I cannot hear my own voice over the roaring, foam-flecked waters, but Omnia emits a high-spirited shriek that tickles my cochlear nerve: "Aqua di wello!" This is translated into English as "God's water," but is pronounced as "Rabbit's piss." Oh, rabbits! If only you could make love with such unrestrained and exhilarating abandon as the two of us - thus! "Why does this ridiculous skirt confine me?" Omnia says as she sheds the A-line pleated wool and tulle midi, not quite like a snake shedding its skin, more like a heron shedding its cocoon. My God-given, maleform reproductive organ is swelled to the size of a thermos flask, begging to be unwound from its springs and freed from its strapping. Today, my heart is a sack of mouldy rose petals. Today, her heart is a sea sponge soaked in vinegar. Omnia drops to her knees and unzips my fly. Right on cue, the first wisp of sperm makes a desperate, death-stricken bid for escape into the gelid, winter air. Spring will arrive soon but it will be too late for the two of us. We are already overcome by its fever. "My fuck shorts are soaking wet," O. informs me, "they are full of slutty little teeny tit flaps." "Fuck you, you dirty old man," she says to me, "when you encourage, and by encouraging embolden me, to wear a wasp-waisted corset on Ash Wednesday that pushes my breasts up perfect-size, it gets me so horned up that I have to go to the gloryholes on K'Road and take the cocks of men I don't even like into my mouth and swill their brackish chlorine-tasting ejaculations down my throat as if they were sudsy spumes of tangy sweet champagne imbuded with subtle notes of peach and figs and citrus." It is as if all the miraculous symbols of love and fidelity that once populated our domestic sanctuary have now been turned to ashes and their ghostly particles swept away by a strident gust. Gaunt, wicked, malformed fingers violate my child bride on the sagging altar and etch their ulcerated, pornographic graffiti onto her intestinal walls. Omnia's nostrils flare dramatically and disclose their blood-stained guillotines. I make a mental note not to fuck her in her snoot. The party in Los Angeles was yampy queerdo. Women, wearing black silk hoods over their heads, hang from trees in leather harnesses, naked as Eve before the Fall. Nina's Simone's "Strange Fruit" blares on a loop through the silhouetted forest. "Scent of magnolia, clean and fresh..." Guests may insert a finger or two, or a tongue, or a nose, but not a penis, as the women have been hung up much too high for ambitious cocksmen to perform such a maneuver. I notice all the woman have hairy pussies and hairy armpits and yet their legs are clean-shaven. Moans swallowed. Silky vein, my petal. Slippery pinprick. A black-coated jaguar chews on the dorsal flank of a humpback whale and swallows a flirtatious hummingbird whole. Omnia looks up at me with her doe eyes. Her gazers are shining bright, sparkling, like two almond-shaped galaxies. They are awash with an odd combination of childish naivete and sheer wickedness. And, further besides, perhaps even... love? Yes, I think, yes, love, it is love that I see. I kiss her sacular lips. She gasps. Then cringes. A leprous, spastic behemoth emerges from the water holding out its bloody, amputated stump in a gesture of invitation. A familiar figure. Two dewlaps and two breasts with two eyes for nipples. Wide-open, transfixed, unblinking. Like they are watching the television set. On the wall. On the table. Watching the boob tube. What they are about to see is something they'll never forget. Omnia rubs her slippery quim over my two-day stubbled jaw. A benediction of warm fluids oozes from her sexhole. She tastes like the fruit of the sea. A sea made of curdled milk, desiccated communion wafers, unhexed have-child fluids from the needful hips of the sexship, and the briny tears of passion wept by her leigons of banished lovers. French bulb fountains trickle noiselessly behind us. We embrace as two thoroughly exhausted lovers on the bed of unconditional lust, sharing a single, vivid hallucination of amatory perfection. But alas, it cannot last, an unforseen squall has now arrived in our happy town. Her frilly, Victorian knickers are all of a sudden sopping-wet, inclement as a winding-sheet soaked with bitter tears on the bier of night. My heroic, pustulant areola is now immodestly close to her battered, pusillanimous cervix. I rub my nipple on her clitoris. She flexes. Then groans. A cloud of feminine steam rises from the wintry marshes. The winter birds take flight. A pining cry from the skeletal lattices of the seashore pierces my inner ear, transporting me back to those sunny, carefree days when our love was in its prime. Omnia's winsome breasts are smeared with the razor-sharp talons of pig-tailed hornets and the semi-derelict, abandoned shrines of degenerate goddesses. A stinging slap stripteases the cloven hoof of her cadaver mound. She carcasses herself with my coarse sword. Then kisses the meatier of her two breasts. "Get back to the swamp, ass-licker!" she shrieks at me. "Watch your mouth, young lady," I warn her, "or I'll wash it out with soap and water." She pinches her nipples through her t-shirt and pokes out her tongue. I can see I'm going to have to give her a lesson in how to behave. "Where did I leave my cane? You know where it is? Good. Fetch it for me now, you impertinent little