I will always recall with fondness my initiation into a vivid world of exchanges of the carnal persuasion, recall it like a parent’s death or an infant’s birth – for it was a birth, of sorts, my own birth, a rebirth into a brighter world; I paid witness to my own emergence, like an insect from its chrysalis; I felt the death of one self (this self past, virginal, sexlessly afflicted, dulled, numbed from the experiential), & the growth of another from the flowers of climax, of completion, from the labyrinthine routes of the female body’s own internal structures – O Order! & Perfection! O the maddening COMPLEXITY of the celestial construction!, how you curve weaving through this most physical tract and into ETERNITY, and run like tributaries, be-ridged and multi-faceted! Invite me to your essence with your watery communications, my fingers slipping through your introductions, your trivialities! Let us interact SILENTLY, in a language without sound, for the vulgarity of words so impedes the urgency with which our bodies conjoin! In our oppositional genitals lies the immaculate! The scales fell from my eyes as I swooned in the musky whiff of those silky folds, like the fronds of some paradisiacal flora. I felt God and life enter my body in equal measure. I burned with the life of INTERCOURSE! In the vaginas – their variation as abundant as the faces of the city streets, as distinctive as a fingerprint – of my formative years I was struck with the force of a pleasure so great that my very soul was torn from within, separated from myself and given person – sentient! delirious! – left limp in the hands of the great Eros, who in my vulnerability, drained by the milking of my own seminal production, soothed me into a lifetime of determined emissions, gave meaning back to my ephemeral soul, first lost but then found at once, saved from the enormity of my own coital abyss, I felt this INVIGORATED meaning, divine and true, the power of God Himself at work through my member and at once aflame in this ravaged soul. I had found God in flagrante delicto.
I had twelve years existence to my name – C. P. “Pippin” Havelock III – at the time of my first glossy expulsion. Brushing the warm hand of Christ, as it were and would be. One September Sunday my father established me visit with himself to one of the city’s many bawdy houses (the granting of public access to a given set of genitals being as it was something of a fashionable offering to gentleman of a certain class, as the Havelock’s had always been; in point of fact the undertaking of such a prostitutive act was most highly esteemed in all of the better bred circles, an expectation, almost, certainly an act of status and high standing, the more exceptional – in congressional manner, to wit, DEVIANT – the better) to “make manly my resultant young”, as he had guffawed beyond the chewed wood of his tobacco pipe. My father was a gruff and intimidating man, the whole of his visible body enshrouded in a lush coat of white hair of varying thicknesses, his features harshly etched into the iron-red face of a youth spent at sea (in captaincy, I hasten to proffer) with the ancient historicity of fossils in limestone. He had little time for his enemies and even less for his friends, but remained nonetheless a pillar of Norwich’s business community, patron of a thousand bordellos and owner of one, landowner, councillor, master baker, gentleman. A man of modest height – five feet and three in stocking paws, an oft-parodied fact in the satirical artworks of the locally produced juvenilia of the turn of the century, by which point my father had, soused in cognac, imbibed himself into little more than a caricature of his own best features, the butt of an abundance of two-faced jibes (for drunk or not he would have had their cocks had they dared make a buffoon of him in person) – but exceptional torso, he barked sentences forth like cannon fire and commanded servility in every mannerism. He led me to the alley once called Gropekuntelane, which alone housed three such establishments and which I had visited with him before in a resolutely onanistic sense, where my appendage had been left raw by the persistence of the spirit and my own attentive touch while I had waited in thrall for my father to culminate his business (for in any given visit my father was likely to undertake as many as five such professional relationships with as many of the variant personnel. Please do not misunderstand me, for my father was deeply committed to mother and they shared a truthful relationship, fully aware of the others respective foibles. For my father, coital interaction was as embedded in his person as any other trait and my mother loved him regardless, perhaps because of it. His nightly visitations occurred with her blessing, and her own genitals received a similar level of attention from the curious boys of the villages – these were fifteen, sixteen year olds, their country ears large and hair shorn short, the youthfulness of their enraptured and curious members the source of endless amusement for my mother both anecdotally and physically. Like a champion farmer she expertly coaxed the seed from their tips, watched them gasp their childhoods onto her mottled white skin, had them follow the paths trodden down by their friends, who discussed it afterwards – as men, not boys – with Cox’s and tin cups of beer. I dare say that more than a fair portion of Norfolk’s manhood must have discovered the movements of woman in my childhood parlour, my mother’s be-veined thighs