You see, Rubberlips was not like all the other lovers.
She was more like a virus.
She could work her way deep down to your soul; and then slowly begin to carve it and reshape it in her unmistakeable style, until you were left with a priceless masterpiece that all would admire and crave but which did'nt belong to you anymore.
She could gradually seep into your blood so that her taste would constantly be in your mouth; and once in there she would take possession of your heart and use it as a burning hot iron to brand her image in every cell of your brain.
But all this process just felt so good, so natural, so inherently perfect, that no one ever tried or even thought...

Only in her bed, among wild flowers and sharp slivers of colorful glass, became evident to me the reason why Nature choose sex as only instrument for life's evolution and betterment of the species; and why the gods always feared it and forbid it, while all demons, visionaries and rebels always used it to challenge them and to mock their power.
Only in her bed could I glimpse the might of Helen and the passion of Medea.
In her bed time would first freeze and then crumble into shiny fragments of past and future, that would finally fall, like april's rain on our sweaty, thirsting bodies.
There, in the temple of senses, space could not exist.
Matter transformed into...

Today I want to tell you about Rubberlips.
I want to try to tell about the indeleteable memories of those moments in which , with just an offhand remark, she blew away the lives of scores of men; and about those vivid, haunting images of her cruelly perfect and supremely addictive body.

Rubberlips was not a woman like all the others.
In place of a heart she had an orgasm.
An open wound in place of the sex.
A scary scream in the deepest of her eyes.
No, Rubbberlips was not a woman like all the others.
Before kissing me she used to cut her lips with a razor blade, because she said she had to learn to fear me.
And when we made love...