Medieval History

Writing Across Difference with Ursula K. Le Guin

His speech-- The cadence of it Commanding, exacting, imperious Majestic, yet as soft and as light As a panther's tread: Silken black fur in the night His musculature, his shape outlined Only by the faint silvern caresses Of Diana's hand. Power hidden within soft smoothness Power over life and death Sheathed within those giant paws: Thus does he speak As he stretches out each word Plays languorously with each sentence The beast lissome, free of hurry or care Enjoying its own beauty and the acts Of moving, breathing, Of existence itself With a great, lascivious appetite Flashing in his pinprick-eyes. And yet-- Within that languidity, Ever hidden the pounce; Within that slow tread Claws; Within the playfulness of the eyes Commands that must be met forthwith Upon pain of swift, slashing death. When he enters the throne-room Awed silence: Yet, as he makes his way to his seat In the roll of his hips Speak orgies, sodomies; Upon his mouth and tongue Glimmer the traces and promises Of cunnilinguses. All are afraid to speak For their terror of him Yet all, all Are wet, shivering, erect; The pretty boy-eunuch Bites his fist And tries not to stagger From how hard his well-used arse Just pulled, clenched As a woman's sex does When fancying inside of itself A well-beloved, firm prick. Ladies and slave girls, all Press their thighs tighter together All shaven today in expectation Of the Master's pleasure: So sensitive each plush and smooth cunny That arousal now brings physical pain Sweet sap pursed out from between Swollen pink petals As they press together, rub In their tormented frustration Running down between quivering legs. The men of the guard Exchanging jealous glances Muttering, mocking within their minds Their fellow men, Calling them cocksuckers, Catamites: Yet cannot wait to offer The rasps of their own beards To their Lord's smooth and pink genitals Pleasuring him with their moustaches As they, One after another, Dream of falling onto their knees And wrapping their thick, red lips in worship About the sacred column Of his prick. This is his court, These his subjects: Each one has he made into a wanton Each one into a willful sodomite Begging to pay tribute To him with their bodies And souls, for from him Flows all that is wonderful and good Even as they listen to him, watch him, observe him: From his words, music, joy; From his judgements, righteousness; From his movements, a pleasure deep and lingering; From his lovemaking, Ultimate physical and spiritual contentment-- In short, he no more and no less than Heaven, Upon this Earth Made flesh. The rareness, the strangeness, the queerness That it should be thus: That we should have him here, among ourselves That we are banqueting with God Herself All of us so perfectly, lovingly, completely Involved in his play! Such blessings many would doubt Calling us his subjects But libertines and liars When we tell the world Of his miracles: Yet if, but once You have heard his voice Upon the warm summer night's wind-- That soft meaow of his cadence Slithering into your ears Curling up to purr Between your legs Nestling there with sweet promise Making you ache with sweet anticipation Consumed with the desire To throw yourself into his flames With orgiastic abandon, Oh, abandon: Then you will have known him As you have always known him For there doth he dwell, Right within your --Until now-- Fastly sleeping  Heart: Listen out for The sound of dead leaves upon the path Crushed underneath his paws; Close your eyes and Let your nostrils flare Seeking the scent of Cunny-nectar, Followed by a meaowing, Cracking, delirious laughter High: By these signs-- Oh, by these signs, My friend Will you know That the Great Pard (Hold out your arms) Is (Offer your mouth) Indeed (Spread your legs) Nigh.