Europa and the Bull

June 3, 2018

Bull and woman

Lust, in the beginning. A fire in the blood, merging and diverging, comingling in the brain of the Father of all things, mighty Zeus, at his first sight of the beautiful Europa, sister of Cadmus and daughter of Agenor, the Phoenician king of Tyre.

And, oh, that first fleeting glimpse of the maiden, so incendiary to the God, birthed the desire in his burning brain to have her at any cost! He would have her maidenhead! Would destroy it with his great God cock –

This pure, beautiful, slim and magic girl, this glowing gold beauty would be the most glorious fuck he had ever had.

Swimmy-headed with sex and madness, mighty Zeus plotted.

What to do about his sister wife, Hera? The first madwoman of the universe. Jealous Hera; eternally suspicious Hera. She knew of his addiction to cunt – knew that he would be irresistibly drawn by Europa’s clean, smooth cunt, her tiny flytrap now a God-trap that could make him cum and cum all night long. Hera would sniff that out. And her God-like rage over his horseplay would be beyond contemplation!

So much of her life had been dedicated to revenge on the nymphs who had enjoyed congress with Him –

True, she renewed her virginity each year. Gave herself to Him as an ‘innocent’ to ravage. But it wasn’t enough –

Had she not had Eileithyia’s legs tied together to stop her giving birth to mighty Zeus’ illicit child, Heracles. And, because Galanthis, assisted in that birth, Hera had turned her into a weasel, hadn’t she? Or was it a cat?

And consider Lamia, queen of Libya, who Zeus loved and royally fucked. Hera had turned her into a grotesque monster and murdered her children.

Hera must be deceived; must be diverted from these shady revenge shenanigans, her usual murder rehab programs, when it came to Europa. Oh, yes. Zeus would transform himself (not for the first time) into a – into a what?

Why, of course. Into a Bull!

And in the days that followed, his dreams became a life sentence, served in solitude, of smooth virgin flesh, of blood-letting, and of violent penetration. Dreams that dominated his God-slumber, but worse, ruled his waking hours. His God cock grew so stiff that it hurt, an old fashioned pain, an inner anguish so severe it dominated his entire being!

A Bull! Yes, yes. He would become a bull!

Oh, wouldn’t she want such a beautiful creature?



‘Please, please don’t think me weird, sir, but a bull’s cock is something to dream about – in my arse; in my cunt.’

Oh, little maiden, this cock is so engorged – and just for you! Only you!

‘Zee,’ Hera said, interrupting all mighty Zeus’ train of thought; his God fantasies of innocent girl flesh. ‘Have you been wearing my panties again?

Zeus feeling confused and disoriented, said, ‘What are you on, H? I don’t wear girls underthings. I’m a fuckin’ God!’

‘But my panties, the new black pair, have stains in them. Like pre-cum. So who’s responsible, if not you?’

Zeus, quietly whistling ‘Zorba the Greek’, held back the sunset with its brown and orange thunderclouds, looking like fluffed-up pillows on a messed-up sky of gray chaos, and said, ‘Mother of summer, you might be. But all the Gods know that Hades likes to gallivant in your lacy panties. He’s been doing it for bloody years.’

Hera retreated in an unusual silence.

Zeus had his chance. Finally.

Europa sat in the shade of an olive tree away from the dazzle of sun-burnished sea and sky. Glancing up, she saw a bull – a beautiful bull in the field beyond the silver olive grove. She stood and advanced on the creature. She had never seen such a beautiful bull before.

The bull watched her slow approach. It remained totally passive. Not the usual behaviour from such a creature.

Europa, hesitantly, reached out to touch the bull’s flank. She stroked its sleek hide. The bull remained quite still. And then, the temptation too great for her to resist, Europa climbed onto the great beast’s broad back –

Oh, what madness!

The bull started round. It bucked and charged towards the emerald sea. Europa clung on for her dear life. The bull carried the little black-eyed girl out into the silver surf.

Zeus in his bull form, bellowed his jubilation into the clear bright dome of the sky. He’d done it. He had Europa on his back. Crete would be his final destination. And there on a strip of burning white sand he’d have his prize. At last –

Poor Europa woke later from a troubled sleep. Half-undressed on the Cretan sand, she had a half-remembered dream of a powerful bull – its massive cock between her spread thighs. She sat up, and there indeed stood the bull before her.

‘Europa,’ it said. ‘Know you have been fucked by the king of the Gods. Mighty Zeus has opened you and filled you with his God seed. It will blaze forth from the fertile soil of your womb. You will provide me with three sons, and in return I will make you queen of this island.’

‘But you are a bull? A talking bull – can such a thing be?’

‘Unfortunately,’ said the bull. ‘You see me as a bull. Being mortal, if you saw my true self, you would go mad and die.’

And so it was Europa gradually lost her fear of the creature. Willingly offered herself to its mighty cock there on the sand. Wound chains of wild flowers round his horns in nearby meadows. And the ruler of the skies bellowed his happiness, his muscled neck bulging, as he came again and again deep inside Europa’s slender body.


