PRIAPUS REX

‘Priapus said, seeing Kimon’s cock erect, “alas, God is short of man in this respect.”’
Antipater of Thessalonika, 300 B.C.

‘Man is wrong to be ashamed of mentioning and displaying [the penis], always covering and hiding it. He should, on the contrary, decorate and display it with the proper gravity as if it were an envoy.’ Leonardo da Vinci

‘I cannot imagine God as anything other than a hard penis raised high, seated on the base of its two testicles as a monument erected to virility, the Holy Trinity, an idol of horn hanging at the exact center of the human body.’ Michel Tournier


FOREWORD
It is only when the penis stands upright that it gives semen, the source of life. It is then called the phallus (lingam in Sanskrit) and is a symbol of procreation in nature, the image of the creator in mankind. When it stands within the vulva it evokes divine bliss, the Joy of Being. Its worship is at the root of every religion. One century after the birth of Jesus, Plutarch reported that a mysterious voice, heard by a sailor, announced the death of the god Pan. The news froze the Greco-Roman world. Pan, the phallic god, the father of all, whose name in Greek means ‘All,’ could drag the entire civilized world into the abyss as he fell. His absence left men unprotected. A new era began, full of dangers and conflicts, one that would end with the extinction of humanity. Ever since, the phallus cult, born of the Mother Goddess religions of the Neolithic and Bronze Ages, remained anchored secretly in man’s soul. Despite its persecution, it survived in various disguises and traces in rites, festivals, hymns, and ceremonies into modernity. Its worship continued more openly in the East. The phallus, tree of life, represents the visible form of the unknowable. Toward this goal, to this day, in Japan, Buddhist monks and priests march in line carrying on their shoulders huge dildos or dragging them on foot or from parading vehicles, while the faithful cheer, bow, and lose themselves in holy abandon, and likewise in India the Shiva Lingham (God’s Penis) is in every temple and answers the prayers of the worshippers who rub it or pour milk and honey and other libations over it in supplication. In special temples, there are hundreds of these penises. Women pour milk over them in worship, and take the milk home as holy sacrament. Saddhus (holy men) roam about naked. They can pull trucks by their penises. They knock on people's doors and show the faithful their usually large members in exchange for alms. A holy man's erection is considered good luck. Sadly, the East’s religious freedom is accompanied by widespread local sexual repression. In the West we hide the free penis.


WHY HE LOST IT


Priapus* has the biggest cock in the world. But every blessing is also a curse.



Priapus's cock is his stigma, his legacy, his shield, and his shadow.




Priapus wonders whether his dick is implausible, a caricature, a lush and obvious imbalance of nature. He supposes that, like a mirror image, his dick is a trick, like throwing ashes into people's eyes: mere diversionary tactics.




Priapus cuts a heroic figure living with that manic cock of his; its restless flickering light flashes from his 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.




His dick gives Priapus a transparency he likes. He lives in its illusory infinity. But its grip on his life and soul can become unbearable sometimes. His dick defines who he is.




Before Priapus has sex, an inner struggle takes place. Outraged by his dick's demands, Priapus asks: "Will this ever stop? I can't keep up. Just say no!" His dick: "...! (It’s tight!?)" Priapus: "Please. I've had enough. Now cut it out!" His dick: "...! (It’s juicy!?)" Priapus: "All this repetition drains me, aren't you ever bored?" His dick: "...! (Whoosh!?)" Priapus: "SHUT UP!" His dick: "...! (Pow!?)" Then Priapus shrieks. He rocks back and forth, blindly throws his dick against any random surfaces around and buries his hands into his thighs to block the red probing proboscis from poking through and out. His dick raises its pitch into a sharp hot ache that pierces Priapus's abdomen and sucks him airtight. Priapus can't breathe from the hunger. He can’t see from the need to break and enter. His mouth gets dry and his pulse accelerates and his mind can’t think of anything but dark narrow wet holes. But he strains to control his dick, oblivious to his endless past defeats. He wants the power to switch his own dick's awareness off and on at will. He wants to be the one making the decisions. He thinks this should be his natural right.


