Hag, Wanderer, Orifice
by D.N. Stuefloten

H a g     W a n d e r e r     O r i f i c e

from HAG:

Can we talk of despair? It comes like a black cloud, it is a black hole, a black dog, etc. It comes as it will. I groan and moan and toss sleeplessly on my bed. There is no reason to think it will ever stop. Eventually it stops. I stagger out into the day my eyes rimmed in red. At such times I cling to the image of Lola. Or Hag. It is not clear to me any more which was which. Lola became Hag. Hag took Lola. Of course that was my intention: my disaster was to succeed. I explained to Lola--young Lola, the girl who played Lola--that it was an incantatory matter, the issue was one of eliciting Hag's presence with the magical utilization of her accouterments: thus the dangling straps, the bra straps, the straps of her garterbelt, the belt strapped around her waist, the straps of her shoes, the filigree descending from her ears and from around her neck, beads cascading here and there, bracelets on each arm, gems real and unreal, diamontes, raspberry-sized rubies, priceless zircons, rhinestones that glittered at her throat. It is all evocation, I argued, emanation, the exuviae left by the goddess herself, accumulated piece by piece until Lola's entire body became a kind of totem. Hag will reside in you, I said, you will feel her, a spiritual presence, there will be an illumination, an epiphany perhaps. Lola listened with her head averted. She lay supine on the floor. The repetitive patterns of the tile were displayed around her. Cascading everywhere were beads, across her brassiere, her thin panties, the lace garterbelt, her legs ensheathed in her sheerest stockings. I had spent time petting her mons veneris. This is the mound of love, I told her, the mound of the goddess. With her belly sucked in her mound rose like a small hillock. I stroked it gently until she sighed, until her whole body sighed. Then I arranged the lights and took pictures. The glow of passion was visible in her face, is visible today: the picture hangs in the room upstairs: the seven fetish pictures I call them, her silken ankles, the extraordinary shoes, the hanging jewelry, I ticked them off on my fingers. On the floor Lola watched me as I moved aside the wisp of cloth at her vagina. Her lids had grown heavy. I inserted myself: I put myself inside her. Her eyes did not change expression. It was only I who moved, slowly, as deeply as I dared.