If a woman like O, into fashion and
interior design, a woman who wore
only the best Parisian clothes,
knew Ionic columns from Doric ones,

could have let such flesh
whales do what they did in every part
of her, mouth, vagina and even
what must have become an incredibly

rash red asshole. A woman who read
and knew art couldn't be too unlike her.
It's not that she was an environmentalist
out to save some thrashing dying male
manatee or spotted owl and so let
them plunge into the cove of her
skin. She wonders if that's why O put
an owl mask over her head and let her

self be led by a chain? Not that she wasn't
led, Jackie sighs. And led on. She might
as well have had a ring filed thru her labia,
been a slave. She's felt branded, had her

own masks, did what she did for love, too,
her hands tied. Like O, her clothes, her
inner feelings and architecture are
her main intrigues. She tries to imagine
herself in O's body. The best way to get
close would be with a penis of her own,
just for a day. She shudders, knows O did
like women too, and her name's even in O's writing,

another pleasure they could share. Her penis
would be like a massive horse between her
legs, that thick warmth that sweeps
her off her feet and won't cheat on

her but let her hips roll with a
deep sensuous pitch, a half ton of snort
and leather after so many years of riding
that giant phallus, - often better than,
well, she won't go in to that. On the night
something starts to grow inside her she whispers
Penis over and over in her breathy soft
way as if to make the word flesh until

skin jolts up, a dick big as an amaryllis,
a favorite flower of O's she's heard, sure to
lure her to a Chateau in Roissy. "How," Jackie
shivers, "could O, anonymous and cool as me, not be

open to such a stalk." This wouldn't be the first
big O in her life but maybe this time it will stand
for orgasm she pants as she imagines plunging into O
passionately as if she was redecorating the whole
White House. This time she'd have a bone, not
a home of her own, O the sheath she'll fill
as well as she has the others tho this one's
not of black linen or silk but moist as her own mouth.

She'll cantor and trot, ride O as she would a stallion.
Afterward, they'll curl in the dark, maybe talk
about O.J., wish Nicole had her own penis,
her gun, stick, spear, sword, knife that could if it had to

slice another lap sausage, only they'd use French words,
come up with a barrage as they talked about men
who liked to roam. Then they'd go out shopping,
have snails, eager to rush back to that elegant space

with lush interiors to play with, redo a little more
than just the rooms