Once, there was a vacancy in my life filled by a woman named Stasia. One could say, with all conviction, that I loved her. Not in the sense of romantic notion "love" but lustful, sophist love, an all consuming passion. Stastia found me in the worst moments of my life, or I may have found her, I'm not sure of the sequence of incident- nevertheless, she was the flower that any man could ever dream, the flower between her legs that all men desired. In the most humane manner, her matter was one of complete instability, as an alkaline, dodgy she was and her untrusting nature took into me all the mystery I've ever wanted to seek anywhere in this world.
Stastia came one night in arousing pleasure and was unable to cum the next from ennui of what she distasted as ordinary. All methodology to please her was asymmetric, bizarre, even to me, but it was that creativity needed to satisfy her that I aspired to. It was habitual that Stastia fell for dishonest men, it is why she loved the artist; she believed us all to be partial, fickle, willing to debase in the sacrifice of art. A muse to my poem, she became my art in language, my art in the night, lying beneath me, her legs spread wide and the other thrown over one of my legs as I thrusted deep into her deep tunnel that held a stricture to cause me the convulsion within me to become uncontrollable. The hysteria of her womb somehow infected me as a venereal ailment, a possession of a demon who lived once for the orgasm and died for it, wished to be resurrected from the dead to suffer, if only once more, the paroxysmal spasm that was the price of that very prior life. The French kiss, venturing centuries from point of origin, found its way to her mouth, to my phallus, Kate Chopin, Anais Nin, both played the ancestresses to the stroke her palm made on a moist shaft created by her saliva.
There were others lovers, perhaps many others in Stastia's life, but she embraced in coitus as if her first time, the only time, her last, she gave everything for the transcendence that sex should be set upon. One could never enjoy the anticipation of her arrival which was always a mystery, but she showed, demanded all accumulation of desire with her insatiable appetite, feasted as an Epicurean beast until she left a skeleton of me, until all matter of lust had been released from me into her mouth. She was nourished on sperm and with the engagment, it may have been all she wanted to be fed. Napoleon, when exiled on the island of St. Helena, in his last dying days, refused all food, all water, and only wished to devour Vin de Constance. Stastia's Vin de Constance, her sweet elixir, her maidera, was sperm itself.
I've only broken the hearts of women who've seen it coming; but Stastia had long broken her own heart in an endeavor to access that ultimate transcendence brought on by coitus. Stastia, as Chagall, sought to destroy the material world and rebuild, reconstruct it from the inside out with the technique of sex and the psychic itself. She brought new fervor to my bed every time I laid her upon it to resign myself from my formal studies to informally study the nature of her. Sex of the old was of no interest to her; the Pygmalion in her wouldn't allow it to take form in her- it was all of complexity, of raw effortful eroticism that lived, as love can't, permanently, somewhere in the flush button.
Stastia was Chagall to me in the most feminime, the essentialist that advanced through sexual revolution, the robber of the sky, the beauty forsaken in dithyramb to conjure all pleasure to fall from some lustful deity in that same sky she braved when cumming, when in afterglow, when the refractory subsided and she again would succumb to the tatters of new desire. Transcendence is an interloper ideal, not defined by definite definition, it is a borrowing of ideal, scrapped-book philosophy, science. Nature itself cannot exist if not biodiversed, if not supernaturally injected. Someone must first fall to prove that they can stand. Stastia stood in a way where she needed sex to be as Monet needed trees, Chagall needed his bella. The body is a mechanism that can never be manipulated quite right, so in sex, transcendence must be the aim which spring forward into what is sensual. If the female autoerotic titillates herself magnificently, she will be burdened with repeat self-performance, to continue her art of hypoxyphilia, subconsciously she knows that whatever magic poured into her blood as an opiate, that drug can be much more potent and that potency is the central theme in which becomes her focal, an irrevocable conundrum that she must solve if she is to ever again cum to cumulus.
Subject to premonitions, Stastia shook the Euclidean, causing shockwaves in the celestial sphere, paled her double in the parellel universe, changed her structure as often a protozoa, restless, relentless. She was the Venus in fur that Leopold von Sacher Masoch spoke of, that "all women are cruel in love," and if that love is cruel, then her temperament should mirror it. A better love comes from pain as a better life is sought after one has slept at the foot of the ladder.
One must suffer in order to attain the full measure of art; Stastia was that artist, the artist of form, interwoven physiological matrix, a decadent art that pushes one more outside of the present world, a way to subsist in the bland of habitual. If the archetype of the promiscuous is that of the whore, then in transcendence, beneath the whore the ordinary world exists, echo again silenced by for her continuum, the anomaly that makes of all men of good intentions, beast, upon their defeat to shamelessness.
Art is measuring the sky, climbing up as far as gravity would allow and climbing higher. In 1971 a man strung a wire between the towers of Notre-Dame Cathedral. For three hours, he walked and juggled along that high strung wire. This feat was repeated again between the world trade towers of New York City, between the northern pylons of the Harbour Bridge in Sydney, across the Great Falls of Paterson, New Jersey, between the spires of the cathedral in Laon, France and the Superdome in New Orleans, nine months after a forty foot fall from an inclined wire that saw him break several ribs, collapse a long, shatter a hip and decimate his pancreas. His name was Phillippe Petit.
In his own effort, Petit sought to measure the tolerance of gravity's leniency, never making a penny, nor garnering fame, all in the sake of art. It is perhaps incomprehensible to many why a man would risk his life for art; art exacts its price. Stastia's tight rope she walked was sex itself, on an incline. She placed her body on the line to live in suspended gravity to reach that transcendence that haunted her from the moment her libido first bloomed. And though Petit died without a legacy to show he ever existed, Stastia's leacy was the ghost in the eyes of all men she seduced, in my eyes.
Women of my life resemble artist as sex resembles art in its most exquisite human motion. However, in art, the female form is only a caricature, it is ever-evolving and cannot be truly or fully captured in its fullness or identical likeness. It is a portrait that can never be, a transitory beauty that makes of the endeavor to capture it, brilliant beauty.
The naked body is the truth beneath layers of many others. It relies on nothing to be told, relies on nothing to be echoed and in its independence, its own individuality, then there is utter dedication to the art of body gesture, of quintessential motion. Art is a gradual and slow growth, then a sudden, tremendous upsurge and one finds a fate that births the next. Stastia's virtue was the door to the fate she surpassed with every instance she suffered orgasmic death and death, that single moment, was the fulcrum fire she danced around to, being pulled centripetal with every flushed convulsion of her body.
Dontrell Lovet't
