Pi – based on the myth of Pygmalion
By: Ximena Escobar
Disclaimer:Please be advised before reading further that this story has been suggested to have an 'R' rating due to adult situations described within.
The school shoe
bounced nervously under the chair. “She’s such a bitch”,
moaned the girl (even if her knees were comfortably apart, the dough
of her flesh met in the middle, under her skirt.) She raised her
voice. “Said I’m a whore because I pose for you!”
She lost her shoe as
the metal legs lifted off the ground, resting her head on the painted
white bricks. “Pi?”
Dust stirred in the
beam of sunshine filtering through the skylight. Pi circled his rock
like a torero,
wiping the sweat on his brow with his pirate sleeve.
“What do you
think I should say to her?”
But his eyes stayed
fixed on the rock, absorbed in contemplation.
Kate swung forward
to a standing position, digging into her backside. The shoe eluded
her as she slipped her foot back in, but she trapped it under her
heel. She pulled her skirt straight. “I’m telling her
to go fuck herself.”
Pi opened his hand
at her abruptly. With the other, he traced a charcoal line loosely
over the porous surface all the way to the edge; it skimmed off the
stone like a seagull. He looked like a sculpture; graceful yet
dominant with his rigid policeman hand on one side, and his other arm
raised beautifully like a flamenco dancer; fingertips holding the
chalk like when the seagull is about to shoot down for its feed. It
did; landing precisely on the charcoal line, from which he began to
shadow the rock desperately; more like a starved hawk when it devours
its kill.
Kate tread softly,
waiting quietly until he’d shadowed the whole area below the
line. He didn’t turn around, but he tossed the chalk when he
finished, on one of the many sketches scattered on his work bench.
She picked it up, causing it to roll onto the other drawings. She
swept the black dust off as she examined it.
“My hair isn’t
like that, you know” – her hair appeared longer on the
page; of a different quality; it spiralled into the air like serpents
talking around her head. “I mean… Were you drunk or
something?”
Greek goddesses were
everywhere on the papers; wrapped in sheets that hung below the hips,
some holding instruments, others with venomous tongues curving out of
their mouths, or lying on their backs with legs parted as their
casual hands pretended not to know they were blocking the view of the
sexes.
Pi turned around,
sticking his fingers under the bandage around his palm.
“I only do
goddesses.”
He pulled at the
gauze – his hand began to circle itself out.
“Why do you
ask me
to pose then?”
“It’s
time you went back to your mother”
(The gauze
unravelled silently.)
“I don’t
want to”.
“…Back
to your friends”.
“They’re
idiots”, she said.
“You’re
an idiot” said Pi, lifting his pupils to meet hers.
Kate recognised his
sudden desire – he tossed the gauze on the workbench, without
taking his eyes off her.
“Close the
door.”
She took a step
back; unbuttoning her school shirt before scampering to the garage
door, pulling it down with a thunderous rattle. Hurrying back, she
stopped on her feet at a distance from Pi.
He took a step
closer, and another, drying his sweaty palms on his shirt and his
jeans. Kate’s chest heaved in anticipation; awaiting the pull
that brought their bodies together, as his finger hooked the bridge
of her bra.
He opened her mouth
with his. He pushed his tongue stiffly down her throat, squeezing
her arms with his hard hands. He pushed her down to a squat,
pressing the bulge of his jeans against her face.
She felt the
roughness of the denim on her lips; she felt her scalp stretch as he
tangled his fingers in her hair, rolling them into a fist. He pulled
her head back.
“Turn around.”
Kate obeyed.
Pi knelt behind her,
lifting her skirt with his sculptor’s hand – his hard
hand, on her soft ass.
Hooking the G-string
with his finger, he pulled it up as his warm steamy breath permeated
through her ear.
“Don’t
you understand I need to work…”
Kate’s mouth
sank into her elbow, as she waited for the strike of his palm. It
hovered upon her for a long circular instant before it hit, sending
shock waves to her breasts; nipples sprouting, mouths opening.
Redness spreading and lingering.
“Lie on your
back”
“Like this?”
“Shut up”
“You want me
to talk dirty”?
“Just keep the
fuck quiet”
“Ok”.
“Ok, Pi”.
He rose up like a
tower above her; his sex, standing erect as him, with his hands on
his waist.
“You want me
to suck it for you?”
The cock heard and
wriggled, like the hair of the medusa in the sketch, but came to hang
loosely.
“What is it
babe?” “Don’t you fancy me?”
Pi’s lips
tensed thin. “Yeah I fancy you”
“You do?”
“Yeah”.
He slapped her with
his semi-flaccid worm, shoving the mass of sex into her mouth; her
moans rolling warm. He pulled her away, looking at her blotchy face.
“You exist too
much.”
“Huh?”
Pi reached for his
chisel, tossing her back onto the rug.
She waited on her
elbows; the sharp point of the chisel skimming down her chest,
between the mount of breasts rising, deflating, rising. Pubic hairs
protruding under the thin cotton layer covering her sex, like a warm
white pillow where he pressed the stem of the chisel, as he’d
done on her lips. He hooked the elastic with the point, pulling it
to as he pierced her eyes with his stare. He leaned over, but a kiss
away from her mouth.
