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Orgy (2)
We returned to the bar where I smoked and drank and my palpitations
quieted down.
I felt more confident now. I felt that I was no longer an alien but
one of these people, and I knew that sex in the presence of others
was neither fatal nor even frightening but convivial and, in the
truest sense, communal.
We all have more or less the same responses, make the same noises
and perform the same acts. Just minutes ago, I had smiled on a woman
lying next to me as she came, held her hand and watched with love
as her eyes rolled, her legs trembled and stiffened, her consciousness
fled and her face and neck flushed as they were suffused with blood.
I had kissed her as focus returned to her fierce, bewildered, wondering
eyes.
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And all our lives, we had been forced to conceal these
responses and to deny our fantasies, to force our sexuality to skulk
in corners or under cover of darkness and to emerge only shamefaced
or in grotesque travesty, to cover our genitals under that obligation
contained in the word ‘pudendum’ - that of which we should
be ashamed – and to pretend before others that we are immune
to natural hungers.
There should have been a ceremony to celebrate that first trickling of blood
down the thighs, the first pulsing and pouting of the labia in anticipation of
unknown pleasures, the first wobbling of flesh beneath our shoulders. Instead
we were told that these, the outward signs of the most pressing compulsion in
our lives, were shameful secrets.
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