Ég bloggaði aðeins um kvikmyndina Myra Breckinridge , eftir skáldsögu Gore Vidal, í febrúar síðastliðnum. Þá pantaði ég mér líka skáldsöguna – hún týndist síðan í pósti, ég fékk hana endurgreidda og pantaði mér nýja (eða aðra notaða, réttara sagt, bókin fæst ekki lengur nýprentuð) sem svo kom fyrir einhverjum vikum og ég las. Ég man ekki hvort ég var byrjaður þegar ég rak augun í þennan texta fremst í bókinni. Bókin sem kom var s.s. ritskoðuð bresk útgáfa með háðsglósu frá höfundi. Ég las hana nú samt og hafði gaman af – Vidal er einstakur höfundur sem ég hef alls ekki lesið nóg af. En mér fannst samt eitthvað skorta, fann tilfinnanlega fyrir því að ákveðin orka sem var í myndinni (sem er tótal flopp, en mér fannst frábær) væri ekki til staðar. Ég tengdi það merkilegt nokk ekkert við ritskoðunina/ritstýringuna – það blasir samt við þegar það loks hvarflar að manni. Í gær var ég svo heima með Aino, sem var lasin, og þá barst mér óvæntur pakki – bókin sem ég pantaði í febrúar var komin í leitirnar. Það er amerísk „first edition“ útgáfa og ég fletti auðvitað beint upp á hinni frægu nauðgunarsenu, sem var litlaus í bresku útgáfunni en brjálæðisleg í kvikmyndinni – Raquel Welch á stórleik. Það var augljóslega allt annar texti. Ég bar þá svo saman núna í morgun í vinnunni. Lýsing sem hefst og lýkur á orðunum „I was now afforded my favorite view of the male“ (Myra er búin að tjóðra Rusty fastan við bekk) í bresku útgáfunni heldur svona áfram í þeirri bandarísku: „the heavy rosy scrotum dangling from the groin above which the tiny sphincter shyly twinkled in the light. Carefully I applied lubricant to the mystery that Mary-Ann has never seen, much less violated.“ Á næstu síðu er svo búið að klippa út nærri því heila blaðsíðu – þar sem Myra segir „Now you will find out what it is the girl feels when you play the man with her.“ Og bandaríska útgáfan heldur svo áfram (feitletruðu bútarnir eru líka í bresku): “Jesus, you’ll split me.“ The voice was treble with fear. As approached him, dildo in front of me like the god Priapus personified, he tried to wrench free of his bonds, but failed. The he did the next best thing, and brought his knees together in an attempt to deny me entrance. But it was no use. I spread him wide and put my battering ram to the gate.
For a moment I wondered if he might not be right about the splitting: the opening was the size of a dime while the dildo was over two inches wide at the head and nearly a foot long. But then I recalled how Myron used to have no trouble in accommodating objects this size or larger, and what the fragile Myron could do so could the inexperienced but sturdy Rusty.
I pushed. The pink lips opened. The tip of the head entered and stopped.
“I can’t,” Rusty moaned. “Honestly I can’t. It’s too big.”
“Just relax , and you’ll stretch. Don’t worry. ”
He made whatever effort was necessary and the pursed lips became a grin allowing the head to enter, but not without a gasp of pain and shock.
Once inside, I savored my triumph. I had avenged Myron. A lifetime of being penetrated had brought him only misery. Now, in the person of Rusty, I was able, as Woman Triumphant, to destroy the adored destroyer.
Holding tight to Rusty’s slippery hips, I plunged deeper. He cried out with pain.
But I was inexorable. I pushed even farther into him, triggering the prostate gland, for when I felt between his legs, I discovered that the erection he had not been able to present me with had now, inadvertently, occurred. The size was most respectable, and hard as metal.
But when I plunged deeper, the penis went soft with pain, and he cried out again, begged me to stop, but now I was like a woman possessed, riding, riding, riding my sweating stallion into forbidden country, shouting with joy as I experienced my own sort of orgasm, oblivious to his staccato shrieks as I delved and spanned that innocent flesh. Oh, it was a holy moment! I was one with the Bacchae, with all the priestesses of the dark bloody cults, with the great goddess herself for whom Attis unmanned himself. I was the eternal feminine made flesh, the source of life and its destroyer, dealing with man as incidental toy, whose blood as well as semen is needed to make me whole!There was blood at the end. And once my passion had spent itself, I was saddened and repelled. I had not meant actually to tear the tender flesh but apparently I had, and the withdrawing of my weapon brought with it bright blood. He did not stir as I washed him clean (like a loving mother) , applying medicine to the small cut, inserting gauze (how often had I done this for Myron). Það er ekki mikið sem lifir af æðiskast yfirstrikunarpennans. Vidal er ekkert að grínast með móral breta. Merkilegt nokk enda sumir kafla bókarinnar í lausu lofti – á hálfum setningum – og ég hélt að kannski væri það vegna þess að búið væri að skera eitthvað út. En svo eru þeir kaflar líka þannig í orginalnum – skáldsagan er eins konar dagbók Myru og hún klárar ekki allar færslurnar sínar. Nú er ég búinn að panta mér framhaldið – Myron – vonandi kemur hún áður en ég hverf til Skandinavíu og Austurríkis sumarlangt.