Author: Mary Sativa (underground comix diva Sharon Rudahl).

About: Classic title from Ophelia, starring a woman who makes love while under the influence of no less than seven different controlled substances (not all at once; she lingers in magnificent fashion.)

Excerpt:

“Hey, just choose one.”

I pick a cover that appeals to me, an earth-motherly face, flowing white garments. Indian music. Jesse puts it on the turntable for me.

Intricate golden notes fill up the atmosphere of the room, create their own dense, rippling space. My body, arms and hands move to the music; dripping colored afterimages, like trailing iridescent ribbons, follow every gesture. Jesse's body is golden and smooth, each curve responding to some subtle ideal of form. He and the room take on the quality of the music, ceremonial and erotic, the deep mystery of images complete in themselves.

A pageant of the Eastern gods is unfolding as I dance naked towards his naked body. The wheel of creation and destruction, things of surface and illusion dying into purer being. We are the perfected. Changing yet unchanging in annulled time. I dance toward him and each moment is lost, unremembered. The surface of his body is smooth and cool as metal, as stone. He sits cross-legged, motionless, radiant and removed, the child-like smile of absolute knowing, knowing beyond words, peace that is not static but flowing. He and change are embraced in rapture, he contemplates his birth and death with a golden smile.

Reverently, I touch his shoulders and chest, the tight bud of his penis, touch it lightly, watching it swell and rise, filling with its own energy, coming forth huge and erect, rooted in his peaceful body. It sways with the music and the passion and energy pouring into the room. I dance to it, invoke it, stroking lightly with my hands and lips.

Lightly he takes my shoulders and I climb on to his lap, crossing my legs behind his back. The record changer is playing the last half of the record over and over, in response to our needs. But always unfamiliar and now, infinitely complex. I am wet and open, I am cool and removed, creator of worlds. His prick is huge and living in me, I feel its veins and the pulsing of blood, it fills me and makes me solid and complete. I sit on his lap, his hands are on my hips, moving me gently to the music, I dance with my arms and hips, twisting slightly to the complex beats of drum and flute and sitar. We are carved from stone, we are molten gold. His hair shoots sparks of joy on my cheeks and shoulders. Peaceful and whole together we dance, our movements sliding his vast hard phallus into my depths, fluttering, sucking into me, then slightly withdrawn, hard and smooth in short jolts deep in me, the swollen pounding head swaying as we rock slightly from side to side. Around us, worlds are born and fall, images dance with us, strange animals and shapes echo our desire and glow brighter with stabs of pleasure. I look into his eyes, cool glittering blue and grey and gold, my face not touching his, breathe his breath, he is a mirror reflecting some other form of me, I am his cock deep inside myself, I am our one locked body moving in its perfect, necessary dance.

I touch his glittering hair and feel my own fingertips, feel the music playing in my cunt, rock and twist and shudder flowing uncontrollably through our bodies. Only the slightest movements, enough to keep desire swollen and tight, constant and intense, constant flowing lust and satisfaction, hungry and filled, his hardness rocking in me, each movement a gesture carved in stone. I am the earth from which he flowers, he is the river rushing into me, every muscle and vein confirmed and created to this dance. Time is dead; we are the sacred image.