La Pétaudière

By William Borden

Pétaudière Disorderly, noisy assembly; bear
garden; Bedlam broken loose.
--The Concise Oxford French Dictionary

Her nose browses my chest, roaming and sniffing. Pale moonlight paints our naked bodies.

She licks me all over, pausing to nibble, nip, and gnaw.

She lies on her back beside me. She swallows the Vouvray from the glass beside her bed. The bed is firm as lifelong love, and the crisp sheets, perky with pictures of yellow daisies and garlands of ivy, smell of summer breezes, sunshine, and indolence.

I sniff the chocolatey autumn of her breath, the raspberryish shampooness of her hair, and the raffish cinnamon in the hollow of her throat. I taste the vinegary sultriness of her right ear and the vanilla assertiveness of her left. I breathe the amaryllis cologne pulsing from her neck, the shyness of tulips lounging along her wrists, the peckish juniper wafting from her shoulders. Under her arms, where her perspiration has invaded her deodorant, there’s a sweet pungency of thyme, lemon, and freshly baked bread.

I put my ear to her chest and hear the tremulous throbbing of her heart. I listen to her stomach growl. Her bowels squeak and rumble, gurgle, pop, hiss.

Her nipples, pert and persimmony, solicit elaborate, lingering attention. She holds her breath, swims somewhere out of sight, surfaces again, and pours out a long trembling sigh.

I slither my tongue between her toes. She screams a delicious desperation.

I hold her ankle. I slip her toes, one by one, in and out of my mouth. She twists and lunges and beats the bed with her fists, but I don’t stop, because she doesn’t want me to stop.

And then I stop, because I’m nibbling her ankle. Licking behind her knee. Kissing the inside of her thigh.

I turn her over, my fingers squeezing the firm plumpness. I ease the resilient mounds apart. I breathe the fresh lingering apricot perfume of soap. I nuzzle a heady bouquet reminiscent of a savage Nebbiolo from the right bank of the Tanaro in the Piedmont region of Italy. I sniff, more deeply, the stirring scent of a mature ticklish Syrah. I follow the spoor of a conceited Amontillado until, deeper still, I taste the tincture of a muscular, oak-aged Merlot, the frantic flavor of a Cabernet Franc from Anjou-Touraine in the Loire Valley, the startling smokiness of an aged Lagavulin, and, finally, the stylish anarchy and the cataclysmic confusion of Ethiopian coffee beans fresh from the roaster.

When I come up for air, she rolls on her back, grabs my hair, opens her legs, and hauls me into a wild swampy invitation to passionate redemption.

I swoop into salubrious syncopations of dark lubricity, into nutty, malty beers, raffish ales, and pesky porters, into pungent cascades of Chambolle-Musigny, Chasselas, and Champagne, into dizzying rivers of Gewurztraminer, Pinot Gris, Camembert, and cherries, into soundings of salty insouciance, peckish promises, and savory stillnesses, into salutatory suavities of saffron, nutmeg, cedar, and cloves, into bounteous liquifactions graveolent of ginger, allspice, cashews, avocado, marjoram, artichokes, sarsaparilla, and somnolence.

I’m stunned by raw scintillating scents, dunked in rough delirium, drunk on sublime ancient vapors.

My tongue slips here and there, largo.

Her fingers stroke my temples, legato.

I linger, dolce. I flick sideways, agitato. Crossways, animato. Clever ways, subito.

Her fingertips tap, staccato.

I sniff, snuff, sniffle, snuffle, rubato.

She growls, honey over gravel.

Rinforzando I slide. Sostenuto I swash. Andantino I sluice.

She moans, an ache finding voice.

My lips pucker, adagissimo, pluck, accelerando, purse, ritardando, pulsate, affetuoso, palpitate, appassionato.

Her fingers flutter, agitato.

I slurp, tremolo, swab, scherzo, swallow, obbligato.

Her fingers scratch, con spirito.

My tongue, glissando.

Her fingertips, pizzicato.

