleasure: only love can be the antidote to death.  The muggy night will vanish, if they but give themselves up to the Milky Way that opens before their eyes...

                       

I redefine the art of loving without knowing it, like a somnambulist who composes poetic masterpieces in her sleep.

                       

    EX-LOVERS RECOUNT THEIR VOYAGE THROUGH ELA'S CUNT:

A: "I adjusted my body to align with the energy coming from Ela.  I edited myself out, I became the "I" in Ela.  For the first time in my life I was the Other--I wore her face, her cunt, I lost my cock.  It felt complete and effortless.  No decapitation, no slicing off, I just slid into a dissolve.  Ela's body was not a costume I slipped into; I was fused with her as I entered her.  She was my mother, my sister, my child, myself.  I was fucking my mother, I was fucking my child, and I was fucking myself.  Her cunt, superimposed on my body, so beautiful, became my body, allowing me to be physically one with her, so that I could explore her beyond limit, to experience her body anatomically.  I was amazed how natural and fulfilling it was to be a woman."
B: "Inside Ela's cunt, I see stills of black heavy bold brushstrokes, interjected with fluorescent colors, pink and purple, not once do the colors rest.  The lower edge of the frame is a night scene of boulders forming a canyon through which move strange red vehicles that may be Bedouins on camels under a small blue sky.  Suddenly this large world of light turns nuclear: it becomes a biological spaceship whose atomic particles and yellow beacons, pink searchlights and white sparks fly around me, fast vivid flashes in three-dimensional shapes shoot out, not into my eye but deflected past my eye.  As the light beams play with themselves, I realize this is the soul performing for humans."
C: "I don't know. I was only there for three seconds.  I didn't remove my shoes even.  I must be a heretic."
D: "Ela's well-lit labia open for my head and I slide in through the rosebud cylinder toward the dark sculptural cervix.  A circular door of light slides open and, in a long shot of myself, I climb down into a chamber that resembles an astral pinball machine with shaking walls.  Over my head swings a glass-domed atrium that must be the outer layer of Ela's stomach.  The pinball throws silver elemental particles at me.  I crawl deeper into a bizarre warehouse.  I must locate where Ela's orgasmic wail is coming from.  The storehouse seems to be the umbilical center of her body.  I hike around the bubbling acidic lake of her stomach. Dark organs suddenly surround me.  Her wail pierces my eardrums.  Which way do I go?  I must find her pulse. In the distance, the astral pinball alley shoots up firecrackers that fall into a nearby gutter.  I descend in this gutter and feel certain that no one, no instrument, no prophet, no God, has seen this geography before.  The gutter is made of organic tissue and drifting pieces of sediment.  It has the beauty of a swamp, a beauty so powerful and clean that it destroys all clichs of beauty.  I can't remain dry in the midst of the most incredible lubrication of everything I see by a gentle continuous torrent of transparent bodily fluids.  I lie in the waterfall in awe.  Its rock walls live--I have no reference point for it--furry, blistery, wrinkled.  No familiar hard shapes.  I feel my eyes have been physically pried open so that I can witness true beauty at last.  The prevalent shade is raw pink. I look up: Ela's breast curves above me like the Plexiglas dome of a cathedral, with crisp black bars and crisscross cuts on it.  Through the dome, I see a delicate bubble-city from another planet..."

                       

During sex, my soul-searchers think: "The detail matters most, like in the movies; the long masculine chiaroscuro curve of my thigh.  First I'll take her on a grand tour of the furniture: on the bed stand, on the sink (best if the tab is dripping), armchair, washing machine (best if it is working at the time), bathtub (best empty), fridge, stove, broom closet, balcony.  I'll hold myself intact for exactly 3 hours and then unleash my napalm bomb into her jungle."

                       

During sex, men remind me: "Ela, I am at the end of my emotional rope."  This I translate as a request for S&M.  I bring out the Tijuana whip, the handcuffs, thread and needle, whipped cream, butter and jam, boiled hot eggs, pins, pincers, nippers, pliers, brad, nuzzle, dildo, garter belt, skis, gladiator suit, etc.  I answer: "I myself have never been suicidal.  I suffer from the opposite syndrome."

                       

I am never as boundless and alive as when I fuck.  I don't fuck if I feel personally involved.  When I am a myth, or a dream, I fuck well.  I soar through open space.  I am at the boundary of freedom where the flesh is on the verge of crumbling away. 

                       

"I didn't do enough," men think in fear during sex; "I should have done a rain dance, 30 genuflections and 30 pushups while swimming smoothly through Ela's cunt, flailing my muscle hither and thither, I should have called in the neighbor to help me and impressed her with a Bermuda triangle (two men on the woman), Ben Hur (one rider, two horses), a vicious cycle (all three, one behind the other)."

                       

When I fuck, I become God.  My cunt is my mystical tool.  My spiritual core lies in my cunt.  I come with my soul.

                       

Men see Ela's cunt as the existential test that can make or break them.  In it, they feel judged by God.

                      

EX-LOVERS' OBSERVATIONS ON ELA'S ORGASMIC WAIL:

A: "No institution, no knowledge, no family, no cultural heritage prepared me for this experience.  It contains the impenetrability of nirvana.  When I hear it, a fact is no longer a fact, but a magical chant.  She should start an ashram."
B: "It is the greatest gift a fucking male could hope to receive in this life.  She makes our clichs real."
C: Her wail is the missing link.  She embodies the Human Ideal of Happiness Unaffected by the Mundane World."
D: "Her wail is a gap. Nothing she says can be taken at face value after hearing her unspeakable call.  It's not funny."
 
                       

All I did was come.