this mysterious and powerfully odorous yawning animal, this mollusk at the center of existence. How hairy it is! It is shocking! Did you think, Bruno, that all women were like polished marble statues down there? So naïve! How unexpectedly I discover that this oddly nearly hairless creature should have a delta of scraggly black hair decorating her genitals. And the placement of this thing! The female human is the only animal in the kingdom to have such a maddeningly, inconveniently located vagina. Right on the very bottom, exactly in between the legs, the weirdest and most inaccessible spot on the body. I inhale deeply, I sniff and sniff, this smell that is almost sickening in its headiness, its passionate intensity. And my mouth opens. The rosy flaps of my pithecine lips peel back and my tongue rolls out. My tongue reaches out into the darkness—the very same curious worm in my jaw who would later learn to perform the glossal acrobatics of human language—to taste it. And the tongue begins to slurp at this thing, to probe its contours. I love the dark sweetness of Lydia’s body. I want to drink her strong biological wine. It tastes like when I suck on batteries! It has the same fuzzy thrilling coppery-tasting little shock. And the hot somnolent mass that is Lydia begins to respond to this stimulus: from up above I hear a sharp insuck of breath, followed by a slow, staggered release of it. She’s still asleep, you see, but maybe now her brain is groaning with flashes of erotic imagery: the sweaty petals of lusciously colored flowers, sloping desert midnight dunes, waterfalls, glossy-coated panthers… and I, Bruno the incubus, continue to lap at her yonic mollusk, and I feel a languid sleeping hand come to rest on the back of my head and gently press on it through the thin wall of silk fabric, pushing my head downward and in… her breathing quickens… and I realize that what I have been tonguing in fact includes a concavity. It goes inside of her, it is a kind of tunnel. Like Caravaggio’s Thomas the Doubter does to the wound of the resurrected Christ, in disbelief I squelch an inquisitive finger into the folds of the opening: spplt. I stick it in as far as I can reach and still cannot feel the end of the tunnel! I wiggle it around, feeling her inner linings, what’s in here? And when I do, her body goes all gelatinous, begins to quake with spasmodic rumblings of passion. Then I get a really good idea. My penis seems to have an intense desire to be put into something, and this slippery feverish envelope of wet flesh seems to have an intense desire to have something put in it. Aha! Thus I make the Great Leap. I climb up onto her body, burrowing further under the silk tent, now encountering her breasts. I’m just tall enough to reach them with my mouth! I gnaw on them a little, and her nipples inflate instantly, becoming like round pebbles between my lips. Now our genitals are aligned. I jab blindly at the area in question, until I am received—the mouth of this great fish swallows me up. It is like pulling on a silk slipper.
Then things really start happening. Every neuron receptor in my brain is firing at once, I’m swept up in a flood, I’m flying, I’m floating, I’m dying, and now the flesh beneath me is roiling like an earthquake and something just, just happens—a feeling of such intense experience that the world goes white, I’m hysterical, I’m blind!
And there we lay, Bruno and Lydia, gasping, quiescent, silent, and I’m still sandwiched between Lydia’s sweaty flesh and the fabric of her nightgown. My face burrowed between her breasts, my bliss and her arms wrapped around me, and I fall asleep this way, still inside of her.
Lydia woke up the following morning with a chimp in her nightgown.
I was unprepared for her initial reaction. I awoke to the sight of her face, peering down at mine through the neck of her nightgown. Morning had come, leisurely and bright, the sun having burned away the clouds: birds eep-eep-eeping outside the window and sunlight suffusing the membranous fabric of my silk tent, making it warm and reddish. Blinking