I lap, maestoso. I lollop, giocoso. I loll, grazioso. I lave, morendo.

Her heels drum the sheet, allegro.

I whisk and whirr and whiffle and whoof. Vivace!

She clutches. Assai!

I stroke, I stipple, I stir, I stoke. Con brio!

Her hands jerk. Vibrato!

Da Capo! Repeat from beginning!

Her hips rise! Volare!

Doppio movimento! Twice as fast!

Teeth rattle! Knees knock! Spine shivers! Ears warp! Skin sparkles! Fingernails fry! Tarsals tremble! Feet fly!


Bones melt, brains crack, toes tintintabulate! The sympathetic nervous system sympathizes! Time takes a breather, space hiccups, galaxies stumble! Unbearable pain slides like a calamitous circus into ecstasy!

She’s in a delectable delabialized delative delirium. She’s gladly grandly gallimaufried. She’s swimming in a satisfied swoon.

My tongue’s a tuckered tuber.

We take a breather.

Champagne pops. Asiago crumbles. Strawberries are sequestered in fervid dens. Champagne fizzes from bellybuttons. Strawberries are munched from their hiding places. Ice cubes are secreted, melt, tantalize.

Fingernails, suggestive, unsettling, compose arpeggios on the pianoforté of my skin.

She hovers, a carnivore, above me. Her hair brushes my thighs. Animal breath provokes me. Wet lips enfold the flower of my dreams like grace sweetly absorbing the soul’s sundry sins.

A hot immersion, a conflagration, a lustration.

Nefarious nibblings, nocturnal gnawings, pesky puckerings, charmed chewings. Tiny nippings up and down, teeth teasingly tormenting.



Lips osculate, a soft tropical flower, insatiate, tremulous, tenderly tyrannical.

Widened? Broadened?

Secret ministrations, astral positionings, occult oscillations, sacerdotal thrummings, transcendental agitations, esoteric tremblings, cabalistic spasms.

Stalwart, sturdy, stony, adamantine!

Bounce boulders, tiddlywink mountains, hoist mainsails, swat home runs, balance for hours on it, eighth wonder of the world!


Primal, persistent, polymorphously perverse primordial penetration!


Vitalized, vaporized, valorized!

I’m stewed, slobbered, slithered, sloughed, slimed, smeared, samsonized, sanitized, empowered, embraced, embodied, endowed, entered, entertained, entailed, ensconced, waltzed, tangoed, flamencoed, mamboed, polkaed, cachuchaed, sarabanded, cancanned, limboed, cakewalked, legonged, beguined, gopaked, pavaned, bossa novaed, hakaed, rumbaed, galliarded, nihon buyoed, saltarelloed, sicilianoed, carmagnoled, tarantellaed.

She shivers me timbers and scuttles me butt. Syncopates, scintillates, strategizes my scrotum. Bamboozles my balls. Bullies my body. Jazzes my jism. Jimmies my joint. Jacks my John Thomas. Gerrymanders my geography.

She fingers my jewels and jostles my flanges. She rubs my rascally rabbit and elmers my fudd. Fudges my figures and figures my withholding. Audits my abdomen and tariffs my tesserated tactics. Tessellates my testicles, verifies my vas deferens, counts down to blast off but backs off, leaving me barmy, beaming, balmy, blinking, and brimming. Capitalized, exchequered, escrowed, ebullient. Tailgated, torpedoed, tickled pink.

She decalvinizes my caution. Masters my fate. Captains my soul. Lassoes my lunger, lactates my louie, lubricates my libido, lavages my limbic lobes. She pops my cork, fumigates my fundament, vandalizes my vesicle, vivifies my viscera. Pulverizes, vulcanizes, canonizes my prostate. Pummels, prods, possesses me. Pickles me, pleats me, plumps me, prunes me, pities me.

