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.

-

Rate Ximena Escobar's Pi – based on the myth of Pygmalion

Let The Contributor Know What You Think!

HTML Comment Box is loading comments...