offering passage to the darkened contortions of the heavy cunt between, its labial protrusions like thick ribbons left in celebration of life, my life!), left intrigued as I was by the lithe forms of these ladies of the night, who careened about the premises in all of their painted finery, the flesh of their breasts moving with tantalising waves of recognition and mercy, I left blushing with an erection of such ferocity that even cold water could not dislodge it from its prominence within the fabric of my trouser, and as these ladies did move about the room, with their feminine ejaculations of sonorous laughter and their shapely volumes, their heavenly posteriors like the SPHERES themselves, I felt the spirit awaken within me – as though a candle had been struck alight in the very depths of my human soul, a candle that would burn strong and bright for the whole of my life, and that only the most delicate flower of the female form might ever satisfy, enshrouding me in the moisture – like morning dew – of its scarlet folds; how many times I took my leave to the lavatory that night, refuting the angels whom so pulsed their energies through the length of my stiffness, expelling my silk into the liberty of the free world!, but this was to be my first participatory visit, the balance of my father’s devoted credit account at the urgent disposal of my very whims. On arrival our topcoats were whisked from our shoulders without a second to ruminate and straight to the cloakroom with a somewhat daunting sense of social propriety, and with salutations and mild pleasantries we were encouraged to the bar where my father might concede to his ‘other vice’, a full bottle of Mr Myers’s FINEST molasses derived rum from the Jamaican Isles, an importation made by the box-load specifically on order of my father’s accountant, an obedient man who went to the most extraordinary lengths in his service of my father’s comforts. As we walked through the dimly lit room – its lanterns shaded in red-tinted glass and oozing with the warmth of the flesh to which the very building had martyred itself, the tables dotted with fragile candle flame, each on the cusp of extinction from the gusty force of a laughter, here, an elaborate fondle, there (for although the proprietors made every effort to insist upon the conduct of any act of copulation [or pre-copulation] behind the curtained doors of the provided rooms in the allocated higher storeys, suffice it to say that for many of the gentleman patrons there present – well to do men, one and all, wealthy champions of local trade and business, philanthropists, BUILDERS OF A NEW NORWICH CITY, pioneers of the Rotary Club who relished in the wilful abandon of the coital union, of the sacrifice of self to the inexplicable, the ineffable, the overpowering religiosity of climax, weak-kneed at the Godliness of that ancient physical act – it was the public nature of their purchased carnality that provided the most significant arousal [in short they wanted their appendages displayed, exhibits in a museum of TRUTH]) – my father nodded at acquaintances, business associates, each flanked by at least two females whose laughter mirrored their own with only the slightest delay, like an echo, their soft experienced flesh milk white amidst the light of the room and emerging persistently from beneath corsets and meticulously engineered undergarments, each man aglow with the public secrecy of their nocturnal excursions. My father refreshed his tobacco pipe and unfastened his suit jacket, then at once took seat at the bar, his heavy head engulfed in the smoke of his own making. To the barwoman’s delight – a rake thin female whose prominent ribs jutted from her torso with an angle more acute than her shapeless bare breasts could muster, smaller than a child’s but with the most curious nipples, the shape and colour of late autumnal acorns, browned by the cooling temperatures; I found something oddly alluring about her androgenised frame, a body so like my own, and behind the white lace undergarments that retained her most precious asset, her musky tunnel, enfolded around the caressing fingers of my imagination, suckled to exquisite mania by the tongue and lips of my dreams!, behind that very undergarment I could see a triangular cluster of thick dark hair, its unkempt strands edging towards the silken perimeter and jutting honestly above in a faint line towards her navel, as was my own burgeoning pubis, and her youthful sexuality and taut tender body struck me violently like some ESSENCE of LIFE, and I felt the blood rushing from head (oh Mr Meyers, purveyor of the most superior devices of inebriation, I thank you from my Godly soul!) as I swooned on my stool, and from there it went in an instant to my appendage, which swelled to a breathtaking capacity within the fabric of my clothing, and with one hand in my trouser pocket I did clutch at its length, part to subdue its ferocity, part to stimulate it, the self-same conflict between such binary oppositions as I have devoted at least part of my adult life to confronting, wilfully – he swallowed a good sized glass of the deep golden liquid without delay, and poured another for himself and a smaller glass for me, which I sipped at tentatively, the alcohol burning through my oesophagus and into my belly, a hollow vacuum from hunger and pangs of terror at my imminent deflowering, my uncapping. She leaned over the bar towards my father, her immense dark nipples beating with the movement like a hypnotic metronome before my eyes.