I’m stupefied, simonized, sanctified. Wonked, winded, wrinkled, waffled. I wallow, whistle, and wobble. I’m sideswiped, blindsided, slipped a mickey, milled, mulled, and mopped. I’m drummed, dabbled, diddled, and dunked. Dessicated, debilitated, differentiated, discombobulated, diffractioned, deconditioned, deconstructed, debunked, derridaed, dunced, doodled, dipped, drunk. I shiver, I shudder, I shout, I shimmy. I sweat and scent and suffer and spout. Splash, stutter, slobber, sink. My forehead flowers. My flippers flap. My perineum is promulgated. My platitudes are pondered. My personality is peppered. My psyche is stymied, my heels are hung, my neck is wrung. I’m sent around the bend and hung out to dry. I go through the wringer and wind up a wild whizzing wommera. I’m shipped out and swabbed down.

Man overboard!

I’m slammed into a black hole, squeezed to infinite mass, changed forever, shot out, warped, woofed, wrapped, walloped, whipped, whooped, whapped, tumbled, transitioned, transformed, transcended, transected, turbopropped, transported, teleported, and taken to the cleaners.

Wow! Whee! Whoopee! Way to go!

I tickle her fancy. She fancies my tickler.

She tweaks my twanger and I twiddle her twat.

I buff her bippy. She bips my buffer.

I energize her estrogen and pilot her progesterone.

I ream her rim and she rims my reamer.

I jam her jelly. She jowls my berries. She musters my marbles. She lobs my lozenges.

I organize her orgasms and eventuate her ecstasies.

I’m the catalyst for her clitoris. I charm her quark. She wets my whiskers. She resuscitates my rectum.

I apotheosize her pert petunia. She buggers my begonia. I adore her dreamy delphiniums. Her pansy perfumes my pistil. My passionflower permeates her pennyroyal. She cranks my columbine and torques my trillium. I diddle her daisy and she do-wops my dandelion. I irrigate her iris.

She whispers white hot wantings into my winsome whorlies. I please particularly piquantly her petulant pouty petals. She festoons my famous falal with flowers from the florist, a felicitous farrago of feracious fictile fiddling. I fall for the fortuitous folly of far-fetched flings following frumptuous farts. She fondles my firming flinger.

I compromise her contentiousness. She dishes the detritus from my dour demeanor and dumps my despair. I define her dimple. She decorates my decorum. I doubt her dubious disdain.

I blow on her bum and bump her balloons. I bite her bippies and teeth her titties. She confabulates my connies and I congratulate her cunny. She pinches my prepuce and palmolives my pickherupper. She jiffies my jouster.

She’s loamy. I’m livid. Liminally I laugh. She luffs my looper, and I lip her loofta.

I shower in her spume and splash in her suds. I mouth her mucous and munch her muff. I infiltrate her filament and flatter her firmament. I irrigate her canals and fertilize her fallow furrows. I swoon in her sweat and sit in her slat. I follow her into the darkness of delight and catch opportunity by the tail.

I yang her yin and she yarovizes my younker. She yerks my yam. I yeuk. Yippee! Yahoo! Yodelaydee-yo!

She banks my billiards and chalks my cue. She’s behind my eight-ball and sucking it.

We’re sauced in serotonin. We’re cupid’s kids.

She changes my oil, rotates my tires, lubricates my joints, balances my ball bearings, calibrates my timing, loosens my lugs, computerizes my ignition, tightens my tappets, reams my cylinders, adjusts my carburetor, speeds my choke, slows my idle, dunks my dipstick, lights my brights, flushes my radiator, rams my rods, redesigns my chassis, polishes my bumpers, fans my fenders, jump-starts my battery, blows my gasket, thumbs my thermostat, belts my alternator, grinds my valves, twirls my phillips, and tightens my nuts.

I bogey her breasts, birdie her behind, and blast from her sand trap. I slice into the rough. I plunge into her water hazard. She raises my flag. I water her fairway. Hole-in-one!

She tapes my troubles and erases the tape. Fastforwards my follies and slo-moes my sensations. Freeze-frames my fancies and rewinds my randiness.

She makes my software hard and my hardware soft. I download her dreams. She upgrades my hard drive. I access her database. She runs my program. We network. We surf shimmery skin.