wench. You're due for a good thrashing. I'll give you seven fresh stripes on your moonbathed buttocks. And I don't want to hear you make a sound while I'm correcting you. So wad up your cunt-damp monogrammed panties and shove them in your smart-alecky little mouth." Omnia leaps off the bed and takes refuge in the closet. I can hear her singing inside. "Oh Palu, oh Paura, oh Phall, oh Paul," she warbles, "isn't it just divine that you and I are both such devout Christians and yet still are so polymorphously perverse". She bursts out of the armoire, starkers now, save for her sunglasses, socks, and shoes. Omnia shoves the Pounamu Ben Wa balls I brought her for Christmas into her cunthole and clambers into her rocking chair in a woozy stupor. She takes a deep whiff of amyl nitrate into her left, then her right nostril and croons: "I want to get high-high-high!" She lifts one foot onto the edge of the rocking chair. She is wearing her Margiela silicone-dipped socks and her platform sandals. The ones that come with the calf-clamp iPhone holder. She presses the smartphone's screen and a recording begins to play. It is a video of my sweet angel being fucked doggy-style by another man. His cock is not longer but is much thicker than mine. Close-ups of her face, her eyes wide, sweaty strands of hair plastered to her forehead, the edge of her mouth contorted in a bestial sneer. Then she closes her eyes and bliss rinses her face pure and clean. "Kneel down and jerk off to it," Omnia says. "If you're lucky, next time, I won't shower, and when I get home you can eat his yummy sperm right out of my preloved cunt."
Smell of oil paint. Impasto friezes of a sexual inferno depicted in colours so intense they seem to vibrate off the canvas. Contorted bodies in various stages of degradation and imminent psychological collapse. A woman's face rendered with a softer hand, powdery scumbling of sepia and burnt umber hues. Possibly a touch of Mummy brown pigment daubed here and there. The bells of the Sacre-Coeur clang-clang up on Martyr's Hill. Omnia's uterus is lined with cobblestones. The entrance to her vulva is barricaded by an inverted cross. I have longed for her my whole life without ever realizing it. And here she is at last, a mad passion of rainless grains alchemized into a woman's body. Your mother has fallen asleep inside Omnia's womb. Do not wake her. Let her rest. Tonight, we shall satify ourselves with the hush-mouthed art of sodomy. Gently, oh so gently, quiet as a mouse. Omnia's smiling face is the spoon that I use to eat my own brains for breakfast. "Would you like a second helping?" she asks. She towers high above me, on altitudinous limbs, gazing down from immeasurable heights. Her long tresses billowing in the breeze. Her bare, barbarous breasts, banked with pearl-grey clouds. Omnia pinches her nose, and blows hard, trying to make her ears pop at the high altitude. With her lively, puckish attitude she tries to equalize the two of us so that we can, should we so choose to, fit together rear to snout, hindquarters to forelegs. To collect the shards of our ignorance and tendresse and amalgamate them into something approximating a harmonious conjunction of male and female prelapsarian unity. I kiss the stray circuit lines at the base of her back. She arches like a cat and hisses at me. Something clicks-in behind her belly button; it clicks right into place. Omnia blushes like a schoolgirl. She squints at me. "You didn't hear that - did you?" she asks, then queefs low and moribund and extrudes an arabesque, glittering turd from her clammy anus. The Earthly mucus is boiling behind the Planck wall. My partner in crime says: "You better come quick: my promiscuous uterus has popped next door into a mirror dimension for a clandestine fuck with the supreme being and I have to tell you that God has a green, triphallic, badger's penis covered in burr knots that makes me feeeeel ohhhhhh soooooo gooood." Her eyes are marred with veins of blue marble. Her irises are made of candy. The fulcrum of her pelvis is a child's swing-set inlaid with silver filigree and enchanted cowrie shells. The soft duns of her scrawny breasts are aquiver in the wind and rainlight. Omnia is shaking with anticipation of all the wonders yet to come, all the wicked sensations that this illicit coupling has to offer her. She gets down on all fours, throws her head back, tears open her shirt, and cries out: "I am a whore! I am a slut! I shit out gilded arpeggios and glittering abracadabras! I am a daughter of Satan! An acolyte of pure carnality! I am the dauphine of debauchery! And don't you forget it, Paul, you fucking fagot!" She wiggles her softest parts at me. A wave of warm breath wafts through the frigid air. "Let's go there," she murmurs in my ear. At the Cabaret de L’Enfer, the topless nymphs are all smiles. They welcome us into their heavenly banquet. They give Omnia a naked leg twirl. A frieze of buxom burlesque dancers cavort backstage. They lift Omnia off the ground. She's levitated from beneath her armpits. Through the six-foot-tall waves. Above the deranged arabesque of her Philip Treacy hat which has fallen into the tide and is now being swept out to sea. Her auric corpus crunches and sifts. Around the creamy, intoxicating salts. Her titanic dildo gurgles. Her armpit feet plow the watery depths. Her translucent cleft bares its tummy. Scented soap is