A woman is born with all the eggs she could ever possibly carry.
Periods, pills and prophylactics will foil most—but for those that
make it through, childbirth will turn her sex into a lion’s mouth.
This is where the term pussy comes from.
Fucking for the first time is like a fried egg, sunny side up:
there’s the foreplay of oil getting hot, the cracked shell oozing
a nakedness that is sexy because it is see-through. White spits and pops
in heat, gasping at the edges like fingers that clutch because something good
is coming. The yolk trembles. Don’t break it. Not yet.
A poached egg is a great swimmer; a scrambled egg kicks and has a
fit in the pan. A poached egg holds onto secrets like a cherry or a blister,
so long as you don’t pop it; a scrambled egg spills its guts out, cums
all over itself. A poached egg isn’t funny, prefers to be alone; a scrambled egg
digs a crowd, can tell a joke. A poached egg will die young of unnatural causes;
a scrambled egg fights death—over time, it turns to rubber, feels like an old man.
Oh-Oh-Oh-vum! Oh-Oh-Oh-val! Oh-Oh- Oh-ver easy oeuf!
Oh-ver and Oh-ver, the egg came first.
If the world is an oyster, an egg is a universe unto itself, with its own sun,
its own galaxy—and even if the world is an oyster, a string of pearls
cannot compare to the beauty of an egg boiled perfectly: touch it and it will yield,
and yield, like a testicle.