Love and Eels
Love and Eels:
On the final night they spent together, he made pasta. No one had ever cooked for her before. She was intoxicated by the comfort, the domesticity of the act. It was probably a symptom of something Oedipal, not enough care from her father or some shit. She’d tried to brush the thought away. Freud is an ideological recreational drug best used sparingly, and she was no first time user. Side effects: rage, diabolical wishes that ones vagina actually would grow teeth and initiate a spree of vigilante justice, the consumption of all the condiments in ones fridge (including an entire can of cake frosting and half a carton of sour cream) and occasionally the death of independent mental capacity. She’d concentrated instead on exploring the grooves of his bare back and shoulders hoping her hands or mouth might uncover a flimsy crack in his demeanor, a place to burrow up under his skin.
Freud spent a portion of his youth dissecting hundreds of eels in search of their reproductive organs, attempting to disprove Aristotle’s hypothesis that they birthed from the guts of the soil. He was unsuccessful and changed the direction of his studies, leading to his eventual explorations of psychoanalysis and sexuality. 132 years later, a woman holds a man, and she wishes for a knife, or an organ, capable of penetrating and infecting his body, dissolving him into a shuddering mass of adoring jelly inside a translucent sack of skin. This is what he has done to her, and they call him a man. She stays quiet and acquiesces to his pillaging hands and loveless kiss. Thanks to the elusive gonads of an eel, there are dangerous books about women like her, women who dream of reciprocating the piercing, destruction of their soul…