Equations: Dialectic Form (2021)

#17
The problem is that the Devil is in Trish. What he teaches her is that by
withholding herself, she makes herself more enticing. So Trish gives and
retreats, gives and retreats. She retreats into other guys, other situations,
other modes of being. Her fortress can only be taken by force. As she
stands before me, blonde hair going part of the way down her back, her
long, thin, snaky body is proud of its sovereignty over my existence. There
are lights in her blue eyes that have blackness in them, a way she tosses
her head to express pure disdain. It takes me eight months of sweat to
really have her, and once she is had I sweat to keep her. The only vengeance
I can take for the trials she has put me through is by the force of my
thrusts when we make love; she always leads me to a tremendously
hell/heaven climax. And this is sex about art; she’s the prize, Muse, vixen.
She lives in a house in West Philly with a bunch of other artists. When I
write her my odes, it is to whip her into shape. The diabolical strain
remains within us, because Trish loves to set up moods of transgression.
She does little snake-dances to excite me, snake-twists to heighten our
pleasure, and drugs and booze subsist that make the entanglement hinge
on escapism. That is one of Trish’s major equations: let’s escape together.
Let’s pretend nothing exists but us and our devilish pleasure. Let’s play a
game in which I tease you into mauling me to death, and you come with
such force that you almost go around the pill. Let’s tempt fate. It always
works because her long, thin body is a stark hunger and a mad craving for
me.
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