Oyster

Oyster, raw, alive.

Plump, sweet, briny, carrying the faint musk of seawater, rich as cream.

Between the lips and teeth—passion, sensuality, texture.

Placed on the tongue, it slides in.

Cold, silken.

The instant the tongue touches it, the teeth close gently, tenderly chewing.

Its savor floods the mouth, and finally it is swallowed, absorbed into the body.

Smooth, yielding, without resistance.

That act of swallowing: desire upon desire, the moment of climax.

To savor an oyster is nothing less than savoring sex itself.

The oyster,

resting quietly against the rock, caressed over and over by the tide.

Until suddenly, a rough hand lifts it, tearing it away from the embrace of the sea.

Like a child leaving the womb,

that familiar, tender, safe womb.

A cold, sharp knife slips into the seam of its shell,

forcing it open.

Every defense collapses in an instant.

Exposed to the air, bewildered, trembling.

Vulnerable, hopeless, naked.

No protection, no tools, no weapons.

It cannot understand why.

Where is the rhythmic caress of the sea now?

A squeeze of sharp lemon, a drizzle of cutting mignonette falls upon its flesh,

so sensitive,

it shudders all over.

Is this what it means to be baptized?

A strange, alien baptism: repentance and rebirth, yet its life has only just begun, and it has committed no sin.

Then, it is lifted into the mouth.

It meets the warmth of a slick tongue;

the pressure of teeth, of palate,

presses hard against its tender body.

In that narrow, heated space,

it is felt, teased, chewed, swallowed.

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Pleasure, indulgence of the senses: smoothness, salt, passion.

No resistance, only dissolution.

From a whole being into nothing more than a fleeting taste within another’s body.

I don’t know what is this, really?

Pleasure?

Intimacy?

Passion?

Possession?

Invasion?

Desire?