Priapus: What possesses my dick? Who takes responsibility for it?



So Priapus sits on his heated swaggering dick, folds it under his perineum, presses down on it as if it didn't exist and refuses to unlock his legs. He feels the obstinate head pushing against his own anus. The pain for pleasure mounts. The call of the wild gets deafening. His ears buzz. His veins swell up. He can no longer stop the flood. If he doesn't break down the dam of self-control, if he doesn't raise the levee of his self-composure, he is sure he'll break down and decompose into horny bits. Self-preservation takes over him. He doesn't want to die from an unheeded hardon, though he often thinks he should. He looks for another way out. From morning to night, Priapus thrusts his dick against the wall. He drags it over the cold tiles. He takes it into the shower. Onto the toilet. To the fridge for a snack. Out for a walk. His despair only excites it further.



Priapus's dick is his perfect and terrifying burden. It penetrates his life like a siren, or an alarm, turned on like a sineater's scream, ringing into his life's eternity.



Finally Priapus succumbs. He spends hours masturbating it to contentment, but masturbation increases his dick'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. After some days, his pleasure becomes so quick and sharp that Priapus starts over every few seconds. During these vicious cycles, he postpones all his other physical needs. His ties with the world become dangerously severed. His orgasms and fantasies stop only when a desperate enough female-in-heat manages to break into his apartment and to cut through that charmed circle of self-fucking which otherwise, Priapus is convinced, would go on forever.


In short, Priapus's dick is a beast. A beast that Priapus is doomed to lug around with his for life, like a wandering bear-trainer chained to his wild dancing bear.



Masturbation reminds Priapus of the snake and mongoose rivalry. The two animals 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 the lightening-quick death.



Women never understand Priapus's struggle. When it takes place in their presence, they perceive it as an exotic manifestation of Priapus's abundant sexuality. After the initial shock, this fervid sight turns them on. They want to help him; so they grab his dick by the root, cup the gorged head, and try to extinguish it with their watery mouths or sweaty fists or other less accessible orifices, or throw a coat or cloak over it and sit on it. Although they appear to be Priapus's allies, in fact they give his dick exactly what it wants.



Do all men struggle like this? Priapus wonders. Do all men sail back and forth between Scylla and Charybdis forever, with wax in the ears and eyes tightly shut and mouths full of saltwater?



So Priapus presents his dick to women with abandon, as if it were St. John the Baptist's silver-tongued head, laid on a platter. He gives them license to try their luck with it and not spare it. "Do not mistake my cock for the kudos," Priapus warns women, hoping to tip the scales; "brave it at your own risk." Most break into a cocky laugh. Soon after, his dick skewers them whole.



No matter how hard any woman-at-hand applies herself, the task of taming Priapus's dick 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 his dick, the beacon, the glutton, the epicure, always stays drawn. Orgasms rejuvenate it. It immediately strikes out for new prey. In his sleep, Priapus can feel it thrust out in blind pangs of desire. Once again I lie wounded in my own camp, he thinks.



His dick tears Priapus from the regular quotidian world and carries him to a continuous burst of himself, beyond moderation, obscenity, civilization, faith, or kindness. Priapus is extremely gentle toward everything but his greedy member. He would like to teach it a hard lesson.



Women come to Priapus’ place dressed to kill, submerged in the exquisite, elaborate finery that women have mastered for the serious business of seducing. They don’t realize his dick doesn’t need to be encouraged or seduced. They parade in the sunshine, throwing off long velvet gloves, leather minis, and lacy underthings, their legs in splits, asses up, thrusting thin rigid tits with nipples pointing out like clitorises or large silicone or saline filled jugs taut with animal libido, and tattooed, shaved, or hairy dark deep pussies at him unceremoniously, shocking him with their congenital thirst, drowning out even the noisy pulse of his blood that’s always pumping very hard so as to course through all the tissue of his raging member and keep it hard, as they chaotically stampede across the killing field towards Priapus, where, they say, the ecstasy never ends.



