Girls that take the thinking for a walk.
What do you think about this women? Is she really having an orgasm? The girl standing next to me said while observing the same painting. At that moment, two girls, stranger to each other until that moment, chosen by the random probability of a causal observation at the museum, suddenly allowed themselves to a conversation momentum.
“I like this painting”, she said, not so much for the appreciation of the paintings, but something else, more feminine. There we were, standing in front of “Judith” (Klimt, 1901), the powerful, the true femme fatale, glorified of having an orgasm while cutting the Holofernes’ head. The ultimate woman that explored pleasure from both acts. She evoked fear and lust, covered in gold, exaggerated with a fragile feminine elegance. There was no blood on her hands, while her nipples and lips were still red.
The myth of orgasm is almost terrifyingly fearful, I said whispering. It was the black hole of unknown. It implicated depth, fear, pleasure, sexual anxiety, and the pathological disturbance all into an image. Orgasm was transformed and sacrificed although remaining still unknown and pure. Fear of seductive power inflicting pain to the female erotic. Such pain was the purest feeling, more than love. It was like two worlds collapsed upon each other. The unknown discriminated the reality. The feelings were left for livings, and as they survived they were not simple anymore but decorated with selfish and selfless, with colors that stood far from the basic spectrum.
Do we understand orgasm now, since Freud was not much help then? It is as alien as it was, – the girl next to me said.
Although decorated with the act of pleasure, it is a surviving mechanism, I said, connected to the brain as anything else. You are right, though, not much it is known even today, I added thoughtfully.
Maybe it was an evolution of function, a present from the ancestral origin of female self-reproduction. A neuroendocrine reflex. A trigger for spontaneous ovulation of a self-reproduction. It almost sounded mythological, implicating some Greek Goddess. Somehow ancient people had figured it out in a simple narrative. Hermaphroditus of procreation. A profound meaning of mother. The ultimate preservation of species.
Not really a black widow, but rather a self-sacrifice, I added.
At that moment their day bent backward in their minds. It stretched to quantum. While they took their imagination for a walk and moved away, separately with the same random casualty.