Dante’s Inferno

Here, on a path. either through Hell or to Hell, we spy the bottom halfs, rooted like plants. Are they dead or alive? I don’t know because I have never made it through the inferno. Can they be ravaged like the little dead bats, spoken of in a previous post, maybe? Does the traveler go from, torso to torso, squatting over their opening- doing squats to penetrate?
Who knows! Is it better that he does not know their faces? Some people need a face. Pleasure is found there. Others think it is distracting. I have found so many images , in this search for you, Dear Collector, where face after face is obscured by mask or fabric. Is it the face they do not want or just the moment where it is revealed…? Will the traveler dig through the dirt.. pull out a face… or will he sit road side and watch this sort of inverted can-can until he’s threw?

Angel

The male angel. The contested genders of angels. In the early 20th century, at St. John’s Cathedral of the Divine, the same sculptor as that of Mt. Rushmore, gets in a nasty fight. He insists that angels are female and the authorities insist they are male. It creates a public debate. Why the investment?

I originate from an era where the gender of angels appeared equitable – distributed between all of the female and male souls. Nonetheless, cherubs confound. Their genitals lost in fat and feathers.

This angel is clearly male. The men desire him. Let us imagine that.

In colonial Peru, paintings of male angels abounded. They are handsome and round-faced with wings and guns.

The surface of the vagina

This is an illustration from a book on a specific doll collection.

I include her because of the volume of her dress.

I once read that Victorian men loved the bustle and hoops because of what it did for them in public. Because the legs were so hidden, because the form was impossible to discern, the mass became the form. The larger the mass the larger the durface of desire. It was, it claimed, as if the vagina itself, had become the entire skirt.

bears

When I worked in a sex shop in Seattle, large, bearish couples would come in and try collars on one another. They would gamble about in the collar and they would try whips too. “How does this feel? “OOoo!” The other would reply. I found this hard to take for some reason. I would gladly answer questions about fistfucking or watch an eighty year old lady try a ballgag on for size. I did not like watching the couples whip eachother. I was not against it. It just seemed that they needed my audience and I didn’t think I was there for that. I wish they had actually been bears with chains. I wish they had looked something closer to this picture. Than I would have watched, as I dialed the number of the local animal protection agency.

bats

These bats are writhing in their formal death throws.

But if you uncurled the female bats from their last thrashing in the snow what would be revealed, is a torso that is nothing other than a miniature female torso covered in dark fur. The bat breasta are firm and large compared to her small waist. Her bat pussy – that is another thing all together. You can’t enter it. Its the first time any human man wished his penis were smaller . Small enough to enter the dark haired bat without wrecking her fine torso, her little organs.

Instead, he can only take a fine small tongue to the bat’s beginning. (Isn’t this where everything begins? So sez Courbet) It is out of this world. You lap her up. You taste what? Ahundred night flights? Fruit sucked and suckled in darkness? A hundred day dreams in a hundred caves? Not really. You taste an animal who has never cleaned herself, never been tasted- only eaten in the south pacific. They eat her whole body there and then die later of brain ailments. But your only going to taste her. What color are the lips? What does she taste like?

Surgical operation

Again, there is the position of the person who never has access to bodies or images of bodies. She is in a strange cave- a cave called her body – where no image enters – so desire originates, hits the interior wall of the self and ricochets back towards the center again.

So when the crude sketch of a crude surgery appears – desire colonizes something that is more about wounds than touching. Jean luc Nancy’s invective about the touch is millenium away from our protagonist, who has finally found relief in the accidental. An accidental that builds a sex that is about destruction and repair, one’s illness and another’s heroics. The shock and pleasure of entering a wound.

Our protagonist wants to ask a little too heatedly: “What’s it like, doctor… the first time a blade sinks in?” I think that’s considered a rude question.

As illustrated by previous posts, I am interested in an erotic/pornographic imaginary that has yet to be familiar to me and others.

Here, a woman writhes in black liquid – and because she is beautiful and the scattered flan and artful posture imdicate a sexual possibility- let’s pretend its orgasmic fluid – the color of squid ink.