Women welcome Priapus into their pleasure box raving: "Ah, a real dick! It's like a sword reaching all the way to my heart, I feel it about to come out of my mouth, I'm being thoroughly penetrated and possessed, I am a convert!" "I belong up here!" "It's smart!" "It never breaks down! It even glows in the dark!" "You should be really proud of your cock!"



What inspires these metaphors? Priapus wonders. How can I be proud for something I do not control? Priapus responds to moved women's endless linguistic exertion with equanimity: "Sorry, I wouldn't know what you mean; it is outside my control." But, smarter than he, women crack up at what they perceive as his joke and assess that he, too, is good with metaphor.



"In the region of Priapus's dick, the faithful encounter no limits or boundaries. It is illumined by an omnipresent light.," women exalt. Priapus makes virgins feel like sluts and sluts like virgins and even the widest fist-loving pussy feel as tight as a glove. He makes women who cannot come come and women who cannot take it up the ass like to. He makes other men jealous and proud. He makes money, merely coming on camera and on cue or advertising pumps, though the idea of gaining 25% in girth and 3.5” in length makes him heave. His dick makes everybody else happy.



Priapus is annoyed by this spirited popular commentary and rolls his eyes in exasperation at the first sound of it; but his dick sucks it all up and lunges at the nearest flesh, always on the look-out for its next catch. As he watches it gorge, Priapus can't help admiring its carefree appetite.



Women speak of Priapus's dick with the enthusiasm of adventurers setting foot on a new continent. They assume that if they let it dig deep enough, they may lose their souls, but they will strike gold. They believe this dick separates the weak from the strong, the whiny from the mighty. They assume this dick can reach any G-spot, tickle every pleasure spot in its path, cause every cell in its periphery to tingle and quake with unnameable sensation. It makes them feel.



He thinks his dick will kill him off any day. He can't eat anything beyond the basic necessities of sustenance because he's always too busy with the needs and shenanigans of his number one. He can't enjoy doing his work, watching a movie, sitting on a park bench, looking at a sunset, because he's always pestered and monomaniacal, sensory-deprived and overloaded. Monumental, preremptory, totalitarian, indifferent to decorum, his dick makes him feel his own insignificance. He can’t stop thinking his ticker will give up on him smack in the middle of one of his big dick’s sexual--and existential--feats, and he’ll amount to nothing but a well-endowed corpse.



Priapus's dick is blind as a bat: if it were up to it, Priapus would fuck nonstop indiscriminately. But Priapus tries to follow some standards. The statistics are surprising: Priapus has fucked c. 800 women (a very low sum, considering how many women daily hurl themselves at his dick).



Priapus's dick brings together women of all types and provenances and women's minds and bodies, and unites them in the populist hunt for its possession. Priapus's dick is a universal rod and a communal meeting ground. It is the Prime Mover of a Primal World Order.



Because of his dick, Priapus lives like a nomad, for there is always the danger that, given enough time, any city will transform into an immense bed for Priapus, that every applicable female will share. "The world is your bed and your temple," women orate. “I like nothing better than to ride my God like a bronco.”



Priapus resents being loved. The world uses love to claim me, to name me, to run my life, he thinks. This generic love should be tabooed and outlawed. I don’t want Adam's missing rib.



Besides, nobody loves me for myself, minus the genitalia. Who would love me dickless?



Women whisper respectfully when they see his like wide-eyed monks entering the sanctuary before the holy icon: "God is wearing black tights tonight"; "God is in the room coming"; "God is known for the supple cruelty of his Grecian profile, his reptilian tongue, his gold impetuous eyes that teach dedication to a lie." The fact that Priapus is known never to have given his love to any woman, inspires in women an ecclesiastic sort of unrequitable love.



Priapus sometimes enjoys letting strangers stare at his dick. He appreciates the purity of his dick, which is the only part of himself whose activity or appearance he cannot manipulate. Priapus stares long and hard at his mysterious dick, trying to comprehend what it is that women try so hard to describe. But he sees nothing abnormal. What do other people mean?



Women believe that by means of microscopic observation and astronomical projection, Priapus's dick spreads out to infinite horizons and becomes the foundation for an entire theory of the universe, an agent whereby they may perceive the Truth. His dick provides a pillar that lets them escape from the trammels of their mundane daily lives and be entered by the uncharted Divine.



