Smelling the rose that the beautiful beast tossed in my face. I think it smells like vagina cum or box wine. Or like breath from a growl.
A woman lying with spread legs, and wind coming from her pussy (mini-me, down there, punani, mouse, vajayjay, ho ha, hi ha, haha). It might be dry, large, grey, trimmed, bald, curious, red-haired, curly, open, but I don’t know because I never saw it. The wind from her crotch is force that fills the room. Someone covers his ears (it is an older man, he is wearing a shirt, he looks at everything).
How do you want to lick someone’s pussy?
We can shake our fat, and read poetry about pedophilic fantasies. Can suck up someone’s heart into our uterus and penetrate the system. Can celebrate, dress in leather straps and head bang together with a sister. Call out to all witches and sluts and fuckers and devils out there that we welcome.
Was your chair wet when you left?
Play with your tits, play with your friends. Play with words and the rhythm. Play like you dream. Play with your thoughts. And sound like a monstrous creature.
Do you rape inside the box?
Toss your spell on me and put on some hard rock. But please, respect that you can see me naked and remember me forever, but you can’t take photos. This moment is all about you and me and the compassion among us all.
Do you get turned on when I suffer?
Getting there, yes, more, now Now NOW MOOOOOOOOOORE. YES! YEEES!!! And then we hug and I calm you by striking your back and you pet my head. We stand close and we are united. As we were when we rocked the start by inviting to the ceremony and giving salvation slowly. Increasing expectations. Moderating our sphere that is ours together. How do we want it, and what did we get?
Do you feel threatened or stimulated?
Isn’t the thing with fantasies that they are not real? So don’t be scared.
Elinor Tollerz Bratteby