Aubrey Andromeda had Teutonic braids that glistened in the first-date sun like morning money. She lived in a city of Mitteleuropean surround-sound psyche-fog. I was dating her when she worked as a nude model at the art institute but then the life drawing sessions always turned into group therapy for her to talk about her parents. I was in the back of the class with my charcoal pencils and paper. She tore apart my drawings as they made her look too fat. She talked and talked during the sessions, and no one could draw her poses but the art students gave advice on how to handle her dysfunctional family of gods and goddesses. She got mad at me for that too. Her parents were divorced but her mom stalked her dad at his trailer and parked her wheelchair in front of his truck so he couldn’t leave his home, and the story affected culture, myth, operas hundreds of years later. I should have just jetted, fucked off out of the city of fog back to the “near beyond,” the fields where I came from. Instead I drew outlines of her, back in her tiny apartment in the hell-mansion by the canals and she was furious with how I rendered her. Her life drawings as they progress through the sketchbook become more detailed and developed, marking the variable distances between the model, the drawing, the inevitable painting, and some unattainable “ism” which the painting fits into.

In the hell-mansion by the canals in the city of fog every threshold between rooms was either a step up or a step down: no two rooms were built on the same level. It was like an ant’s nest inside. Secret passages opened behind the movable bookshelf. The board game mansion was riddled with secret passageways connecting distant corners of the house that, if mapped from bird’s eye view, made swastikas in the floor maps. Gyroscopes, trompe l’oeil paintings, totems, a single rotating hourglass on a gimbal in the contortionist’s boudoir which was “off-limits,” according to the landlord, but whenever I visited Aubrey at the hell-mansion she’d take me on tours around the place. She didn’t care. As Aubrey walked down the aisle in the private cinema her shadow fell on the velvet chairs and hydra-writhed as she moved. There had to be a person there, in motion, for this movement through time to be seen. Only one person. I the watcher am not there. There is something in the isolation tank with me, when I’ve been in there for a few hours — or is it days? some presence slithering.

The map room contained thick volumes of pages printed with magic squares bound in crocodile skin, shamanic divination guides in Batak which instructed Sumatran witch doctors in training to cut the wattle off a rooster, then right away put a basket over the lurching body, then how to interpret the position of the chicken corpse when you remove the basket — omens are read from the posture, the attitude of the wings and limbs evacuated of life will tell the future. Colonel Sanders a white-robed, white-goateed necromancer. 

Representation of true life is offensive and hurtful. Don’t ever tell a woman her body resembles something else. All non-grasping for metaphors of ugly pulchritude is recommended. Aubrey didn’t know she could become a piston of sex until it was happening, the discovery of the objekt quality of her body plus movement that only gets truly unlocked with a partner with the right dimensions, insistences, manipulations, legs thrown over my shoulders.

Women in my world wore no underwear and never saw gynecologists. Madwomen. The BDSM experiments: I will just say I didn’t like them although in the moment I participated big time. She liked receiving discipline. Kneading her ass cheeks with my open palms and then knuckles heavily, abusively. Pain massages. Rolling my fist around one of her glutes, hard, interspersed with lighter than air feather caresses on her nerve-endings with my fingertips. Then a series of cupped strikes on her ass-cheek that would pop and ring out throughout her floor of the hell-mansion. Caused her to cum. Spanking, lots of spanking. She wanted to edge me, but I told her I didn’t want to be under her control. I privately found her personality in these modes to be ridiculous and obnoxious.

We break into this office in the hell-mansion with red and black maps on the walls, all velvet. We don’t know who the desk belongs to, but it is big and oak with gold fittings. I eat her out in the office chair, her legs spread over the arms of the chair, then I trigger the pneumatic lever which drops her down to my level with a yelp. After I enter her, instead of thrusting my body, I use my strength to roll her on the chair toward me and away on its casters, pulling and pushing her and using her while I kneel there as still as a statue. She moves on my power cable dick. When I pull out to cum on her stomach what comes out is thick wads of cotton or the smoke-seed puff that comes out of a crushed cattail. I’ve never seen this before and this happenstance is a temporal marker, a signal for me that this is taking place in a nightmare and what is to follow, the next stages of life, will be inescapable. She’s angry and insulted that I don’t cum inside her, but I’m terrified of pregnancy even though she’s on the pill, her one concession to seeing a gynecologist. She accuses me of neglecting to orgasm inside her because I’m ashamed of her appearance and said, “You’d risk pregnancy if I were better looking,” and it sets off a cascade of arguments and recriminations. She questions my manhood, insinuates I’m a fag, and calls me a little bitch which she apologizes for weeks later. 

We break up when I can no longer pull her hair. I never pulled my ex-wife’s hair during sex, just held it like a slack harness. I held Aubrey’s hair back hard, animalistic, fighting with her scalp like I was marlin fishing; she clearly wanted me to. Nightmare sex. In a porn video I recall, when the porn actress is going “please…please…please” while being railed, staring into the man’s eyes: What is she talking about? What’s she verbalizing, or is it just acting? He stops and says, “I’m doing it to you! What is this ‘please’ business?” Aubrey would do this too. Say please. But I never thought to ask her.

The porn actresses talk dirty to the men fucking them and yet still remain unknown, unknowable, undiscoverable countries likened to death. He causes feminine pleasure as a caveman triggers a lethal avalanche but otherwise did not know how to “enact”: impossible to break through the phallocentrism of pornographic inscription, scripts of porn. It’s off-limits to men, as porn actors or as cuck witnesses. “Please” during sex is maximum incandescence, the écriture feminine representing the female body and questioning the male-oriented thought process which suppresses female voice. To say please for something not guaranteed, to threaten that you might not please her, opens a potential of unpleasure, “lack.” 

I spent a lifetime until I learned that my soul was set on different soul-paths according to whether I jerked off with my left or right hand, or brought off by another vampiric succubus of energy. The handedness determined the direction my soul traveled during the next instance of falling asleep after orgasm: All of the directions were bad but there was a distinction to the varieties of inner terrain I thought I could see. As many forms of unhappiness as there were forms of lust, categories of arousal, and the women in the pornographic visual aids or the women who like Aubrey were my real-life sexual partners were collectors of jewelry made from my pneuma substance that was not substance, so no scientists were willing to study it no matter how hard I or my sike nurse practitioner’s AI medical assistant looked. I spent real psychic coinage on studying under my own recognizance the coherence or incoherence of my world make-believe system. Maybe Dr. Vern, Aubrey’s shrink who was later murdered, could have helped me with this.

Women were mad that Andromeda needed to be rescued. Disempowered mythical beings needed revision by folklore collectors and redactors. The sike meds in the palm of Aubrey’s hand resembled the constellation Andromeda, damosel in distress chained in place needing to be saved from neuropsychiatric krakens. Between the question and the reply and the reply to the reply there is a falling off of irony, a désengagé kill-step. Tone-games. How dare you give a serious answer. Comedians only in the replies.