The Pishtar gate cathouse

Wednesday, 16 September, Year 12 d.Tr. | Author: Mircea Popescu

The Pishtar gate cathouse had stood in the same place for many years. Centuries, perhaps. Millenia, maybe. It's true that the place itself kept moving, with the inflows and outflows of trade, with the tides of war and the comings and goings of natalities and nativities, driven unerringly in a circle by spawning events and extinction events accordingly ; nevertheless the famous cathouse itself always stayed in its place, move it as it may or might.

The customers, in their overpoweringly mindblowing diversity absolutely always the same one, or two, or three -- countlessly many yet never more than the three or maybe four that they were -- the man writing, and the story written are not one and the same, even as they flow unerringly and just as necessarily towards their respective, imparable delusions. The man writing looked up from the story written, and saw... a different story, because the man choosing whether to write or not has no impact on the endless flow of countless stories, it's not properly speaking a choice whether to write or not -- it is a choice of what to write. The man looked up, as he had to, because it was time to add the first reference to the everallblog, a paragraph in, as the second putative reference had just cropped up for consideration, and before it'd be considered the buffer'd absolutely have to be emptied. The man was very systematic in his leisurely approach, and so since his narrative flow had already broken over administrative considerations he also looked around, and besides, it's time to save, one's supposed to save periodically...

Around was their old haunt near Uvita, which would or was or has to be or must've been perhaps proper told&retold in one, or ten thousand other stories. He sat comfortably in the very comfortable Masterly armchair, out on the veranda, foot-thick pillows all around, his feet up on the slightly lesser other armchair of which there were another half-dozen scattered about. For the girls. Last night they sat all around over wine, and fine imported tobbaccos of impronounceable names, and laughed at the world, and talked of the world, and... Last time he was here he had an expert one kneel by his side as he wrote, sucking him off slowly, patiently, utterly lovingly like she did, untold perfection swirling with and within itself while the gauze all around, miles and miles of gauze hanging from the thick round trunks rustically supporting the outer perimeter billowed slightly in the sweet, sweet breeze. All the while he wrote, a story. He often did this, a majority, perhaps simple, perhaps constitutional, of his graphic stories having been produced with ongoing genital stimulation in the background. The girls, readily sleeping paired on the immense beds inside, would have loved nothing more ; but he didn't feel like it this one time.

As he gave the story a name, for the administrative purposes of the recording machine, he discovered last he had been here, which had apparently occured on the 3rd day of June, he had named a different story "putasdos.txt". They had just suborned a local wedding party the day before, subverted the hesitating adolescent ticas for their own purposesi, it had been a lot of fun, it seems so very long ago, so very far away, in such a different time and place... And yet... different from what ? When and where different, different how, what is this difference even supposed to be, in the first place ? The man writing dwelled in and therefore wrote along many stories at the same time, countless many stories that, in their overpoweringly mindblowing diversity absolutely always were the same one, or two, or three. Cuntlessly many yet never more than maybe fur, or fife.

An unknown, fantastic butterfly stopped its flapping, nonrectilinear flight on the armrest, bopping antennae sniffing vaguely in the general direction of an abandoned dress in flowery print. Maybe it's delicious ? It most definitely is delicious when worn, coming as it does to the exact line of the wearer's buttocks, exposing without remainder the whole of her beautifully girly leg each step of her way and, at the slightest provocation, whole perineum, from shaven slit to expert asshole. You've never seen quite such an anal queen, not on the screen, not in your dreams... A squirrel hopped from one branch to the other, and as its forepaw made contact the man turned to smoke. A vague cloud smelling faintly of burnt elm was all that stood where he once stood, and that cloud billowed back towards the cathouse, the famous Pishtar cathouse, snickering slightly at the impenetrability of the reference. How ever was it that every hole in creation ever seemed impenetrable to everyone all the time yet yielded more readily to him than warm knife to butter ?

Yet the Pishtar gate cathouse, that had stood as long as the whores in the whores' capitol spread their legs -- indeed the longest time indeed -- consisted internally of rooms, ample, accomodating, purpose-tailored for their respective activities, of which one had always been, and would forever be, the Hora dance. The requirements for this perhaps oldest & most ancient manifestation of urbanity are comfortable if somewhat narrow chairs & chaisse-lounges without armrests, because legs have to go where the arms would be ; and otherwise calm and relaxed patrons and very athletic whores ready to service them. It is a lot like a game of poke 'er, in that she pokes herself really, you're just sitting (an' representin'). There's plenty but not infinite seats, and sometimes when you wish to join you might have to wait a little -- though never really all that long. Then as someone else busts out and then leaves you take his place, the same place as he had yet in your grip so different, so filled with possibilities which in the end are the same one. The same but one, just one, not even two, because in the Hora dance a winner's always you and there's no loser ever, nor has one yet been found, over the centuries, maybe millenia. Still looking they may be, but finding one's not of, or for this world.