“Mr Havelock sir,” she said, her slender fingers circling the tip of our depleted rum bottle. Her teeth hung crooked from her gums, evidentially constructing her youthful hardships, tainted yellow from tea and the chewing tobacco so prevalent in establishments such as this. She drew one slight hand down the length of my father’s scrupulously shaven cheek as she spoke to him. “Pleasure again sir.”
“Ah, strumpet!” he said, a-boom, in retaliation. “A delight it is mine to emit. And may I as ever compliment you on the exhibition of your intriguing breasts.” And with both hands clasped behind the jutting plates of her shoulder blades he pulled her yet further across the bar, so her feet were near raised up from the floor beneath her, and lapped his huge tongue drily up her flat chest and over a piercing nipple. “Now step back and let me have a look at you. A proper look.”
She poured him a fresh tumbler of the rum and he cracked the bowl of his tobacco pipe against the bar, emptying its deadened ashes to the cold stone floor, measuring fresh leaves into the bowl with precise fingers and patting them down firmly. Our hostess then took three steps back from the bar and paraded her torso the better for my father’s examination. He nodded thoughtfully at her slightly skeletal build and struck a match to his pipe. I, meanwhile, felt my face flush with the exposure to something so very beautiful, felt my appendage pulsing like a breathing organism of its own sentience, forcefully demanding the attention it considered it its right to receive. I shifted uncomfortably, the prominence of my stiffened part burning with an unaccountable shame into every gesture I made.
“Very good,” my father, said, “very good indeed.” I noticed that he, too, had one finger tracing a circular line around the genital opening of his own tweed trouser.
“Pleased to oblige you, sir,” she said, her vocal tones an awkward bastard of the demure, the sultry and the crudely lengthened vowels of the Eat Anglian dialectics. With slow blinks she edged her undergarments eight or nine inches down over her buttocks, over the pubic mound and its dark wiry coverings, and – scarlet lips spread broadly in an inviting smile – she used one steady hand to rub at the musky sanctuary that gasped between her boyish thighs. I had to turn to my father for fear of screaming aloud and saw his mouth hung agape beneath the moustache. With middle and index fingers she carefully pulled the flesh in an upward manner and revealed the labial intricacies of her very OPENING, the majora thick and protruding, as individual as one’s very nose, or ears, or eyes, and somehow so misplaced on this girl who otherwise had not an ounce of superfluous skin to her entire body; the minora revealed behind the viscous secretions that emerged like the nocturnal, creeping to prominence in the dusk of her self-induced arousal, revealing even the pinkish tip of her clitoral organ around which her fingers had settled, ensconced about the genital and subtly caressing its each side as one. Her eyes had taken a slightly vacant look and her lips had parted, mirroring their vaginal counterpoint. I peered from one corner of my otherwise averted eyes, for though this exhibition was occurring so publically I still felt, at this stage in my carnal pursuits, somewhat intrusive in allowing myself to be privy to revelations of such immediacy, as though I had somehow gained entry to this place by illicit means, and was instead voyeuristically watching some personal relationship unfold, and not the professional unity – by which I mean an exchange of BODILY goods for an agreed and fair sum of financial reward, in accordance with the clearly demarcated and written rules of the house in question – it did in fact represent, and as I watched I felt the longing of what my childish naiveté did then consider love, yes how I loved that woman, in thought and imagination even if not in the misery of the real! How I loved her imperfect face that so illuminated the earthliness, the very transience of the physical bar with all of the light of heaven! How I loved her cunt (forgive me if you wish, I care nothing, for I truly believe that the urgency of such incivilities – the coarseness of their linguistic constructions, their ancient heritage in our carnal histories – to be vital in matters of the sex, to express passion with all of the immense gravity it so demands!) revealed to me for the first time – of any, for this was my earliest cunt, and not even a touch, a whiff, a taste! – in this very moment! O how I loved her! – how I thought I did. I felt the movement of my loins and the whirling of my stomach and I thought that this must be the love I had read so much about. Of course now the differentiation is clear, and the feelings I had for this skinny barmaid were but blind lust, a physical yearning for vagina, for my own seminal release at the hands of another and not my own, but let me have my folly. It is but short lived, and I but twelve years, the cusp of loveless intercourse upon me.
