Lot’s Wife Regains Her Integrity
I’ve a worm’s eye view of what, seven, eight fat fleshy worms directly above me? Writhing, waggling, wincing worms. Death with the lights on? For them maybe, if they weren’t so blind.
For it isn’t humus they’ve come to churn.
Six, seven, eight, and perhaps more stretching back beyond my line of vision. Churls. A diverse rank parade of manhood and hooded maleness. My bondsmen, in thrall to me. Eight of them skirt the perimeter of my body. My flower bed. Brimful of rising sap.
Marking off my rosary, my paternoster octet can look though they aren’t permitted to touch. Yet I notice they barely bring themselves even to look. However gleefully they throw back their membranous cowls.
I am the abdomen and they my eight appendages.
Though in truth I know I cannot maintain such a fiction. For when one limb withers and falls away, another steps forward to replace it.
They pulse smoothly round the circuit of my prone body. A relay team yet to drop the baton cradled between their fingers. A sushi restaurant’s carousel. Bukkake self-service deli. Milky marinades and roux sauces for tenderising my skin. Not that any of the basters will be permitted to take a bite. No delectable mouthfuls are on offer here. Maybe an icing nozzle more fits the bill of fare.
Varnish me. Lacquer me. Burnish and buff me. Cover me. Enamel me. Glaze and fire me. Embalm me.
Indelibly linked by viscid silky grapnels. Tossed from their own spinnerets. But for this brief liquid moment spanning one to the other, we shall never couple. Being fluid, once it flows to wash upon my shores, it has irrevocably relinquished its source.
Adult musical chairs has delivered the first man on line now, parallel to the top of my head. His prick the pointer over the sundial of my face. As he thrusts over me, his paunch occludes his face. He seems nothing more to me than an overflow pipe projecting from masonry. His pebble-dash flesh. Simply waiting for the water level to rise to the level of the run off drain. And there he blows.
Relief? Yes, etched all over their fizzogs. Release? Who imprisons them in such a straitjacket of desire other than themselves? You can see why they call it ‘La Petite Morte’ as all the creases and puckered contortions depart their faces. Demise at their own hands. That last gasp, a final convulsion. And then dismissal. Left to kick his heels, his shrivelled serpent in the heel of his hand begs not to be pounded any further. A small nudge in the ribs from the spare hand of one of his peers moves him right along and out of the firing line. “Don’t come first. Don’t come first” I imagine runs through each of their minds. The solitary time in their life that any of them so exhort their competitive selves.
He at least can content himself that being the first, he had free range of play over my body. That he couldn’t miss in laying down his marker. He managed to stipple my belly. I wonder if that was deliberate? That what he really desires is to impregnate me. Most favour effacing me. Else the wishful open sesames of either forlornly rapping at the barred gate of my sex, or mimetic invocatory spilling of their own creamy trails around my breasts. That they can control the trajectory is not in doubt. But I’m never quite sure if they can determine the propulsive force to any degree? I read that sneezing causes the fastest extrusion from the human body. Is the human sperm cannonball perhaps too swift to direct on to the heart of a bull’s eye target? Certainly it gets harder for those who come to the fray late, to lay claim to their own territorial splash of me.
The sightlines and blocking are good. At least from my recumbent vantage. And let’s face it, that’s the only one that counts. Shuffling along my periphery, their scuffling bare feet the only sound, save for the hammy cuts of bovine exertion. Each seems to know his place intuitively. Prompted only by the crowning soliloquy of the preceding protagonist striking his mark. I am the executive producer of all this. The choreographer for the entire corps, though I’ve uttered not a single word to any of my stage hands. Do they credit themselves to be improvising? They’re sticking rigidly to my script and following my silent direction.
Here they go round my mulberry bush, with its glistening purple fruits. Yet they won’t taste of its goading dark flesh. Only I drink of its fermented juices. It’s just me who gets to mull and sweeten and ripen on the vine.
They revolve around me like clockwork figures primed to strike the hour. I know from past viewing that there are only ever three moments of slight hiatus. Firstly, that moment of arrhythmia just before they climax, when all focus and control is sundered. The next when they waft and squeeze their members to wring out every last draggling drop to ensure none is wasted that could be adorning me. (Of course in doing so they veer violently from their locally beaded furrow and cross the ‘i’ or dot the ‘t’ of someone else’s tilling; less yin yang, more an adulteration, a clumsy cocktail shaking). The third? That beat thereafter, when they are at a loss what to do next. Unwilling to draw a veil over themselves even as they have drawn a milky one over me. They are finished. Spent. While I am still lush, fluid and charged. A teeming player when he’s been benched. Ceding me to the next man who will be similarly timed out.
