Savage Theories by Pola Oloixarac & Roy Kesey

Author:Pola Oloixarac & Roy Kesey [Oloixarac, Pola & Kesey, Roy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literary Fiction
ISBN: 9781616957353
Amazon: 1616957352
Publisher: Soho Press
Published: 2017-01-10T00:00:00+00:00

2.1.2

The purity of the horror involved should not, must not, be assuaged. I must act upon him so as to inspire armies of organized brutality sent vectoring toward me. I muse upon my options: 1. To cause him to throw himself upon me like a wolf, voracious, brutal; 2. To watch him sniff and salivate at my nymphean estuary.

The blow cannot fall in vain. I must swap out his venereal appetite for the blood-stained excess that is at stake. It isn’t enough simply to arouse his desperation, his unconditional surrender to my delicious parts. I have to make him gather every ounce of strength and brutishness, make him reveal to me the purest form of the monster of dominance and destruction, because only then . . . The night does not flee from the wolf of the night: deep in the silvery foliage of the world, it lets the wolf lick its throat, hides the wolf beneath its mantle, and waits. It doesn’t matter if disgust causes my skin to crawl; he will throw himself on top of me, and I will quietly resist. The worse it is—the more strongly, the more violently he takes me—the better. Yes, the worse it is, the better. To distance myself from the horror, I try to focus on the fact that though I must yield in the name of his pleasure, he—we, Augustus—we serve in the name of justice. It isn’t enough to dangle a delicious fruit vert before his eyes, and watch him prepare to gorge. I must produce, indirectly, through him, into me, the bloodbath whose repercussions will be felt in the System of Persons. I must work through him, and yet not: it’s like hypnotizing a lion.

Collazo (like Augustus) has long, stabbing, beautiful hands. They scratch and stretch everything they touch. The thought of them reaching for me makes my hair stand on end. In the words of Pasteur, that genius of evil germs, le hasard ne favorise que les esprits preparés, isn’t that right, Montaigne, ma petite chat?

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