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From: "Vulgar Argot" <VulgarArgotREMOVEALL@CAPSinsidejoke.tv>
Subject: {ASSM} Statutory
Date: Sat, 12 Apr 2003 00:10:05 -0400
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Statutory
by Vulgar Argot
(myth, magic, ?*)

*Author's note: This piece just defies tagging. And, I apologize for the
godawful pun of a title. Sometimes, I just can't help myself.

The first thing Galatea knew was pain. But, not having a word for it and
nothing to compare it to, she did not know it should be bad. It was only
sensation, the first sensation she had known after an indeterminate time of
knowing nothing. Thinking back, she could dimly remember having been a part
of the Earth and being ripped loose by rough tools, but that had been before
real awareness.

The pain came from chisels and with it brought awareness. So, Galatea
reveled in each strike, making some piece of her become not her. Who she was
focused and coalesced. Soon, she became aware of a second sensation, a hand,
stroking her surface, finding the places to strike with the chisel and
following where the chisel had struck, pulling away splinters and smoothing
her surface. So, Galatea knew gentleness and pain as the two opposites of
experience and loved them both.

In loving the pain and the gentleness, Galatea became aware of another, more
complex love emanating into her. It was the love of her creator for herself,
not this roughly-hewn piece of marble, but her real self, what she was now
aching to become.

Quickly on the heels of love came a bewildering array of sensations,
flooding in so rapidly that Galatea could make no sense of them, her
cosmology being complete in the three concepts of pain, gentleness, and
love. She let the sensations wash over her in a garble, fascinating, but
frustrating in her inability to grasp them long enough to be examined and
experienced in fullness. Her creator worked through the night, the chisels
gone, replaced with finer tools that combined pleasure and pain in differing
degrees. When darkness made sight impossible, he worked by feel, knowing
exactly where to draw away what did not belong by the touch of hands and
sometimes lips.

During the day, with time to reflect, Galatea ran those sensations that were
strongest through her mind at leisure. The first and strongest was her
creator's love for her as the essence of woman, clear and bright and radiant
in his mind. The second, nearly as strong, was his frustration and
bitterness at the frailties of women around him, one who had hurt him deeply
and recently, the wound showing fresh and pink in his mind. The dichotomy
was almost too much for Galatea to bear. Nothing she had experienced so far
had prepared her for contradiction, so she saw no contradiction. She ached
to communicate with her creator and say, "Do not despair. I am here. And I
am all that you seek." But, she could not speak, being marble and, as yet,
her head being roughly carved with no lips.

Soon enough, she had lips. Her creator came to her every day upon waking and
stayed late into the night until collapsing in exhaustion. When he touched
Galatea, she felt what he felt, but had no context for it. Mostly, she felt
the smooth marble of her own skin under his rough, callused hands. Behind
it, she felt a gnawing hunger in his belly and a worrisome flickering of his
lifeforce as he ate and drank only enough to keep himself going. Some days,
he slept at her feet, his devotion not allowing him even the energy to crawl
to his couch before sleeping.

Some days now, her creator, whose name she now knew to be Pygmalion, would
spend all day and all night caressing her flesh, and she knew it to be
flesh, looking for a single imperfection, making only a single strike with
one of his finest tools to shave off a single protrusion or deepen a single
curve. During this time, Galatea yearned, aching for the strike that would
free her from some irritation she didn't even know she had.

Then, for three days, he touched her, running his hands over her surface,
his eyes closed most of the time, touching spots with his lips where his
fingers were not sensitive enough to know right from wrong. In those three
days, he did not find a single spot to strike. Galatea was perfected.
Galatea was perfection. During these three days, Galatea knew her own glory
fully, feeling it reflected in Pygmalion's mind.

In those last three days, Pygmalion did not eat and drank only small sips of
water. Galatea knew fear, then, worrying that he was giving her all of his
lifeforce and would expire when she was complete. Finally satisfied, he
slept at Galatea's feet, waking only once in the next day, long enough to
take a long draught of water. When he woke from his long slumber, he gorged
himself on food, purged, and gorged himself again. Then, he sat on his couch
and stared at her for a long time. And his gaze was another, gentler caress.