This second one jerks his hips forward like he’s playing a guitar solo. His tongue protrudes out the corner of his mouth. His eyes are closed so he’s certainly flying solo. He’s metronomically on the beat. On automatic pilot. Not a wisp of turbulence floats across any of his sensory instrumentation. Until the chill air crash-lands him back into the here and now. Dead eyed if not dead eye. Dead eye dick, the stupid wanker has overshot my landing strip. He takes flight, disorientation slathered all over his fretful face. Which is more than could be said of his jizz on my unclad body.
Chop chop. Let’s get this thing going again. No slacking off.
Dress me in liquid chiffon. Drape me in gossamer white. Bedeck me in an array of silks. Have your grubs spin me diaphanous raiment straight on to my body. Spruce me up. Endow me. Beautify me yet further.
They imagine they want to scald me. To sear me. Nevertheless it is they who blow off like molten glass. As soon as they are tempered, they plunge uselessly into cold, quenching air. Reverse vitreous blowing, moving from the hard to the limply soft. Cupping their diminishing erections like an abandoned whelk shell. Poised as if to sing it a lullaby, though already it is nestled in drowsiness. They withdraw slump shouldered. My little Napoleons retreating a few steps from my snowy steppes.
Blur and blot my features behind a white hoar frost. Insulate me.
I love to watch them low tailing it. See them wrestle with notions where to go from here. For they simply do not know what to do with themselves. What to do with their purposeless hands. Or more germane their pensioned off cocks. Their joy riding engines choked, with all the fuel siphoned off. When in motion, when summoned by the lustily heralding hand, their burgeoning exposure posed no problem. If anything it was a proud boast under the eyes of their fellows who weren’t really looking anyway, so fixed were they to their own task in hand. But now, with no goods left to manufacture, no revolutions left for their machine tools, a dearth of discernible dignity from manual labour, they come over all coy and nervous of being scoped and downsized up by those still straining at full throttle.
With their soldering irons they chase the silver-white flux round trying to seal the gaping aperture of me. But the breach between us remains yawning. My nudity evaporates their oxy-acetylene torches. One by one I snuff them out.
Whittled down into redundancy, their scrimshawed wood on show now only of and for itself. Splintered from their lifeline to me. The sperm umbilical I offered. And then they turn to gaze upon me, for the one and only real time our eyes may truly meet. And they realise. As they regard their unimpressive unlasting impression imprinted on me. It fails to stand out from that of their fellows. And while I hoard it all for now, they know the moment I stand up, I will wipe them clean from my memory and restore my pristine body. They wrung out like a dish cloth, me sparkling and gleaming fresh.
Just like number three there. A quartet of wrinkles in his heavily laden brow. Premature grey hairs peppering his chest (is that a pacemaker scar outlined there?) Liver spots on his flabby gut. And yet see how his wang is baby-faced pink and smooth. Even the veins seem to sit flush on his tubular chassis. I love tracing the tension lines rippling through their bodies. Their thrusts and spasms all for me, while I lie perfectly at ease and without imposition. No demands made upon me to do anything other than lie still and collect their tolls. As they pay tribute to me. Coating my body with their riches. Fleecing the flocculent.
I am acquisitive. I will take everything they’ve got. I will drain them, tax them, mulct them dry. They grunt, they spurt, they tremour and flop. All the while I yield nothing. With their overhanging flab juddering above me. Their canopied bellies swaying before me. The jungle vines of pulsing arteries in their straining forearms. The roadmap of veins in their planted legs. My body lies in repose, any contours smoothed out under gravity. All possible stress lines dissolved by my comfort. Ha, this sap has failed to give every single ounce of himself to me. For I can see rheumy yellow-white globules entangled in his pubic hair.
I am like the Roman Emperors of old. The tyrannical ones. Supine on a divan, male helots tumbling grapes and other pearly fruits into my maw. Now I am a lady from chivalry. Knights errantly tilting after me. Or better yet, troubadours lustily strumming their lute strings. Praising and adoring me with their mutely distilled, doomed love. Knowing they can never attain me. Contemporary commentators would judge this a psychiatrist’s couch, locus of neuroses and pathologies. Keen to confine me to their textbook diagnoses of self-abasement and humiliation. But then none of these accusers and mental vivisectionists are gathered here in this room now are they? My octet and me, we each are here of our own free volition. Some of us being more free than others. Less beholden to their unrealised fantasies.
