I knelt down before her naked pussy and touched her smooth skin. I kissed the pubic area, my lips softly pressing against the shaved hairs. My nose pressed into her belly, I stuck out the tip of my tongue, curled it around her clitoris, and tasted the sweet secretion of her vagina, emphasized by the soft smell of blood from her menstruation. I pulled the swollen tissue out by its string, leaned back and observed the primal cycle that was consumed by the cotton pad she had walked around with all day. Dark clots of blood dropped to the hard-wooden panels of the floor in the living room, smaller parts stuck to the white cotton that dangled between her legs and which was still remarkably clean, given the deluge of blood it was freed from. I became obsessively intrigued at that immediate moment by the primally charged vision of the tissue. It was colored with forgone motherhood, here before me, the naked mother of my seed, receptor of my baby sperm, her swollen breasts and hardened, overly sensitive nipples pointing down upon me, the son, the father.

I spread her legs apart by pressing the backs of my hands against her inner thighs, opening her moist cave. The gate to her essential sexhood opened before me, like the thieves’ den in the story of Ali Baba, and I Kassim enter. I could easily take this citadel of womanhood, with or without force. She has surrendered to the whim of my benevolence or brutality. My heart peacefully pounded, slightly aroused but with calm observation, and I bathed two salving fingers in her wet cunt. The sensation of passing this river is close to entering the bliss of heaven. I can feel the course surface of her womb’s wall with the soft tip of my index and middle finger, which I twist around in slow circles, while I lick her clitoris. My nails scratch against its surface, as I push deeper inside, until my fist presses against her loin. I licked her faster, vibrating my tongue alternatively vertically and horizontally, up and down, sideways and slowly kept fingerfucking her pussy. Every few seconds I looked up and stared at her face, touched her breast and squeezed it with my free hand, looked at the muscles of her abdomen tensioning up and relaxing.

My sexual arousal grew more violent as her wetness increased, stirred to possess more and more of her, to control her body more directly. I pushed a third finger into the shaft of her vagina, warm and wet from blood and moist of her glands, and my other hand’s fingers started playing with her anus at the same time. First, tenderly directing the top of my index finger gently into her asshole at the right, flexible middle of her opening. Then a second finger, up to the first joint, widening her rectum. I licked her violently now, as her stomach jerked, pushing my two fingers deeper down her ass, twisting three fingers against the location of her g-spot. I could taste drops of blood flushing out and reaching my lips, sweet like the sacrament of the body. Nothing ever tasted more like Ophelia as her menstruation blood mixed with the mucus of her vaginal excrement. Not her bitter, salty tears, not the dripping, mineral drops of sweat on her forehead or back, not even the wetness from her pussy as she jerks heavily from her orgasm.

Ophelia was Ophelia. Ophelia in blood. The inner Ophelia, the essence of her. I never could get closer than drinking the sweet, bloody moist of her menstruation, the excretion of her motherhood, stronger than death. I pulled the fingers of both my hands out and looked up at her in utter, existential amazement. I observed my hands, my left hand covered in bloody clothes. I put my right hand fingers inside her and washed both hands in her blood, rubbing my palms against another. Then bloodied her breasts with my hands, and smeared out the red over her chest and belly, cherry like the watery color of her lips. Some clutters of blood stuck here and there as lumps to her skin in a fiercer red, a loving red, a passionate red.

Kneeled before her, admiring the mother goddess, my Gaia Ophelia, I felt as close to her as to be a part of her, forming one whole with the universe around me. What she felt, I felt, even if we were a billion particles apart in space, governed by the same ideas, reflexes and desires, there seemed to be no difference. The lust for her body overwhelmed me, I wanted to possess her, to submit her violently. I stood up and pressed her down to her knees before me, yanking her hair, pulling it in a tail behind her head. I placed my other hand around her throat, tightened my grip of her, and shoved my erection into her mouth. I started to push her head forward and pull it backward repetitively. She sucked the glans, exhaled it. I pulled her head away from me, directing her face upward to me.

