Apricity Press Issue 2 March 2017 - Page 40


I’m tired. Quiet honestly, I’m exhausted. I go to SFSU a few days a week to

teach and I have to leave Lobot at 7:30 just to get there on time. On any

given night, he and I don’t finish fucking for the second or third time until

three or four in the morning. We can’t stop ourselves. Sometimes the

first time is for love mixed with the untempered animal desire of fantasy

that has been building all day while we occupy social space. With that out

of our system, we go at it again for tenderness, which all to often thrusts

us into the rilkeian vacuity together, that death (what is beauty if not

terror). The third time we fuck, then, is a slow and quiet dance to bring us

back into the world, back into the world of ivory. If ivory were a tarot card

it would be the magician, a figure full of potentiality, really, number one in

the arcanum, so the first figure born. In addition, the magician has all four

suits at his disposal: two material and two spiritual, and as an alchemist,

his character synthesizes all the elements. To describe ivory by its

opposite would be to invoke “the nameless arcanum” in the Tarot of

Marseille and what most other decks bluntly call death. What else can

one call it? I’m on the edge of a tortuous climax that won’t satiate. I cum

and I’m hungry. I cum and I want to cut my clit off I’m so hungry. I’m

fucking dying.