10 February 2016

The Universe, a semi-fictional fragment

The Universe by Heather Jo Flores




“I have the universe inside my pussy.”

Annie Rose looked at me like I was out of my mind, then burst out laughing.

“Go ahead and laugh,” I said, “Get it out of your system. 
And then I want you to look at it for me.”

Annie Rose stopped laughing and looked nervously around the cafe. It was a popular breakfast joint and every table was full. She looked into my eyes and saw that I was serious. She leaned in closer.
“What are you talking about?” she whispered.

I told her everything I could remember about it, how I had been having cramps and feeling light-headed, dizzy and euphoric, how I had been masturbating obsessively for weeks. I just turned forty so I thought maybe it was some sort of pre-menopause symptom. But then one day I put a finger inside myself and received a tiny electric shock, like putting your tongue on a battery.

“That was probably just static electricity,” laughed Annie Rose in the cafe.

“I don't think so,” I told her, “let me tell you the rest.” I told her about what had happened with Alex. We hadn't been dating for long, and I already knew he loved to eat pussy, but lately he hadn't been able to stop. It was like he was in a trance. All he wanted to do was look at it, smell it, taste it. Ironically, I couldn't even enjoy it. I was annoyed by it and I had to stop seeing him. He was a man possessed. It wasn't me he loved, it was just my supernaturally-electrified pussy.

And then there were the dreams. I dreamed I was Lilith, flying through the sky, visiting nocturnal emissions upon naughty young men. I dreamed I was a meteor in the shape of a woman, birthing stars out my ass as I hurtled through space at a trillion miles an hour. I dreamed of legacy, desire and vindication. I dreamed of fire and chaos and transformation. I dreamed that the milky way was semen on the belly of a lady beast, and that our solar system was a half-blown kiss from one dimension to its beloved other.

And still my pussy wouldn't stop tingling. For weeks I walked around in the midst of an extended orgasm, and I was having a hard time getting any work done. One day I went home and spread my legs in front of a mirror. I propped myself up against the couch and shined a flashlight into myself so I could see what was going on.

My pussy shined bright lights right back at me.

Planets and stars and galaxies, nebulous clusters of infinite wonder.

Supernova.

I thought I was going crazy, so I called my therapist but when she asked me what was wrong, all I could do was laugh like a lunatic. I couldn't tell her. I didn't want her to call in the men in white coats to lock me up. So I shot some video on my phone. I thought about putting it up on youtube but instead I just showed it to Annie Rose, across the table at that crowded diner.





I wrote this after spending four months devouring books by Helene Cixous, Clarice Lispector and Franz Kafka. I enjoyed Cixous and Lispector for their abstractions, their fearless tangents and poetic meanderings. I loved Kafka for the fact that he seemed to eschew any obligation to finish a story. So much of his work is just fragments, moments in time that leave the reader to her own imagination. During this time I also read Taisha Abelar's The Sorcerer's Crossing, in which one of her teachers bares her vagina and Taisha sees the universe. And so this story, a fragment, came from all of that, and represents the type of writing I would like to do much more of in the near future.