A sip of my rum shook me from my reverie and I grimaced at its heat on my throat, and turned to my father’s stool, which now sat empty beside me. In an instant of panic I stood and looked in a frenzy about the room for his familiar stature, and finally saw him being lead by the very same barmaid through the door to the stairs. She had removed all of her remaining undergarments between here and there, and in small bare footsteps completely unclothed – I could almost make out the dark entryway to her vagina with every parting of her legs in stride, nestling at the base of her buttocks’ curve like the longed-for vision of a harbour in the night, such masterful design of immediate access! – she held one of his hands, the other clutching the rum bottle, and led him out of sight, privy to his copulative perversions (for we all have them) and responding to the moustachioed kisses he placed upon her pale thin shoulders with caresses reached back around behind her to his own no doubt swollen – and still be-trousered, for although perhaps the cities most experienced cocksman, my father was nonetheless comparatively political with the precise dimensions and visibility of his key genital part, granting exposure only to those intent on receiving it, to wit: his (numerous) carnal partners, a personal principle in which he took an extraordinary pride, but which I myself never entirely understood – appendage, which she managed with the sleek and masterful touches of a consummate professional. As I turned to return to my stool, left somewhat despondent by my father’s betrayal of my incredible love – which I already felt dwindling, such is the transience of such youthful infatuation, that very male need to be WITHIN something – and by that point certain that my own carnal initiation would now be unattended to for yet another week, lacking as I did the confidence to approach any one of these experts to propose the conduct and terms of their trade with the rights of the customer behind me, as I turned I was confronted by a woman of such staggering – yet somehow rather coarse – beauty that I almost fell backwards. She stood I imagine at least six feet tall, her long red hair left to curl around either side of her slightly equestrian face, which was long with a hard thin nose right down its centre, but party to such large blue eyes and a thick but delicate mouth that she seemed a most perfect amalgamation of the finest parts of both the human and animal kingdoms, in a way that aroused me to a near uncomfortable level. I tried as best I could to rest my hands over the bulge of my glans, but her warm eyes followed my movements and her lips curled into the slightest smile at their edge.
“Master Havelock is it?” she said. Her voice rang through me like music. Would she be the one?
“Charles Phillip, the Third,” I said. My voice embarrassed me, spoke more of my age than any uncontrollable erection ever could have. “But I call me Pippin.”
