He swept her off her feet like a stallion sweeping a girl off her feet, and laid her gently down on the bed like a gentle eagle.
ï¿½Itï¿½s time,ï¿½ he said, and she knew that it was true. She had been waiting so long. But now, after waiting, it was time for him to rip his clothes off, and then rip her clothes off, and then have sex with her. She was as ready as a young mouse is ready for cheese when it has been hungry and craving for cheese but has gone unsatisfied for a long time.
ï¿½Do it. Do it to me.ï¿½ He knew that by ï¿½it,ï¿½ she meant ï¿½sex,ï¿½ and so he ripped his clothes off like a raging stallion. She smiled. It was time for sex.
The bed was round and sensual. The air was filled with the humid, erotic smells that often accompany sex, except this time the smells were so humid, so erotic. The passion was intense.
He unbuttoned one button of her blouse, then another, then another, then another, then another. Her blouse was unbuttoned completely. Not one button was left buttoned. All he had to do was slip it off her shoulders. And he did. She was topless. Her breasts were great.
He thrust his face into her breasts like a stallion nuzzling a girlï¿½s breasts. It felt good, and she cried out like a blue-beaked heron would cry out when another blue-beaked heron licked its breasts. The air was filled with passion and intensity.
ï¿½Take it all off.ï¿½ She said. He knew that she meant his clothes, and he ripped them off like he hated clothes, like he had a deep-seeded prejudice against clothes. He then noticed that his hatred for his own clothes was only rivaled by his hatred of her clothes. He really loathed her clothes, so he destroyed them like a great-fanged bear gnashing through another mammal, perhaps a deer, that he thought was threatening his young.
They were both totally naked and covered in passionate sweat and erotic juices. Sex was coming soon, and they were both completely excited. In a few moments he would plow into her like a frothing bull furiously plowing into some matador.
FIRST PRIZE, EXISTENTIAL DIVISION:
ï¿½Unterwegs zur Klitorisï¿½
University of Marburg, the mid-1920ï¿½s
Hannah strode into the cramped study, a pipe perched in her mouth, well-stained meerschaum being the mark of a true smoker, the white enamel of the incisors just visible through the parallel cumbrance of pink lips, the tongue like the Kraken aslumber in a salival sea. In the crook of her underarm was fixed a small, worn book with AUGUSTINE written across it in ebullient gold lettering. She smelled of smoke and the classics. She was so strikingly hot you felt in your loins by god there could be no proper ontology which was not phenomenological.
Martin looked up from the sheaf of papers he had been rifling though like a rifleman constrained to desk work. Prettier than those Tï¿½bingen girls. What Elfriede doesnï¿½t know.
ï¿½I had hoped you would come here.ï¿½
ï¿½Well Iï¿½m here.ï¿½
They proceeded to speak of the Seinsfrage, a certain sentence of Eckhartï¿½s, and what Calvin had, and had not, gotten right in Institutes. Yet it was not Seinsverstï¿½ndnis Hannah hankered for, but something more proximate and everyday, and Heidegger had better give it to her.
ï¿½ï¿½.the contemporary collapse of the vita activaï¿½ she explained, flushed yet earnest, in her most sultry voice, or what she thought ï¿½sultryï¿½ sounded like based on books and Cecil B. DeMille.
This chick really digs phenomenology. Again, better than Tï¿½bingen. Also, why was he hard.
ï¿½ï¿½.the vital necessity of human praxis,ï¿½ she spoke, drawing out the hiss of the ï¿½sï¿½ and narrowing her eyes in what she thought must surely look a beatific vision of female concupiscence.
Martin could bear no more. He had wholly forgotten the Seinsfrage. In the middle of his bland discourse on being-in-the-world, he blurted out, ï¿½I want to be in your world right now vaginally.ï¿½ The wit was crude but the sentiment heartfelt. Instantly he swept all the books and papers off his desk in a beau geste of welcoming disorder. Fuck, I have a couch, he remembered. Does he expect us to have sex on the desk, Arendt wondered. The wood looked uncomfortable. Doesnï¿½t he have a couch. It was right there, plush, well-crafted, inviting. Hannah went and sat down on the couch. OK, thought Heidegger. He went and sat beside her.