Then, for days on end, Galatea was alone and Pygmalion was nowhere to be
seen. And Galatea realized that she was not perfection, only the form of
perfection. There was something missing, some small spark that would let her
step down from her pedestal, follow Pygmalion where he went, and end the
aching loneliness for the only living creature she had known.

When Pygmalion returned, it was with another slab of marble. He placed it
right in Galatea's line of sight so that she could watch him carve it.
Mostly, she watched him not carve it. Every morning, he would come in to
work on it, stopping first to gaze up at Galatea, then gaze on her again
with the last rays of the sun darkening around her. When he tried to work,
Galatea could feel his vexation coming off of him in angry waves. Soon, the
gazing would last longer and start sooner until he stopped bringing his
tools at all and spent his days gazing up at her, silent tears rolling down
his face.

One day, overcome, he kneeled at Galatea's feet, wrapping his arms around
her legs, his tears rolling down her cold, unyielding flesh. Over and over,
he whispered, "My Galatea." But, all of her effort would not move her hands
to comfort him or give her voice to tell him not to cry, that she was here.
In the end, he whispered a prayer to Aphrodite to let her come down from her
pedestal for him. When he left, Galatea took up the prayer, singing it
wordlessly to the heavens.

The next morning, when Pygmalion came to gaze upon her, he had only gazed
for a few moments when he said, "Galatea, I do believe you are singing." Her
soul leapt with joy. Pygmalian wrapped his warm, soft body around hers and
planted a single, chaste kiss on her lips. Then, he went to work. Each day,
now, he would come in to work, gaze upon her, and radiate a long-sought
peace from within his soul. Then, he would go and work on his new creation,
which Galatea now knew, before even Pygmalion, would be a stalking tiger,
every sinew, every muscle, even his great, proud balls an expression of
menace. While he worked, Galatea sang her prayer to Aphrodite, no words,
just pure desire--to move, embrace, to hold and be held.

Some days, Pygmalion would bring her little gifts such as young girls
love--bright shells and polished stones, ribbons for her hair, beads and
amber. He dressed her as any woman would dress, put rings on her fingers and
a necklace of diamonds around her neck.

As he clasped the necklace on her neck, he kissed her gently, just above the
clasp, "My Galatea," he whispered in her ear, "I must away to Cyprus, where
I will pray for what we have both longed for. I will hurry back as I can."

For the second time, Galatea knew loneliness, but she also knew real hope,
the kind that can only be felt when tinged with the fear of failure. She
stood and sang her prayer and waited.

When Pygmalion returned and saw her still standing there, he was
crestfallen, "Oh, my Galatea," he cried out, "When I said the prayer to
Aphrodite, the altar flame roared up three times and I thought for sure that
I had received her blessing." He fell to his knees, wrapping his arms around
her waist. And, where his tears fell, Galatea felt them. Not merely sensing
them or the echo of them in Pygmalion's mind, she felt them roll down her
belly and thighs.

"Galatea," he whispered, "Galatea, I would swear that you are warm. Surely,
it is a trick of the sun or my fevered mind, feeling what I have dreamed so
long of feeling." He stood up, running his hands over her everywhere. In his
haste, his hands tore away her raiments.

"No," he said in wonder, "you are warm." He placed his head on her breast,
"And I can hear your heart." And, when he said it, Galatea knew it to be
true. Then, her hands came up, burying themselves in his hair, drawing
Pygmalion to his feet and into a kiss, her lips now soft and yielding like
the wax of Hymettus. Wherever he touched her, she yielded, warm and alive.
Galatea felt, in wonder, her own breath and pulse and the thousands of
things a living woman feels. Even the familiar sensation of her creator's
hands on her was a thousand times more intense now. The first sound from her
lips was a shuddering moan of pleasure, the second a laugh of pure joy.

All Pygmalion would say was, "My Galatea," over and over again. He lifted
her, light as a feather now, in his arms, carrying her to his couch, where
he lay her down. He rent his own garments getting them off before joining
her on the couch. Now, his hands were more insistent and urgent. Galatea
touched him as he touched her, shuddered in pleasure at the way her flesh
yielded to him. Instinctively, her hips rose to meet his, her feet locking
in the small of his back. He entered her, cautiously at first, but Galatea
used her feet to drive him in deeper. She whispered his name in his ear and
he lost all reserve, driving himself as deeply as he could into her, where
the pain and the gentleness mingled like they had the first time he touched
her.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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