Every few months Priapus flies to a different city or country to get away from women who stalk his dick. His sense of propriety and privacy is shocked by the tricks women use just to fuck him.



Priapus believes that the Divine exists in flux, creating and destroying, far beyond description and comprehension. Religion fights to nail God down, just as love like a python struggles to constrict Priapus for easy consumption. He thinks God should renounce all human faith.



In Priapus's striking cock women see, unexorcised, their fear of death. Priapus's cock is too refulgent to be designated as a mere object of flesh, and women do not know how to treat it.



Handmade puppets of Priapus a la the Greco-Roman god Pan are often left on his doorstep wrapped in bloodstained newspaper or old lace. The dolls have thick salt-and-pepper hair, enormous black eyes, smirking fleshy lips and giant penises. Priapus gives them away to children playing across the street from his front door in the park.



In the twinkling of an eye, what women thought to be pleasure in sex collapses in ruins. A woman's beauty, they know, is but a fleeting apparition of flesh soon to be destroyed. They stop being self-conscious, controlling, or proud, for the sake of pure irreproducible experience. They want to try out again and again riding on Priapus’s cock as if it were a mammoth rollercoaster. The ineffable magnetism that overpowers them from the first instant they lay eyes on Priapus’s rod presses on their hearts with the force of something that has come from an infinite distance to overpower them. They become immersed in their wide-eyed and mesmerized panic, as in a swift drug that transmutes their spirit. They look around and everywhere they see their identity, the very time they inhabit, being impaled and crushed by that magnificent dick.



Priapus’s Law of Supply and Demand: The more women love Priapus, the less Priapus loves women. The speed with which women insert themselves into Priapus’s life is his measure of how much time they deserve. The more they resist him, the more energy he lavishes on them: it is his social barometer.



People search obsessively into Priapus's eyes; for it is the goal of love to find what they each need in someone else's eyes; to open up before them and to burn in them. Priapus's eyes are bulging, absorbent, and forgetful. So they naturally induce the inexpiable desire for the never-ending finality of love.



Priapus thinks love is a form of gangrene that settles in silently; it moves fast like a bacillus loose in the blood and takes over one's entire body, causing excruciating agony or insanity. Soon after the pain stops, death comes. Priapus is familiar with the unmistakable putrid smell that signals the presence of love.



People squint, lean back, frame, measure, draw, and photograph Priapus’s dick, but they cannot capture it. There is a distance between their eyes and their visual images of it. If they reach out to touch it, it is farther than they calculated. They never know if it senses their presences. It often seems to imitate their gestures and, by doing that, ennoble and magnify, and yet caricature, them.



I should have been excused from lugging a self: the burden of the body is enough, Priapus thinks.



People don’t care that Priapus has to wear pants two sizes up and select material that has a lot of stretch to it so as to hide the perennial bulge, the painful tent that has been his constant unabated companion since his teens. They admire him for what he abhors. They love what in himself he hates.



Women treat Priapus like a two-way mirror. In front of Priapus they feel self-conscious, foolish. Away from Priapus they feel abandoned. They even ask him: "Please break me. Rape me."



Priapus senses the piercing gaze of women-in-love on his back. It is a common love, he tells himself. These women's love has nothing to do with me. It is a one-sided affair, in which my own feelings have no part. I am not responsible for it.



When Priapus speaks, in his tone of impeccable breeding, words become immaterial; women listen to the roar and hum coming from inside his body. They suspect that an intricate memory bank hidden in his body spews out words whenever he needs language. "A lifelong shadow lifts from my heart: the vague search is over. In you I can find eternal shelter. I am a virgin, Priapus, take me, make me a woman," women exclaim. Priapus wonders: Aren’t you all women already? Why don't these women kill me like maenads on Orpheus? Doesn’t it hit them that I am fallible?



Priapus suspects that by being in lust, which they mistake for love, women feel alive and healthy. They feel free from the confines of their identities. What crushes them also enchants them: the loss rather than the possession, the confusion instead of the certainty. Love is inevitably drawn to indefinable objects. That is why Priapus makes a prime target.