Her wide, feminine hips cradled between them a great glossy warp of naked-seeming and insinuated hiddenness. Labia, labiorum, labiis, labia, labiis, he declined to himself as his fingers performed the physical analogue of that grammatical exposition, but oh there was nothing of the neuter plural in the charming jig of thumb and index. Arendt let out a feigned moan. Is that Latin, she wondered. What the hell. His fumbling attempts to find the clitoris were not unlike Holzwege, he thought, hermeneutical circles winding slowly to that final terminus, the Promised Land of the sugarcandy nub, that swelling protuberance snug beneath its hood like a baby bear wearing a christmas sweater. Jesus, heï¿½s not even close, Hannah realized, reaching out to grab his hand and direct it herself.
The clitoris was ready-to-hand! The clitoris was ready-to-hand! For some reason, Heidegger couldnï¿½t stop thinking about hammers.
FIRST PRIZE, SEX AND DIALECTIC DIVISION:
MICHAEL VAN LANDINGHAM
Marina first called for me in May of 1949, five years after we had met at Princeton when (despite the bad leg which the Fuhrer saw fit to inflict upon me) she accompanied me to the formal promenade. It was a cold spring…the dogwoods had barely started to bloom, even though the High Mass of Easter had long since past.
There was fire in her eyes thenï¿½a young reporter returning from the new Germany full of hope and joy about what Europe was to become in the end.
In the end, Marina, yes, in the end. The end of time when our minds stretched out as Indochinoise rubber culled by a coolie under the doleful eye of a collaborative overseer who had been paid 30 pieces of silver by a gold-toothed Frenchman. The same ideals Marx espoused were erupting then amongst the jungles and ancient plantations.
Marina’s editor had requested her to cover it, as she spoke French and her dissertation was on popular Marxist movements between ancient symbolistic societies. In truth, I did not want her to go, but, as a modern woman, she could not be restrained from capturing the world. In turn, the guerillas could not be restrained from capturing her. Her perfumed skin, and the aristocratic bearing in the ever-so-slight movement of her wrists and fine neck hinted to the liberation army that she was the daughter of a French plantation owner. Oh, the trouble her cultivated image caused herï¿½Marina could not escape.
I requested a leave to search through the cursed black jungles of Indochina. Five years I roamed and searched, translating Leninï¿½s writings into Vietnamese for the guerillas in exchange for information. In the end I found Marina, gazing at the sub-tropical sky, eyes alight with beauty. She was no longer a prisoner or hostage, she said, but she did wish to see Warhol’s new works at the Met. I smiled at her: beauty amongst the dialectic. That night in 1954 we gave into the passions the world would have us ignore. And we surrendered.
We intertwined like the very web of the fine net keeping us protected from malaria. Sweat beaded on the small of her back and behind her knees. I worked harder than I had in those five years that night, giving her my all, as she gave herself to me. Nimble in bed, I imagine she thought, for a man with a bum leg. The climax was like revealing the edge of the Heavens to us, but there was no God, only carnal pleasure. Finished, I withdrew like the French Imperialist troops had from Indochine, but more satisfied than my Gallic confreres. Returning to New York, we parted ways. Marina published a book of post-modernist theories in relation to the Viet Cong and I continued my work on Russia.
The theories I helped translate however, stuck: they aided the guerillas to recruit more to the cause that would kill hundreds of thousands. I would do it again too, just to see Marina under the now Vietnamese sun, smiling and free.
SECOND PRIZE, SEX AND DIALECTIC DIVISION:
Authorities found the following disturbing document (covered with Bï¿½arnaise sauce and with the redolence of chï¿½teau-bottled Chianti) hand-written in Hungarian on the third deck of a ship in the Gulf of Bothnia. With just hours before press time, we transcribed the scrawled text, and when we e-mailed it to the cousin of a friend in Budapest, the girl could only manage to translate it into Russian. My friend from Vladivostok, Natalya, proficient in the English language, took the time this to translate this jarring text to English; however, she insists that much of the word play and idiomatic expressions have been lost, the rich cadence diluted.