I conduct my orchestral soloists. Pizzicato, fortissimo, rallentando, it’s all the same to me.
I am their muse. They inspire themselves over my naked Venus, in order to drive themselves towards feverish paroxysms of creativity so they can daub me. But they only serve to whitewash me. To clean my canvas and bury the pentimento. Only I know the true shape and line of my body underneath. They obliterate their fictive muse with their output. This one here, number four, sees himself as a bit of an artist. Oh he’s a slippery one alright. Though not as slippery as me in my current emulsified state. His eyes shut, but every so often he flips them open to recalibrate his alignment to my reclining form. He touches up his perspective, to ensure he won’t be duplicating anyone who came before him upon me. Sharks and venomous snakes both lid their eyes at the moment of striking. This would-be raptor will be the same. Each time he adjusts the trajectory of his cockfeather anew, before proceeding to stroke his brush in imaginary swirls over my blank tableau. Part portrait, part landscape. Wholly still life beneath all their febrile kineticism.
He’s not alone, well for all this illusory communing with my body he is. What I mean is that each will have his eyes rammed shut at various intervals during their travails. Those muscles fashioning rictus seemingly networked with those drawing down the eyes’ shutters. I feel I almost need not be present. For how else are they going to be able to reconstruct this scene for later presentation? No, for each of them this is a one-off. A single-shot deal. Whereas for me, each detail is incised into my memory. Since my peepers remain wide open throughout. Taking everything in. Lapping up all within my greedy purview. Their single open eye, that which spits its depleted venom, does so in order to cry relief. Mine is sustained long after they have receded from my recollection. For I have harvested and collected their essences. The only time I miss a frame or two, is when these bulls score a direct hit straight into my eye. Then and only then do I reflexively flinch. My eye sockets are the only orifices available for their bombing runs. My mouth is firmly wedged shut and I breathe solely through my nose. The cushion under my head cants my nostrils downwards and to all intents and purposes beyond strafing. The inclination of my head means the gloop pools around my lips, but they stand strong as a levee, until the gush is tidal enough to leap over on its unerring way to the chin and then on to the estuary of my abdomen below. Besides, these clods seem tickled by watching their run off being funnelled by my collar bones and sluicing down to gather around the flattened escarpment of my breasts.
Though here is number five trying to buck my regimen. On his knees, not in worship, but rather trying to pinpoint his liquid tracer into my ear. He gleans he has found a secret tunnel entrance with his dowsing rod. Somewhere he can mine me deep for a conspicuous seam. He’s confounded by the wear and tear of his own body weight and soon forced to abort his Luke Skywalker act. Another diminished specimen, he jettisons his payload in my virgin scrub.
Coming thick and fast now, in terms of pace if not magnitude. Six’s eyes are inevitably also prised shut, suggesting wholesale involvement. In his image of me, burned on to his retinas and projected on the inside of his screened lids? I doubt it. For the rest of his face offers only vacancy. As if he discredited he was actually here at all, engaged in this occupation. For were he genuinely animated, it would assuredly be written in pinched and racked features. Like number seven gathered there at his and my shoulder. He who is stroking his throb with wedding banded finger. Tracing and totting his tree rings of wasted years. Yet his contorted face betrays him. The punishment he’s dishing out both to his wife and to himself, through my unresponsive form. His movements deviate between treating his shaft as sensitive weighing scales and slamming the spheres of an abacus. His dribble over me was derisory. He bows his head, almost on to the shoulder of his colleague, but he spins away in disgust.
And bringing up the rear, poised in line with my pelvis, numero eight. Left now on his tod, he seems so desperate, the way he thrashes and threshes his pecker. An urgency reinforced by his boxers and trousers being around his ankles. Either he was caught on the hop when his predecessor finished conducting his business and didn’t want to miss his allocated place, or his own voracious hunger was just too great to maintain decorum. See how he bends his knees, thrusting himself forward into the imaginary void above me? He is so desperate for a fleshy receptacle. I can see the incomprehension behind his eyes. He is playing out former routines plain and simple. Unable to stray from his prescription. With a risible flourish, he dips his hips towards mine again. A ridiculous plié with his faux tutu down around his shod feet. I remain unsullied and pure, the prima ballerina and you the poor coryphee troop off.
And so my conscripted firing squad give it their best shot. Unloading their full clip over me. But when the barrels of these organ grinding monkeys are stilled, I merely rise up from the floor, briefly admire my alabaster dripping self and recast my body. My Bonnie and Clyde lie over the ocean, but a hand towel brings back my bonny self to me.