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Subject: {ASSM} From TxM6 Angela's Sexual Ocean 2/2
Date: Fri, 1 Sep 2000 08:10:05 -0400
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From TxM6 Taxi Murders Sextet Hyperfiction Novel
http://www.taximurders.com/
TxM6 is entirely a work of fiction for adults only.
Copyright (c) 2000 Sean Farragher
Angela's Sexual Ocean. Part II
August 27, 1991
I hear the heat before the rage of my clit. I take up
the lantern and search for the sweet men to lift up
the hood and check under it, to get down greedy upon
it, and fondle the lips to find all the parts of the
ache when it is never done.
I love the irony of my name, and when Laurie is there
we watch each other's orgasm as if it were our own. I
know in my bowels as I am held by each of them when
they are full and I am empty.
There is something inside us that drives Aaron over
the edge when he is with both of us. He does not know
where to turn. The usual easy and predictable man
becomes divided and spreads out like a great forest
fire to gather us into his field. And us too, when
Aaron is there we rage on each other wanting to give
him the best show, and if Henry walks into the scene,
the two odd brothers, Henry and Aaron, more twins than
genetic couples find their way to understand the pace
of sex. They are insatiable as we become, until one of
them, usually Henry first cries Uncle, and they let me
roll away satisfied while Laurie finishes the other or
both, if Henry is game to follow suit.
In that delirium they both sway letting sweat, wet,
spit, and semen lubricate that seminal social tension
until each of our men, as Laurie puts it, sets the
embryo or the child moving downstream into Conrad's
Heart of Darkness or Dante's Paradisio.
Sometimes in our sane we love ice and heat at the same
time, and letting the extremes ricochet until we're
trembling with parted moist mouths that cannot pause
or return any more love. It is not just sex between
us. Not that sex is at any time just a thing that can
be branded as ordinary or extreme. There is no extreme
sex just human beings who are lost in their own
insensitivity to experience. I am a hedonist of course
as Laurie and Henry. Aaron is inside himself living on
the even page and being the good sport but he would
rather paint than fuck. I would rather fuck than do
anything, and Laurie, well she would rather write
poetry. Henry breeds on sex, not in shared creation of
a child, but in the evolution of sensation. In many
ways Henry and I are more alike than Aaron and Laurie.
Perhaps the wrong pairs have merged, but in the end it
doesn't matter at all because we are always together.
We prefer the quaternary of our selves.
September 4, 1991
Last night I screamed at Henry and Christina, that
spirit that Laurie created laughed with Aaron trying
to get him to try spiritual sex. I told that fake
spirit that Aaron is the master of spiritual sex.
Henry laughed. Does that mean he prefers intellectual
sex to the real thing. Aaron took exception to what
Henry said and the two fools almost came to blows, but
of course they were teasing Christina who popped out
of her envelope and disappeared. She whispered to
Laurie (she only speaks to her lately) that she could
not stand violence.
When Aaron longed for spiritual perfection and rage he
would ask Laurie to bring her other self to the party,
and the two of them would link arms and ride the
ragged picket fence dunes of Provincetown, calling us
on the phone when they got there, and Henry of course
was sleeping inside my skin finding my ample breasts a
place to suck as the milk was beautiful.
In the P town dunes, the pair would paint the dry sky
where art was assuaged by Hoffmann - and Aaron wished
that Pollack had traveled there instead of long Island
to drink himself to death hitting a tree and killing
an innocent girl who was as fucked up as he pretended.
What a humorous pair of lovers Pollack and Hoffmann,
though neither was homosexual using the term of their
time, queer and not gay, which had an entirely
different meaning?
In these meandering journals my children I hope I
teach you about the bottom flange of my clit, how it
sticks up and almost like a tiny cock can spring
forward to be licked in its own head. Imagine if your
head were a clit, and your ears and mouth and eyes
were part of that sexual functional communication that
made sex the essential way all life fused in another
spectacle like the great fireworks display set off by
accident when someone made it all happen in a few
minutes and the mountain was made level almost as if
Moses had demanded the end of the mountain because his
flock fornicated too easily.
September 15, 1991
I love the plural sexuality of flowers, although Henry
jokes about the spread of pollen like a viral disease.
What if AIDS came from flowers he said. We would all
stop smelling them, collecting the colors and showing
off our sensual madness. We would end this temporary
disconnection to gender and find one ovary to handle
it all. Men are not needed, Henry was convinced, but
in an odd way that made him more certain that men
would survive this temporary psychological and
political division.