But how can he respect people who don't have the decency to hide their insides? He doesn't know what to do with their love. Love is too intangible to arouse his dick. So he drags flared hearts carelessly behind his hard-ons. "Man is alone until the moment he looks his death in the face," Priapus warns his lovers. "If you saw your bedroom eyes," women interrupt, "you'd understand."



"Love is our ally," women tell Priapus, "love is our mother, our child. My love for you is a huge sun." Priapus hears: love burns men in the fires of the sun; love is a nuclear reactor, a typhoon, an earthquake; every natural disaster contained in each single mortal heart.



Whether I give myself to women or not, Priapus thinks, they will suffer, for love always backfires. Compassion, a Christian motto, is incomprehensible to Priapus. He cannot distinguish destruction from salvation. He cannot understand himself or others. So he tries to minimize his effect on humanity by passing on to others the responsibility of all the definitions. The masses have mal-digested the Christian method: man can achieve anything, they believe, through love; the spirit of love will prevail victorious if only man has the faith to persist. They think that their smothering love is omniscient. They assume that, because they love me, they have every right over me, that love is a gift which they can impose on me and come to sow its seed; like a real estate investment. They forget that: 1. Love has no intrinsic value. 2. Loving back is not an obligation or a civility. 3. Their love is a defense against themselves. They can live without it, yet they treat it like bread and water. 4. Their love is neither flight nor freedom.



No one knows who Priapus is. So everyone wants him. He embodies everyone's ideals and pretences, for he is arbitrary, like a dream-condensation; that is his freedom.



Priapus's freedom is mere indifference. He lives well on his indifference, for people love his freely and easily because his own affections are not involved. They feel proud to possess his unpossessed spirit and to buy his all that he can do without.



People exist as fiction for Priapus. The world is a second language for his. He contemplates: People can't see that I am normal. No one presumes that I am a subject. I need a sign on me.



Women develop florid theories about Priapus. They assume it contains more than meets the eye and undertake to unveil his secret potencies. "Behind Priapus's confidence beats a heart wounded by a fatal unrequited love for a woman," some judge. "If you solve me," Priapus contends, "I am not a mystery. If I am a mystery, do not solve me; make up your mind."



Priapus thinks: Love is a curse. Don't be loved and you'll be happy.



"Oh, Priapus," women babble, "I'd be happy if I could just look at you across the table for the rest of my life!" Women advise him a lot: "You must become the real you. No one knows you like I do. You must get to know yourself. The real you is sensitive, sweet, insecure. Impregnate me."



Priapus's life feels to him so terribly trite he would never procreate. In fact, he had a vasectomy. He looks in the mirror every morning and thinks: I live in a playground and I have a clown's face!



But being wanted is Priapus's calling: No matter how many people desire him, he relentlessly inspires more. He spends half of his life avoiding those who want him, and the other half making them want him. He redefines the art of loving without knowing it, like a somnabulist who composes poetic masterpieces in his sleep.



Priapus wonders: Does the ocean love the people it drowns? Does it love their implacable purity, their soft malleable bodies, their pale fibrous lips, their sepulchral torsos, their fast-rotting cocks?



Sexually overwhelmed by Priapus, women justify and prolong their enslavement by falling in love. Nothing distracts them from their idea of Priapus. They exorcise their corporeal pleasure by falling in love. Otherwise, they feel guilty; insensitive; diminished; exposed. They need promises of possessive tomorrows.



People have invented love to use as an aphrodisiac. When they love, the stakes are high; they serve an urgent noble cause when they fuck, so their senses and their performances become heightened. Love makes miserable lovers seem sublime: lovers persuade themselves that their beloved is better than anyone who came before or who could come tomorrow; they overlook the shortcomings of the beloved to protect their love-investment. That delusion, a censorship of the future, is not for Priapus.



Priapus notices: I fuck well when I am a myth, a dream, a symbol. Then I soar through open space. When my flesh is on the verge of crumbling away, I reach the very boundary of oblivion.



