Esoteric Lust

A statue of a woman, especially if she is naked, may be spared in times of upheaval, unless men, pricks par excellence, become dumber than usual, or time chips away pieces of her grandeur. There is nothing more beautiful than a beautiful woman, except perhaps a tree bearing fruit or standing erect like a good prick. There are no good pricks as far as I know, but I will pretend that there are at least two, although one of them seems to be dying from loneliness after having discovered that almost everything taught is a lie repeated enough times to become a truth. Lies abound like the stars in a moonless night.

There is nothing more beautiful than a beautiful woman, although beauty involves taste and unfortunate media- and mass-driven opinion and dogma. But this is almost fiction, or almost reality, and it is already set, the story, albeit it needs more words and a beginning, and, of course, an end. Well, the latter can be left open like a picturesque pussy. There is no lust without pussy in some close vicinity, either imagined or tangible, although the touchable and loveable pussy is preferable by a light year. Unlike the teetering prick, the pussy is esoteric at every angle and more beautiful than a Hawaiian sunset.

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Athena, like the goddess, was breathtaking even with her eyes closed. I could rarely close mine given her Grecian gorgeousness. It was unique, and so was her pussy. It is still out of this world, but I am outside her triangle now that I have become redundant. I still remember her angles; all of them, and there were more than three. Athena incorporated several triangles, which from above, on the ceiling mirror, looked like a circle. She was the circle of lust, but I loved her, especially in sunless afternoons when she became both the Sun and the Moon. The stars paled in comparison. She was every one of them.

I would spread her legs with my eyes at first before she would smilingly proceed to overspread them for our benefit, I had rapidly surmised, allowing me to lose myself between her uneven lips. There is no real beauty in symmetry. Picasso surely knew it. One breast is often larger than the other, yet together they form a poetic perfection, only understood by the gods and goddesses who never presented themselves as divine. Each nipple commands both love and attention before the clitoris becomes the eye of the Cosmos. Each pussy lip is a tasty petal, announcing unbowed that many other parts are going to bloom.

Athena was a tree and I was a ray, although light was mostly elusive from my stem. I was influenced more by the underlying darkness around our lives, except when I was near her and in her in different ways and paths. Many tried to turn their darkness into light, but it was either blinding or a lie in disguise. Her pussy was tight around my nose and then my tongue that tried to lick her deep inside and feel the warmth of such a love. Lost lust may become love in sunless afternoons. What about lost love? someone may ask. It rarely becomes lust given the loss. Cemeteries are lined with such losses, like thirsty tongues.

Between your pussy

and your clitoris lies my

tongue glued to Heaven’s

tip where silent angels sing

about lust becoming love.

Athena loved my words, moaning as her clitoris became aware of being part of the meaning of life, for me, that is, a prick who may have known better. The Cosmos is a pussy that stretches to near infinity with a clitoris that pulsates, keeping time until the birth of a baby cosmos. I was pussy-intoxicated, tipsy from so much beauty traversing me at every place that felt her grace. My hands caressed her breasts and the length of her thighs and legs all the way to her feet and warm toes. One of my fingers, probably the middle, ventured into her anus to announce that my lust turned love needed even more of her.

Do you see what I mean? I felt complete in those sunless afternoons. It was not as esoteric as I thought or perhaps implied. Athena’s pussy became what it was meant to be and become, and my lust and love merged into happiness. I was happy with her, but her life needed so much more than just me. Only some of us are content with the one. I was and remain such a prick. I only need one beautiful woman to feel that life is worth living. It is not a tall order, but a pussy is more practical than a prick. Blissful reverie is an afternoon elation. The sea and the sky are not required facing the meaning of life.