I flip her switch, blow her circuits, peak her outage, surge her amps, up her voltage, and readjust her rheostat.

She grabs my gatling, rubs my remington, wanks my winchester, manhandles my magnum, lards my luger, compliments my cannon, monitors my magazine, packs my powder, cocks my carbine, triggers my timing, aims my musket, muffs my muzzle, lights my fuse, offs my safety, and bites the bullet.

She funnels my flimflam into her funhouse. She fingers my fuming flapdoodle. My fizzer foams. Her quim quakes. My wacky wooer wets her. She deluges my darter with dripping delight. I liquefy her lap. I’m the cream in her coffee, the icing on her cake, the cat’s pajamas, the last straw, the end of the road, the road not taken, the last long lingering lollapalooza.

We’re watchful, waiting for the wherewithal to continue. We wonder why we’re here and where we are and why anything and everything. Answers? We dally in the delirium of dubiety. We wallow in whoopie. We’re winsome.

We soap our skins, shower our sorrows, steam our sternums, stomp our strictures, suture our suspicions, siren our songs, silence our censors, superannuate our sanctimonious stern superegos, and suspend the rules. She slaps my seat and spanks my southside. I smack her sitter slightly. I kiss her keester and burrow her bung. I bivouac on her bonny bush. She moulin rouges my can can. My plumbing preponderates. It plops, too pooped to pop.

She pities. She primps. She plucks. She pumps. She pulls. She pushes. She kneads and knots, wobbles and wiggles. She fibrillates my flabby flower. It nods hello.

She jostles and jiggles, jangles and joggles. It jives, jaded. It fades. My foregone foreskin, forgotten and forlorn, would freak. Fortunately five fingers flail my fillerupper. My frenum frolics. Phrenology phails. There’s plenty of plenum to palliate. Perhaps, she says, we should coordinate.

She burbles blandishments of beckoning, beguilings of belongings. She burnishes my bushings and spit-shines my soul. She resuscitates my saskatoon berries. Her applesauce is my appetizer. My chingus? Chow down!

She bites my bologna and mangles my masher. She bruises my bratwurst. She schnitzels my wiener. She gallimaufries my gazongas. I gulp her goulash. She steams my asparagus. I refresh her rutabaga. She perks up my parsnip. I pit her avocado. She nuzzles my nuts. I peel her artichoke. I shell her pea, french her bean, lick her lima, lip her lentil. She makes my zucchini zoom. I ravish her radish. Her turnip turns turbulent. I bouillabaisse her boobies. I kiss her bubbies. I dig her dugs. I maul her malleable mammaries, resilient, redolent, ready. I suckle her milky ways. I grope her grapefruits. She picks my papaya. I kiss her kiwi. She puckers my prunes. I palm her pomegranate. She guzzles my garbonzas. I gobble her goop. Nosing her nymphae, I sniff Neufchâtel, a frisson of fennel, a whiff of whey, and a tease of tarragon. I chomp her champignon, suck her shitake, masticate her morel. I lap her lo mein. She fries my wonton. I scarf her pot sticker. She engorges my egg roll. I salivate her sprout. She Szechuans my sausage. I dote on her dumpling. She shells my shrimp. I open her cookie and read her fortune. It’s the thirty-first hexagram of the I Ching, "Hsien, Love-making." I bite her bagel, bounce her bannocks, flip her flapjack. She scrambles my eggs, fries my bacon, broils my banger, and butters my pumpernickel. My loaf rises. I nestle in her naughty nookie. She knocks on my knockwurst and kneads my knaidel. My knose knuzzles her knee. She dips me in her guacamole. I fondle her fajita. She jalepenoes my habanero. I sip her savory sangria. She tastes my tamale. I tongue her tostada. My tortilla tickles her taco. She enchantingly encinctures my encomiastic enchilada. My cannelloni is al dente, her manicotti is caliente. I recommend her raviolis. She parmigianes my veal. I munch her marscopone. Her minestrone murmurs. Her tiramisu, flavored with rum, brandy, espresso, and talent, is triumphant. I champ her chapati. She pats my pakora. I nab her naan. She tastes my tandoori. I pepper her papadam. She pummels my paratha. I moan into her mulligatawny. She paddles my poori. I slip my samosa into her sambal. I chart her chakras and curry her climax. I kindle her kundalini. She licks my lingam. I yum her yoni. I savor her sutra. Kama, kama, she says, kama na ina my house.

