F/32 Excerpt:
We should have been excused from lugging a body: the burden of the self was enough.
E.M.Cioran
Ela* has the tightest cunt in the world. But every blessing is also a curse.
Ela's cunt is her stigma, her legacy, her shield, and her shadow.
Ela wonders whether her cunt is implausible, a caricature, a lush and obvious imbalance of nature. She supposes that, like a mirror image, her cunt is a trick, like throwing ashes into people's eyes: mere diversionary tactics.
Ela cuts a heroic figure living with that manic cunt of hers; its restless flickering light flashes from her thighs and leads lost comers?wolves and sheep, dupes and deceivers?to its haven; like a legendary lighthouse; and like a lode-star in the firmament.
Her cunt gives Ela a transparency she likes. She lives in its illusory infinity. But its grip on her can become unbearable.
Before Ela has sex, a struggle takes place. Outraged by her cunt's demands, Ela asks: "Will this ever stop? I can't keep up. Just say no!" Her cunt: "...! (hi-hi?)" Ela: "Please. I've had enough. Now cut it out!" Her cunt: "...! (tsk-tsk?)" Ela: "All this repetition drains me, aren't you ever bored?" Her cunt: "...! (whoosh?)" Ela: "SHUT UP!" Her cunt: "...! (ooh-la-la?)" Then Ela shrieks. She rocks back and forth, blindly throws her cunt against any random surfaces around her and buries her hands into her thighs to block the black hole. Her cunt raises its pitch into a sharp hot ache that pierces Ela's abdomen and sucks her airtight. Ela can't breathe from the hunger. But she strains to control her cunt, oblivious to her past defeats. She wants the power to switch her cunt's awareness off and on at will. She thinks it should be her natural right.
Ela: What possesses my cunt? Who takes responsibility for it?
So Ela sits on her heated cunt, presses down on it and refuses to open her legs. The pain for pleasure mounts. Ela thrusts her cunt against the wall. She drags it over the cold tiles. She takes it into the shower. Onto the toilet. To the fridge for a snack. Out for a walk. Her despair only excites it further.
Ela's cunt is her perfect and terrifying burden. It penetrates her life like a siren, or an alarm, turned on into eternity.
Finally Ela succumbs. She spends hours masturbating it to contentment, but masturbation increases her cunt's greed out of bounds; for whereas it might be satisfied by a few hours of straight fucking, it requires weeks of continual masturbation during which each new orgasm intensifies its lust. During these vicious cycles, she postpones all her other physical needs. Her ties with the world become dangerously severed. Her orgasms stop only when a desperate enough man-in-love manages to break into her apartment and to cut through that charmed circle of self-fucking which otherwise, Ela is convinced, would go on forever.
In short, Ela's cunt is a beast. A beast that Ela is doomed to lug around with her for life, like a wandering bear-trainer chained to her wild dancing bear.
Masturbation reminds Ela of the snake and mongoose rivalry. They are the only equal match in the animal kingdom. Locked in a deadly embrace, their legendary battles go on for days, and it is never certain who the winner is, until the moment of death.
Men never understand Ela's struggle. When it takes place in their presence, they perceive it as an exotic manifestation of Ela's abundant sexuality. After the initial shock, this fervid sight turns them on. They try to help her; so they grab her cunt by the labia and try to extinguish it. Although they appear to be Ela's allies, in fact they give her cunt exactly what it wants.
Do all women struggle like this? Ela wonders. Do all women sail back and forth between Scylla and Charybdis forever?
So Ela presents her cunt to men with abandon, as if it were St. John the Baptist's silver-tongued head, laid on a platter. She gives them license to try their luck with it and not spare it. "Do not mistake my cunt for the kudos," Ela warns men, hoping to tip the scales; "enter it at your own risk." They break into a cocky laugh. Soon after, her cunt swallows them whole.
