Philosophical Foreplay

The woman in my bed was such a dollface.  So unlike the women I had been with before.  She had a subtle beauty, one that would look good in extreme close-up, and without a lick of make up.

Her dark eyes glistened like rare black diamonds.  Her skin was as smooth as fresh fallen Deer Valley powder.  Her scent a tantalizing cross between vanilla, and anything written by Joyce Carol Oates.  But what I found most attractive about her was her lengthy, curvaceous brain stem.

I’d wasted countless hours listening to this bimbo with mango ripe breasts, or that bimbette whose legs were long enough to dry laundry on, in hopes of getting them onto my firm deluxe camper blow-up bed.  But I was passed all that now.  I was bored to death of 3 ways with crème fresh, and re-enacting famous sex crimes on my roof deck for uPorn sites.  There were better ways to earn a living, and better women to share life with.

I met dollface on the UCLA campus after a semiotiics symposium that was open to the public.  I wasn’t there cruising for women, and her first impression was little to text home about.  She was quiet, wore nerdy black glasses and seemed sexually inexperienced, or so I thought.  Maybe it was the cumbersome head brace.  Little did I know I was but a few weeks away from a world of kinky intellectual esoterica.

We had a formally informal courting process.  Nights would begin with some off-beat cultural event and end with us dissecting it over two-for-one wines by the glass.  She took me to a wonderful stage reading of the Cherry Orchard, performed by an all transgender Philipino Repertory.  Afterwards, I admitted admit how wrong I was about trapeze having no place in Chekhov.

I reciprocated the following week by taking her to a post-modern recital of John Cage’s 4:33, his world famous symphony without notes or musicians.  But this time, the mute score was accompanied brilliantly by a improvisational wheel chair ballet.  Needless to say, she was awestruck.  And I was fast falling in love.

The following week we stayed in and watched a filibuster I had Tivo’d on CSPAN.  She hinted that she had eaten too much grated Romano and didn’t want to drive, so I offered her a little lie down on my bed.  She asked me to join her, and having just washed the sheets, I complied.

Those first few moments prostrate with her were magical.  I played my little private imagination game that I do with all new lovers, the one where I pretend I’ve just caught her in an affair with an interpreter of Sanskrit related to the Ayatollah Khomeini, and plan to kill them both with poison toad squeezings.

She asked what was wrong and I told her lovingly to shut her pie hole.  But Dollface was sharper than a jalapeño cheddar jack.  She skillfully broke through the lingering awkwardness by joking about my preternatural obsession with Friedrich Nietzsche.

I asked how in god’s name she knew I loved the great German Idealist.  “Well, those, I guess….” she said, pointing coyly at the oversized photos of him I had glue rolled onto the ceiling.  “Would you like to hear some of his philosophy?”  I asked, playful but threateningly.

I happened to have Freddy’s collected works bedside, tee’d up on custom shelving I’d built just for them.  The bookcase ended up obstructing a good part of entrance to the bathroom, but I didn’t give a damn.  I wanted them within reach at any cost.

I reached right over and broke open a newly published 957 page biography, lit up several French Toast scented candles, and began reading a series of provocative aphorisms, starting with, “A man’s maturity consists in having found again the seriousness one had as a child, at play.”

I could hear Dollbaby ruminating, so I delved into a longer passage from The Nachlass: a particularly sultry paragraph addressing the Nietzsche’s Lamarckian Inheritance view of evolution.  It turned her ruminations into a pensive purr.  I was on the right track.

With her intellect whetted, I strategically leafed to the decay of religious historicity as viewed through Hegelian antitheses section.  As I raced through passages on the anit-Christ, her heartbeat

matched the flutter of eyelashes.  A lesser gentleman might have called it panting, but I respected this woman too much for that.

Highlighted sections on European Nihilism brought us into dawn, both of us barely able to mask the arousal in our autonomic ganglia.  It was almost too much stimulation.

By the time I whipped out my gold-leafed Zarathustra, she was writhing with philosophical titillation, literally clawing at the book spine.  I pointed the bedside light in her eyes to protect the text from sunder.  It only made her beg for more: more text, read faster, closer to her ear.   She beseeched me to use a German accent.

She shuttered during his diatribes on aristocratic radicalism.  It was clearly my moment.  I had a choice to make.  I could ravage dollface backwards, frontwards and probably sideways, or I could dive even further into post-Nietzschean influences: Heidegger, Sartre, Camus, Derrida, and Foucault.

I started for my library with a luggage carrier, but dollface was already in the early throws of psychological ecstasy.  There wasn’t time to haul all those books back.  I had to act now, or the moment of passion would be lost.  I pulled out the miniature electric bullhorn my sister’s kids forgot under the couch, and began reciting the only Nietzsche poem I knew from memory—

Once more, before I wander on

And turn my glance forward,

I lift up my hands to you in loneliness —

You, to whom I flee,

To whom in the deepest depths of my heart

I have solemnly consecrated altars

So that

Your voice might summon me again.

On them glows, deeply inscribed, the words:

To the unknown god.

I am his, although until this hour

I’ve remained in the wicked horde:

I am his—and I feel the bonds

That pull me down in my struggle

And, would I flee,

Force me into his service.

I want to know you,

Unknown One,

You who have reached deep into my soul,

Into my life like the gust of a storm,

You incomprehensible yet related one!

I want to know you, even serve you.

The howls of ecstasy were so deafening that Vomit Meister, the thrash metal band that rehearsed in the garage next door, called in a noise complaint.

The book between the sheets had been ravaged.  Red with embarrassment, dollface offered me the cost of the text’s replacement, but I refused.  I had taken her where no man had taken her before, and she had responded more authentically than any under-read supermodel with a bleached anus ever could.

It was the beginning of a something special with this girl.  And the evocative, kinky cannon of western philosophy awaited us.


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