It all unfolds before Diane. Her skin is a silken robe across the embers of her lover. His body has attained a fire, impenetrable in nighttime. Could the feeling be mutual, or is it perhaps a childish infatuation, torn across both bodies. That it is, as it weighs both down.
Diane welcomes Ismael to come down into a room of dark. She steps lightly around him, a robe of red pooling at her waist to bare her torso.
What a scene unfolds in this cold room, haunted by the blue flames of winter. The richness of the situation is a sweet taste upon the tongue. Diane’s eyes are on the lips of this man who would bow and deteriorate before beauty.
One touch sends a sensation to Ismael’s neckline. He pulls his head to the side.
Watching, Diane calls upon her own demons. She traces a finger over Ismael’s lips, catching a tinge of warmth mixed in with his saliva. The touch is received with a sigh. A kiss is placed on Ismael’s neck. Another is planted on his arm.
Diane breathes her newfound fragrance. It enters the nostrils, then heads upwards to the facility of pleasure which resides in the mind. This pleasure overlaps all else while words are whispered and limbs creak. Enjoyment heightens as the senses do.
A single tear would, if the reader could envision it, tear apart the bodies from their union. Diane, with phantasmal flesh clashes with a man who hails from the deepest parts of Spain. His body bears a significant contrast, having a color akin to the earth, with a subtle rosy tint; a sight of murk, she is like a cloud about their heads. As such, they fit in with each other.
Diane’s temperament ensures that she beholds the moment in its purest form of raw attraction. There are currents to swim, and colors to drown in, in lush hues of gold and shades of gray.
Ismael raises a hand to dip limp fingers into a pool of milk. Diane’s skin, so like the milk, is a wash of white. The other hand is raised, and caught in a head of snakes; her hair like Medusa’s. She could reduce this man to stone. However, Ismael is the Perseus to slay her. The event could be recreated by Cellini, if he knew of their lust and its dreaded identity.
Perseus bows his head, in full glorified virtue of his coming heroic deed. At once, Diane is bent backwards and flung forward!
There is a battle to be described, as a bard would do. She gasps once when a hand reaches for her throat, then yelps; a loud protest to the atmosphere. One octave escapes through the window. It might have been meant to stun Perseus, but Ismael remains the hunter.
Diane’s feeble motions become energetic. He, who has become ready to destroy wickedness, lays a crude hand across her belly, to feel the flesh of fertility and motherly comfort. That hand, with its crude, gray outline, paws at the soft skin. It drags it, as a blade would, across, and sears a great red mark around the belly button.
Even in battle, the making of love is tempting.
Perseus, by Cellini’s depiction, could not have overlooked this, should he have studied the process of humanity’s degradation through the anguish of sin. Certainly, Perseus might have endeavored to write his name through the strangled notes of love, and even longed to feel the heart of his hunt. While all others perceive the creature to be a monster, or even a rogue bull with horns pointed towards the sky, Perseus instead hurls his yearning towards the excavation of a woman’s skin. Did he place his hand against a nipple, brush away the idea of motherly nurturing, before gifting Medusa with death by a swift slash across her throat? Had he been tempted by the sight of a striking gaze before comprehending the magnitude of that risk?
All the scents in this dark room are tragic. The walls are lined with pottery, and portraits are hung to display the ancestors that are always unknown to present eyes. The paint is not peeling, but the color is somber, and reveals itself as dark brown, or even gray. Such sights are hard to fathom as no light adds to the evening’s gleam, save for that which reflects from a solitary window near the bed.
Ismael is the suppressor of Diane’s tremors. Her fears lessen before his glory. Her grief is stupefied. Her wishes are turned to dust, each dispelled upon the white beneath her.
Perseus releases a dagger from warm flesh, overcome by the effort to resist the temptation of Medusa’s twisted beauty. He gives in. Yet, another sword, besides the one upon the belly, still holds the throat. Such is the great contrast to his love for her. He will watch the body float down a great river of distress.
A few words are spoken aloud:
Diane: “Oh! I love you! Yes, I pardon you from the torment which is given to me!”
Ismael: “There are no dreams left to drink. This pale flesh becomes all that is left to satisfy. I will adore, and will proudly revel in this gain.”
Diane: “But in willpower, a dream remains. Awed am I by your determination to keep this hold. You would love me ever less, perhaps?”
Ismael: “No. I could never hope for a love less than this. For it is Hell that is below me. Above, is your Heaven.”
Ismael, as Perseus, pulls a loose serpent from the scalp. It is his prize. The dagger is returned to him, and put in its sheath. The swords remain clasped in his hands, with the iron weight dragging on the woolen carpet.
This pleasure rises to a great height, then feels as though it is ripped down through thunderous falls. It lingers in Ismael’s heart, with the heavy weight of a burthen. It cooks like a swine, another morsel of food in this atmosphere of smoke and ashes.
What an aroma of regret!
In lust, however, regret is never realized until the moments become heated. For in lust, regret is comprehended when love is understood as absent. Lust will remain as the enemy of love. It sends worms into the core of what we desire. Lust is easy to gain, yet love is obtained with difficulty. Still, lust can corrupt, yet be overcome.
Distractions are our alibies, and what is simple, are our petty pleasures. They become the codes by which we decipher meaning; that meaning being revulsion.
Ismael leaves with his hand limp and frozen. The fingers contort from that icy touch.
He stops, mouth agape, stare maddened, and says, “Even in ice, the touch burns! I am inflamed by guilt! I will remember the coming days, as mercifully as I am able. Mercifully to Diane, my Medusa. This serpent, this strand of hair, is now my gift. It is much the same as the white of Diane’s neck, bearing a gray hue to it.”
He adds, bending over, and holding his hands to his chest, “Of her belly, raising with a glorious sight, descending to the sheets below her…How it feels to be my own hesitation, as this moment is her boredom.”
Falling to his knees, he ends with, “So she desires what still comes to her, that which is remaining, and everlasting.”