Henry is not put off easily. He demands my passion no matter how much he
mourns Laurie fucked last month.

Frustration as blank walls fitted together in a maze show his thrashing. I
ask him everyday how it feels to be taken and left aroused without climax.
That question suits Henry. He wants to know how it feels to fuck as a
woman. Henry, my husband Aaron and I make love individually and as pairs
but beg to know more than anyone can ever know about another human being.
We invite other women. They come and divide us. We are the best couple
alive.

Having both Henry and Aaron (the first I love and the second I desire) is
not just doubling, but also a flood of sex with indivisible math as the
puzzle. It is beyond the nth period and when I was pregnant I did not need
to know the identity of the father. When Sarah was born, we knew. Henry
loved that she resembled Aaron. He is the better man, he said.

Henry appears inside the dark

At forty-nine almost 50 Henry was robust and certainly not old. His soon to
be anniversary of life would become one clasp of hands fitted to death. He
would love his lover Laurie in 1992. In 1993 she would be resurrected and
survive kidnap, torture, rape and loving a man other than Henry. Henry did
grieve. Aaron and I consoled him.

Part II

Henry dressed as any ordinary fifty-year-old of the sixties worn
jeans and tee shirt in summer and a sweater or sweatshirt in winter. His
costume was perfectly neat and untidy.

“How can I ever joke,” Angela softly laughed.

“I’m cold blooded. Laurie’s missing for six months and we seek out another
chapter of sex and nostalgia together. We are truly sick as we remember
Laurie joining our three-way. She always added delicious deceit to the
fucking. She would pretend to come and then come when not obvious. She
would make Aaron crazy and me into a lunatic wanting to feel her mouth on
my sex. Now, we create dear ghosts that resemble her and fuck them all in
our delusions.

“Henry’s pissed,” I whispered, How dark. I love it

What song, Henry’s bellow like dirge. I can bear his soft touch on my ass,
and the fuck knows I want him to push inside my cunt with his thumbs.

So beautiful is heat. Estrus. No conscience. The Beasts do it without any
restraint. I want to be a beast. I have fucked them. That shocks some.

Animals bear it well. What puns I bury in the silent thing, my thought, as
the bard dear Will would prophecy madness if I made my self come with just
a thought, cool against my mouth. I did it years ago before I really knew
what it all meant. I did it when I was nine. I did it with my daddy. I did
it when my mother watched television sitting next to me. She never knew. I
was twelve as “I skittered” as I called it.

When I was at the stable, I’d imagine that black satin horse. I loved how
he took the mare, out at the barn, where I hid, not allowed to watch by the
hands. I watched as they jerked the horse off into a huge condom. Later, I
snuck into his stall and felt his cock and he reared up and I ran away.
When I rode him that next time he spoke to me about his hardon. I imagined
it. When I fucked my father I saw myself inside his hands on the bed
watching porn with him a dear dirty girl. That is what he called me when he
was drunk.

Mother said it was OK for me to watch the horses breed. I was not innocent.
The Hands deny that I am female, yet I have heard them speak of me as a
piece of ass. They forget that I speak perfect French.

Jacques, the oldest hand, actually rubbed the horse’s cock to get him
going. What a huge thing it blew. He was wild sausage with a black skin.
“Noire EST beau. “Fantasique, je pense.”

Do something, Henry. Stop rubbing my ass. I thought all of this before we
got up from our bed. It made me think of Laurie, tracking backward. Henry’s
obsessed with the child. I want the animal Henry in side your heart.

I should have protected Henry from Laurie when she modeled at twelve. I
knew she was a witch, a lovely one, and safe, not hurtful, just not the
innocent maiden, nobody believed that, but he was taken in, a fifty year
old veteran of war and death, like a child, in her lips, a teenager in bed
or out.

Laurie devoured Henry and Aaron and she had me alone or with them just by
showing me how easily she could touch the surface of the water.

Henry makes Aaron tame, although I like my artist more, but no man would
ever perfect my act, and Henry’s gentle; Aaron’s rough, the opposite of
what you might think. Now, Laurie was violent, and I am soft opposite. And
her other egos: Sheila, Beatrice, and Ariel.

Yes, love with them all, well she had more life, and not in prison, and no
one can stop it. Can’t they see she didn’t murder them, and how did she
survive? I admit I like it both ways. I suppose it’s wonderful that
Laurie’s probable death was irony pushed by Aaron and I back to Henry
within his blow on my clit I saw Laurie sucking my cunt too. She smiled but
there was blood on her hands and face, and I wondered why a child screamed
as if just born.

I waited for Henry and all to rain. What storms they bruised when limbs
were fouled in the wings we collapse so bitter, as a shaken stick; its
breeze was too much surf, as black night waves, white tipped, under the
half moon, on a stony abandoned beach hidden away on an awful shore– a
place not born from this planet or any I could have known outside death.

Sex was my abused star. It’s an illuminated shore where the search for
trapped names flies away as the kicking race of feet or a wooden ship
struck magically as irony by the beach.

The ship drowns, the spirit lives, and the man or yes, the woman, as I am,
comes like the dense flutter at the center of the earth’s core.