I enter her entrée. She plants my plantain and milks my coconuts. Her quiche quivers. Her consommé contracts. Her borscht bubbles. I cream her callalloo. I guzzle her gazpacho. She calls me Gaucho. Or is it Groucho?

I’m zonked, zapped, zoomed, unzipped. Astrally projected. Shot to the stars, socked to the moon, whacked to twenty-six dimensions, enlightened, illuminated, elucidated. Rebirthed, reincarnated, primal screamed, cathexised, actualized, peak experienced. Chewed up, spit out, bound for glory. See God, say Hi, wave coming and going.

We die our little deaths, diving through all the rooms of the Bardo. A billion buddhas cheer.

Our heads press against one another, the bones of our skulls hum together, the whirrings of our brains and the snappings of our neurons and the pumping of our blood the same, undivided, indistinguishable.

She aspirates my amorous armature. I bedazzle her bosom. She comforts my cantankerous comer, dials my dandy dunker, and elongates my excited emergence to an eleemosynary emission. I fandango her fantastic fibrillator. She garnishes my gonads, gladhands my geezer, gooses my gander, and galvanizes my gumption. She hoodoos my hooligan and homogenizes my homunculi. I investigate intimately her improper imbroglios. She jacuzzies my jumping joe. I ken her kalathos. I loosen her lucidity. I murmur, "Mammary, mammary." She nibbles my nefarious nimble naked noodler. I ogle her omphalos. She provokes my plums, pams my privates, pampers my possum, plumbs my possibilities, pinches my plunger, and pockets my plugger. I quaff her quivering quintessence. She ruminates my rowdy rump. I stunningly stodge her succulent sticky sucker. She tabulates my testosterone, tests my tolerance, and trifles with my tachycardia. I uxoriously ululate her unique uterus. I voraciously verify her various vaginal vibrations, verily. My whistling wad waltzes her whimsical walnut. She xamines my xiphoid. My zany zoomer zaps her zesty zaftig zipper.

We’re dancing cheeks to cheeks. Our bellies banter. Her foot’s in my mouth. My chin’s on her chine. Our pubic hair cleaves together. Our thighs throb, calves cleave, toes tickle, shoulders shudder, clavicles clatter, ankles rattle, palms push, knuckles nudge, wrists wrangle, stomachs stick, hips hop. She finds my fingers facile in frothing the fiery affluent fluids of her formidable furry firmerupper. She fingers my flatulator and foresees my fellation. She jaws my jones. I gamahuche her gamelon. My gamester glows from ganosis. I grease her gams. They slither up my ribs. I slip her five. She shakes my shaft. She shines my shillelagh. She doesn’t shilly shally. She shimmers, shudders, shivers, shakes, and shouts. She pre-empts my prematurity, prolongs my performance, permutates my possibilities, percolates my potential, and permeates my pretenses. She pisses perfume.

She lubes my laggard liquidizer. She lengthens my lounger. She levitates my labarum. She lustrates my lollipop. I query her quirky quim and question her intentions. She yearns to yank my yonny. Yo, Yolanda! I yump for yoy! Oyvey!

She trepidates my tush. She hickeys my heinie. I cosset her cooze. I pet her pelt. I fan her fern. She buries my bone. I wag her tail. I taste a fine stiltson, sniff peach, recognize the suggestion of portobello mushrooms, follow the spoor of pine woods after rain. I’m a cunning linguist. She pokes my plumbing. She palliates my popper and probes my pooper. I clep her clapper. My vagrant vibrator volleys her vagina. My wily willy winks. I’m the rock of ages, the rock of Gibraltar, a rolling stone. I’m stoned on her grassy fumes, elongated by her libidinal longing, restored by her resourcefully rough but refined, rational but reckless, runaway rimming. My firmness ferments. I gulp her guinness. She has a malty, yeasty, bubbly aroma. She blows my berries, my bubble, my bugle, my bagpipe, my fortune, my savings, my fuse, my mind.

