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Ezquisite Corpse - A Journal of Letters and Life
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Hedonism: Theory & Practice
by Rebecca Cook | Author's Info
She'd tried every way she could think of to make the characters in her story sixty-nine each other in a pleasing way. To be erotic in words, to be 69ing each other, face to crotch, crotch to face and she would always get caught up in how unpleasant it was to be on the bottom with a pair of balls dangling over your forehead, or was it over your cheeks? She supposed it would depend on the man and the length of his member or whatever and that was how she'd always get caught up in the details and lose track of her narrative or rather how the narrative would get snagged round the pair of balls bouncing in her mind's eye somewhere just above her right cheekbone and the smell of his ass and she couldn't help remembering how she'd stopped herself from laughing just before he, thank god, did manage to make her come with his tongue that time at the party on the floor beside her best friend's bed on the rough, red carpet burning a place into her shoulder blades. Yes, she couldn't help remembering how he'd smelled strange, really, not like ass at all or like body odor or even like bad breath or like anything she'd ever smelled on a body before but rather something metal-like in the smell of his ass and in the hair around his balls that distracted her so much she almost didn't come at all but he was good enough to, what is it they're always saying in erotica? To bring her off? Something like that. Anyway, she wanted to write her own erotica, needed to, was desperate to write her own erotica because she wanted to read what she'd written in the hopes that it would help her come when she masturbated, that she would be able to get herself off, which seemed terrible and desperate, even to her, but everything she'd read, had been reading, had spent her life reading--all the stacks of books beside her bed that were now beginning to spill out into the hallway--had become unfulfilling, had become uninteresting, had become flat and about nothingness and about the fullness of the fear of never coming and about the fullness of how desperate she was for something new to be erotic in words, to get caught up in a mouth on a body that wasn't necessarily hers but that she could envision, or pretend to see, or almost pretend to imagine or almost pretend to imagine feeling when her fingers entered what she supposed was her own body, must be her body opening to her fingers unless she'd lost her way and had been what she wasn't sure.
     And it was what she had always needed--the inspiration, the watching of it, the seeing of the thing more than an observer or even a companion as she'd discovered after years of having sex with others and after years of having sex alone and after years of feeling inadequate to every task and after years of feeling like one of the crowd and pretending to be excited and pretending to be a performer and pretending to be a mass-market consumer and pretending to be a commodity and pretending to oh yes baby I want you to come in my mouth, I want you to fuck me harder with your huge cock pretending after it all when she'd found out, to her deep despair and disappointment, how anti-climatic it was, in spite of her climaxes, in spite of her pleasure and his pleasure, or her pleasure and her pleasure, or her pleasure and their pleasure and in spite of the sounds and the tastes and the smells of the act itself how she was always disappointed because there was no narrative quality to the thing, no pacing that she could control, no development that she could watch from a distance. And was that really the thing, how involved she had to be when she was actually there as opposed to just watching in her mind's eye the acts of others but no, she was not a voyeur in the traditional sense of the word at all, no, because she'd discovered through much experimentation that she did not like to actually watch real others doing it to each other either, see how he's eating her out see how she's sucked him all the way back into her throat, whatever no matter what it was, what variety of sex yes it's really a German Shepard like all that Nancy Friday shit with its weirdness exposed didn't titillate her but left her cold and longing for what she'd always found the most fulfilling--just words which she'd discovered was a thing alone and inside herself and so impossible, so hard now that even these were going stale only so many times to replay her favorite dirty scenes from a thousand paperback novels and now she was beginning to discover how slow and awkward her own imagination was, like when she dreamed and couldn't get beyond the details of it, the door that she forgot to close on her way inside the house just like on all those sitcoms she watches when she's got nothing else to do the way the details intrude and won't let go of the place in her mind that snaps down and refuses to open.

