A virgin, In a Sense

by

Richard Alan Spiegel

Like the penis. The rod of penetration amused her. Preoccuppied her fantasies.

He grew. Like a game. An amusement: bubbles expanding with her breath.

This was the dance: orange motions in a double helix space.

She dressed. Saw her legs reflected in the mirror and thought of Isadora Duncan barefooted

in Paris. She would dance nude to arouse the penises in her fantasies.

There were men haunting her history: father, brother and lovers. Attracting her. Repelling her.

Green landscapes of a distant home protected from her by the barbed wire of history. Like the ruins of the imagination.

Imprisoned behind penises for gambling and losing.

She had been taught to doubt her intuitions.

She wore jeans. Dressing simply she was Venus of the Proletariat.

A September morning entered her window.

Her window looked out and down upon the street.

Leaving for work on a Manhattan morning, men with attache cases advanced along the pavement.

She would not go their way.

She would grow in idle moments. Like love in Centzr o L Park.

He paid her a morning call. He had his own key.

Gentle love making. This was all.

She smiled.

No matter what. His wife thought.

Innocence prevailed.

She smiled. He counted.

The beauty marks on her back.

Kissing.

Each meet.ing meant.

She thought. He thought.

Sex was love.

He was essentially a nineteenth century man. He would have been majestic. He was a bigger man when aroused.

He addressed her. He undressed her.

He was absolutely determined.

She felt betrayed when she learned of his wife. His disgrace. Her disgrace.

She was a lovely lady, a poem of womanhood.

He was like a number of men who have strong mothers.

She refused to leave. She was a lonely

figure.

She looked at the pictures in the magazine.

She watched the expressions on the faces. She looked for the anxiety of poverty in the eyes she saw in the mirror.

Not in his eyes. His job was simple.

He kept the keys to the ladies' rooms.

After two months. She reviewed the affair. More months passed.

"I will get a divorce," he said.

Sex was a fondness for orgasm. There were degrees of orgasm. Love was orgasm and more.

There were other men in her life. She walks down Broadway. Shops, people, buses, subways, benches, pets, pavement, bags,

signs, and battles daily between rich and poor, male and female, black and white, anglo and latin, gay and straight, goy and jew, hip and square, tall and short, flat and bosomed, meek and bully, cops and robbers, true and false, businessmen and lawyers, publishers and personalities, beginnings and ends.

Who were the other men?

Men attended on her, graced her, shamed her, amused her.

The knight had come to rescue her from the warden with his keys. But

the knight was in disgrace. He wore a green garter about his penis.

She read pornography. Of gargantuan erections penetrating moist vaginas. She wrote. Beneath his armor the knight was well hung.

He handled himself continually; erecting delusions of orgasms.

In a past life she had been Nefertiti, she had been Esmeralda, she had been Isadora. She posed in the nude for Michael Angelo.

She collected memories.

When she came down to Greenwich Village she visited the last stronghold of romance in the Western World. There love still mattered more than sex, a biological urge.

The curator of dreams sat amidst his collection. Thousands of faces pass him by; they are the anonymous city.

She did not raise her voice. She sent her reaction through the mail.

In New York the printers were busily readying their presses to reproduce her fantasies.

Severa.l others noted her presence, but she concealed her thoughts from their penetrating gaze. She remained quietly innocent.

She turned, jumped, ran, knelt and stepped lightly forward.

The curtains closed behind her.

She crossed her legs. Her friends wondered why she would not have an

orgasm.

"How can they know the pleasures of my orgasm?" She wondered. She closed her mouth.

The procession entered her room.

Promenading in a circle around her, were the persons of her fantasies and memories.

Stepping briskly. Kicking high.

Turning.

Now she waited. Tapping the moments in their passage beneath her toes. Looking for her reflection in the eyes of the pets.

Fantasies leapt from the flame's flicker.

She became anxious.

"Patience," she told herself.

She rose. His passion arose.

From the tips of her fingers, throughout her body she felt love, and she knew the mirror image of his orgasm. Man and woman, in many forms.

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