She wets my reed, mutes my trombone, and triple tongues my trumpet. She plucks my mandolin and runs scales on my organ. She harmonicas my hummer. She cracks my castanets. I bach her breasts. She vibratos my vivaldi. I touch her tchaikovsky. She straddles my stravinsky. I rimsky her korsakov. She bites my beethoven. I scratch her scriabin. She wrinkles my waller. I viggle her wagner. She crunches my coltrane. I meddle with her mingus. She swallows my schoenberg. I buzz her berlioz. She rubs my ravel. She shocks my shostakovich. She chaffs my chopin. My ocherina aches. I mumble into her muff, "Mozart, Mozart." She orchestrates the cunctation of my emission.

She hums my hume and busses my berkeley. I give her whitehead. She arouses my aristotle. I voltaire her vulva. She deweys my doohickey. I sartre her beauvoir. She nectarizes my nietzsche, a gay science. I shave her legs with occam’s razor. She showers my schopenhauer, willfully, representatively. She’s worldly that way. She libates my leibniz. Our monads mutually masturbate. She wittgensteins that pal o’ mine. My plato pees. Pragmatically, this is a variety of religious experience in a pluralistic universe.

She satirizes my satyriasis. She lampoons my lyrical lechery.

I’m the beast in her jungle. She’s my golden bowl. We’re ambassadors of love. She turns my screw. I wing her dove. She’s the madonna of the future. I’m an American, a passionate pilgrim, the last puritan. She’s my princess case-my-joint. I roderick her hudson, dripping and pulsing. I’m within the rim. We’re no Bostonians. We’re an international episode. I’m her reverberator, her sacred fount, the real thing. We’re off the wheel of time. We’re what Maisie knew. I’m William Wetmore, his story, a small boy, a son and brother, in his middle years.

She mobies my dick. I scarlet her letter. I’m the last of the Mohicans, the deerslayer, the pathfinder. I’m a sinner in the hands of an ardent god. I cotton her mather. She madames my bovary. She tilts my windmill, quixotically. I’m gargantuan. I pant on her gruel. She chatterleys my mellors. She shakes my spear. I fletch her beaumont. I kyd her marlow. I caress her congreve. It’s the way of the world, it’s important, it’s earnest. To the lighthouse, Finnegan?

I boomerang her bazooms, bazooka her begosh. I pinch her penny, play her music box. She furls my mainsail. I batten her hatch and snaggle her snatch. I rumple her rump. She holds my hoser. I pump her hooters. She hoovers this hoosier. She shakes my six-shooter. Serious spumer! My humpback sings! My spiracle spouts! Steady as she blows!

Godot comes!

Her warm breasts, bursting with yummy contemplation, headphone my ears. I hear the music of the spheres, the planets’ patient partitas, the moans of the moons, the silvery stars’ siren songs, sea chanties flying from far constellations, waltzes of wayward conflagrations, bebop boogies from black holes, gravity’s grave galloping corralling of the night’s glistenings, merry meteors meandering through the milky beltways of the echoes of the big bang, the great guffaw, the galactic gangbusters, the primal pellucid climax, the universal rapture, the ejaculation of gazillions of galaxies from nothing, the giddy spurt of stars seeding the dark void, sucked to ecstasy by the dark universe pulsing, welcoming, receiving, enticing, a vulva of infinite space welcoming the infinite mass exploding, the first, biggest, best orgasm of them all. We’re still spinning, flying, shaking, shuddering, shivering, gasping, from that big cosmic come twenty billion years ago.

Abandon yesterday, and tomorrow, and today. Cross over to the farther shore, beyond life and death.
--The Dhammapada