“The dream dissipated, were one to recover one’s commonsense mood, the thing would be of but mediocre import – ‘tis the story of mental wrong doing. Everyone knows very well and it offends no one. But alas! one sometimes carries the thing a little further. What, one dares wonder, what would not be the idea’s realisation if its mere abstract shape thus exalted has just so profoundly moved one? The accursed reverie is vivified and its existence is a crime.”

D A F de Sade

Virginity traded for an island paradise. Did she regret? She swam, Europa, naked under water. She ran barefoot on the sand. Abduction and rape was a woman’s lot in this modern world. A woman’s worth, so it seemed, existed secretly between her legs –

Memories of bull breath on her body no longer disturbed. Nor those bull thrusts like hammer blows tenderising meat. And she, stretched out, like a newly slaughtered lamb for the delight of this God, this Zeus. Brother and husband to his own wife. She, Europa, cast in the role of victim, would give the God three sons: Minos, Rhadamanthys, Sarpedon who would, when they died, become judges in the underworld –

The Zeus bull had made this promise to her. After he’d said, ‘I’m sorry.’

But she hardly paid attention. She felt only fire and suppressed rage. Europa, whose hair smelled of wild flowers and summer meadows, was promised a husband, too, a powerful king – all these gifts to catch between her breath at sunrise. As if the God feared she might swallow his sky –

Or tell on him.

For mighty Zeus feared his sister wife Hera. He was pussy-whipped indeed. And he gave more and more gifts to counter each of Europa’s many silences. Oh, yes. Hera constantly looked for lipstick stains or hidden receipts in his clothing, evidence of betrayal –

And her rage was thousand-headed, apocalyptic, so great in fact that mighty Zeus knew what it was to be totally helpless before her. Like a quivering mortal.

‘Truly,’ he said to Europa, ‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t help myself.’

Europa frowned and waved her slender arms in the air, as if she were trying to erase and recreate the universe.

‘Alright,’ she said. ‘Alright. I forgive you – for now! But I’ll never forget.’

kiss me again

May 17, 2018

I don’t just want to take your breath away. I want to rip it from your mouth and keep it locked away between my teeth. You can only have it back if you kiss me again

Meggie Royer
Literary Sexts

Powdered unicorn horn was once thought to cure melancholy.

What carries the hurt is never the wound
but the red garden sewn by the horn
as it left – and she left. I am rosing,
blooming absence, its brilliant alarum.

Brodsky said, Darkness restores what light cannot
repair. You thrilled me – opened to the comb.
O, wizard, O, wound. I want the ebon bull and the moon –
I’ve come for the honeyed horn.

Queen Elizabeth traded a castle for a single horn.
Surrender to the kingdom in my hands –
army of touch marching upon the alcazar
of your thighs like bright horns.

I arrive at you – half bestia, half feast.
Tonight we harvest the luxed forest
of Caderas, name the darkful fruit
spicing our mouths, separate sweet from thorn.

Lanternist, in your wicked palm,
the bronzed lamp of my breast. Strike the sparker –
take me with tremble. Into your lap
let me lay my heavy horns.

I fulfilled the prophecy of your throat,
loosed in you the fabulous wing of my mouth –
red holy-red ghost. I spoke to god,
returned to you feathered, seraphimed and horned.

Our bodies are nothing if not places to be had by,
as in, God, she has me by the throat,
by the hip bone, by the moon. God,
she has me by the horn.

Natalie Diaz

Remember when

May 7, 2018


You had me on the waste ground behind the old changing rooms
just as the day, snake-like, shed its skin.
You were like a wild thing in the shadows, desire firing your blood.
I said: ‘I don’t usually do this on a first date.’
You said: ‘This isn’t a date.’


And you were right.
It was more a rape.
You stabbing me with that angry cock of yours.
And I thought: WOW!
This boy’s a beastie –
thrusting up me and waiting for the moon.


And when you started cumming
I knew the morning would be foggy with drizzle.
I knew I’d feel like a jigsaw puzzle with missing pieces.
And I thought: ‘Is this love?’
And yes, you made me cum too, you bastard.
Then you left me to give birth to the ghosts we two had made –



an old lady

Aging is a rigorous daily battle against all manner of crap we could never have imagined in our more youthful days.

As time progresses, various parts of the body begin to sag and droop, lose function, fade away, and finally, are surgically removed. Over the last decade, I have personally lost my senses of taste and smell, a gall bladder, a uterus, part of a heart and some visual acuity. And I recently made the interesting discovery that, when you reach a certain age, you apparently start to leak.

As for physical depredations, the runway saunter of my flaming youth has become a slipper-shod shuffle, mostly to the bathroom. The nipples with which I used to make eye contact now point directly at the bunions adorning feet that were once the toast of New Orleans; portraits of my formerly elegant tootsies had, for years, attracted fetishists from the world over to pre-Katrina Jackson Square, along with paintings of various other parts of my anatomy.

In short, the luscious body I used to inhabit, the very one that had men all over the world weeping with desire, now strongly resembles a freeway map, complete with off ramps. In fact, following my most recent surgery, I took a good look at what is now my body, and decided to plot a route to the Hidden Grotto, ala Mapquest. It read like this:

“Go due south on Bypass Boulevard, through Long-tit Valley; follow the Cholecysectomy roundabout, exiting on Appendix Avenue. Continue southwest to the twin tunnels of the bifemoral bypass, then merge with the saphenous vein tracks. When you come to the fork in the road, take it.

