Nin Andrews

 

A Glossary of Orgasms

Averse, nf
A sudden shower of orgasms. Also, a deluge of pleasure.

Bougonnement, nm
A grumpy orgasm. An orgasm who doesn't want to be an orgasm.

Croissé, nf
An orgasm that takes you to the place where life and death part, where heaven and earth meet.

Diablesse, nf
An orgasm that burns you alive.  An orgasm that shows you heaven and hell.

Etoile, nf
An orgasm who thinks it is the only star in your heavens.

Fraude, nf
A fake or deceptive orgasm.  Also, a smuggler of orgasms.

Gifle,  nm.
An orgasm that slaps you in the face.  Also, a wakeup call.

Hargne nf
An ill-tempered orgasm that makes you pay for all your sins.

Idem, nf
An orgasm that takes you again and again. Also, an orgasm like a ditto machine

Jouet, nm
An orgasm that treats you like toy, or something to play with when one is bored. much like a cat with a ball of yarn.

Kamikaze, nm
An orgasm that can only happen once in a lifetime.  Also, a lethal orgasm.

Local, nm
An orgasm from your hometown.   Also, an orgasm with pompoms.

Moulant,  nm
An orgasm that fits you as snugly as a knit dress.

Narratrice, nf
An orgasm that narrates events as they happen.

Ombre nf
A shadowy orgasm who takes your light away forever.

Prisme, nm
an orgasm that changes the way you see the world.

Quotepart, nf
the number of orgasms one is allowed to have in one's life. 

Rappel, nm
an orgasm that calls you back again and again. An orgasm who always says encore.  

Spectateur, -trice, n
an orgasm that watches you, as if from above, whenever it makes love to you.

Tragique, nm
An orgasm that always ends badly.

Utopie, nf
The afterlife of orgasms.

Vague, nf
An orgasm wave. An orgasm that is washing over you again and again.

Watt, nm
A unit of power,  used to measure the current flowing through the heart of the orgasm.

Xenophobe, nf
An orgasm that dislikes anything new.   

Yoyo, nm
An orgasm that changes its mind frequently. 

Zeste, nm
The peel of an orgasm.  Also the flavor or spirit of the thing.

 

 

 

Barbie’s Orgasm

after Denise Duhamel

Anyway you want me, Well that's how I'll be, Barbie croons to an imaginary Ken, and suddenly she's Elvis Barbie, tossing back her pompadour ponytail and shimmering as she steps out in a sparkly silver and gold lame suit, rhinestone drop earrings, and golden platform heels.  

Then she's country western Barbie who winks if Ken presses the small of her back.

And pop star Barbie whose hair turns pink if he rotates her head 180 degrees.

But what if Ken would prefer Hawaii Barbie, she worries, remembering Hawaii Barbie in her swishy grass skirt and lei. 

Or student-teacher Barbie with her red pumps, pearl earrings, pointy rimmed glasses, and her air of je ne sais quoi.  

He always liked Siberian Barbie with her sparkly top, shiny black vinyl mini skirt and furry muff.

And Chile Barbie in her cowgirl getup: a ruffled lace blouse with a red vest, a seductive slit in her corduroy suit, a whip in one hand.

Sometimes it's too much, Barbie pouts as she tries to make up her mind.  Shouldn't it be enough to have an empty head and extra-large bosoms and hair?

Finally she decides on Holiday Barbie in a red velvet gown tied with a sash in a giant bow, her platinum hair swept to one side, her wrists tethered in twisty ties.  

You have no shame, Ken whispers when he unties her arms at last. He tells her he wants one of those new fashionista Barbies with bendable body parts for Christmas.  Or a Bond 007 Barbie in white bikini with a knife or gun strapped to her tiny waist. 

That's when Barbie suddenly gets pissed. She decides to enlist in the Military and become one of those Army Barbies whose outfits were approved by the Pentagon.  No more signature pink gowns or glamtastic boots for her. 

Aiming her plastic gun between Ken's naked legs, she feels an inexplicable sense of relief.  She decides from now on she'll be Ball-buster Barbie.  And she means it, too.  Ken can apologize until the cows come home, or rub Vaseline all over her body.  She'll never soften.

Just saying the words, Ball-buster Barbie, make her smile.  And suddenly she laughs.  A thrill travels across her pinkish plastic skin.  She's as close to an orgasm as Barbie has ever been.  Kiss my ass, Ken, she says, and a gasp of pleasure escapes her red-red lips.

 

 

 

The Three Orgasms

—after Ritsos

Three orgasms looked down at the earth from above.  One talked about the earth.  The other listened to the earth, bending close to hear the winds and the rains.  The third one neither talked nor listened. Instead he fell to the earth, slowly drifting through the clouds until he landed with a soft pfft.  There he walked the sunbaked streets on summer days.  He explored the shops and cafés and sipped ice tea.  He rang doorbells and entered houses and apartments.  When people reached to shake his hands, or hugged him close, strange sounds burst from their lips.  Did he die?  The first orgasm asked.  Oh yes, he died, the second one said, interpreting the earthly cries as an orgasm's last gasps.  But the third one, for his part, was beginning to wonder if he had finally arrived.

 

 

 

The First Orgasm

Everyone knows it was Adam who ate the apple in the Garden of Eden.  The snake had nothing to do with it.  Adam didn't even apologize.  Instead he grabbed the apple as soon as he thought God wasn't looking and bit greedily into it, the juice running down his chin.  No! Adam, no! Eve cried, but Adam just grinned. The sense of wonder he felt then.  And pride.  How could he explain it? The sweetness on his tongue.  The taste of rain, of summer, of rebellion.  And the days that followed when all he wanted was to argue with Eve, when he was certain he was right.  Who needs heaven? Or God?  When there is so much on earth to bite. 

 

 

 

About Suffering

—after W.H. Auden

About suffering, they were never wrong is the one line of poetry all orgasms know.  For all orgasms are destined to fall sooner or later, and as easily as wingless angels. I knew this fact.  I saw the evidence every day.  I even marked it with my fingers and tongue.  Here, I said. Here is the place where heaven and earth part.   But I never expected it to hurt like this, dying as we do again and again, the world going on without us.  How do we do it?  How do we not do it? I wanted to ask you that.  But afterwards, I was always trying to sooth the trembling leaves. Do you know how each one curls inward like a scroll, never to be read again?  Such a crazy number of nerves in each one, and your small reedy voice, somewhere in wind, saying, Hold me, Albert.  Hold me.  Do I have a choice?  Did I then?  To caress or not to caress? In this game of love and death, there are so many little griefs. None prepared me for that last glimpse of your white legs. Your red heels, the only color in the late light.