“I see,” she said, eyes now fixed to my own. She was exquisitely dressed, her dark black corset striking against white skin and rich red hair. I yearned to see the hair on her pubis, to see if its colour were as red as that which framed her face, to feel the flesh of her buttocks, to part them gently and inspect the cunt and even the anus they protected, to bury my head in the immense breasts – not flat and male like my former love, from whose very existence I already felt separated by generations! – whose areola I could see edging above the cups of her corset. “I am Elizabeth,” she said, extending a hand for me to take. I kissed it softly, raised a gentleman. “I am the madam here. Your father is a very popular customer. My ladies find him... charming. We are all very keen to discover your similarities.” She looked at my left hand, which I still had placed softly atop my erection. “Do you like what you see?” she said softly. I could only nod, my face flushing terribly with self-consciousness and desire. “Unfortunately, I myself do not conduct transactions with my customers. Although you seem a sweet boy.” She approached me and touched my face with one finger, smiled at its softness, and then proceeded to unfasten my trousers. As afraid as I was I neither dared nor wanted to prohibit her from doing so, and at once I felt the cool breeze of the main bar room upon the rigid form of my hungry shaft. She refrained from touching the genital itself, but stepped back to observe it the better. “You are your father’s son,” she said (although whether complimentary in spirit I remain – to this day! – uncertain), and took me by the hand, leading me away from the bar and to another room, this one filled with sofas, ottomans and candles, the walls hung with tapestries, oil paintings and carnal portraiture, all donations from the estates of the many wealthy patrons who acted as benefactors for the continued business of the establishment, all the while my still rigid member (for would this aching rod ever again succumb to a flaccid state?, so engorged was it with the blood of my very soul, and so defiantly vertical it stood, itself an arrow trained towards the heavens whose Holy brilliance it would reveal through its inter-genital immersion!) jutted obtrusively from the tailored frontal split in my trouser covering. Through a door on the other side of the room came a group of five women – who must have been in waiting for such an occurrence as this in some anteroom, preparing their presentation for their latest customers measured selection – of varying physical properties and proportions. Their madam had them lined before me, each adorned in only the slightest of fabrics and revealing differing amounts of their experienced bodies. The African lady instantly caught my eye, as well you might imagine – Norwich was, at that time, home to few blacks, and none so stunning as this. She stood a head above me, naked as a tribesman, and her countenance flared with a near-manic allure, borne as she was of the savage continent; her vast ebony buttocks pulsed with every one of her slight movements, her dark eyes were deep set with the mystery, the uncertainty, the distrust prevalent in her race, and beneath her slightly parted red-painted lips shone teeth as white as ivory; her breasts hung struggling under their own immense weight – O pitch areola! How like spilt ink to the canvas! – and took a near triangular form at their tip, tapering as they did with the angles of a curious sexual geometry; she eyed my swollen glans (from whose meatus a single semenic tear had by this point emerged, my youthful ejaculatory persistence then still unmastered) hungrily – a professional woman to the letter! – and, observing my desire at its material apex, soon proceeded to part her long dark legs, lined somehow gracefully with the terrifying musculature of an animal, and reveal to the room her most intimate part, thick labium as black as night, the pink bud they secreted behind their curtain of flesh all the more vibrant because of it. I felt madam’s gaze penetrating through me with an unappealing impatience, and moved my attentions to the next lady in this défilé de la chair. The second of the five was flushed with the air of a good country girl, her hair cropped short around her ruddy cheeks, her misaligned teeth creeping out from between her lips with a sensual allure; I noted dried blood beneath her long fingernails – an abattoir girl? farmhand? – and a faint tinge of long-dried soil about her forearms, a dirtiness that – far from unappealing – made some part of me clench with possibility. I envisaged her on her knees on a wet afternoon, her gingham skirts pulled up as if a cummerbund about the round stomach of a strong woman, propped in the mud on one elbow that ground into the soft earth – whose grass was trampled within – with all the pleasure of existence behind it, both