Transcendental Eroticism


At first it was just us two, the girl and the boy, not exactly your typical fairytale, more like your typical porno. Memory has it that the first meeting was full of insecurity and uncertainty, but how things are now will never give that kind of impression. Memory also has it that all of what is happening was sparked by a spontaneous arbitrariness of a sudden courage to speak in a forthcoming way, without inhibitions and without moral restrictions. Every word had a surface level and nothing beneath it. No hidden truths, no secret intentions, just plain bodily, physical adoration.

At first it was just us two, but now the number always exceeds four. One thing remains constant: he is always the only boy. Memory has it that it was a hot day when I was bold and spontaneous enough to follow him into the one bedroom apartment. Memory also has it that it was all very natural: the way he led me, the way he let me enter, the way he seduced me, the way he elegantly made me feel different from him, like a stranger awaiting an identity, and finally, the way I let him in. Every act neared perfection and nothing happened that did not give a tingle of pleasure, a curve for a smile, or a gasp accounting for ethereality and substantial lightness. It was the first time I enjoyed such transcendental pleasure. At day break, I sliced his index finger and he cut my fourth toe.

Now we’re five in a room and we all charge on each other. A girl and I kiss, I close my eyes and feel her tongue grazing mine; I feel her lips becoming moister. I can’t remember her hair colour, her eye colour, her contour, her body. I do not care. I keep my eyes closed and start touching her body, her breasts, each lobe the size of an apple. As I go down on her breasts, I feel someone touch my waist, trying to pull me, and I let go. I know that touch.

I open my eyes and see three girls forming a human circle and as they eat each other, they look like genocide victims. He whispers in my ear and we laugh, but our laughter is oblivious to them. We watch them like they’re our very own private show, and he touches me with his now-wet fingers and we stick to each other, physically feeling each other’s enjoyment, and we become one Body in front of the act, and this Body masturbates as it watches. This Body twitches in instability. The Body is no longer male or female. The body does not experience time; the body does not experience space, or life, or death: the body opposes opposition. The body is an absolute one. The boy and I each sacrifice our individual self-consciousness to achieve an equality which occurs unprecedented. Our love does not become the love shared between master and slave, between sadist and masochist; our love is not dependant.

As the body climaxes and we retain our self-consciousness we break the closed female circle on the ground. Again, the five of us mash ourselves together, closing in on each other. Wordless acts of sensual pleasure occur until the sun rises again and the three girls dress up and go. The boy comes to me and I approach the boy. Each one of us has a knife, and each one of us slices a small piece of the other’s body.

On every morning after the transcendental act of eroticism, the boy and I slow slice our bodies, extending the transcendental bliss. We take off fingers or toes or ear lobes, eventually slicing nipples, slicing pieces of skin, and finally slicing sex organs. I cry the tears of Eros and I weep, and when we finish, we lie on each other, bleeding, waiting for the time when our earthly bodies fail and we transgress materialism to achieve transcendental eroticism.


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