     But who could ever figure it out? He opened her cunt with his fingers. He licked off her juice. He looked into her cunt like it was a painting and why it couldn't work anymore, all her favorite parts the way he used to watch her eyes move from the sofa cushions to the tv and back again, how he watched her all day and how her thoughts were increasingly drawn away to the memories of the thing, her hips naked and lying on velvet, her breasts squeezed roughly, I hurt please stop you always bruise the inside of my thighs with your bones. How all the parts of her body fell into a heap that she would watch from a corner, like a mental patient but less dramatic than that as she always told herself when she started to really wonder if she should try something new, something really different like remembering the inside of a dream she couldn't really see but could only feel with the tips of her fingers as through the thickest gloves rubbing lightly over the surface of a prickly wave reaching to touch her face against the pillow, only feeling itself with a sequestered part of the body winking slyly and slipping past when she was turned to watch the others and their shadows moving against the ceiling the way she first saw the world in her mind slipping away from her, her fingers rubbing the best parts of her own cunt that's the way yes just up and down the sides slippery and not touching the clit just like no one ever seemed to really get, you know, how the anticipation was its own thing inside itself watching her watching from another corner waiting to open and how he turned her on her side and told her to relax. He turned her on her side and she stared at the color of the wallpaper, its flowers opening and closing while she watched the image of him entering her ass with first his tongue yes how good that feels she heard herself say and then his fingers uhhmm, yes more now and then his dick all the way up her ass to the base of her spine splitting open in a zippered thread unbuckling the length of the skin and it's not that she'd loved and lost or anything so poetic as that or that she had any illusions about how she said Stop. I want you to come in my mouth. No, she was only too aware of what had happened when own her fingers first wandered off to the side of the lips of her cunt, just drifting down a slippery ocean opening onto the universe and then falling forever, losing her footing, getting lost inside her own mapped out wilderness because she fell into sleep, into a paragraph so dog-eared her mind rolled off it and yawned wide with naughty girl I must spank you now! and she went under the lip of it, under the knowing of how terrified she'd been for so long now knowing it was almost over. He turned her to face him. He looked into her eyes. He started to speak and she started to not listen.  

The first time she'd had her pussy licked she was sure she'd be in heaven forever, her best friend's pink bedspread moving under her ass, the sound of the shower left on and draining away to forever and she was sure she'd found a place to hang onto, a place to surf a wave that wouldn't withdraw from her lips but then the falling, the nothing, the coming into white, into the curtains blowing through the living room the day he turned her to face the front door and told her be very, very still. Don't move, don't move and nothing will hurt. I promise you won't feel a thing this time. For a long time she'd thought she'd like the rape scenes best where the woman was forced to do all the men in the group and learned to love it, yes how she took one of them in her mouth and one of them in her pussy and then, miraculously, one of them up the ass and one of them between her boobs and one of them in her face while all the rest of them watched and waited their turns and how excited she was with all their come dripping out of all her holes hours later, spent queen of the orgy and when she was very little she'd discovered the secret tent of the bedclothes tucked under her butt and holding the book in place under there with the yellow plastic flashlight and one free hand to do the rubbing, yes the art of it all held in place in a cloth universe moving down a dark river into a dream where she watched the letters moving into words moving into the woman bending over the bed as he took her from behind, an inch at a time, his huge cock moving so slowly that she ground herself against him and took him in up to his cods just like that time he turned her hands on the wheel toward the road and told her to try it for real this time, let's take it down the street and into the parking lot of the K-Mart and then I'll show you the view from the top of the world out there for real and how pink the flutters around the edges while the shower keeps running and I know what you and your friend do when you have sleepovers and if I hold my hand over your mouth like this no one will hear you when you come but don't bite into my fingers doesn't it feel just that good when you watch them through the wall? And no, she wanted to tell him, not at all but then it was all over and time to get back to supper and her mother's very own tuna casserole with the green peas and carrots and a thousand words for orange spinning through her fingers around the table and the too real colors of the world turning grey inside her mind where two people straddle each other all body parts badly lit in a dingy bedroom and how to fit them together, the hardest thing when you don't know your way through the forest of hair and skin and angles bumping curves yielding and finding openings inside and outside and then just watching the best parts of her filled with things somewhere beyond her own ability to feel them and how he turned her face toward the tv and told her to just keep watching until she figured out how to do it for herself and how it wasn't so hard really but just a matter of finding a comfortable angle to go at it and then the clock would strike and another day would close over her effort to watch it and in her effort to write it against a blue and white sheet tangled into the last afternoon she could remember it being even close to as good a thing as had ever happened and not just the clench of her teeth yearning toward what she now knew could never belong to her because he just kept turning her this way and that and telling her to focus and to understand the science of it and how she didn't really have to be anywhere she didn't want to be for the rest of her life and wasn't that better anyway than being a victim like all the rest of them and how they could never really understand?


All Poetry & Nothing ButClash of CivilizationsEC ChairFeatured PoetsForeign DeskGalleryStage
Hedonism: Theory & PracticeLetters & GlossolaliaArt of MarriageMoney TalkPets & BeastsZounds

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