Hope you do not find this treatise on sexual politics
more of the same pedantry. We need our spiritual mass
as we need hubris, honor and glory.
Look at the news story. Event and anticipation are set
down in large print long before the play back of the
musical balls. Henry loved all the patterns and
textures. He dove in our skin. Henry and Aaron drove
each other mad with that anticipation of Laurie and my
delicate spaces. Yes, Aaron and Henry love each other.
It is sexual. It doesn't matter that the two men won't
admit it. Laurie and I know. We find sex together
marvelous, and we admit it, so why should they who
hold us, hold each other walk away from the same sex
passion because it offends their male vision.
When they are high on us, the poet and the artist
dance in each other's arms fucking the other, making
us come, watching the joust, and then stark and male
they service the mares, so they laugh, calling us
mares, knowing how we are also made to love with the
Gods by Christina. They know that all the delicate
spaces inside the art are special.
October 14, 1991
When the women are together alone there is a quiet
that mocks noise. We unsettle equations. As lovers we,
sisters, play our own musicale.
Some wag suggested Sheila and her sister Laurie were
the female in Aaron and Henry, or Henry and Jimmy
Caine, and yet, they pushed guilt away, cleaning up,
emptied, combusted after fires, rapes, molestation,
and the pursuit of pleasure.
Just hold my skin, crawl inside, Laurie spoke, robust,
loudly to Henry, forcing the large man to jump back.
Just hold my eyes, Angela begged Laurie let me come in
your mouth while Henry comes in your gig, while Aaron
sucks my tits, milking until they are aching and dry,
when I came, I expressed my life, wild as a film
hiding sin from goodness or wrong from right.
Come on there are no such concepts as good and bad,
and as a sociologist, Sheila, you could know better.
Fuck you too, Sheila laughs at Laurie, touching hair
and cheek, feeling the sweet wet breasts of her mirror
as she came in the song resting the lyrics and
punching up the chorus.
Last night the God Christina walked slowly around the
couples, joining one body or another, by whim, the
caprice of that frenzy stripping away guilt, can
spirits feel such human waste as fear, or more than
life, and Christina rose up, sitting high on Henry's
shoulders, playing water tag with Angela and Aaron,
before falling down, feeling Henry at her tit again,
pushing him away, no more, I ache, try my black tonic,
my cunt, it has that brown hair for garnish.
You say you like the press of soft hair on your mouth,
and deep cunts on my thumbs. Yes, dear life, Christina
said, be tranquil, dear Laurie, Sheila wrote all this
down later, and Laurie when she woke put on her
sister's coat, erasing the tapes, burning the dairy,
keeping the secret swarm alive for at least just now.
Wouldn't it be wonderful to know humans as they hunted
passion as we swim, crease the surface tensions, and
enter, bring fist up inside the primal soup, taking
out the softer breath, as if the sweet recipe wasn't
enough, and then I have that great laugh, banged down
the chasm, splitting open the balloon, and if the plan
kept the peace, made boy balance boy, or man front
man, a stalemate, as the thick pea soup brim, hot, as
my mouth, or the split in my tongues, as I am jealous,
dear Angela, myself, of my own first fuck, or the last
moment, when done, how you drip, with the style of
your wiggling out of bed, falling limp on the floor
after the fourth time, not counting orgasm, or the
pump of the grind, and when I thought of Joe, or any
male child alone on a bus, as the sun, wasn't a shift
of ray, just the middle opened up, as I spoke, and
when they laughed I hid, ashamed for what, you tell
us. Yesterday and again today I want to fuck openly in
the street and tag everyone to join me.
Yes, I wish they would follow. All humans and a few
gods are welcome.
I will watch the empty streets behind my shadow.
Sometimes, no matter how hard I try to make it all
beautiful, I fail.
Am I crazy? I want magenta and amber lights to show
clear in the field of tarantulas. I want opaque armor
as a foundation for furtive glances, for snickers, for
odd conversations about and over the geometry of
breasts.
I want that sad preoccupation of whim and whimsy that
is codified to color what I do when I cannot stand to
be alone.
"I want to be heard, I will scream. I want love and
everyone to join my shadow. It is more than being
loved.
Forging an obsession is powerful.
I speak my prayer to great sculptures in the museum
park. How our loins, steel or brass, cover the
metallic skin where I stripped last century.
I am unable to stop the prayer for continuation. I
want them to follow in every step I create.