‘Look at me!’
She opened her eyes wide as her mouth. I spat in her face, and in a reflex she squeezed all cavities of the face, her head jerked back.

The earth is a body that is raped. Forcefully the flesh is torn, the peal sliced open, the womb impregnated, the fruits reaped without question. The people that leach of the gifts, take without asking, they grow for their own benefit with no interest, without gratitude, without care. The earth is a body that is exhausted, never longing for a rest, being shoved with a brutal push downward, forward, back, and is never sorry for the events that take place.

I craved her, flesh and bone, I wondered if I could slaughter her, my lewd instincts, prevented only from crimes by the dull bourgeois dependency on stability that I inherited. Never, did I did want to touch her gentle breasts like a raptured lover. I did not desire to smell the blossom of her hair like the returned husband. I craved her like a beast its prey. Does the slave craves his freedom stronger, than the master desires to possess it? The master wants its fiercer. I wanted her, not for her, but for myself, cause I could not live without, as the master cannot, but the slave can without his freedom. The grounded odor of bones, the acid sweat of fear, I wanted it to be mine because I needed her to be part of me.

Within seconds, this murderous sense had evaporated again, my social consciousness awakened, weak again. The insanity of desire gone. This cruelty, God, was all permitted. I leaned forward and choked up. Lost all, all was lost. I had come down from the mountain, and walked into the forest, not wiser than before.

The struggle began anew, fighting to resist, to regain my strength. I put my full weight against the rock, and pushed, pushed with all my force, up, up, my eagle cried above. I was nothing, all had to be invented. The light that leads forward, covered in darkness, the path that guides my way overgrown. The old man, dead. At such moments, I could love and be loved, I could hate. The world was empty, everything about to happen. No one raised their voice, all were quiet. Everyone stared uncomfortably away, avoiding my presence. All and none.

I refused to want her. I rejected her with every effort I could gather. I tried to hate her. I hated her.

Tom and I debated the modernist subject of the century, to answer the question on each civilized man’s mind: nature or nurture? We were not so much debating the question, I assume, as only science can answer it, but I was telling Tom it will be the philosophical backdrop for Ophelia’s Love. Freud armwrestling Darwin, Sartre headbutting Ayn Rand. It is hard for me to conclude different than to see modern man as a softspoken, eloquent man to whom manhood is a recent discovery, in whom civilization is a state of constant repression, a waste product of a civic education that mediates and pacifies his aggression into sublime formulas of intellect and acceptable norms of politeness.

(from happiness, to sadness, to beauty, to sexual arousal)

I had never sensed her to be so calm, there lay a veil of serene happiness over her face, gliding down the curves of her body that carried her spirit as she sat motionless at the table across from me. I had never seen her happier, I never felt my love for her so strongly resonate, as if white light reflected from her aura, and broke into a rainbow of happy colors. Her eyes were absorbed by the deep, endless, bottomless eternity of her soul, that streamed into the vastness of her irises, through which I entered the dark pit of her self. We talked, we drank, we shared a last glass of red wine. Simple happiness formed between us, not even a hairsplit of a thought wedging a crack of self consciousness. This drunkenness encapsulated us in a crystal cocoon, sheltered from the world of crude reality. I felt a quietude between us, a moment in which we violated the locality of our bodies and Sartre’s impossibility of love. She devoted herself to me, and I loved her for this.

