1. The Orgasm is written with a sacred capital "O." The fleeting sensation that runs from one corner of my body to the next with its sticky tail on fire. But the Orgasm is bred in captivity--nurtured and cared for by only a few. Even I at times wish to disengage from this current that puts me at odds with the demands of my femininity. The Orgasm has a trademark stench.
2. The Orgasm laughs at my hands as I try to grasp it and slaps my tiny white knuckles when I try to stuff its volume inside me. It is our God-given right--is it not? For every human being to feel explosions in their belly. The fumes float upward to my brain.
3. How many? How pungent? How long do they last? How long until I catch one? I've set my trap: the pathetic lace of my brassiere, the tired curve of my hips, the gracelessly intoxicating scent of my perfume. I am a girl that has yet to catch the animal.
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| Bathers, Andre Derain |
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