story of smith

Posted on June 14, 2009

4


Eros, mr sex himself, once a formidable winged god & not too hairy, now lives in the suburbs under the name Eros Smith & works for the city’s authorities regulating and policing prostitutes. This sounds exciting but it isn’t. the job’s pure drudgery: the laws are boring & irrelevant & suppressive. the practice of the world’s oldest profession pierces the body of democracy and decency (that’s the whole point) and society strikes back. Hookers have unions now & health insurance like their clients & brothels have receptionists who can say “cunnilingus” in seven languages.

nobody knows better than Eros what sexloveandlust is all about. when he appeared, ladies used to get wetter than Seattle & gents wilder than broncos, their eyes sparkling with lust and love. The Body Electric – these were not just words in the small shapely hands of the old Eros, but dough to sculpt desires & to make or break careers & lives all tied together by immeasurable longings, by lifelong bonds or shortlived encounters. he soothed the woe of the life-weary by injecting pure endlessness in their pulsing veins & helped lovers build comfortable nests in fertile dirt.

now he is mr Smith with a face like a sour apple, with a sandwich for lunch and bags under his eyes from too much TV. his loins are dry & his mouth is drier.

So what had happened?

let us wind back to a rainy night a few years ago & quicken the pace of our story:

lovely lara leiblich had a lover: ludvig lorry, a hunky fisherman. in the hut by the village, by the village he had told her but no way she’d go there with him just to you know what. but then she did anyway. ludvig as large as gentle. guiding her carefully. his wet thick blonde hair. sweat on his brow and on his upper arms glistening in the moonlight. romance novel stuff. sentimental hadn’t there been ludvigs large limb she longed for, and likewise, ludvig’s stirring was caused by the sweet caressing of lara’s labia.

Eros the god of earthly and heavenly love, son of aphrodite, conceived by Plentitude and Poverty, had stood bye from the first moment that lara laid lusty eyes on ludvig and ludvig gladly cocked his cap for lara. ‘t was like a pinch they both felt at the same time, the divine belly laugh, that libido lizardry making dr freud proud.

fast forward & you could see sheer screwing – they fucked until the angels wept willingly & eros flapped his wings with joy. ’twas a simple enough fondness that made them find & fondle each other. ’twasn’t correct or civil but in that barbecue space between their legs & thighs everything was in order without proper spelling. they spoke litle & breathed hard. is this how the universe began?

at home, their parents sat wondering. rain drops drizzled. fires flared. lara & ludvig were at large. eros was there for the parents as well-he watched over couples old and young, wet and dry, hot and cold, everywhere & anytime. the parents were calmed: deep down they knew an old story was repeating itself and a good thing that was.

meanwhile in detroit, in a former derelict can factory, a group of activists wrote a manifesto that would end it all. in it they listed all things that Eros cared about. made connections between lust & science, sex & labanotation built not on mathematical formulae or sound statistics, but on the powerful lyrics of soul. they proved, once and for all, from a feminist & a chauvinist, a marxist & a neoliberal point of view that Eros did what he did better than anyone else without any knowledge of history, biology, french, geography, trigonometry, algebra. the essay showed that mankind, in fact, would be served a lot better if Eros’ services were taken over by professionals with pedigree and a higher authority than the god could ever muster up. they took his job & left him with a bowl of lukewarm soup. they warmed up Apollo’s ancient argument that Eros’ archery skills were inferior and laughable & they injected their manifesto upon its completion in the internet where it circulated uncontrolled, virally infecting appassionati anywhere.

Eros, second in self-love only to narcissus, took all this really badly, especially the renewed ridicule, dropped the bow and reached for the billy club, the paddy wacker, the nightstick.

for ludvig and lara & millions of passionate lovers since then, a world ended. once again, divine intervention had been interrupted, intercourse itself gone off the rails, and the god vacated his olympic throne in exchange for a desk, left Psyche’s divan & moved into a bunk in the suburbs.

© 2009 finnegan flawnt

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Posted in: rootedinlove