I looked at the empty glass in front of us, the watery glance in her eyes. Tears welled up. Her tears welled stronger and thicker, formed a film of refracting light, until the surface tension of her tears finally broke, and a drop rolled toward the edge of her eye. A single sliver burst slowly from the surface of her face and trickled down her cheek, across the corner of her mouth. It dissolved into the breath she took, leaving on her face a trailing trace of the sadness that crawled into her heart. From the moon’s face a source of tears welled up. I stuck my index finger out and placed it upon the sad snail’s trail to quel the hurt from bleeding. The stream that sprang from her eye was soft like cotton plush. I grabbed her fragile face between the cushioned pillows of my palms, pressed them softly together, and squeezed out the drops, turned the drops into a fountain, cracked open the source further to indulge in her pain, see and witness it in full force, most truthfull being wholesome. An infection of her happiness had accumulated a pile of pus in a large abscess of sadness that craved relief. Her watery eyes were pointed at my stare that absorbed the beautiful expressionlessness of her face.

I could not help to think how stunning her deep sorrow looked this evening. Her beauty was build upon a solid foundation, but erected it was so elusive, so fragile that I could not help to admire it. She was without restraint and overwhelmed by the larger emotion of her soul, lacking every grip to control the course of it.

The sight rushed along my heart and possessed my stomach and chest in a split second. Neurons were fired into my brain, from it thoughts and images rapidly stirred me into an even deeper stare of glancefull ideas. My crotch, my pants’ crotch started to tighten and an erection formed quickly while I scrutinized ever part of the gentle skin on her face that now had acquired a blissful silverly shine due to the rolling tears.

I reshuffled my hard-on, placing it comfortably down the left side of my crotch. I stared at the tacit movement of her lips. I wished to kiss her. I traced her vermillion, the color of her blood vessels, the color of her heart, the color of her blood, the color of her eyes as her tears welled up. She showed no attempt to restrain her sadness that now covered her face, she started to cry motionless, not tweaking a muscle in her face of body, her arms still quietly resting on the table top. Redness colored her sclera and exposed a fragile organic love. I wanted to enforce her, to break her, to make her crumble before me, break down in tears over me, and at the same time possess her. I wanted to force her lips to settle around my penis and fuck her mouth till she gagged, till more tears flowed from her eyes, preventing her from the relief that she might crave, choking her without a breath that could have quenched her sorrow, and would have washed her beauty away.

But to hurt her more, I needed to love her first. To let me take possession of her, she needed to love me more. I pulled her face toward me across the table, and gently touched her tear with my lips, sucked and licked the drops that her tear glands excreted. Her eyes looked even more troubled as my tongue licked over her cheeks, creating a saliva trail over her already wet cheeks. A smile crossed her tear. She tasted more delicious than before, more sweet than I ever tasted her, the taste of tears is salty like her luscious sweat.

You look ridiculous in that make-up.
Like the caricature of a whore.
Fake Ophelia drowned in the bathtub.
I wish you could see yourself.
You’d really laugh.
Oh Christ.
There’s too many fucking flowers in this place. I can’t breathe.
Even if a man lives …
Two hundred fucking years …
He’s never gonna be able to discover a woman’s real nature.
I might be able to comprehend the universe … but … I’ll never discover the truth about you. Never.
I mean who the hell are you?
You cheap, goddamn, fucking, God forsaken whore. I hope you rot in hell.

from: Last Tango in Paris (1972)

I stared at Ophelia’s half naked, halfly covered body, next to which I had awoken in the early morning. Sun beams shattered a bright light into the bedroom. I was still curled up against her, my legs wrapped around hers, I slowly unlocked myself, careful not to awake her. Her facial muscles contracted together in a jerking move, her shoulders twisted slightly as she turned around on her other shoulder away from me. She dived away in the dark corner of the sheet, sheltering from the breaking dawn and my voyeuristic stare, both pervading her closed eyelids, penetrating the soul and bringing her out into a present awareness of the rising sun.