No matter how hard any man-at-hand applies himself, the task of taming Ela's cunt is Sisyphean. Eventually the lovers succumb to physical exhaustion: they speechlessly gather up their dead limbs, count up the losses on both sides, perform quick last rites, retract their smoking weapons and fall fast asleep. But her cunt, the beacon, the glutton, the epicure, always stays fresh. Orgasms rejuvenate it. It immediately strikes out for new prey. In her sleep, Ela can feel it contract in waves of desire. Once again I lie wounded in my own camp, she thinks.
Her cunt tears Ela from the world and carries her to a continuous burst of herself, beyond moderation, obscenity or kindness.
o
Men come to Ela dressed to kill, submerged in the finery men have mastered for the serious business of soldiering. They parade to the braying of bugles and fifes; plumes wave, kilts swing, brass buckles and gold braid glint in the sunshine; flags and ramrods fly. Their cannons boom, drowning the cackle of musket fire, as they chaotically stampede across the killing field towards Ela.
Men come into Ela raving: "Ah, a real cunt! It's like slipping into the tentacles of a squid, like you're swimming nude and the ocean gets condensed into this little powerful fist!" "It smells fresh like moist earth, wet paint, cucumber, thunder!" "Pubis Angelical!" "It's smart!" "It never breaks down! It even glows in the dark!" "You should be really proud of your cunt!"
What inspires these metaphors? Ela wonders. How can I be proud for something I do not control? Ela responds to men's endless linguistic exertion with equanimity: "Sorry, I wouldn't know; it is outside my control." But men crack up at what they perceive as her joke and assess that she, too, is good with metaphor.
"In the region of Ela's cunt, where the faithful perform their ablutions, there are no boundaries. A hundred thousand scents perfume the air and lotus petals rain down. Lamps are unnecessary, for it is illumined by an omnipresent light. Each labia has 99,000 veins of heat and each vein gives off 99,000 lights. Each labia has a diameter of 9,900 miles, and between the labia lie one million jewels, topped by a clitoris greater than any mountain and emitting 99,000 different idyllic colors, each in its turn variously transmogrified," men exalt.
Ela is annoyed by this spirited commentary and rolls her eyes in exasperation; but her cunt sucks in its lips and lunges at the nearest flesh, always on the look-out for its next meal. As she watches it eat, Ela can't help admiring its carefree appetite.
Men speak of Ela's cunt with the enthusiasm of adventurers setting foot on a new continent. They assume that if they dig deep enough, they may lose their souls, but they will strike gold.
"Let me describe your cunt: your cunt is a rose petal in a glass of rosewater. Your cunt is a green valley at dawn. Your cunt is a dense forest with woodcutters and wolves running loose in it. Your cunt is a loud bar crowded with merchants, drunks, sailors. Your cunt is a famous brothel buzzing with wily whores, acned boys and panting fat men. Your cunt is a cathedral with a big bronze bell ringing in its belfry. Your cunt is the walled compound of a Forbidden City where devout euphoric mandarins toil and conspire. Your cunt is a great nation's fleet with submarines and warships; anchors are pulled up, waves splash on deck, a cabin-boy jumps from the mast into the sea, the captain lights his pipe, the maidenhead at the prow laughs, a game of dice is heating up. Your cunt is a transparent lake, and at its bottom lies a white sunken capital; a colossal octopus rises out of the city palace and glides down the brightly-lit avenues mangling under its sucking tentacles thousands of fresh flowers which were used that very afternoon for the funeral of the emperor. Your cunt is a hummingbird that sings in my ear cuntinuously."
Ela sticks her finger up inside her mysterious cunt, trying to comprehend what it is that men try so hard to describe. But she feels nothing abnormal. She holds a mirror up in front of her open legs and attempts to see what everyone else sees. It only reflects a pink slit that shimmers in the light. No heliograph; no labarum; no funeral pyre; no Magna Carta; no deep freeze.
