CHAPTER I
"Prissy," he whispered. Tender. Exhaling the name: it pulling out as tail his most inner self; inhaling the sucking "s"es, being the spears she is thrusting into and through him: it is as it should be, so she intones wordlessly to herself, Exalt me!
The room was there as if it had been there only for her since time immemorial. It was a sanctuary, deceiving in its appearance as a hotel room. Only a look and she could read the script, etched in suffering inside the walls. Molecules of wood and plaster, wallpaper and the ravaging battles of heat and dryness - each and all spoke to her; beseeched her; prostrated before her.
"You are magnificent," said with throat-clenching dryness. It was as if his whole life had stopped, stopped as in memory, as in accessing previous feelings - for he has bedded many a woman, a list of Smithys, and he toted a satchel of ravenous feelings, but not now. Now was all and only Prissy: he is drenched by her; is impossibly nothing but her: her every movement, the slightest - just a slight smile! - is his movement, his smile.
"Come." Sound. Word. But more, movement of face. Mouth forming itself to become seducing vortex. Just the letters, each alone, afloat, landing upon him and re-assembling themselves. Re-assembling and in doing so C-tearing up, O-ripping apart, M-severing, E-gouging, in every way dismantling him: his heart, his eyes, his soul - towards her he comes, absolutely thrilled, as hard as he’s ever been hard: not aware of being not aware: she in a magical instant reclined upon the divan, in that magical instant she is Light, all manifesting Light: her flesh glowing cool white fire, her eyes sparkling, prismatic allure, her arms an embrace of suckling innocence .... by her, near her, falling down and in, falling into her, all consumed by the falling, allowing himself to fall, willing himself to fall, falling to fall: there is no halt, there is no end, there is no terminus, there is only ecstasy: into her: into her: into her ... "Just one look!" his being sings, accepts, surrenders ... inside her never to return, as in not-ever: to die, not symbolically, not metaphorically, not astrally, but really, truly: dead: obliteration, annihilation, consummation which is a savaging.
Void. Dark Vapors. Nihil: "Creatio ex nihilo!"
March Forbar was found dead, found by the maid as she came to make the bed, found dead, and "Dead," is all the coroner could articulate, for the young man was dead: not a heart attack, not a blow to the head, no sign of drugs, not suffocation, but, "Dead as I’ve never seen before. Totally relaxed. I think he was smiling!"
… Fervent Exultation.
Intimates: A Journey Towards Sacred Sexuality Page 31