The Mating of Mutables

She was scared of me at first.
But I knew she was attracted too,
because she kept peeking at me
from across the table,
between the sheltering bodies of
her flannel-shirted friends,
like a rabbit sniffing the air
to see if the hounds are gone.
Clearly, I was the one with the magic wand.
And like a rabbit,
she was nervous and small
and adorably cuddly-cute.

She came to my room
and we talked about how people change
and why they don't.
We sat huddled on the floor;
she, desperately wanting me
to take her face in my fervent hands
and overwhelm her with a kiss,
and I, afraid of frightening
the skittery creature that she was.

And so began a courtship worthy of Pepe Le Pew.
Every time I reached for her,
She looked at me with round, red,
froze-in-the-spotlight eyes.
She stiffened like a corpse under my touch,
but the moistness of her mouth
invited me to join her
in a juicy, skin-bursting feast.

Eventually, the pull of her tides
overcame her timidity
and I found myself naked in bed with her,
blanketed in her delightful downy skin.
She was an anxious lover,
frenetically pistoning on top of me
like a squirrel stuck to a jackhammer.
I had to use kind words and gentle tones
like a kindergarten teacher to calm her.
And then, take her by her tiny hands,
through true and false and multiple choice
into slow-rolling, savory,
deliciously long-stroking lovemaking,
like honey dripping languorously
down the inside of a love-misted thigh.

And so, through the miracle of
mucous membrane sensitivity,
she was transformed,
from a shrinking chipmunk
to a tasmanian devil of brazen,
slobbering, wanton lustfulness.

She burst through my door
and threw me to the bed
like a stuffed bean-bag love-toy.
"I've wanted you all day!" she moaned
as she tore my pants off
like a little kid impatiently opening a present.
"It feels so good to be naked with you," she gasped,
as she rode me tantalizingly slow
like a snake-charmer cowgirl tantrika,
and performed tricks and feats
with her vaginal muscles
worthy of the number one star courtesan
in the emperor's harem.

Breathless and satisfied
and wrapped in a ball of caresses
under the covers,
we talked about all the different ways
to change who you are inside.

And then we decided to invoke
the coiled serpent energy of evolution
into the crucible of our bodies.

And so, at the appointed hour,
we lit the altar candles
and removed our clothes.
We stood inside the quartered circle
and petitioned the transforming currrent
of divine electricity
with our hands, eyes and lips.
Our bodies were blessed and anointed
with reverent erotic attention,
and soon, the queen mama snake
was roused from her slumber
and began her slow, coiling slide
up the multicolored maypole-in-the-middle.

Voices from distant stars spoke from my throat
and opened wide our eyes
like the lens of a camera letting in more light,
bringing us into focus as tiny jubilant drops
in a vast celestial ocean.
And our bodies moved together
like waves on that ocean,
the tactile intensity of every cell
turned up full blast.
And then, there was nothing but sensation;
we had become that slowly dancing wave,
orgasmically pushed and pulled
by God's eternal gravity.
Surely, this was the closest one could come
to touching the heart of existence.

The next day, I felt strange,
as if my soul wanted to fly
out the top of my head,
like the ghost of a bird
slipping through the bars of it's cage.
The trees were glowing
with a gentle translucent light,
and I could hear their green whisperings
bubbling through my inner ear.
We had opened the portals
but neglected to shut them again,
and now the seawater was madly rushing in.
We flung ourselves to the ground
and let solid mommy earth
siphon our spirits back
into their three-dimensional containers
and replace our cranial corks.

Later, we sat and we talked about
impediments to change
and how people can change for the worse.

I returned from a week spent away from her
to yet another metamorphosis.
She had become a tragic heroine
in a shakespearian drama
with a vendetta to fulfill.
And I was cast in the role of
the selfish, controlling paramour,
which was not a part I played well.
To my dismay and bewilderment,
she forced me into a halloween mask
then spoke to it like the mirror in Snow White.
I was a sinister satanic clown,
cuckolded by myself;
the victim of some evil reverse-glamour spell.
I tried to negate the charm
and dispel the illusion,
but my magic wand had become a limp piece of wood.

The wascally wabbit trickster god
was fucking with our heads,
showing us cracked funhouse reflections of each other;
she, with her hysterical woolly-brained accusations,
and I, with my castrated anxiety
and atavistic fears.
It was a volatile cup of soup indeed.
And of course,
the inevitable kitchen accident took place;
the pot boiled over
and the stove exploded,
flinging us in opposite directions.
And she scampered away
like the frightened rabbit she was,
pursued by the bugaboos
cooked up in her own brain.
And I was like the angel Lucifer,
cast down from the spiraling heights of heaven
to the dark, sulpherous bowels of the underworld.

I fell into a fetal slump
and after months of thumb-sucking and bed-wetting,
I received a letter from her,
apologizing for having drawn
that bad-guy Dick Dastardly moustache on me
so heedlessly.
She came over and we lay on my bed
talking about how people can mistake
the contents of their own heads for reality.
Her soft, scrumptious, lickable body
brushed up against mine
and I yearned for her,
but she already had her thumb out
and her skirt hiked up
to take her down an existential highway
that didn't go anywhere near my neighborhood.

The magic wand had been passed on to her
and she was not about to give it away.

David Aronson
March 2006