The avoidance of pain leaves the void of pain; it's the preferred way the naive human cell un-privy to what pain berths yearns to live. But I submit to you, in the submission to pain, there within another dimension, amasses the cell behavior that never dissipates nor exposes their bizarre shift as we go on day to day, alive in what we believe to be living.
Sex is the opposite of a virus, it engages in every method of metabolic distension, as the virus needs no metabolism. Though some viruses are borne through sex itself, they are both worlds apart. In the frenetic, energetic pursuit of the paroxysmal convulsion, the human cell at whole expends more energy than any living species on earth. And we are not only set apart from these species due solely to our expenditure to succumb to orgasm, we are unique in devising different methods in which to reach that physiological reward.
The human body is magnetized to the ephemeral orgasm; the female body is a testament to such magnetism; the engorging of sexual tissues (the vulva, the nipples, the vaginal walls that produces vaginal lubrication.)
No stimuli is stymied- when the body is prepared to embark on its odyssey towards pleasure, though it can be stopped, it becomes a sure thing, a confident thing, a impetous impetus, if stopped, the body then aches, the mind ceases its flood of oxytocin, testosterone, estrogen and returns the cell to its mortal stagnancy, as though the sin of not allowing the journey's commencement is a punishment to the body itself.
It is difficult to avoid the desire of the orgasm; it is the ultimate manipulation of the body that gives the greatest reward. Upon the first explosion, the body is never again the same. The cell memory is then stained, the heightened sensitivity of the erogenous zones then evolve and demand every bit of attention, if not from intercourse, then frottage, if not from frottage, then a self-imposed, manual manumission. Even the greatest fear of the human condition, one of the most natural aside of birth and coitus, death, is itself parellel to sex. Upon the initiation of foreplay, then penetration, the blood pressure rises, the heart rate increases drastically, the inner walls of the nostrils swell, the body is nearly depleted in inertia to the point of lactic acid build up; during sex, death is impending, only numbed by the ignorance of its forth-march, the numbing of the body with pleasure, the chase of the convulsions that strike the vas deferens and clitoris.
Pain is a different player in this tact of the anatomy. Crosswire pain and love and the sadomasochist is born. This is the descendancy of Leopold Von Sacher Masoch and the Marquis de Sade, orphaned undesirables of a subterranean subculture submerged in its own depravity. Scars, albeit hidden, are their true hieroglyphs, transcendence the language idyllic in the greatest degree, pathologically decadent. The Sadomasochist pushes the body, erases the boundaries given to each by one's own mind. In this, the Sadomasochist not only titillates or manipulates themselves, they grow into themselves, while the rest grows outwardly.
With pain, the cell becomes the integrity cell, incapable of deviating away from the piercing of deviation. This is a chance event as life itself is chance, accidental, the twining of the sexes, same or opposite, that can create transcendence, the extreme and extremities of autoeroticism, the supernatural possession carried over from fantasy taken into coitus. The human body is the true extra-terrestrial, a most intricate cell unique from one to the next, forfeited one quality, forgiven the next.
The curvature is so fine and finely drawn that it can be seen no where else but in the human body, in the woman- nowhere else can the curvature be so extreme as to emanate all beauty. It doesn't emulate it for it is few that is, in suspended animation, as the follicles born into her time birth. It is in this manse of necessity, an inherent physical necessity, that a mirror is molded to reflect omnipotence, an identical doppelganger of limitless being. This then is not the near and still but the flight from physical, the fall back into the world that the physical is objected, bedazzled and thrown to a temporary, nugatory state, until such time biology again, relentlessly and unvaryingly arises to again make her a focal of attraction. All knowledge attained of the woman is pure empiricism that fades with time, ever-changing, as mathematical expression does. There is space within her only expressed through stereometrics, as in man, physical potency without depth. It is in the space within a woman a true cosmos, too spatial for man to fully investigate in that it lies in an aura we cannot yet reach or ever will attain access to, lives the greatest mystery of mysteries.
Both light and shade is made in that impressionist fashion illustrated so well in the 18th and 19th centuries from that shadow taken and made bright by her light. "Symmetry" then applies to the woman as life, being, the world. The Decadents of the late 19th century knew too well this concept of the woman, whose very presence gives to all of us whose becoming is splice from our actual being. From the vision of this perpetual brilliance, the desire becomes the orgasmic dream itself- man pursues not the woman of pure misogyny, his pursuit is the pursuit of the physical, the psychic, the fantasy with, every endeavor he's attempted to bring into reality.
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