For Shane

The black goblet in the cabinet. When I rinsed it free of sticky champagne residue the day after Christmas, the sleek impenetrability of its design and color started me dreaming.

I imagined using the black glass to trap the issue from your sleek and impenetrable cunt, so I could swallow the intimate product of your forever hidden biomechanics in drunken mockery of my childhood, of every time Christ's blood burned my lips and stained my gullet at Saturday afternoon mass.

There's no god so cruel as desire, and no angel so sullen as obsession. Every Catholic boy wants to be crucified between the twin gallows poles of the madonna and the magdalene. The virgin is boring and the whore is defiled, but if he could only stitch them together with a blunt needle and surgical thread he might create the perfect mate, and they could Elsa Lanchester away into the Transylvanian wood one step ahead of all those angry peasants.

I dream of the car-crash magdalene, the valkyrie of the highways who swallows the crushed souls of drivers like they were transparent alien fish.

I dream of the leather magdalene, who sells me her pain, transsubstantiated into a neutralizing agent for my own guilt.

I dream of the stained glass magdalene, who opens my vein with her colorful jagged edges.

I dream of the switchblade magdalene, who stabs me so deep that all I feel is the implacabilty of erotic allegiance.

Imagine how startled I was when after casually dominating me one evening, toying with me in an unusually sadistic, chilly way, you smiled and stalked off to the kitchen. I heard the cabinet door open, and I saw your back as you walked into the bathroom and closed the door. I heard the uneven spatter as you pissed into something other than the toilet bowl.

When you came out with the black goblet in your hand, held forth for me to take, I thought you must be a demon. I knelt before you, staring up into your eyes, the heat of your body temperature warming the glass in my fingers. Before I could decide to hesitate, or to sip, I tossed my head back and swallowed the salty, bitter sacrament in one gulp. And decided to love, fear and hate you forever.

You grabbed my chin and spit in my mouth for the chaser, and from there its all a midnight movie feature seen through a smudged, druggy haze:

Was that me who made that sound?
Was that you who loomed above me so terrible and majestic, your arms taut and white and your features drawn feral as you raised the whip over your head for yet another blow?

Was that you who rubbed your thighs against mine as you assaulted me from behind, driving a toy cock that at least to me might as well have been your own back and forth in the sort of a fuck that makes a person just shut their eyes and watch the double helix spin like firefly embers whipped about in the hollow wind of a dying universe?

Was that me who cried for you to draw his own belt tighter around his neck, as your black hair fell across eyes glowing with savage arousal and you yanked yanked yanked until I came for just short of eternity and you smiled in cruel, smug triumph to see the glaze of hopelessly
intractable gratefulness and allegiance that clouded my eyes?

Was that you that shook beneath me as I felt the walls of your vagina contract around my hand as I traced serpent's tails around the soft, clear-tasting ring of your anus? Was that you whose soft breasts rolled so gently under my touch, as warm and fleeting as a kitten's kiss?

Was that us who turned emptiness into light, and then extinguished the candle by pressing it too quickly against our souls, leaving only black smears?

- David Aaron Clark

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Rob Roth for The Jackie Factory ©1995
Moved to mothernyc.com and updated February 2000