“You might imagine, as I would have if it had not happened to me, that a near-zombie girl would just stand there like a big blow-up doll. Not at all. I am a seemingly will-less creature, and let me tell you, it takes a great deal of will to resist sex. All living things are designed for it. It is their singular purpose. There was no doubt about this in my body. Horny as any bitch in heat, I was down to the basics. I was consumed with a slimy, single-celled reproductive certainty, swamped with a kind of glandular ecstasy. I couldn’t fight it. I wanted to crawl up the wall. The world turned hot and juicy.
Imagine that you are eating a peach and it begins eating you back. That’s how surprised Alain was when the laconic object of his attentions mounted a counter attack. I wanted to devour him, and I don’t mean metaphorically. This is the point at which murder takes place—murder or self-immolation. This is the lust that kills. Remember the praying mantis, the black widow spider, crimes of passion and desire? But, something inside me—some ancient parasitic wisdom—prevented me from devouring him. It did not stop me from trying to swallow his tongue. The drooling thought “deliciousness” popped into my head, and my salivary glands sprang a leak.
Meanwhile, I had become a balloon. All my hormones adjusted their levels and discharged. I was enflamed and unstoppable. My breasts, which I have already explained, were plenty large, seemed to swell. My womb seemed to have opened up like an umbrella, the blood in it beating like a big vodoun drum. I imagined my lips splitting, oozing blood; breasts spilling milk; innards raining spicy mucilage. I was caught in my own monsoon. I wanted more.
More, it seemed, wanted me, too. I could feel it making a case for itself between my legs at the Ark of the Grand Central Orifice. Taking a deep breath, that collapsed our cheeks, I sprang, wrapping my legs around Alain’s waist. Like a prizefighter caught by hard right hook, he staggered and very nearly fell. To his athletic credit, he managed to retain his balance. Then we became a kind of carnival balancing act, a two-torsoed creature waddling into the bedroom where we turned and collapsed onto the bed, which, in turn, collapsed under our weight. Kaboooooom.
Now Alain was beneath me, his face under mine, his lips pink and tasty. I slipped into the saddle, slid onto that brilliantly designed, perfectly sculpted horn. What a ride we had then, my pony and I. Alain was watching me with a mixture of terror and desire. He could no more stop than a male mantis can shake its amorous mate. I was a pole dancer sliding up and down, a jillaroo bouncing along in the outback, a frigate ship tossed on the Cape of Good Horn. Straddling him, both hands on his chest, I rode him into the sea. I was in some kind of organic nirvana. Mandalas and kaleidoscopes were opening up like flowers deep inside me. Waves of purple and pale chartreuse, plumes of iris and swamp grass scrolled past my upturned eyes. Lust flashed giddy tattoos all over my flesh in a rose-red flush. I couldn’t actually hear it, but I was wailing like a cat in heat, my caterwauling sailing up and out the window, turning heads all along the canal. The big dopamine hit mushroomed up and into my brain. “Oh, oh, oooooh,” I crooned as the dike burst and the waters of the Isslemeer came in, flooding Amsterdam.
I think it was good for him, too. He lay still for a moment, his face in a grimace. “God,” he said gazing up at me in a kind of adulation. “God, that was good. What exactly are you on?” he wondered aloud and put his hand over his eyes.
I sat looking down on him, my body suffused by a delirious glow. A silky endorphin parachute was carrying me back to the bed. I was paralyzed and couldn’t move. Not unusual for me, but I had also found peace and a strange form of union. In Alain, I’d touched some lost part of myself. I was transformed forever. That’s how I became Alain’s slave.”