Baudelaire would say that every perfect debauch demands perfect leisure. Soon enough, the seats will be taken by a group of gentle men and women of leisure who have paid good money to come here, to get turned on by the sight of our rapture.
We will enter the stage one by one, to offer—and to enjoy—the very best of each. Ana Muschi, the smooth and spirited soloist from Moscow, shall open the program. Then, Gina and Giorgio Maretto, the Italian couple whose skin—this I can assure you—smells and tastes like a sunny day by the sea. My turn will be up next, though I won’t go right in. Ours is an allegorical scene in which a man and a woman are given the gift of Tongues and since this can’t be but passed on, it must be patiently, passionately, and vehemently applied straight on the softest nub of their beings.
Upon summoning, the lights will dim into deep purple kissing darkness. The budphallus will appear next, lit: A violet pod in the shape of a gigantic flower of banana whose center will release the scent of tuberoses and the pure verb—standing in my flesh. I shall smile at the leisured onanists and advance towards the bodies: male, female, lying, tempting. The blood that throbs and swells them, will make water in my mouth. Lick, suck, rub, kiss, sink, eat, taste, outline, drip, savour, blow, swallow!—I shall say and it shall become verb-thing. This: pussy, glans, pubis, phallus, clitoris, cock, lava, are to be avouched by means of Tongue—drooling, glabrous, broken—, until the break of demicry.
Mlle. Bouche D’Or