Nailing the Green Fairy: Sex on Absinthe

Wanna taste?

Wanna taste?

I can recall cringing when Sharon Stone asked Michael Douglas in “Basic Instinct,” “have you ever f****d on cocaine?” Besides being facile and decadent, she brings a haughty exclusivity to the idea of bending the mind and the body simultaneously. We all have, I imagined, f****d on something, whether on sloe gin or purple passion or a neatly shaken Satan’s Whiskers. The derriere follows when the mind is destabilized.

Alas, Sharon, I prefer the drugs of the 1880s, or at least the aura of dandyism that they bring. In particular, the Green Fairy, Absinthe.

And have I ever f****d on Absinthe?

Yes.

But it sounds so unseemly. Both the sex act and the green lady have their elaborate rituals, their logical sequence of events, and their final sensory lightning bolt to the brain. Both bring delirium individually. United, the effect can be quite bracing. My experiences lie, for good or ill, on the treacherous, delicious border between delirium and truth.

My companion and I were sipping a bottle of Espirit d’Edouard, which I had smuggled back from Paris. We had served the drink in tribute to tradition; pouring the green substance into a cut crystal glass, placing a sugar cube on a specially designed, perforated spoon. I then dropped water on the cube until the sugar dissolved into the water/absinthe mixture, now a milky substance, white as fresh spunk and known poetically as the louche.

Louche. Dissolution. These ideas were to become more significant than I would realize.

After one glass, I had become blissfully numb, with inhibitions vanishing like fairy dust into the ether. The floor, and then the reassuring embrace of companion devolved into a miasma of cosmic energy; I was one with the universe, profoundly aroused, casting garment by garment into the wind—my blouse struck the lamp, glowing lime-green. I rapaciously tore off my panties, severing them into two at the crotch.

And then I imagined that I was being invaded deliciously by a multi-tentacled creature, much like Isabelle Adjani in “Possession,” with one rigid tentacular protrusion finding a welcome home in my pudenda, which now seemed to be illuminated with the full-borne magic of the fairy, every nerve ending screaming, suffused with thujone and wormwood. I was submerged in a sub aquatic emerald paradise, furiously humped by a Kraken.

I collapsed further in this tentacled beast of pleasure, plumbed by the single wet protuberance, singing the praises of Oscar Wilde, lofted skyward on green gossamer wings as a crushing climax bore me heavenwards.

Absinthium est amorum.

XO

Syl

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© 2013 Sylvia Lowry, All Rights Reserved


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