His familiarity with sex explains why Priapus has no fear of death. For Priapus, death is coming, and vice versa. He notices: When I fuck, I can't see, hear, think: I am all dick. I die and come back from the dead to die again. I love dying. If I could come incessantly, I would be God.



Priapus's spiritual core lies in his dick. His dick is his soul. So he comes with his soul.



For Priapus, sex is the time when everything ends. What life takes from his the rest of the time in every way, he takes back during sex. Immune and impartial, distant from any violent interaction and wakefulness, he senses for once the world's reality amid the morbid charades of daily life.



Priapus discourages any prolonged female presence in his world. He does not go out with women. Sex is the only way in which Priapus communicates with women. He thinks that's natural.



The stories of women chasing after Priapus through thick and thin make other women pursue him Priapus's highly idealized dick is a homosocial, mildly homosexual bond, a conduit that links all the women it has ejaculated in and will ejaculate in, but also measures them up against one another. Priapus’s familiar seduction line is: "We fuck or not. Choose." He never fucks the same woman twice. Most women feel like pilgrims and crusaders setting out on a rocky course toward the great miracle awaiting them at the end.

o

Sometimes he directs them to undress, grab the bed posters or hug their knees, and be still. He admires their curves, their determination to stifle their cries, the anus that stretches out and turns red, and his own exhaustion. Most often he blindfolds himself to avoid the sight of their stroking and poking his dick with gummy reverence. "This is the Test," lovers think, "the big time, I must come, now or never: suppose I make a mistake, suppose I fuck like an actress or a secretary." So Priapus ties their panties over his tired eyes and exposes instead the pure eye of his dick, which loosens women up. When they don't feel watched, women perform better. And Priapus prefers not to see what he desires. He dislikes the visions of human panic that surface during sex.

o

Every woman who finds herself sitting on or lying under or kneeling in front of or doing a handstand while being pounded by Priapus wonders: How is he rating me? Most people fuck as if they were being judged by God.

o

For Priapus, a blind fuck is a good gamble. A one-nighter provides an intensity created by the mystery of the stranger and the ensuing suspense that transcends the individuals, and that is hard to sustain for long. Any lasting relationship contains the seeds of its own pedestrianism. A flying fuck cannot be dominated. Anonymous sex is weightless.

o

"My life up to now was spent with caution, and what happiness have I gained?" women confide in Priapus. "Why should I plan? Why should I cook? Things come and go without my planning, in spite of my plans. So I’d rather come for you, Priapus, wherever you take me," women avow. Women feel equal and intimate with him when they speak. Their own prattle reassures women. Their sexual performance alone leaves them bored. They prefer the warmth of emotive language.
Priapus mistakes the tears on their faces for sweat. He thinks women love to exert themselves.

o

Women think: a cock is insensitive and crude. Priapus thinks: I plunge into something I have never seen. So both sides relish what they imagine to be the frightfulness of the other.

o

For that moment when he enters a pussy, Priapus feels in control. He senses that his erection excites them. That ephemeral glory evaporates as he must get busy deciding what tempo to follow, how to use his muscles, weight, skin and memory to satisfy the females, how to time their orgasm to coincide with his. He blanks out his pleasure to concentrate on theirs. He turns into a hard-working greaser slogging in the mines. Priapus plunges into sex head-on like a workaholic.



Am I causing all this ecstasy? Priapus wonders. Transported by rapture, secure in their sexual chemistry, feeling as finalists of the world championship for best lover, women now want Priapus to focus his eyes and acknowledge them; to tell them that he loves them back. Priapus thinks: Possession is erotic only for that second when a woman holds me tightly inside her; the annihilation of the self is erotic. Each orgasm is the outcome of a vague deadly danger that forces me to reach beyond my capacities. It is a crime against the mind.



"Don't you," women ask riding Priapus, "recognize me?" "I am your slave, I am here!" they pant. "I am your prehistoric lover, I am back!" "Say yes!" "Am I making you happy?" "Say it!"



Loss pleases Priapus. He eventually loses anything he owns. Loss gives him freedom. Good sex is sex he cannot control. Priapus responds to the sensations in his body, not to what causes them. He is erotic but chaste.



