And today, I sit at a table outside the co-op, and I watch the shoppers come and go.
My lover says, you know when you’re watching porn?
And I say, you know when you’re reading Shakespeare? Hamlet says, what a piece of work is man—
How express, how admirable, says my lover.
Watch them come and go, I say, how sniggly, ticklish and incommodious. What a misfit and scurrilous confection is man. How fraudulent in reason, spurious in faculty. In form and moving botched and contrary. In action a casualty, in apprehension a clod. Nature’s miscue, evolution’s blunder, paragon of a witless world. And yet, to me, how divine this apotheosis of dust.
So you know when you’re watching porn?
I’m watching it now, I say. You see that woman walking to her car?—a rhombus in high heels. And those men? That one’s stomach rides a broken axle and this one’s hair filed for divorce and moved in with the comb. And that woman?—ankles of Swan Lake and the breasts of Valhalla. Age is a cubist and makes Picassos of us all.
So you’re watching a porno and the guy says suck my dick.
And the dick too, I say. That cock, that proud mercenary, forward operative, stalwart spy, master of espionage, explosives and under-miner of all defenses, roadblocks, counterscarps and cheval-de-frise’s—that brave, that stout, that unshrinking Hector, that unyielding Samson, reduced by age to the dignity of an oyster—pitiable, sad, and lamentable deflation.
But, says my lover, see, the guy doesn’t say: I want you or your pussy. He says: Turn around. I want it. He says: I want that pussy. Like he’s saying: Woman, get the fuck out of the way and give me the pussy. Doggy style, right? See? Symbolic. I’m looking at the wall while Daddy’s behind me takin’ care of business. Gonna’ fuck that little pussy till it squiches, squirts and gets all filled up. That’s it. That’s what it’s like. A woman’s got a pussy like she’s got a purse for a guy’s spare change.
And tits, I say. So curious in youth—
Do I say it? Asks my girlfriend. I don’t say ‘it‘, do I? See? You watch a porno and see what the bitch says. Fuck it. Fuck that little pussy. She doesn’t say, fuck my pussy. The guy says: Suck. My. Cock. Oh, hell yes. But a woman talks about her pussy like she got accessorized the day she was born.
Like velvet, I say. Divine velvet purse—
Like she got a little purse and two carryalls—accessorized.
I hadde the beste quoniam myghte be, I answer. Copher. Twat. Snatch. Chute. Hootch. Vag. Kitty. Gash. Snapper. Flower. Peach. Honey Pot. Kitty. Quim. Cunny. Cunt. Oh my belovèd gash, divine slit and sweet briar, my much ado about nothing, you get all the names—my little venus butterfly.
Say it again, she says.
And I say it again in our nakedly bedroom.
And we two make love—glorious, besotted, befuddled fucking. I with my cock, my corkscrew; my bent, right-handed and unciform cock. And you with one tit hither and the other anon. And that cut and button—that delirious origami between your thighs. I will unfold it and celebrate. Lick me, I say, and fuck it you answer, fuck that twat, that dirty kitty, that filthy snatch with your rock-hard rod.
And, oh, I do my contumelious slut.
We bump, we wrawl, covort and skirl—a bumptious exorbitance of fucking! And afterward? My angel, I sigh. My satyr, you say and I say: spicy, sexy nymph. And you say: Saint. And how perfect our imperfections—we, couriers of the cock and pussy, made in the image of god.
will crimson | August 29 2016