her breasts prized forth from their covering and sunk into the mud, her other hand threaded between the bob of her thighs – themselves like the cuts of meat she hung to cure – and delving hungrily into her salty slice, emboldened and empurpled in the saturation of the East Anglian rains!, fingers swallowed to the knuckle, the sound of the falling raindrops like revenant applause, and into that frothy chalice I would edge just the very crest of myself, feel the warmth of her life about only my tip, and the ancient broads would be felt throughout our union, and I would buck my seed forth and away, her hand enfolding my two testicles, contracting towards my body with the desperate release her vagina had proffered. A girl who would not wash the mud from her knees! Unashamed by the physical truths of her humanity! Revelling in the organic perfumes of a soiled cunt unwashed for fortnights! She wore her stains like medals, tangible memories, physical reminders of experience past. Her literal immersion within the filth of nature made her seem to me so real, so distant from myself and my own paltry understanding; her heart here burned with the abandon of wilderness, unfettered by the weight of an urban existence; her very life was lived as some physical entity, moulded by tangibility, and coitus formed only one part of it – for her the limitless possibilities of the sexual exchange harboured no divine secrets, no essential revelation; the holy spirit did not dwell for her within the swollen member, the greased anus, the accommodating vagina but in ALL of the physical world. Her god resided not only in seminal outpourings but in faeces, in urine, in violence, in consumption, in tears, in laughter, in the very mechanics of the corporeal sphere!, and thus – alas – for I, who felt – and needed to feel – the beating heart of the very Godhead in every shred of union, the engulfing divinity through considered acts of physical congress, and despite her tangible earthen beauty – as if rooted upward from the very bowels of our most beautiful county Norfolk, a beauty fed and that shone by the mighty waters of our beaten forebears pasts, their sodden histories of the natural struggle for reclamation – I foresaw that our genital union was not, this time, to be, even as her hand worked effortlessly around the curvature of her barely covered breasts. With a regretful smile my eyes fell upon the third of the women, and I knew at once in epiphany, in revelation, that it were her, that she would be the one to show me Christ’s own way, truth, light. She bore a remarkable resemblance to my mother – whose profound vagina I had oft heard tall tale told, its remarkable enveloping, its oyster musk, a channel – and like every cunt! – to the very hub of the life of the world, to the holy womb that bore us all to birth, o mighty cunt, swallow me and make of me pure ESSENCE, take me from time and show me INFINITY, the elasticity of your walls are the eyes to the universe! – and I found something striking in her advancing years. While her face retained its beauty – in full lips that parted under my gaze, in the thick tresses that framed her certain countenance, in the gentle slope of her nose –and her cheeks the claret flecked hues of seductive youth, her eyes caught mine with the sadness of centuries, and I dropped impulsively to my knees, as though stripped of every vestige of strength I had ever before possessed. There were unimaginable epochs in her eyes – although she could not have been more than ten years my senior – which ached as though she had lived forever, as though she herself were the very eternity I had sought, as though every blink recited the secrets of some hitherto unread holy book, some new and final truth, the only truth as would ever be my guide. What clavicles!, I thought unusually, as if in hypnosis to the rise and fall of her breathing chest, what LIFE! The shape, the shades, the dimension of her external genitalia concealed beneath her stolid undergarments (through whose cream hues lay, I could see, the perfect geometry of a vast pubic thatch, its sheer scale suggestive of brilliance, of import, of the most physical of beauties born of intellectual conceit) was irrelevant – it was her depths I sought and not their extraneous worldly gateways! – and as I hunched near-prostrate on the floor at her feet she made no move to display or exemplify the curiosities sheathed within, as the previous two beauties had in the manner of their own desperately powerful allure. She bared no breast, traced no thigh, opened no labia, suggested no anus, made no visible move to any concrete seduction, and yet there I knelt. I reached out one hand towards this holy ikon, cried out as I did so, and felt madam’s cold fingers raise me back to my feet like a slap to the face of my terrifying ecstatic bliss. She clapped briskly and hurried the four other girls from the room.