I shout without moving my lips, or breathing hard, or
raising the great spite of tired bitches crafting our
lives within the fake portraits they consume for a
pledge or an offering. I hope it's not too late
Laurie was beautiful when she kissed the back of her
hand, brushing the sun off her skin as she enters the
cold dominion of her own best room.
I do wish the boys would listen to the clouds. They
hold philosophy as we are dancing now in the
sentimental and the not too clearly original.
What is a King, but an arbiter of what is true? What
is real is not interpretation, as royalty would
treasure the ache of voyeurs calling their pets from
their lairs. Did they notice my face, blue eye shadow,
the stretch of my lust in their mouth; I wish they
could speak, search for my lies as all that we own.
Old men shoot sticks, dice and inert logs.
I stand reformed, on the corner everyday marking my
usual inventory: breasts, thighs, mouth and ass.
Nothing passed easily, nothing counted but the evasive
scrutiny of my expressionist memory.
What wonderful bullshit we are. We are the best pieces
of ass in the universe and we can find our place in
the pages. We will for the record of us is the
pastiche of our words finding form.
What was the corner before I came to it?
When Aaron and Laurie kissed me last night. I wanted
the air to bend from him, and to hear some other birds
curls their songs around the edge of my toes as they
struck the mattress wishing to bring my legs inside
some wall; wishing I could hear his heart through the
stretch of my mouth. I open his book, his mother
blacked my face and I am held outside my own skin
accepting my arousal. I am never soft; he played his
mouth to waste words as I prepared for his ascendance.
He is not God. I like funny gods.
Laurie released, breathing hard, stretched until her
legs parted slightly, and the moisture brought inside
kept some reason for life alive. She filled with thick
storms, preparing the assault as darkness and strafing
crimson lights streak neither without stars, nor
without careful hands that life away the translucent
past covering legs and heart with a faithless jelly to
bless any unstopped mouth.
They, each boy, each lover, Aaron, father, my hand
cannot stop sucking air and milk: children knew how
her hands harden ice, but he skates, without obvious
reward, across the horizon.
Man knows my tenderness. They scream pleasure; my
brothers enfold into my dreams. If they could just
pause watching the memory of all my mother (or all
his, really anyone), and all our fathers darn the web,
the fabric will reach across the street into unknown
wells, and the terror in spit, in the wasted well that
shines a stretch of kiss, when we purr, the cat like
satisfaction starts with an opposing field. I am
connected. Why?
Aaron, that great Jew, holds me Angela prisoner and I
am sucking a chalice full of gray wine and pale bread.
It was a disagreeable host. He carried all that we
neglected.
Why are we filled with the unreachable climax, I
scream. When you start you must finish. If you hold
back, Laurie said, you will lose it with some
androgynous priest kissing a plaster Christ when he
could really have had the first and genuine savior in
his bed just by praying with his palms and the butter
of his spirit.
-The Catholic host is sex, I say.
Transubstantiation is what we desire. It is made whole
into some approximate vague abstracted youthful God we
all can recognize as omnipotent. We talk too little
after sex or orgasm, I believe. We are filled with him
or her even as I deny connection and genesis with any
of these corporeal fake melodramas. Yes, I know the
spirit is genuine. Sex makes it so. Without sex there
is no love. The reverse of the usual politics.
November 4, 1991
What do we search to know when we soak passion into
the bed with the sweet miracle and sorcery of the
sticky chemistry of the open mouth? Inside, we hear
the petals chime as the flowers of the lotus, throwing
the sense of mingling legs: Karma Sutra bargains that
scream with a willingness to lick the rings of heart
as I am struck into another orgasm. We streak across
some inner pages to life broadened with one short
electric art, when Aaron (or was it Henry) cupped
accidentally my breast as a portrait by Rembrandt in a
ceremony from marriage.
We are married as both men sleep on my pregnant belly
unaware and not concerned as to that paternity. Watch
dear friends how we choose up for a baseball game
played on Mars at some time in the later future. Why
Mars Henry? Why not anywhere?
------------------------
I have posted many stories from TxM6. One reader suggested I put together
an index. I think that is a good idea. I welcome responses from readers
of TxM6. Write me seanfarragher@msn.com
More American Adventures in erotica and other works by Sean Farragher:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Sean_Farragher/
Sean Farragher
Poetry Site: http://www.farragher.com
TxM6 Sites:
http://www.taximurders.com
http://www.taximurders.com/enfer
http://www.taximurders.com/lcfallon
http://www.taximurders.com/paradisio (forthcoming)
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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