Years before he stood in front of the firing squad, Wayne Offpass became the first person in history to penetrate a vagina so deeply that he simultaneously received a blowjob. On 13 August 2002, his gargantuan shaft penetrated the florid labia minora, through the vaginal canal, sweeping past the cervix and into the uterus (which he had broken through, demolished), reached the sigmoid colon, as the fallopian tubes vice-gripped his member with Gordian force. But, at last, he burst all the way through the trachea, blocking any sort of air, any sort of language exchange from the unfortunate dame he laid, and upon orgasm, which forever in his life he declared vacuous as a night of cognac and Hemingway, came face to face with the head of his penis out from in the young girlï¿½s mouth and received a sticky taste of his own medicine.
This tale remains a tired oneï¿½exhausted!ï¿½but itï¿½s my tale and I insist that you listen, in only to save yourselves.
Wayne Offpassï¿½s penis wreaks havoc on society, sacks cities. You wouldnï¿½t know it by looking at it, but we have proof.
It appears a pimply pickle, green except where white pus spews and where a most prominent blue vein traverses the length of the meter long shaft. Despite its monumental size, it would not be dangerous on its own without a propensity for maniacal dialectical reason. But we found such capacity for thought, as evinced in a note scrawled by the penis with his urethra, with scrotal erasures.
[Ed. Note:The Hungarian remains blurry, but the heading seems to say: Diary: Penisï¿½s Entry #613]
The vasectomy never fazed me that much. I see my Lacanian analyst now and again who implored him to explore the Sausserian notion of language.
Itï¿½s the state of my head that really upsets me. The moial performing Wayneï¿½s circumcision had Parkinsonï¿½s disease and a samurai sword, so Iï¿½ve been fated to an uneven cut, such that my tip appears an oblong lemon twist.
A substance akin to popcorn butter spews from the tip at the slightest promptingï¿½pressure from a Saigon whoreï¿½s fingernail, the breath of a prostitute in Turku-Abo, the force of an autumn leaf hitting the ground some thirty feet away. Wayne still pops a boner when he sees little girls. Itï¿½s irritating, because he keeps me up at work when he volunteers at Ms. Chasteï¿½s Catholic Elementary School for Girls. Fucker. [Ed. note, though the Urdu invective was originally used now, we have still decided to translate to English.]
No one appreciates me any more; I need to take it out on someone..
Even Ms. Grafenberg Spot and Ms. Clitoris donï¿½t appreciate me for me.
Iï¿½m fluent in the Finno-Ugric tongues, for Chrissakes. Iï¿½m brilliant. Itï¿½s as if Iï¿½ve lived my life as water, poured out my soul only to evaporate, my tears streaming down only to disappear.
Thus spoke the penis in his chilling confession. One can glean the transparent neuroses of Wayne Offpassï¿½s penis. The potential for atrocities is all too palpable.
Bat guano covers 32 % of its surface. This penis has gangrene, psoriasis, scurvy, eczema.
It totes books on Kaballah, spews hairs from his hole in the style of a Salvador Dali mustache. His penis is a Jewish intellectual. The penis wears tortoise-shell Versace spectacles, and carries around a burlap bag filled with Heidegger, Fichte, and Husserl.
He is the type to choose the middle urinal. His penis likes Ayn Rand, gets aroused by sestinas. Loathes haikus.
The penis is so large that it is a phallic symbol in its own right. In fact, the penis had a penis of its own, and the penisï¿½s penis has a penis and so on and so forth, double infinity with 1,001 peni getting hard at the same time, their uneven tips rising to the heavens. These must be stopped. Heavens, it all must be stopped.
FIRST PRIZE, SEX AND THE DEPRAVITY OF THE PRIVILEGED CLASSES DIVISION:
It wouldnï¿½t stop repeating itself in his mind. Driving away from her dormitory hopped up on blow and half-blind from drunkenness, he replayed their brief encounter endlessly.
