Frigid
by Jonathan Quince
Friday, February 25, 2005 17:46:11
Glistening stillness glares from her frosty aura to chill hearts of even most amorous intent. Suitors of strongest will falter at her gaze, cut short with love-songs dying on their lips as her eyes glitter at them with wintry scorn; thus to retreat, benumbed and succumbing, do they pass away into shivering greyness. With a word of stunning rebuke, white breath exudes from her lips, bearing upon it the very antidote of passion: She needs not words, indeed, to speak her rejection of life; for from her, all doom of desire is told by that withering, icy glance. Yes, passion itself is her enemy most reviled, melodies of light and laughter forsworn in her knelling vows of chastity.
She is, in her frosty visage, wreathed by an armor so impregnable, the sword cannot penetrate it for want of meeting solid flesh and hot blood. Ghosts are more carnal, wraiths more sensual than she; un-life itself is her arctic consort. Well-formed is her body: For she is not an ice-princess, but an ice queen to shatter the hearts and still the lusts of all who fall to her anti-seduction. Yet there are no seasons in her presence of endless night, no emotions but brumal mourning and hiemal terror. As languid soul begets algid heart and disposition, her lust is the death of others’ joy, her climax the lack of orgasm. And at her frore core, naught waits but a cunt as dry as the desert and colder than a frozen grave.
Will I, the intrepid, set forth to conquer her? Why should I rescue the damned from the clutches of their own blasphemy? Care I but a whit for her when I scorn her for her scorn for life and living?
Nay! Exorcism of free will is not my usual business. But on a whim, her fate may be turned. For ’though my judgment says she must be cast to her master in the outer darkness, my humor and foolish caprice may be her saving grace.
Pray for her soul that I may intercede with the fire of my touch. Redemption to her may come only by igniting the tempest of libidinous craving within her. Stirring her senses, arousing her needs, awakening her from a death sure as Oblivion’s sleep, I set upon her as holy savior and wanton fiend; and that she denied becomes cherished as I ravish her, fusing her to her own flesh in the hazy heat of orgasmic release. Thusly freed from the chains of her own choosing, she may have a chance to walk in the Light, embrace life, and partake of life’s wholesome pleasures.