Like A Vagina Networks presents: 'Alchemy'


	Alchemy

	My ejaculation inside T.'s sphincter lead directly into the most
interesting course of events on that Wednesday evening.  T. was the
sort of person who could easily have been an editor of a literary
journal, if you follow me, and yet he was not actually a homosexual,
which perhaps contributed to the reasons why he was sobbing slightly at
this point.  My come mingled with excrement and a small amount of blood
inside T. (I had slightly scratched the wall of T.'s rectum in the
proceedings of the past few minutes), and I felt the edge of my
anxieties dissipate as I lay on top of T. in that cramped, slightly
dirty room with its whitewashed walls, and curiously, T.'s quiet
weeping only helped this.
	I felt that the preceding experience had been fine in terms both of
the indulgence of a rarely exercised perversity and of making some
attempt at an effective form of non-verbal communication, but I sensed
that T. was preoccupied with concerns of the bourgeois.  Falling back
to the verbal realm, I said, "T---, are you worried over some sort of
image problem?"  T. neglected to answer me or even acknowledge my
question, and I felt that however I might be dissatisfied with the
relationship in a normal post-coital way, feeling positive illusions
degrade into negative illusions, T. was most probably dissatisfied in
an entirely different sense.  I decided to try to take his mind off
such affairs.
	"T---, in the heat of the moment, I forgot to tell you that I have
syphilis."  To this T. merely sobbed harder and attempted to curl
himself up more than he was, an effort which was doomed to failure from
the way he had arranged himself under me.  "Oh, do shut up, T---.  I
only said that to get a reaction out of you.  And anyway, syphilis is
curable."  This in itself seemed not to help T.'s state, and so I
resolved to make the most of T.'s whimpering, which was making my cock
hard again, by making love to T. a second time.  This resolution, it
seemed, would best allow at least one of us to enjoy the way things
were happening.
	I thus mostly refocused my intellectual attention on T.'s anus, as
it still accommodated me nicely.  Most if not all of you are familiar
with this feeling at least from having penetrated yourselves in the
shower, and this sensation was much the same, except that I was using
my cock instead of any of my fingers, and it was his ass rather than my
own.  I swiftly began an admittedly one-sided discussion on our
situation: "You know, T---, I think the reason you can't come is that
this scenario is too enjoyable for you to properly believe in any
fantasy.  And at the same time the actuality of the scenario forces
your bourgeois repressions into positive interference with your
desires, and keeps you from utilizing reality to get off.  Believe me,"
I expounded, "I understand:  I've felt the same thing while
masturbating in the shower."  For his part, T. rather weakly dismissed
this theory, whispering "no.."  T. sounded dull.  I was ecstatic that
T. was responding coherently, if slightly discouraged that T.'s
intellectual refutation was somewhat pitiful in both form and content.
	Yet T.'s physical response was increasing quite well in coherence,
as he began to thrust back in a gratifyingly organic way.  And where
all those roses had been plucked, there remained only thorns, or
something along that line.  And yet, despite the added reciprocation on
T.'s part, and the strangely amusing and pleasing fact that T. had kept
his glasses on the whole time, I rather suddenly blacked out for a
relatively short amount of time.  And I dreamt this:


	I lay on my back upon a grassy hillside in the midst of summer, and
the sun shone down from the sky, and my arms were crossed behind my
head.  An angel of light descended from the sky in front of me, and
hovered around ten feet above the ground.  And the angel opened his
mouth to speak, and I saw the interior of the angel's mouth was a rich
green moss, and moss dripped off the sides of his lips as he spoke.
His teeth moved and made no sound, yet I heard his words clearly.  And
he kissed me and I tasted the moss of his mouth, and he was gone.  I
turned over on the grass, slid my jeans down a little past my hips, and
easily penetrated the grass and soil beneath me, which seemed to be of
just the proper texture for this sort of act, and I wondered what
satiation women got from the earth.  This went on for some time.

	I was in a tower of marble overlooking the same hillside, yet
beside it and not above it, and I was seated at a small table in an
very small, uncramped room with a man I knew to be the lord of the
tower and my host.  He had short black hair and was of indeterminate
youth, with white lace collars out of his black suit.  We were drinking
a very fine white wine, and at my host's prompting (a move of the
hand), I put in my mouth an oyster from the many on a plate on the
table, which was like no oyster I had ever tasted before.  But as I
sucked upon it thoughtfully, it changed into a small and unpalatable
disclike pastry, which I swallowed whole, and it left my mouth dry.

	I was a slightly post-adolescent European female with red hair and
green eyes, and I was naked and my limbs were strapped down out from my
sides, but not uncomfortably, and I was on a slightly elevated
operating table, which was inexplicably lightly carpeted.  I was giving
birth.  The pain was incredible.


	When I awoke, I was lying on my back on the bed, covered in a thin
film of shit and blood, and I was alone.
last revision April 15, 2001