spattered across her pale skin. She holds on for dear life. High-pitching shrieking up into the sky. Her once discreet nipples, jutting out, brazen and impudent, rouged with a thick paste of cinnabar. A statue of Bacchus beckons to the last of the arriving crowd. The freesias are already wilting. Flaring and expiring. Please read me your catechism. I'm in my skivvies. My face is seeping. I raise my night-moonned hand to God. "Please, I'm a very dirty little boy, help me to get off." Omnia prostrates herself before me. Bowing down as I masturbate. Cocking her head to my vesicant thumb. She licks my fingerprints, one by one, until they are warm and wet, until the whorls are nearly worn-off. “Put it inside me, if you must," she says, feigning nonchalance. She gestures with a limp hand toward my stiffening cock. I move stealthily toward her, like the shadow of the penial watchtower slyly lengthening across the cuntal plaza at the hour of eventide. Omnia's puritanical uterus shrieks: "No! No! No!" but I am indifferent to its protests. Her vulva now has a bullseye painted on it. I move toward her, past the boiling toilet, through a bulletproof barrier, over a medieval moat that is bursting its banks. My body is undulating like an umbilical cord made of ectoplasm. Silent and sensitive as silver halide salts suspended in colloid. My sphincter is cocked and ready to fire. Egon Schiele gooses me with a bony index finger. Omnia eyes me with a cross-eyed stare of malicious lust. "You will not put that thing in me!" She yells in defiance, deploying reverse-psychology to hasten my incursion into her most intimate of fissures. She is being prudent, I think, by withdrawing, shrinking from sight, fading away like a Brontë heroine into the gossamer mists of the moors. Suddenly, an about-face, and she returns with renewed fervour. Her hands are bracing her hips. Now they are cupped under her buttocks. Her swollen clitoris, a pink origami swan, beckons me with its wing. Before my very eyes, Omnia's face melts. Her visage has been transformed into a papier maché mask crudely fashioned in the style of de La Tour's portrait of the penitent Magdalene. I kiss her softly on her lips which are starting to slide off her face and seep and gloop into my lap. I am grateful when she shifts the attention elsewhere, lifting her nightdress over her head, and telling me to put my “dirty little pee-pee into her naughty little hidey-hole." I rise on tiptoes, picking up speed. Omnia writhes upon the bed, chanting a prayer in the Hebrew tongue, petitioning her God as one might petition a lover, her hands mangling her breasts, her mouth frothing like an overflowing sewage grate. I need to insert. I need to probe. I need to break through. I need to push deep into her depths. Her vagina is a scab. I have an urge to pick it off with the end of my prick. I shove it in her, with no regard for her pleasure, her pain, or her person. She is a hole to me, that is all. And she enjoys it most that way. With every inward thrust, her face creases with a new wrinkle, she squints, she screams, she urinates, her mouth bleeds. I increase my rhythm, all the more desperate now. I swivel my hips like a teenage girl hula hooping the rings of Saturn. The alabaster vase lunges at me. I deftly evade it. I slide in a little deeper, savouring the creaks, the ridged texture of her vaginal canal, a combination of flesh, feathers, and the heaving, undulant, mother-sea. I am on top of her, balancing with the sheer strength of my arousal, on my knees, thrusting, pistoning, discovering her slipperiness, the way she accommodates me, the slide of her bottom against my sodden sac, and the half-sighing, half-sobbing, moans of protest. "No... no... no..." The submerged continent of Tasmantis rises up from the sea. Water spills off its basaltic columns. At the pinnacle of Ball's Pyramid, Jesus is crucified. A spiny crown of Kina shells pierce his anguished brow. Masks in frozen poses dance across the surreal landscape. The Three Faces of Eve. Appearing through shapeless, leaking water. The Star of David with etchings of glass eyes. They glow. The stars. Bathing Omnia's undraped body in an empyrean light. Rise up and soar as true as the sea for me. The salt-jewelled corsets refract aureate coronas upon your pale brow. The dappled nymphs disport. Hail the dawn of ecstasy. You sigh and shake your head. I scream to the sky. "Oh, Lord, look at us, and try to forgive us. We are your children. Tell us how to be." The ghost of Yeshua's Kina-skull floats past, bobbing along the surface of the water. Ushering in the Second Coming. Instead of Fig leaves, Omnia and I wear sargassum frogfish over our private parts. We revel in the pearl dust that covers our thighs. Our spangling genitals squeak with joy. All our thoughts swim pure and clear in the sainted light. Behind my closed eyelids, I behold an evil from her past. A man-sized cockroach in repose upon a Venetian red Louis XV fainting couch. The repugnant creature points an accusatory foreleg up towards infinity. The filaments of his antennae incandesce with brush-like traces of St. Elmo's fire. "He is coming, He is coming," Omnia whispers in my ear. I do not know whether she is referring to her cockroach-rapist-father or to the risen Christ. We pass, hand in hand, through the anhydrous ocean canyons, as the sea swells over our heads and rises up to meet the stars.