Microfiction: Dear Doctor, by Salome Wilde

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Dear Doctor, by Salome Wilde

Dear Dr. Zügelung,

I write to tell you that I have decided to terminate our sessions, effective immediately.  You will think me a coward for not telling you in person, but that could not be further from the truth.  Or, if in some ways I am a coward, I am also a pioneer, a traveler, and a greater pervert than Freud could ever have imagined.

My decision is monumental, as is she who has enabled and forced my decision.  You and I have long engaged in dream analysis, and there is no question I am neurotic.  In a world of wars and torture exploding nightly from a dozen cable news channels, more varieties of diet pill than grains of sand on an oil-slicked beach, and internet videos of women being fucked by dogs whose criminality makes them more tempting than any pirate, real or imagined, how can I not be neurotic?  And, after all, as Freud so wisely observed and we have explored in so many sessions, to be female is to be neurotic.

Why not, then, I asked myself—while watching my reflection wink in the flicker of black- and-white three a.m. movies on my 1954 television—stop hedging.  If neurotic, why not psychotic?  Surely the pain would be less.  And even if not, the pleasure would be new.  We must admit (mustn’t we, Doctor?) that the century-long strand of middle-class, middle-aged Jewish women neurotics must soon snap under its own boring, repetitive weight. 

Such thoughts came to me with such shining clarity in those hours of the morning we call “wee” but are actually gargantuan in significance and the slow passing of time for the insomniac.  And as the boredom swelled and distended, throbbed and mutated unto bursting, I was saved.  Yes, saved, but in an ecstatic revelation far more full of erotic devastation than any meek, whitewashed Judeo-Christian savior or even the night-black of lovely, beskulled Kali herself.  The earth shook and shattered (along with the television, that treasure of my father’s youth), and she appeared.  Primordial, savage, sodden: Godzilla stood over me, a goddess to make Mother Earth blush with shame, straddling my face with massive thighs and a cunt so hot and wet it scalded my upturned face.

She roared, and I shook to my very moist core, hearing the thousand-thousand voices of my ancestresses: those full-hipped and full-bosomed women of the pogroms and the death camps, the tenements and the sweatshops, the gleaming kitchens and the shining boardrooms.  (You will object, I know, saying I am conflating Hiroshima with Hester Street, Hollywood with the Holocaust, but politics crumble at the feet of the archetypal, and, anyway, metaphors are for the merely neurotic.

The intimate ritual that came next is perhaps something I dare not speak, but when have I ever been at a loss for words?  With trembling legs and heart, I stood.  I held out my arms to the beast of the monstrous feminine and she rumbled a low and penetrating laugh, then hoisted me before her.  She spoke through a maw full of teeth so white and sharp they blinded me, like a skier about to descend from breathless heights. “Prepare,” she said, her voice a sonic boom that stripped me of sense and clothing in its mighty blast.  Though I did not understand, I surrendered.

At once, I was shoved, head first, into the sopping orifice, where scaled armor gave way to suffocating softness.  I felt cradled and rocked, returned to the Imaginary, a oneness so perfect I could not tell if I was weeping or coming.  Soon, I was removed, but I need not have feared loss, for she quickly plunged my willing body back into her depths, and began a rhythm that claimed my soul with its primitive pulse.  Again and again, the Goddess fucked herself with my body, no longer a babe but now her phallus, strength within my every rigid bone and flexed sinew, coated with her primal dew—wearing it, breathing it, a willing baptism into perfection and chaos that erupted into an antediluvian climax of muscles so strong that she crushed and transformed me to slime, then birthed me back to earth.

I woke, once again clothed as I had been before my miraculous deincarnation, sitting in my threadbare easy chair before my small, black-and-white television.  The screen was shattered and my sneaker was sticking out of it.  And my panties were soaked. 

As fast as I can now, I write these words to you, dear Doctor Zügelung, so you will understand why the neurotic world will no longer suffice.  These words may or may not reach you, but by the time they do or do not, I will be once more and forever feeding the demanding cunt of my Goddess, hearing the roar of my forebears instead of the ticking of a biological clock, giving Godzilla her due rather than paying your fee.

Salome Wilde is the author of pansexual erotica and queer romance, including short fiction in anthologies by Susie Bright, Rachel Kramer Bussel, Maxim Jakubowski, Shane Allison, and others. The first volume of her m/m romance novella trilogy, After the First Taste of Love (co-written with Talon Rihai) is available from Storm Moon Press. Visit Wilde at www.salandtalerotica.com or @salomewilde on Twitter.

 

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