Beauty Idiot

I think best, and remember best, when a woman seizes my cock.  Her containing my cock allows me to grasp one ridiculous and tautological fact: we all are clasped. 

            I clutch my life, which seems to consist only of memories of women clutching me.  The women, they're all gone now, but that's what I hold—my memories of their confining me.  And also my memories of being removed from them.  Around in circles I go, jabbering like an idiot, like Zippy the pinhead.  Gabba gabba hey. 

            With sex, that's what happens, gibberish from me, gabba gabba hey hey gabba gabba.

            Taken in, then released from safekeeping, custody.  It makes us crazy.       

            With women and sex, it's as if I'm escaping from a prison, through a small opening I've cut in the wall and I must be sure, absurdly, to load up all I can carry, to muster the heaped treasure of my life through this narrow portal—and who knows what's on the other side, after all my exertion? 

            Maybe it's only her still-moving hips, gripping me.  

            Yes. 

            But can I carry my life with this new and heavy memory of her as she clenches me?  Can I take all my past experiences and my snatched and fattened cock to yet a new place, a new woman?  

            I can.  Her seizing me allows me to seize myself. 

            Or is it to only know I've been seized by another, once again? 

            No idea.  Confusing. 

It's just that my cock exists to be gripped by her.  Only when she holds it can I keep myself.  I am clasped, and can remember it, and in this I find myself belonging.   

            I guess.

            It's a thrill to have something to remember.  It's a thrill to be gripped and apprehended; that's what spurs me to recollect and tell.  Her grip on me is as good as my vise-like memory.  It might even constitute my memory, for I find nothing else but this gripping. 

            My narrative is strong because she is strong with her hips.  She will be tight and fierce—to enable me to remember everything.  Her hips she will move vigorously.  It's all I will carry. 

            I know I keep her, for she guarantees it.  There is no escape for me and the whole damn world, as I take it all in.  She beats her hips with great energy—for she too is very greedy to be seized.  So it goes, our telling each other more tales, finding more of ourselves connected, as if we're being bricked up in a wall which we hope never to escape.    

            And as she releases me after all her motion, I believe I am able to keep everything by being entombed.  I am emptied; I am full and captured.  Funny. 

Yet she is gone.  I guess I'm gone from her too, and I wonder if she thinks of me.  Probably not, for I told her she was no different than any other woman I'd known.  This was said as a supreme compliment to her, because she had helped me be part of them all again, part of the world in its incorporation of me.  "From your gripping," I said to her,  "you took a hold of me and presented me, like everyone does." 

            She enjoyed what we'd done, though these words of mine didn't quite appeal to her.  She found, in being with me, she didn't wish to be part of everything else; but for me, that was all that mattered.  I just wanted to be fitted into something bigger.  She wanted to stand tall in me, and she did, except I was telling her she was part of everything else.  I didn't love her, she guessed.  As she left, I told her again I was fitted in, apprehended. 

            She didn't say, No, you're not.  I've found that the women rarely say this, for they know to argue would be mistaken.  They know where I'm coming from.  They are coming from the same place, but it's too hard to say.  They're women, after all, leaving their new lover, trying hard to be strong, be above it all, in our current times of recurrent and endless discarding.     

I keep nothing as I carry everything.  My memory holds it all, as I lose it.  Her grasping me makes me grasp much and huff loudly and forget everything.  Nothing to keep, everything to hold.  Escape from detention, though there's nothing to run from.  She's the same way.  Gabba gabba hey.  Round and round we go in our longing and losing. 

            We might run into each other on the other side, after I escape through the wall, away from my isolation where I was sure I would languish after she left, although that's never happened, not yet—I've never run into any of them, to commiserate, on the other side.

            Much to seize, much to carry as I am carried by someone who is gone.  Someone who is sure I don't think of them, don't commemorate them, though I do.  I remember so well as I am held.  Holding is what allows it, returns it to me.