The City and Sex

The girls from downunder coated en masse in cum, draped over sofas as naked and as drunk as anyone, drugs lining up in the kitchen again, as Kirsten cleans up the puke off the floor; the suave hand waving au revoir, to the maid the kid and the wife, off for golf Fifi, while phoning for the ass of some belle de jour; and the back alley behind the library over the road, where (a reward for their half-hearted and hung-over Sunday practice in the park) some teenage girls circle jerk half the local footy team; and the guys in raves reduced to jelly in a dark corner, waking to shit out a gang’s worth of HIV-plus ejaculate next morning; and the animal fun and the family fistings; and the wife swaps and slave children; and the lustful licking each other under umbrellas, never soaked enough; and dull husbands fattening in the suburbs amongst their whippet-thin wives, ordering their fists never to finger the bosom of their secretary – their boner banging about beneath their desk, and coming like Christmas a coronary, and always the hope of a brief holiday, in the quiet comfy hospital, before the end of their upright lives; and midnight, in the carparks, where drivers swap women amongst each other, rapid against the lampposts like stray mongrel dogs; where saying oneself is truly in love says no more than a fist does, when entering some cheap glove: ah this style is warm, or suits fist, or will do – well – just about – well – its kinky enough and it kinda fits:

O city, are you a symphony of sex, a melody made of promiscuity, a harmony of the horny, an orchestra of orgasms, a throbbing tune, beating and bounding through days, nights, whole human lives?

Or, O City, an olympic-sized cunt-shaped love super-stadium, for all the spunk-javelins of the world to launch at?

Or, O City, like half the blogosphere – bundles of lusting language and sexual reportage, against the democratic and multicoloured backdrops of LiveJournal and blogger, where an Average Joe, a John Q. Public, clinically depressed, IQ155, loves vaginas and breasts but just not blondes, not Fist but the surveys and respondents, where Brett and Hiromi make a picnic made of panties, such a pretty picture of a perfect couple, or where some sub worships her wondrous cactus, snagging her begs and breasts and bloods until she bursts, the bastard; or, or, or

“Such freedom!” announced his Eye. “Sparkling and shimmering, like the stars upon the sky, as eternal and lovely as an eye.”

“No, not like those super-terrestrial lands,” said the Tongue, slavering. “For the nymphs are here in the world, to be held in both of the hands.”

“Quite so,” said the Cock, an aristocrat. “Let us go have sex with the whole wide open world.”

But at that, the Feet protested about too much effort.

And I, Fist, have to confess: I was feeling rather bored by all of this.

“Look, eyes,” I said. “Undress every woman, would you? And then, tongue, lick every crevice, would you? And cock, coax your way into every corner? Come, come. We’ve pictured all this before with Grandmamma, and your Mother, too – she who looks like you – although ancient and saggéd, true.

“And what about those Americans, whose features crowd under five coatings of fat? Or the hunchback nuns, with their atrophied cunts? O, why this city of the mind’s eyes, made of imagination … Look, here’s another you wouldn't wish to x-ray: the painfully thin, like when you were seven years old, and the Ethiopian story that the news told - those African women, nothing more than a naked balloon for a stomach, added to a bundle of bones? Bones, bones, bones!”

“Alone,” sounded the echo in the China cave of the ears. “You are alone. Alone, alone, alone.”