He pays all his dues: he puffs, gushes, frets, thrashes, reels, gropes, climbs and heaves as if struggling with the ocean after jumping ship, shoves his flustered cock into every last niche, agonizes to hold on to the rudder and steer, bears the brunt of his lust, breaks the hymens and safes open, forces open and shackles Pandora’s cunt. He turns blue in the face, blinded by sweat, but refuses to go down. He kneads, rotates, swings, rides, ploughs, smothers, bites, slings and manipulates them like rodeo horses or Chinese gymnasts. His breaths whistle through clenched teeth, his tongues bloats with pounding blood, his cocks sails on lost to him for ever, but the women cling to him even more tightly and can still blubber: "You are being planted in you," "You are a rapier piercing me," "Fuck me hardm big boy!" He pounds the breath out of them, beats ugly grunts from their throats, presses to reach their very center; to hear them bleat: "This has never happened to me before!" He slaps, caresses, tickles, hugs, sucks and excites them, he drowns in a solitary madness, rolls with them off the bed or the bench or the ledge and, holding on tightly inside them, drags them along on the ground, leaving behind his a phosphorescent trail of cum, like an extraterrestrial giant crawling slug.



Priapus's orgasm is a visit to the Other world. It is an endless piercing fall into empty space. The floor falls down from under him. His innards push to jump out. But a tremendous centrifugal force keeps his body pinned to the spinning drum of the world.



While he comes, Priapus chokes, convulses, and faints. Rookies become perturbed: they stop short, cover his with blankets, dab his with water, weep and call the police. Then he comes to.



The women smell the pungent stench of a duel taking place. They feel exuberant like people who face a doomed struggle. They blurt out: "This will kill me. Don’t stop." They don’t give up. This is their time in the lights, their chance on stage, when they must break him into recognition. They fuck against hope. For they know that his dick could open them in two at any moment.



Sex is apocalyptic. An orgasm is a shocked stunned recognition: "God exists!" Each orgasm is a divine unmasking, Priapus believes.



So Priapus rises and falls and laughs with awe at the pandemonium of his flesh, the whipping maelstrom in his dick. He gives women everything but the words they need. He comes, faints, comes to, comes and faints again, until he loses consciousness for so long that he could be declared legally dead, and he no longer feels even through his marvelous, mystical dick.



Some time after Priapus's pupils have not been seen for a while and his body has stopped being jerked by spasms from head to toe and his throat has stopped groaning with stunned paralytic grief, after he has poured into them his last lifedrops, dashed forward in paroxysm and lost consciousness, when they no longer know where his cock ends and their pussies start, women are shocked to feel there’s an end to their pleasure. When he passes out, they have come to the edge of the cliff. They too lie spent. Some calculate how far they must take him for it to happen again. Some want to talk about it. Some want to discuss penis envy. Some ask to be held. Some see that they have copiously ejaculated and shout: "I came like a man!"




Still, his dick has not shriveled. It refuses to withdraw and face the deflated world outside. It wondrously swells up in them. Even after Priapus droops dead and dizzy, he can still fit tightly in any vagina and can sense it resurrecting his dick; and then he feels its searing reverberant call to arms. It rouses him with its cyclical war cry. It urges him to pursue its Moebius loop.



Priapus feels he has exhausted his dick's inventiveness that previously unlocked him as a wind into the world. The sex seems old. He feels doomed to repeat himself. But only sex can contain his inner seismic turbulence and make the anxiety of being himself something he can laugh at.



In short, Priapus wishes he were a hermaphrodite. But his inquiries into sex-change remain disappointing: science cannot open into his perineum a functional cunt that his dick could penetrate in merry solitude.

