Anthropoligical Delineation of Arse

So ass (said housed in pornography, else arse by those who love British, Irish, Scottish boys, but still, kilts and eye patches and confidence, gypsy style) is the subject of this lecture.  Sit deep in your comfy chair, children, take a sip of your special elixir and know that you are safe, in the arms of my words, and everyone will get home alright...either way, the lights go out, the moon lasts through the night, the stars come and fuck every hour until the morning brings its wayward promises...

It starts with a story about anal beads.  I think they're very overrated.  I have never found myself the recipient or the administrator of the beads of arse, but I admire the kink of it either way.  Mostly, I am not a fan of toys, nothing a cock or myself couldn't do that any plastic, non recyclable item could do better.  Seems a waste of ability, lithe comment or slow curled, little smile, outside or in.  Three lengths of rope and a strong personality can do worlds more than any fake cock toy ever could.  Do You know someone who wants to fuck a pink playdough "sex" can? The janitor who never got his college degree? He has better things to do.  Just like me.

I have some thinking to do.  First off, I think it was anal beads I once got told the story of -- think he was gay, and told me that somewhere deep in the night, one man strung the beads from the arse of the other man, and ripped clean a pearly necklace of brown shit across the wall.  How do you wake up to that, and not feel liberated, like every stain ever made within you came clean, in all honesty, in its true face? Or perhaps it's just dull, and something for someone else to clean up.  The one who didn't know about the brown activities going on that night.

It's not just about the boys.  I used to tell the girls I knew, that they had tattoos on their lower back (much like the pretensions of my upper back) that would give the fella something to read when he was behind/on top of/inside them.  I've given a few of mine own some great new ideas to sink themselves into.  Entertained, obliged, obsessed and ridiculed.  How can he look you in the eye when he's way the hell behind you?  A joke, but also a truth.  Isn't that always the way.

It came from being of a couple who were European in their style.  Even if my mother was born repressed, and my father over-exuberant about life.  We lived Euro childhoods, spending early mornings in their grand bed, lounging forever, my mother scratching my father's back for some time, like a duty she had, no judgments made of the activity.  He used to chase her and smack her arse, with hand, wooden spoon, and she liked it.  Just like I like it now.

What picture painted when the arse is struck properly.  Will no one understand the glory one cunt can feel? Thunder clap, revolt of nations, the slaves made free, of the torrent of sparrows singing ecstasy within my belly pit, take notice.  I blame those vintage adverts.  You know the one.  About the coffee the woman doesn't buy which causes the situation to occur.  It sets me still-------------He's got her stretched across his lap; she looks affright.  (I'd be smiling ear to ear).  His right hand up in the air to come down with a crack.  I cannot move for a literal 10 seconds and I feel my cunt twitch and butterflies fuck themselves silly in that same belly pit of my mythology, where the sparrows watch, drooling and coming, in the most off putting, off-key song...still, it's beautiful music.

Associate this deviant play with love.  That's how it happened.  My parents loved each other.  Guess it would have been ok and more Americana if my father grabbed my mom's tits every night --- like me, they've never been the focal point.  The man in the ad reigned down on her ass, and the wind caressed, vibrating her hips, setting My cunt in motion.  The soft, protruding cliff onto which stories were penned, soap operas kept alive, gods invoked as the Biblical sea crashed its waves on his cock and turning on the Light of the world.

The Song of Songs, the Jesus dance, the Word made Flesh.  It's all sacred in the eyes of the beloved, ain't it.  We're made into virgins, our arse made into your saviour, the tongue speaks the thoughts inside that no one else can try, and our cunt speaks highly of the impetus which keeps it red, and sore, and tender.  She'll reveal what the scriptures really had to say, at end of orange light, meal gone empty, my cunt full up with the lithe taste of him.  Truth, my friends, smack (again) smack (again) smack.  Perfection, in that lack of silence, and nothing more to judge upon that that.  The marriage that bears no name.  It's hard to find, but once you do, keep that grip round your strong and tender hand, forever.  This is the end of the arse lesson.

~ M. Lucia