She moaned, half opened her eyes, half resisting awakening. Ophelia’s stare searched through the rubbled blanket and discovered me observing her. She smiled in a beloved way and turned on her back. I slowly pulled the sheet off her, letting it crawl downward along her chest, revealing first her nipples then her belly button. Ophelia giggled. Did you know that navel in Greek is Napei, which is another name for Delphi, where the actual navel of the world was placed in antiquity, in the form of the omphalos. Here the oracle of Delphi spoke, the oracle of Apollo, Apollo the god of poetry and music. I bend forward and kissed her navel. The omphalos was a stone with the carving of a knotted net. She grinned and nodded tiresomely, turning her face toward me.
‘As I am capturd in the nets of your love?’ she mocked me, ‘My little Apollo.’
A net of light from the morning sun had wrapped hir firmly in its beams. I pulled the sheets further down, displaying her public hair and har long nude thighs. I pushed my fingers upon her skin, lowering my hand toward her crotch. My fingers played with the curly hair, which sprang up and fall flat again, some curled to the side. Pushing her further leg away, opening her legs wide apart. I looked at her pussy. It was hard to distinguish the clear shapes of the vulva, her labia folds were hidden under the dense hair between her legs. I fidgeted with the tiny, stiff hairs.
‘What are you doing?’ She asked.
I pondered on her question for a few seconds. ‘I think we should shave your pussy,’ I said.
‘Okay,’ she ignored me.
‘No serious,’ I replied firmly. ‘We gotta do it right now.’
She opened her eyes widely now, the white of her eye balls jumped out from the sleep that had help her back. She pretended a certain surprise, shock perhaps, but then she smiled proudly, flattered by my obsessive attention for her vagina.
‘Why?’
‘I want to see clearly the shapes and the folds of your cunt, that is, you’re my cunt, and I want to see what I got. I want to be impressed by the pristine image of your labia, your vagina, your clitoris, your venus hill, the’ soft skin around your anus, the curves running from your buttocks to your loin.’

She fell back into the pillow and closed her eyes again.
‘Go ahead,’ she consented.
I jumped up from the mattress, happy as a child, and ran to the bathroom, searching for a small scissors and razor. When I returned Ophelia had kicked off the remainder of the sheets, and had her legs slightly spread apart. She lay ready waiting for me, her body resigned and fully relaxed, which caused a thrill in my head and chest.

Religiously devoted, I kneeled besides her knees, and placed my hands on both her caps. For a few minutes I stared to admire one more time the hairy vagina that I was about to shave and undo of the pubic growth that was common of her to me. I took the scissors and carefully cut a small pluck of hair until most of it was shortened close to the skin. I took the razor and finished. The nudity of her crotch revealed her whole vagina to the eye. I put my lips to her baby soft fleshy cunt, unmediated cunt, direct and immediate flesh of the womb.

The image of Ophelia floating serenely at the surface of a lake, at the end of a road leading away from you. Below the saddened leaves of a willow, and while the water covers her serenely white body by a transparent glue of death. The lake’s depth does not hide the blackened infinity beneath her. Above the azure sky a sea gull cries. A full gray cloud drifts by in silent mourning. Invisible silver stars surrounding like a saint’s nimbus fixed to Ophelia’s dumb stare. How loving now she looks! How venerous her glazing eyes now expect my kisses. How resigned her body lies down for my embrace. I lean forward over her soaked and bloated face, pale as the night’s full moon, and stare down at the veil of water separating her from my warm lips. In the mirror of the lake’s surface below me, I now see myself, almost as pale in my own reflection, but heartened, affected, touched by the winterly expression of her face that as always seems to be fixated on my mouth. I do not dare and touch her now, afraid of her silence, weary to break the layer of clear liquid that holds her enwrapped forever, preserving this moment, this uncracked image of beauty. Never was she more beautiful, never so far from me. Laying down before me, her self in this lake, at which side I sit kneeled. I reveer her love as never before I was capable, her love that is now lost. Yet, I myself was drawn to this edge like a sea gull, before an endless depth that is so shallow, like Ophelia alike. Her presence like a wax statue in a marble tomb of red stone. My hand stretched out in a sanctuous awe toward her distant heart. Ophelia.