It was never a problem for him to convince a girl to go upstairs, downstairs, or outside for sex. No self-respecting young woman would turn down the chance to be speared by a member of a family as powerful as his, but this girl was so delicious that even he could hardly believe he was kissing her when she first allowed him to. After their lips met, he shoved his moist tongue into her moist mouth, making sure to taste each one of her moist teeth separately. The slight hint of plaque gave the deep kiss even more flavor, if that was even possible. And it was. And so it did. Throwing her onto the bed like a stuffed animal from his childhood, he ripped the clothes from his body and, chuckling, armored his glistening weapon for battle. His conquest pulled on her nipples as if she wanted to let the air out of her breasts, and admired his manhood as she anticipated its entry into her femininity. He eyed her panties, and dove headfirst into them, but before he could remove the lid and begin his meal, she had a simple demand for him.
ï¿½I donï¿½t just want you to take them off. I want you to rip them off. Destroy them. Obliterate them before you obliterate me.ï¿½
These words inspired quick and furious action on his part, as the underwear was annihilated in under a minute. He commenced masticating her juicy forest, which oozed its approval into his nostrils, turning her gender into his oxygen. He was like a dog digging for a bone with his snout in the grass. And the grass was dirty.
For dessert, they shared the lust she had leaked onto his chin, and as he moved back to her mouth, he finally stabbed her scabbard with his dagger.
It had been a long time since her feathers had been ruffled, and she was hoping this would be immensely satisfying, hoping so fiercely that when there came a knock at the door, she couldnï¿½t help but let out a startled gasp.
The noise sent forth from between her luscious lips shattered his conquest, and his sword crumbled in a moment of immense defeat. The intruder had unwittingly destroyed his weapon. And then came the laughter. The awful, awful laughterï¿½
As he sped along the Connecticut highway just a few agonizing minutes later, a bottle in his hand blood in his nose, he wondered if this would ruin his reputation among women at her school. He had counted on these women as an occasional receptacle for his man-essence, and this might make the oppportunities dry up faster than the deposits he liked to leave in belly buttons. But only innies.
No, he reasoned, my family name will keep legs and mouths open to me forever. Swerving to avoid a small child, he reminded himself that he was probably being very unsafe at the moment, and that he would have to stop ingesting these intoxicants eventually, in case he wanted to run for office some day.
SECOND PRIZE, SEX AND THE DEPRAVITY OF THE PRIVILEGED CLASSES DIVISION:
ï¿½Ah!ï¿½ thought I, ï¿½My hours spent in athletic pursuits will serve me well tonight ï¿½ two quick yanks and the delicate ties of her corset would come free. Then I would rip. Rip. Rip. Tear away the fabric to revealï¿½things Eton could never, ever have taught me in the regular syllabus.ï¿½
Oh, Iï¿½d heard stories from the Upper Sixth boys, of course. But this miraculously wanton woman before my eyes, the delicate strain of rose perfume emanating from the delicious V of her perfect, perfect breasts ï¿½ my schoolboyï¿½s imagination could never have strayed to such sin. But I wasnï¿½t here for simple human sexual exploits. I had a fiancï¿½e and a young slut in Sussex for that. This was rather something else.
She eyed me, as if she could sense my thoughts. I could feel her gaze sear into my eyes and work its way down a Southern course. Beads of sweat stood out on my brow. And I felt something truly primeval stir within my loins. The hunger of the lion upon sighting a beautiful lioness, fur glistening in the jungle moonlight! The surge of the hormonal sea, a centuries-old mating dance beating time to the blood pumping in my heart and in my swelling phallus!
She smiled like a siren. She poured me a goblet of wine ï¿½ a fine Italian red with a sensuous bouquet.
I spoke to her then: ï¿½My Ladyï¿½ï¿½
With the speed of a riding crop landing across the buttock of a fine gelding she slapped me across the face.
ï¿½Never, ever, call me Lady.ï¿½
She lifted the goblet to my lips and tipped it back, forcing me to consume its contents in hasty gulps. The wine dripped down my chin and neck. A stain blossomed on my starched white collar. I wondered momentarily what my valet, Urs, would think of my current situation, for it was he who had starched my collar so diligently that morning. That thought aroused me further. I imagined him watching through the keyhole, taking notes on all that she said and did.
She filled another goblet and poured it down my throat. I groaned ï¿½ a primal roar ï¿½ the moan of Adam as he crossed out of Eden, of Odysseus, far away from his great wooden bed!
And then, in a rather unexpected turn, she seized upon my left nipple and bit down, hard.