HOW HE LOST IT


    FIRST COMES DESIRE: BABY, BABY, CALL ME GOD TONIGHT

     My mouth opens like a trap, my legs motor like pinions, my hair flies like shredded documents, I've been waiting, arms flailing, heat mounting, when OLE! God suddenly shoots through my veins, and I finally have a calling, as God ties me guilt-soaked to the stormy soil, God strokes me as if I were a stigmatic idiot-saint, but I'm naked wire, so don't fuck with me God! a deaf God probes my cushioned thighs and calls them pigeons, OH YES! You, stout God, drain my thighs of their lust, but God, better pray to God! because my turn will come, because I'm God-teased fat dripping over hot wire, I say HELLO! God, be my Stradivarius, I'll be Your noose, God scowls and stoops deadweight for His rite of entrance into my mortal flesh, my hollow head and pudgy tusch poke out from under my God who wiggles as I shake off the vast outdoors and pretend I'm parachuting, hollering YAHOO! I can create the world! God frowns and lifts me up by my holes like a bowling ball, sits me on His bare back, and flies me across His see-through oceans, licking my weeping wounds and checking out my tensed muscles in fleeing store windows lit by the setting sun, I somersault off and land ashore, as my feathery butt struts in front of my God, YEAH! I know God could now slit my bent neck like Isaac's, so I climb back up on God's bony desert lap, Gimme Your water, You stowaway God, God picks out grains of sand from my baby pubes and thinks I deserve a spanking, I'll suck until what I know is obvious to thee, God, I'll wrestle any angel, look at me, God! watch my thighs, I've imprisoned us here God, I am Godly now, WOW! God, I'll bite off Your holy tongue that nestles in my mouth, don't You dare screw someone else, GOD ME! God springs out of my body in and out of all bounds now, God, You're hard, to hold, like water, fuck any God who throws us no bait, You old miser God circling, drooling above, twitching Your Santa beak, aren't You dead yet? God, mad, perches on my prow, spanning wings so wide they hide the world in shade, OOPS! suddenly God slips out of my heart, wets me in saintly spray, HALLELUJAH! I shower my God who hugs and retracts, and I come out afloat and bright, UP! I bang my fists with laughter against the hard wood, I still straddle God, OH, OH! I spill God, my God is spinning around, my time is running out, I hastily blurt out some musty drab sounds, knowing I only need to get laid by God in order to make God, meaning that, to be God, one must fuck God.

 
POSTCOITAL SOBRIETY:  BABY, BABY, CALL ME DEAD

     At precisely 12 noon on the last Tuesday of that year, Eu knew the instant she woke up that she was dead, because her outer body lay rigid with a dense chill only known in dream, her pores had been rimed with firming yolky mucus and clotted blood, her dried and swollen tongue cleaved to her petrified palate and she couldn't lift her bluish fingers to inspect them, and at that instant she began to understand that we are taught the reverse of everything we need to know in life, and so she finally and for the first time felt fully dispossessed of herself, caught dead as she was in her any-old-day underwear, for, having gone to sleep the night before in some menstrually stained, frayed and sheer, off-white Victoria's Secret panties, partly because she'd been too tired to slip them off, but mainly because she enjoyed wearing, as if in privately heathenish secret, unladylike and abused undergarments which made her feel terrifyingly intimate with herself, she was now, being dead, of course unable to brush her filmy teeth and comb her sticky hair and change into the proper deathwear with which to welcome God, who she knew would be coming any minute to transport her to the Unspeakable Beyond, so, as she heard Him knock and then, as she expected, saw Him walk through her closed bedroom door and gawk at her distended breasts whose rock-sharp nipples peaked out of the faded red satin sale rack bra that was visibly cutting into her senseless cobalt flesh, and beam at her a heavy-lidded perfunctory wink that silently asked her, "Eloi, I'm come, are thee ready?", as she felt His meticulous gaze examining her down to her haphazardly protruding stubby pubes, and as she stiffly swooned beneath His fiery eye that was imprinting for all eternity into the Divine Memory the full image of her unclean high cut briefs , as she cringed with helpless shame at her soiled unreadiness, watching God bend, in His peaceful harmonious grace, over her fetid corpse, which she couldn't even smell, and mutely gasping, "Oh, Father!" as He leaned down and kissed her full upon her stony lips and put His trembling hand in her motionless palm to raise her up, EU at last knew that the meaning of liberty and fellowship and peace lies in the detection of all that's trivial in life and so, free of herself, that is free of her dirty underwear, she was not shy and did not resist the restless tongue of God, and thus was carried up to Heaven in full and clanging orgasm.