The Man Who Laid an Egg

He sat on the floor of the Brooklyn basement apartment and stared at the other young men and women. He had a deviant smile on his face. Even though he knew it was an advertisement that read, "please ask me why I'm smiling" and so transparent and immature it was embarrassing, he couldn't help it. Andrea was laughing hysterically in the kitchen. We had all taken LSD. She wasn't laughing to be generous to me, or my antics, though if it were anyone other than her I'd surely need such generosity. She was laughing because I had concluded a long standing desire, and invited her in on a very peculiar secret.

When Andrea lived with me I used to sit on her bed and ask her if I could put an egg in her butt or maybe in her vagina. I mean a chicken egg. I had read and reread The Story of the Eye by Georges Bataille and was perhaps a little to much enchanted with the amazing symbolism. It gave me a whole array of colors with which to paint perversions, all of them a spectrum of eggs and eyes. Bull's testicles and the most grotesque acts of priests, the most grotesque victimization of priests. Sexual play with milk and eggs and ever so many more symbols of life and the sights of the eye that, to be honest, I needed a really kinky girlfriend to work out with because there was -no- way in hell I'd take any of the stuff between my head and my legs to any therapist.

I felt bad, though, because I love Andrea. I love her as a person. She's a beautiful and caring person, who at times, when necessary, is able to fuck someone over. She's human, but she is one of the most truly loving, nonjudgemental, and perfect lover of the absurdist theatre that is our lives that I can't imagine what she'd have to do for me not to love her. I don't think she could do whatever I could imagine she'd have to do anyway. Every time I crept into her room, which was only guarded and secreted by a gossamer of a sheet, holding a chicken's egg in my hand, sitting gently on her bed to say good morning I would leave feeling guilty. I felt like I was molesting her somehow. She was for the most part very gracious in her declinations to my propositions for insertions of an egg into her, and I don't think she felt too threatened, but I still would leave her feeling guilty.

The only girl that I dated around that time was a girl from Long Island who was a nice young girl like drinking a glass of water, to fuck her pure and soft, gentle and hungry body to both her own satisfaction and mine. She wasn't going to have me fuck her ass, let alone get freaky with some chicken eggs. I probably should have started her off with the bowl of milk. Either way, she was a dead end. I was a goy and she was a diversion. It was Andrea who was the apple of the egg of my eye.

This guilt I carried for a while. The LSD was beginning to work and I could feel the aether beginning to become solvent. It was clear. I would have to birth an egg for Andrea. All of my selfish perversions were my natural reaction to the fears of my pride. My role in this case was as mother, as giver, as nurturer.

The only flaw in the ritual is that the closest I could come to a pussy was my butt-hole. Holding the egg, a wonderful example of nature's architecture, my mind absolutely knew it would withstand the pressures involved in forcing an egg into one's rectum, so long as the pressures were applied correctly, evenly, and at the right places. Also, the bottle of Vaseline brand moisturizing lotion on top of the toilet was providence. Nature took over and soon and with little discomfort the egg was drawn into my ass. I was so proud that day. I had an egg in my butt.

When I emerged from the bathroom and sat with my smile, I realized that they would not know if I were lying or not. It was amazing. I told a curious and rather attractive young Beth that I did have an egg in my butt, or I didn't but there would be no way for anyone but myself and a man with an x-ray machine to know. This pretty much cancelled out any potential sexual engagement with Beth. No matter how well groomed, gifted of silver tongue or golden charisma, once you tell a girl that you have an egg in your ass -- or don't -- you have eliminated yourself from her menu of fuckable men for the evening. I was after redemption and magic, ritual and perfect ethereal aesthete. The fact that she was confused and still interested in that great question, "Does he or does he not have an egg in his butt?" sated me much more than she would ever sexually.

I ran the room for the determinations those in our party had. Many were wise and declared no disposition. Some reasoned that I was the type who would have gotten up to such buggery. Others said that it wasn't possible. A raw egg would surely break if forced through a tight sphincter. I sat comfortably on the floor, and that was clearly evidence that there were no fragile foreign objects inside of my hind parts. I was brimming with glee. The best part was yet to come. After the conversation on acid had twisted along and away from the "Egg or No Egg" case in theme, I discreetly invited Andrea into the kitchen with me. In a rather crass arrangement, I quickly set up to birth my egg into the trash can. She would know, and only she, that the egg I had begged her to take in I had taken to mothering my own self. Only she deserved to be let in on the great secret.

With surprising ease, I popped the raw egg out and heard it plop into the trash. Nothing but the egg, of course, for that would be rather disgusting. Instead, Andrea began to emit a peal of laughter, a laugh at the beauty of the insane, a laugh as if emitted when tickled by the spirit of the universe. My pants were up, and spectators came to arrive. She was unable to speak, because she was overwhelmed with the laughter one experiences on LSD that can heal years of psychic damage. She was my only witness and now mute. Later she would retell the tale to my embarrassment.