Men believe that by means of microscopic observation and astronomical projection, Ela's cunt spreads out to infinite horizons and becomes the foundation for an entire theory of the universe, an agent whereby they may perceive the Truth. Her cunt provides a short cut for escaping from the trammels of their mundane daily lives and for entering the uncharted Divine.
Ela enjoys letting strangers stare into her cunt. She appreciates the purity of her cunt, which is the only part of herself whose appearance she cannot manipulate. She can never see what they see. It is the price she has to pay for female evolution.
ELA'S LOVERS RECOUNT WHAT THEY CAN SEE IN ELA'S CUNT:
A: "I see a resplendent butterfly, with soft wings opening and closing in a position of rest; and tiny harpstrings of nectar."
B: "The clit is the head of a priestess, the labia are her flowing robes. I see the wrinkles of the cloth and everything."
C: "I see a woman peeking out through the curtains. She comes out of the dark and shows herself to me. Her body language is of showing. It is the most natural and perfect image. The manifestation of something very strong, deep within. The woman changes in light and shade. She is metamorphosis."
No woman can call herself free who does not own and control her body, feminists believe. How does that apply to me? Ela wonders.
Men brag, bark, bugle, bulge, brandish their brash tools, bang on her door, and beg to be inside Ela. They vow to conquer her cunt or die at its altar. Their divining rods, their radars, scepters and wands point at Ela. So they spin around her like moths to a candle and exclaim: "Your cunt is out of this world!" Ela wonders: Where is it then? In an "Other" world? What do men mean?
Every few months Ela flies to a different city or country to get away from men who stick anything into her tight cunt in their struggle to stuff it up: lit cigarettes, candles, dentures, watches, credit cards, phone receivers, coins (to make a wish), crosses, wedding or high-school rings, worrybeads, pens, keys, glasses, batteries, photos of their mothers and sweethearts, pacifiers, baby or beer bottles, sashimi, caviar, steak tartar, garlic (to ward off evil spirits), oysters (with cocktail sauce and lemon), live snakes, snails, Steve's ice-cream, silverware, umbrellas, light-bulbs, tulip bulbs, torches, hammers, mufflers, plugs, cattle-prods, war medals, knives, guns, Molotov bombs.
Ela disassociates from the world during sex and is not aware of what men insert into her cunt. Later, her sense of propriety and privacy is shocked by the imagination men use when they fuck her.
Ela's paradox: Despite the constant invasions, her cunt stays the world's tightest; yet nothing and no one is too big for her cunt.
Ela's cunt is blind as a bat: if it were up to it, Ela would fuck indiscriminately. But Ela tries to uphold some standards. The statistics are surprising: Ela has fucked c. 500 men (a very low sum, considering how many men daily hurl themselves at her cunt).
Ela's cunt brings together men's minds and bodies, and it unites otherwise unrelated men in the populist hunt for its possession. Ela's cunt is a universal common goal and a communal meeting ground. It builds its own nation. It is the Great Encapsulator. It is the Prime Minister of the New World Order.
Because of her cunt, Ela lives like a nomad, for there is always the danger that, given enough time, any city will transform into an immense bed for Ela, that every applicable male will share. "The world is your bed and your temple," men orate.
In Ela's striking cunt men see, unexorcised, their fear of life. Ela's cunt is too refulgent to be designated as a mere object of flesh, and men do not know what name to give it. They can only think that something which has for a long time lurked deceptively within them has finally revealed itself, and begun to stir.
In the twinkling of an eye, what men imagined to be safe collapses in ruins. A woman's beauty, they remind themselves, is but a fleeting apparition of flesh soon to be destroyed. But try as they may to ward it off, the ineffable magnetism which overpowers them at the instant they lay eyes on Ela, presses on their hearts with the force of something that has come from an infinite distance to destroy them. They become immersed in their panic, as in a swift drug that transmutes their spirit. They look around them and everywhere they see their identity, the very time they inhabit, being crushed by that magnificent cunt.
|