FIRST PRIVE, METASEXUAL DIVISION:
ï¿½Then he entered me, my soft labial folds tugging at his purple meat.ï¿½
ï¿½I donï¿½t like it. Entered me?ï¿½
ï¿½Whatï¿½s wrong with entered?ï¿½
ï¿½It sounds so, I donï¿½t know ï¿½ clinical.ï¿½
ï¿½What would you prefer?ï¿½
ï¿½You mean what Janice would prefer.ï¿½
ï¿½What youï¿½d prefer for Janice.ï¿½
ï¿½Iï¿½d probably prefer ï¿½he penetrated me.ï¿½ï¿½
ï¿½You mean Janice.ï¿½
ï¿½Youï¿½d really rather be penetrated than entered?ï¿½
Layla paused. The computerï¿½s motor whirred with a coital heat. Sheï¿½d been editing Harrisonï¿½s adult fiction pieces for the better part of four months. Most of the writers she worked with had some underlying quirk that made this taboo work appealing ï¿½ acne scars or a traumatic, but oddly treasured, sexual encounter with a parishioner. For Harrison it had simply been a bad divorce. He had immediately sympathized with Layla who had raised two children on her own and edited his texts for the same reason he wrote them: it was a steady paycheck.
ï¿½Itï¿½s the best of the available options. What else is Janice going to say? Sheï¿½s a self-contained screenwriter raising an asthmatic child on her own. Sheï¿½s not the ï¿½fuck meï¿½ type.ï¿½
ï¿½Sheï¿½s trying to come out of her shell. I think she wants to be the ï¿½fuck meï¿½ type.ï¿½
A light flush appeared in Laylaï¿½s cheeks. Her defense of Janice was transparent: Harrison had drawn part of the storyline from Laylaï¿½s experience as a single mother. Her supple bosom rose and fell beneath her cardigan. Harrison had often appreciated Laylaï¿½s wardrobe, tasteful considering the stereotype of a porn editor, yet not unflattering. Her auburn hair reminded him of his ex-wife, yet her eyes were far kinder, ringed with blue, green and grey, and framed by light crowï¿½s feet, the only hint of aging on her slender body.
ï¿½Really though, were we to,ï¿½ she hesitated, ï¿½well, I certainly wouldnï¿½t think, let alone say, ï¿½Enter me.ï¿½ï¿½
ï¿½I wasnï¿½t trying to suggest anything.ï¿½
Her voice rose.
ï¿½Do I really seem so button down? I mean entered?ï¿½
ï¿½I donï¿½t see whatï¿½s so wrong with entered.ï¿½
ï¿½Do you think of yourself as ï¿½enteringï¿½ a woman? In your stories when a man has a woman pinned up against a desk do you really think of him ï¿½enteringï¿½ her?ï¿½
The catharsis of this diatribe surprised even Layla, leaning, hands splayed on the hard mahogany, opposite Harrison at his desk.
ï¿½You probably think ï¿½meatï¿½ is purple too.ï¿½
She paused again and caught herself looking at his package, before raising her eyes to meet his. Embarrassment raced through her and Harrison rose from the rich leather ensconcing him in his desk chair.
ï¿½I guess youï¿½re not so restrained after all,ï¿½ said Harrison, the lurid glow of the computer casting tracing a shadow from his arched brown, down his jawbone to his strong chin.
ï¿½I still donï¿½t think Iï¿½m convinced Janice is the ï¿½fuck meï¿½ type though.ï¿½
Side swept by the sudden reversal and flushed once again, Layla realized how little space separated her and Harrison as she hovered over his desk. His thick forearm brushed over her dangling breasts as he reached to brush a stray hair from her face. He stood easily a foot above her.
ï¿½Is anyone else in the office?ï¿½
ï¿½Weï¿½re the last two.ï¿½
ï¿½Your breasts are so soft ï¿½ and supple.ï¿½
ï¿½Your meat ï¿½ it is a bit purple ï¿½ and large.ï¿½
ï¿½I want to feel your soft labial folds.ï¿½
ï¿½I want your purple meat inside me.ï¿½
ï¿½I want to enter you.ï¿½