“If you don’t
go home I’m gonna fuck you with this”.
The little slut.
The mindless, ignorant barking. The insolent distraction. The
animal separating us from god, enslaving us to flesh, to children;
turning us into a cog, a spiritless machine, a wheel suspended in a
vacuum of mediocrity. The beast pulling us away from the breast and
throwing us into abandon; a river of death where the heavenly forests
of creation bypass us; always falling prey just when we’re
about to reach the sky through the sacredness of our skill...
A long black hair
lay disgustingly on the rug. Let that be the last he ever saw of
her.
Pi looked at his
rock. Aphrodite, the goddess of love, was waiting within it for the
touch of his hands. He pulled his fingers in preparation. A predator
shimmered in his eyes; the goddess was also, first and foremost, a
woman. He needed to find the marrow of the woman. Find it as the
sole purpose of the first hit of the chisel, straight from the
surface, so the woman would never be anything other.
He chalked his
hands, wrapping the gauze around his palm. He squatted, holding its
expanse; sliding his hands in and out with circular strokes like he’d
done on Kate’s roundness. Reaching down, he felt the unexposed
dark roughness underneath with his fingertips.
He began to carve in
the middle. He chiseled for hours; hours that became days. His
hand, sweating on the grip of the chisel; carving with the strength
of his muscle as he listened to the will of his genius; a beat that
kept him going like warrior horses treading the earth.
Reach the human
quality of Aphrodite. Scrape out her perfection with your hooves;
the sacredness, the geometry. Give it dents that deserve slapping; a
sadness that needs to be smacked out. Something that inspires in us
action – to stomp, to piss on, to sow.
Pi’s stiff sex
bulged under the denim. His shirt stuck translucently to his wet
chest, panting as it chased the ever-elusive light in the periphery;
the divinity in the sideline. Let that goddess in the horizon of
every motion take precedence. Let that bridge in my song take over
completely; bring the love perceived in the beginning, the lie that
nourished our sense-of-self, let it sweep over the whore and bury it.
Let in the fantasy, the perfection, find the beauty of curves. Love
it, care for it with calloused hands that polish our wounds, release
it with fingertips that free music out of strings. Rub and dig the
groin like a fossilized streambed; feel it like a desert snake;
slither up and down the smooth channel; smooth and sanded; warm like
the beach under the white light that beams through the ceiling; warm
like the sand you lie on with your eyes closed, in the redness of
darkness; a dune to the cave where everything is lost.
There was his
masterpiece! There was The Aphrodite! Love and beauty in the
accurate shape and essence of a woman. Oh my! She was perfect. She
was complete.
Emotion flooded his
chest; treasures cannot be stripped of the risk of losing them. He
surrendered; the salt of his tears absorbing into the stone like the
blood of fallen men.
Something moved. A
slow soft touch gliding upon him like a breeze, spiraling around his
hair, his temple, his jaw. He dwelled in that touch, listening to
the calming sweeping sound of fingers in his ear.
Aphrodite was
looking at him! She was looking at him with seeing eyes. She was
looking at him like eternity; like timelessness; soundlessly but Pi
could hear her! What joy! What ecstasy! Her voice was a morph like
light; wordless, illegible; but it enveloped him like the exquisite
disintegration of his skin – Pi, who had extracted life from
the grit of the earth, was one with the whole.
“You have
shaped me to the image and likeness of your incompleteness”
said the goddess.
A want opened in his
chest. A want that relentlessly carved itself in his heart. He had
indeed shaped her to the likeness of his need – her breasts, to
fit the cup of his hands; her mouth, to fit his sex; shed light on
his blindness. She was his balance. She was his perfection.
“Speak again,
my angel!”
But Aphrodite stood
cold and silent as stone.
His hands gripped
her shoulders as he looked, desperately, for a glimmer of life in her
eyes; but there was no stamp of his miracle; just the futility of his
grasp.
The impossibility of
reliving that sacred climax he had experienced, mocked him. She was
treacherous! The whore at the chore had risen in the horizon of his
realization, like the slut she was first and foremost. And he
couldn’t destroy her. He couldn’t dig his fingers into
her flesh and mark her skin with shame; undo her without only undoing
himself; his mastery. He couldn’t make her a reflection of his
fear; open a window into her self-doubt nor give her the light that
quivers in a bitch’s eyes, under the threat of a fist. His
tongue pounced on the statue’s nipple, like a leash pulling a
dog’s neck.
He forcefully closed
his eyes, trying to dissolve the ridiculous sight of himself; a brute
pumping his lust against a statue; just a little faster, just a
little further; just a little bit less mind; hopelessly ignoring the
stubborn memory of Kate’s sad ass fueling him; open for his
disdain; her face, her stupid face; as the goddess disappeared under
the imprint of the memory of her flesh.
The long black hair
looked at Pi from the rug. He caught it between the hardness of his
fingertips, letting it glide into the paper basket. That’s
when he decided to kill her; scanning the room for the phone.
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