As you sit or recline, taking your place in the wide circle around the room of others similarily seated or reclining, the music with its beat of seven drives the working girls, and soon one's by you, undoing you, and then she's gone, just as another picks up where the other left off, and then another, and yet another still. Your manhood, liberated by so many, untold hands, by twists and turns in turn samples them all. They ease themselves on it, their womanhood, lubricated, muscular, telling its story to it, and one, and two, and three, and... four, and five an' breathless six an' seven and she's also gone. The story is always the same, or maybe there's two, or three... yet this similarity, the fundamental identity of holes and muscular anatomy does not detract. They're different, the girls working the inner circle are all different girls, sometimes exhausted ones leave, sometimes fresh cunts eagerly join in the fray, but the difference is relatively unimportant : they've all the hole, and it's the same hole, or maybe there's two, or three, but in the end the muscles underneath all lay the same, and grip the same, new girls are different for naivite is always "distinct" but in the end it's a difference of lack and inadequacy. As they practice their grip, as they experience the prick they become very much the same, fully blown and thoroughly blossomed womanhood engorged between similarily muscular legs. Idle legs may be as "different" as you please, as error ever is ; but well worked legs are all the same on leg, the same Ishtar leg of perfection polished in form through unerring, oft revisited function. Up and down they bob, their tits with them, their hips with them, the hole with its precious filling all along, up, down, up, down, always the same up as went the down, never the same up as the following dawn.

As you recline you feel them all, their inside, warm, intimate, loving for the brief pulse of intercourse. They smile as they do it, too, a smile from within. In all other professional endeavours the female smile false and growing false by degrees, as time goes by and disappointment of its intent and promise piles on ; in this and this alone the female smile false at the onset, at the beginning, on the new and unexperienced girls but then by and by, by degrees growing true, truthful and heartfelt, as the experience over time changes them into themselves. The well used ones, the well fucked ones, the experienced ones smiling sweetly, genuinely, and from their heart -- their heart so often touched, so deeply touched, and so well. They say no girl's a true whore that doesn't dance the Hora well, and it is true -- as true as bells, a truth pretention doth not ever want to hear, for fear, fear dolloped atop itself.

It is also the only way one should conceive, claims a romantic vein of thought, and sometimes indeed wives join the fray, often (unknowingly) to stay. Who'll be the one that first spurts in you, can you from the beginning guess ? Do you ? And will it be his sperm that wins the inner race, or the next's, or whose ? The smile sweetens, rights itself into its true nature over time through natural working of the mind along with the body, the Hora's not merely an activity but also a whorship, like moving the arms in the recently drowned ressuscitates respiration so moving up and down on present, unaforeknown manhood ressuscitates the spirit. Pneuma & pneuma, suflet & suflet, what is the difference and which shall it be, which one is it to be, what's what and which and one and be ? As here and there girls win, their patrons underneath winning along with them this one and only game of winners only the others move along, move by, and carry on. The victorious whore caresses for a moment her captive victor held between her thighs, squeezes him as he spurts, kisses him or smothers her tits on his face for him to kiss, lays in his arms for him. Him, the one that pinned her down, the one that stopped her dance for her. While it won't last nevertheless she's now stuck, stuck on him, for a brief moment or perhaps an eternity. She relaxes a moment, and breathes ; he whispers in her ear, and then they part, though sometimes, rarely, she lays there, in his arms, while he seems to sleep, a brief moment or perhaps an eternity.

Rarely will the dancers sleep in that way together, rarely will the butterflies permit eternity to seep into their instant movement, rarely and at great peril. It's the unchanging truth of phenomenology that everyone fears what they might find, and so indeed does everyone since the dawn of time, a life "without fear" universally predicated upon a life without any life left in it at all. Yet life goes on, with as without, phenomena ongoing and their story undeterred if written or unwritten or somewhere in between. The truth, untold but omnipresent is that the patrons are anything but indistinct. On the contrary, they're specific, readily recognized, the girls that smile well smile well because they remember well, and oh, how well they do! The one, the one from before, that one, this one, not the other one, he that pinned her last time, the time before that, this one, not that one, squeezed him three times, she did, not four, or two, or just the one... They do recall, and in the recollection spurts grow sweeter, an inconsequential. momentary caress retrospectively magnified, enthroned, the whole hall with its moving and stationary parts an immense, immeasurable, cosmic amplifier of the better parts of all of it. They say no girl's truly a woman whose memory works otherwise, whose retrospective amplifies otherwise, and it is true, as true as pain, a truth bitterness doth not ever want to taste, for pretention dolloped upon ambition, sauced in vanity. For her sins.

The man looked up again, and the immemorial iguana stared back, unblinking. Unmoving. It had been staring at him for a while, staring him down, reptillian eye unerring on upturned head. An impressive beast, large, its endless tail spanning across the worlds. The man threw it a fragment of a banana he wasn't eating. He didn't like them that much, but he always had some on hand here, because the lizzards love them, these improbable preditors of flowerbuds and, on occasion, when available, ripe fruit. He remembered them, enough to cause changes in the world, and they remembered him, enough to patiently stare. Is he done yet ? Have those strange twiches so specific of him exhausted themselves yet ? Can they rest together now, embraced, in an exchange completet, yet ? Not yet ? The iguana is patient, like everything else forever is patient : while it lasts. Like all things, it has all the time in the world, until it has no more time at all ; but then there will be others, and the dance will go on. Otherwise, other places, but truly there's only one, maybe two or three ways, and places, and...

The end.

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  1. Speaking of which, the apostrophes in that need fixing. []
Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
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