Notes on the Orgasm

The orgasm is your invisible counterpart. She goes out in the world,
wreaking havoc.

The orgasm knows all things are animate. The houses groan with
grief and passion. Sometimes a mirror bursts from a wall and shatters,
no longer content with mere images.

The orgasm tells you to be careful or, in the language of orgasms, to
have fears. Orgasms thrive on danger.

The orgasm says we are all parts of herself. We are but launching pads
for her spiritual development. After she is done with us, she will be
ready for fucking angels.

The orgasm encourages us to let our minds wander. Usually this is
good advice, but sometimes she gets lost in thought.

When the orgasm tells you that you are a mere object of her scientific
research and the only real man on earth, the orgasm is slowly
dissecting your body.

The orgasm will peel you like an orange. You may feel exposed, raw,
even wounded. The orgasm wants you to live life without the rind.

The orgasm thinks people are like dresses. You don’t just buy the first
one off the rack. You try them on for size.

The orgasm tells you many stories. Some she will never finish. She
cannot help herself. She always lies. Such beautiful lies. You want them
all. Why would you need truth when you can have an orgasm?

Every now and then a casualty occurs. An orgasm accidentally injures
or murders a man. She is startled by the moans escaping from his lips
at this moment, so much like those of pleasure. She wonders if human
pain is a kind of celebration.

Sometimes the orgasm falls in love with you. She cannot tear herself
from your pungent flesh. For days you walk around, gasping for air.
You are in a state of constant excitement. One day the orgasm abandons
you. The entire world is reduced to a memory, a mere elegy to an
orgasm.

In a single sitting a hungry orgasm can consume a man, socks and all.
Women take more time.

Many dislike the speed of orgasm, the way she comes and goes and
takes all she can get. The orgasm cannot help herself. She has no
tomorrow.

According to the orgasm, there is no difference between real and imaginary
events. Everything is a secret message only she can decipher.

Often the orgasm tells you a story about you. About you and about
the secret powers lying dormant within you. She waits for you on
street corners and follows you down dark alleys, whispering your
name, softly, her hands passing continually over your hair, caressing
your bare shoulders. At night you sleep fitfully and dream of her. You
are unable to tell whether you are a dream of the orgasm, or if the
orgasm is a dream of you.

The orgasm is very happy to be an orgasm. Sometimes she wonders
what it would be like to be a man, sort of like the small boy who fills
a Mason jar with spiders, wondering what it’s like to be a fly.


by Nin Andrews