“His choice is made,” she said, caressing one of my cheeks with what I consider now an inappropriate air of maternal consideration. “You may use this room,” she said, to the lady, whose face betrayed no emotion save a staunch professionalism as she immediately began disrobing, untying her basque with her back to me. The faultless energies of my merciful cock left it still rigid. Madam blew out several candles as she made her exit from the room, leaving the dense smell of tallow (such old fashioned candles were still much favoured amongst the bordellos of this fine city, resultant of the sheer number of abattoir proprietors and master butchers – a bawdy bunch, the whiff of extinguished mammalian life still fresh on their rough-cut hands and the virility to match – who would commonly frequent the physical wonders of the Gropekuntelane, and conduct their after-hours businesses accordingly, their usual terms of credit often rendered uncharacteristically generous when caught at the point of orgasmic release, and at which juncture such prudent madam’s would prime their workers to extract from ‘neath a pillow or quilt some pre-drawn contract outlining the supply of any such required article, ensigned at the critical moment by the thrusting of a pen into the clasped tradesman’s hand to ensure his compliant concurrence in point of such munificent supply) somewhat appropriately in the air. She whispered into the ear of her lady but I could not hear the verbal intricacies of their conversation, the smiled to my person as she exited with best wishes and proclamations of luck and sensitivity to the two of us concurrently. I uttered the word ‘mother’, powerless against the force of my own constructed symbolism, and watched as her buttocks cooled in the air of the room, watched the shadows of her vaginal entrance at the cusp of their union, watched – weak of knee and claret of member – as she turned to face me, the majesty of her body unfolding like flowers woken by the rain. Like a farmer at market she silently paraded her wares for my approval and I felt tears pouring from my eyes as my shirt fell – something so unremittingly superfluous in the incredible world – into her hands. I clasped my arms around her with every convulsive boyish sob, boyish as the infant I was thrust suddenly and unprepared into the divine on earth, blinded by the holy light ignited by the passions of the flesh, made man from child by the odours of the cunt, by the precise tessellation of the genital segments. O! how the scales did fall away from my hitherto sightless eyes!, like some Paul of Tarsus in the city of Damascus , the truth of nature swam across me as wave upon wave of experience and revelation, as though only now, with the smell of her body so close to my own, had I finally awoken from the stultifying sleep of normalcy. It was as though clarity had finally descended, every edge and colour now shone as it should, every feeling magnified by the perilous beautiful gravity of my accidental life, every breath a primordial hurricane ‘twixt my very bronchioles! In hysterics I leant to kiss her, a gesture she refuted gently, and she hastened a-straddle, humanity itself become liquefied and of honey and poured forth warm and audible from the folds of her vagina, about myself, and with finely tuned musculature and considerate motion I was submerged, and not only in the physicality of her sex but in her most ethereal – spoken in simplistic terms – soul.
Despite a lifetime of endeavour I remain to this day powerless, unable to verbalise the sheer majesty of the sensations associated with that most urgent of couplings, my first of its kind, my second birth. Like all experience divine or godly it remains essentially ineffable, at odds with the logical limits that language might proffer. O how better expressed in sound, colour, shape, memory, prophesy are the holy ways of INTERCOURSE! Borne of man, language remains ill-equipped to deal with those things that transcend him! How it vulgarizes the movement of our parts, the accommodating cunt, opening its depths in invitation, in consent – and who could resist, man or woman, an entry so vital, so real; the transformative cock, insistent, somehow final. Those perfect constructs – no word can hope to offer them life greater than the life that blooms inside them, the raw existence! And yet as wordless as the experience is destined to remain, the effect it had upon me was as deafening to the senses as a great scream from the very spire of our mighty cathedral, and it resonates even now.
It goes without the crudity of explicitness to say that my technique – if one could call the virginal expulsions of an aching scrotum any such thing – was poor, primal if not inconsequential, product of some essential need – to be buried alive within in the musky glow of the cuntal form – and with no care for consideration or tenderness, for anything but the most involuntary thrusting gestures made loin to loin; but amidst this inexperience lay something all the more significant. I had been changed, altered, reconstructed; a boy I might still have been but my life had taken meaning, for the first time in those twelve idyllic years it had become mine – in some way I had joined with the world, and its past became my past, and mine its, for one must never underestimate the power of sexuality. Inside that first vagina I submitted myself to that power, pledged my lifelong allegiance to it. Perhaps then I was yet to realise the extent of its impact, the indents of the vagina forever burnt into the heart of my expectation, my dreams, but I felt baptised, awash in the musky nectar of a font so human it could only be anything BUT! And so with pubis bruised from the strength of my epiphany I watched as she rose from the floor where as beasts in the field we had married our genitals in this transient celestial merger, watched her flannel herself with one long blink as the moistened fibres stroked the length of her vulva, watched the two red pressure circles that had formed on the back of her thighs, watched her breasts that now seemed so vital to the world, this world, I watched this open flower slowly close under the darkness of normalcy, knew then with certainty that the flower should ne’er need to retract its petals, that there was no end to heaven, that every valued moment of life and death grew from this essential beauty, did pivot around it, and that LIFE should unfurl in flagrante delicto, and I watched her dressing in the flickering tallow light with the smell of her past and future like an animal scent across my retreating cock – how wilfully spent! – and laughed as a madman inside, laughed, laughed.
