It was raining that hot night in Saigon, and the water pouring on warm earth only made it hotter, hotter still. I still remember your secret studio that you had set up in one of the huts. You would burn every photograph ever made in that studio, no letter written was ever posted, every woman loved in that hut was erased from your biography.
You’d seen me that night sitting in one of those roadside stalls that Bourdain used to love very much – and by just taking a look at you, I had agreed to go back to your secret studio. At worst, I thought, you might kill me. I was hoping that you would. You were rather brutal and rough, which I liked, and in that moment when you were finally inside me, I remember nothing about you except your hardness. I wish you would do it to me again and again and again.
That’s why I don’t know why, after that fainting orgasm, I turned into a spider and ate you. You tasted like bitter lemon. Though, I have always wondered why you had an egg in your hand?
An egg, my dear Louise? An egg, because it is the tantric object par excellence, the infinite and the discontinuity, the origin and the declaration of the end. That egg, in that little hut where the dollar prostitutes paraded one after the other – the straw roof still rings with their cries of pleasure… or pain? – I flaked it. With meticulousness. Tact. Delicacy. A soft egg. Half-cooked. Do not damage the white. The surface must be flawless. No crack, no scratch. A white perfection. I spread your thighs, your vulva, I placed deep in you. Then I sank into you, and the egg exposed in you because of my blows. The yellow ran on my cock while you bent your head back, vulgar insubordinate spider.
Your trashy delicacy arouses me again, you, the one with the hardest cock. And even while writing to you, I am wet – is it the white of that egg you placed deep inside me or its mere memory? And tell me, my bitter love, what will you place tenderly inside my mouth, right on my tongue, before I hold your cock in my hands before sucking on it? Will you place another soft boiled egg in my mouth to be damaged by your intense blows?
An egg is not an end in itself. A cock either. There is nothing Oriental in me or in you. There is the infinite which meets the infinite, the infinite which blends into the infinite, an infinite still greater, unfathomable, indefinable, insensitive to your imagination. The front door? You know it, I imprint it nights and days, days and nights, at all times, in all directions, awake and asleep.
My love, my love. You are right. An egg is an ouroboros. It’s the beginning and the end of us. Which is to say: there was never a beginning, and there will never be an end. On this blue planet, we will be truly forever.
I do not know if you really understood the meaning of ouroboros, my Louise. It means that I, Man, nestled in the depths of you, present from the bottom up, I will come out through your mouth, to finish in my own mouth. This is not one of my paintings imagined under mescaline. This is the cycle of life and death. The little death is the high life.
My dear, you have forgotten all. There is the individual ouroboros. And there is the tantric ouroboros. You speak of the individual continuity – yours. But in Saigon I had shown you the Yab Yum – where there is no separation between a man and a woman – so close together that one becomes the mouth, the other the tail of the snake. There is no separation between you or I in love, or in an egg.
M & Mrs Hyde are the two tantric and trashy sides of a forgotten soul, with frequent Jungian mood, tiny red spot obsession, Bombay Sapphire passion, frequent insomnia, recurrent headaches, taste for Darjeeling, and fascination for words. Always travelling from East to West, and inversely.