Exotic readers, I hope you’ve enjoyed my Orpheus series so far. This series is the most intimate story I’ve ever written, and it’s about to get even more intense.
It’s noteworthy to say that Orpheus should probably be read from the beginning, or it may not make that much sense, although I’m writing each piece as strongly as possible to be standalone. Part I appeared in the September 2021 issue, if you want to hit the archives. This month’s piece is the heaviest so far, in terms of processing grief (this story is to honor my lover who died of fentanyl poisoning and asked me to write about our affair before his death). I’m slowly cutting up sections of the first three months of our online chat messages, which is over 500 pages and more than 130,000 words. This is being done using a version of the cut-up technique started by surrealist and dadaist Tristan Tzara, but some say author Lewis Carroll also used cut-up in the late 1800s. Anyway, Bryon Gysin and William Burroughs took it to a new level in the 1950s, and probably some women from the Beat Generation that I’ve not yet heard of because only amplifying the voices of men is pretty typical for that era. I have a poet friend who actively uses cut-up currently, but I don’t know of any other contemporary artists committed to this literary and psychospiritual method. I think maybe Genesis P. Orridge of Throbbing Gristle and Psychic TV may have reprised it at some point, but nothing else comes to mind after mid-century. This source is from memory, so don’t take my word for it: do your own research!
Having said that, these chat messages as cut-ups will be woven into the series starting now, which will make Orpheus the most experimental and conceptual literary effort of my life so far. I just hope that the soul of the subject finds his way to the pages.
It’s been three years since Orpheus died.
In his presence, I’d still die, slowly, because our connection is whisper. Of course, I keep trying to figure out today. The day I found our old messages.
Orpheus: You really don’t know, do you? In spite of your say anything. I’m glad to know we both still feel strongly for one another, and we just can’t stop. Because, otherwise, your pussy is my whole world right now. That’s the really strange thing: without distractions. I really shouldn’t tell you any of this, but oh well. I just wish I could lavish body worship upon you. Fuck me in a frenzy and tell me you want my cum deep inside you. Does the time frame of fuck you’re mine make you shake and quiver somehow? I want it to last while looking into your eyes. It’s all I can sense or feel. Just fuck me, baby. Fuck me forever. I’m completely lost in you right now. I love you, baby. I think about driving there but the minute is distance. My balls positively ache for you. I can’t fantasize hard enough. I know it would fuck me up if I tried. You gotta do what you gotta do, though. Dissolve into me as I keep stroking. Fuck. I’m dying 3 to 5 years from now. Your protests are turning all the way inside everything you’ve got, every day. I break down with desire. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve jerked off to imaginings of you. What happens when you lose your shit?
Me: I’ve cried and masturbated so much in the last week. I start focusing my attention on you in my promise and high heels. This isn’t getting any easier. I really want to fuck you into a random: SMACK MY ASS! I hope a solution presents itself soon. I really miss you lately, not sure if that helps you feel better. I do feel very strongly. I inevitably break down. And I’m just sort of overcome. My soaked pussy aches for you, and you should take what’s really yours. I love having my lips wrapped around your dick. I swear, I would do just about anything to kiss you again. And sometimes, it hits me very powerfully in a wave. And it’s so good. I caress beyond fantasy. Can you just tease me?
Orpheus: Walk through the door. Just give me a night or two up in Canada before it becomes even more unbearable. We don’t even say anything. We don’t have to. I feel very much in love when I suck on your tits and grab your ass. Please, baby. I’m dying in a while, so I slide right into it’s not enough. Chasing the energy where we meet. I don’t want to ever stop. It’s driving me nuts. Pathetic, but true. The door is unlocked. My heart is too. Mean anything significant to you?
To be continued...
If you have any comments about this series or would like to stay updated on its incarnations after Exotic (perhaps as a book), please email elise.fontaine.orpheus@gmail.com.