This will lead directly to the entrance of the Love Cavern, once covered by lush bush, now fallen into balding disrepair. Although long deserted, this roadside attraction became the central theme of several books, and is now an historical landmark, having been explored by many notable spelunkers in former years. Visitors are now rare, but still welcome.”

Ruth Dickson
Life, Death, and Other Trivia


April 24, 2018

Yannick Corboz

There is a flustered buffalo in a hotel bed, and it is a man, and it is a man who wants me so much he is levitating like an endangered animal. He is mastering the art of being made extinct. I am that kind of pony, here today, gone tomorrow, all fancy and prancing and cruel. I administer pleasure, and then disappear, because I can, because I am a splinter, that is all I am when not making an animal happy.

There are the ones to take inside and to rock like babies, to rock until they groan and ask for pancakes.

There are ways to fly up against the heat of a man’s sex, to singe his wings because nothing lasts longer than a good beer, or a fingerling potato on a cold night.

Meg Pokrass

Stiff with desire

April 21, 2018

Pain & Pleasure

March 18, 2018

I can feel every cave in your paradise,
I know every wisp of smoke in your memory
I can catch my breath
on the back of your neck
and I want to keep you
forever warm.

We’re not just touching
we’re exploring
the colours wrapped in
a wheel of me and you.

You pull me up the slope
all I can see is hands and skin and thundering need

Your torture rises to my peak
Our sounds dip and curve to the beat
Our pleasure, our pain
is the kingdom we’ve won
sheer desire we both welcome
with open arms.

We are each other’s cracks and
bleeding weaknesses,
we lift each other up
on pure sinful wings
And after all we’re breathless

We rise as one, crash to earth,
our bodies glittering with the chaos between us

Together we are everything,
we are nothing,
tangled in each other
and breathing for each other
and gasping for everything we could be

we are so much more now.

Maya Hanson

A Vampiric’s Lust

March 4, 2018

eyes the colour of gold
there is a story that must be told
a passionate soul that is true
could i be the one for you?
within the darkness of night there is a secret i must hide
could you be the holder of my pride?
through the paleness of life,
you will never let me bring down my knife
with you buy my side i may never die
because i make you form a gentle sigh…
you tell me i have no strife
but what is the point of immortality if you deny yourself the simple pleasures in life
the immortality i declare is not the answer so beware

Aubrey Silver

Buried alive…

March 3, 2018

I kept the rubber breathing tube clutched firmly between my front teeth. I probed it with my tongue to make sure that a small movement would not separate me from it. What if a bug above ground crawls in? I’ll have to blow it out. . . or eat the critter.

I didn’t know if I could get out of my earthen grave. The weight of the earth above my naked body prevented me from taking a full breath. When I inhaled, the earth pushed back on my lungs, informing me of my limited capacity. I took small sips of air and imagined the winter woods above as the cold came through the narrow plastic tube. In 30 minutes my partner, Isfandarmudh (“angel of the earth” in Persian), would dig me out of the grave. Then I would bury her.

I turned my attention away from the fear of things that could go wrong. I relaxed my active mind with a long, slow exhale, imagining my skin fading into the earth that pressed against it.

My bones, teeth, and nails conversed with the minerals in the stones and tectonic plates of the earth. The heat in my body reached out to find the molten core of the underworld. I wondered if the bugs that crawled behind one of my ears, under my arm, around the top of a fingertip, and all along my body were taking in moisture from the thin layer of perspiration on my surface. I felt something behind my knee.

I am made mostly of water, I thought as I considered the geothermal waters that filled veins in the earth and made up most of my body, the rain that poured from dark cumulonimbus clouds and saturated the ground from which I myself drank. There is one water on earth, I reminded myself.

From head to toe I felt life wiggle and walk. Don’t panic, Jehanara. This was my new Sufi name. This is what it feels like to host life. Giving up fear to the forces of gravity and the magnetic fields that banded the planet, I knew that I could never overwhelm the massive systems with my worry. I felt no different from a tangled root or a wedge of clay. The grave smelled like mildew and growth.

It was good to be the earth. I reviewed a long history: a singularity split in two, gaseous explosions, a hot lava-covered sphere of volcanic eruptions and shifting plates, a cooler water world, a single cell advancing to more complex organisms: fish, bird, mammal. I was curious. What next?

Life’s lust is life, I thought as I considered that life’s persistence over billions of years has led to me. I felt obliged to use my senses so that this life could know itself.

The feeling of earth that pressed against me from every direction changed my view. I imagined it as a hug. You are loved. That’s what the Sufi teachers said to do if I ever forgot that I was loved: Feel the tug of gravity. In this moment death did not feel definitive. My sense of self expanded to include all time. I remembered the words that I had read in that little book written by a Sufi. Nature is the truest book.

The sound of a metal shovel breaking through the ground above me brought me back. I hope she doesn’t hit me with that!

Wendy Jehanara Tremayne
What the Sufis taught me