(For elucidation, please go here. If we haven't said this before: a "she" here is a queen:)
Divine and Darling. To my mind, they are the ideal pair of lovers. From my evil−smelling hole, beneath the coarse wool of the covers, with my nose in the sweat and my eyes wide open, alone with them, I see them.
Darling is a giant whose curved feet cover half the globe as he stands with his legs apart in baggy, sky−blue silk underpants. He rams it in. So hard and calmly that anuses and vaginas slip on to his member like rings on a finger. He rams it in. So hard and calmly that his virility, observed by the heavens, has the penetrating force of the battalions of blond warriors who on June 14th 1940 buggered us soberly and seriously, though their eyes were elsewhere as they marched in the dust and sun. But they are the image of only the tensed, buttressed Darling. Their granite prevents them from being slithering pimps. I close my eyes.
Divine: a thousand shapes, charming in their grace, emerge from my eyes, mouth, elbows, knees, from all parts of me. They say to me, “Jean, how glad I am to be living as Divine and to be living with Darling.” I close my eyes. Divine and Darling. To Darling, Divine is barely a pretext, an occasion. If he thought of her, he would shrug his shoulders to shake off the thought, as if the thought were a clawed dragon clinging to his back. But to Divine, Darling is everything.
She takes care of his penis. She caresses it with the most profuse tenderness and calls it by the kind of pet−names used by ordinary folk when they feel horny. Such expressions as Little Dicky, the Babe in the Cradle, Jesus in His Manger, the Hot Little Chap, your Baby Brother, without her formulating them, take on full meaning. Her feeling accepts them literally. Darling's penis is in itself all of Darling: the object of her pure luxury, an object of pure luxury. If Divine is willing to see in her man anything other than a hot and purplish cock, it is because she can follow its stiffness, which goes as far as the anus, and can sense that it goes farther into his body, that it is this very body of Darling erect and ending in a pale, tired face, a face of eyes, nose, mouth, flat cheeks, curly hair, beads of sweat. I close my eyes beneath the lice−ridden blankets. Divine has opened the fly and arranged this mysterious area of her man. Has beribboned the bush and penis, put flowers into the button−holes of the fly. (Darling goes out that way in the evening, with her).
The result is that to Divine Darling is only the magnificent delegation on earth, the physical expression, in short, the symbol of a being (perhaps God), of an idea that remains in heaven. They do not commune. Divine may be compared to Marie−Antoinette, who, in prison, according to my history of France, had to learn to express herself, willy−nilly, in the slang current in the eighteenth century. Poor dear Queen!
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