She wasn't all that attractive to me, on purely physical 
grounds.  She never awed me with aesthetics like the other – never 
matched my ideal of the ultimate woman, causing that frightening 
wonderful resonance of the inner and the other, the dreamlike 
image and the reality.  But somehow she was amazingly sexy.  Her 
whole personality breathed Fuck me, Fuck me, Fuck me, FUCK ME 
BABY yeah yeah yeah.   And the ironic thing is, she never wanted me 
to have this great erotic love for her, this boiling, gyrating physical 
passion. Which is not to say that she didn't get off on it -- she did. I 
could see it in the way her muscles relaxed when I walked into the 
room she was in -- as if her body was preparing to give itself over, 
anticipating already that illusory moment when the onrush of 
pleasure overcame her passivity, transforming her into an insatiable 
dragon of fire-breathing cunt, cunt and cunt. 

What she wanted, or so she thought and said, was for me to respect 
her mind, to value her opinions. And I did love her mind, in its 
wonderful chaos, its bounty of colors and contrasts and forms. Her 
mind was one huge unfinished theorem, continually moving in all 
directions, pushing this here and pushing that there in bedazzling 
patterns, but never quite getting to the point. She had such a talent 
for manipulating shapes, in that non-dimensional world of hers. But 
her mind was never autonomous; without a physical vehicle, it was 
confused and adrift. Only in her body did her mind find completion. 
For all her talent in art, mathematics, poetry, whatever, she could 
never build a real inner universe. She was always fiddling with her 
body -- trying a new, bizarre diet, or a new method of breathing, or 
an impossible stretching routine. Every morning she rubbed her 
olive colored skin down with scented oils or cocoa butter. She was 
fixated on the flesh.  I didn't respect her mind the way she wanted.  
How the fuck could I?   Her mind was a morass of sexy, delirious 
confusion, pushing in every which way, controlled by the demands 
of the body and the illusions or truths of spiritual insight, with logic 
and consistency compressed almost to vanishing not out of inability 
to understand them but out of lack of interest.

My ornate inner universe fascinated her, from a distance, with its 
perfect mathematical structures, its endlessly inventive chaos, 
always performing alchemical syntheses out of the most wildly 
incongruous forms. But she never got lost in it, and never studied it 
too closely, because to her it was of peripheral value only -- her mind 
was not her center.   My intellectual gymnastics amused her for a 
short while but didn't grip her soul.  She entered into my universe 
and yanked me out of it, pulled me back to the world of salt and skin 
and fluids and movements and laughs and tears. She tormented me 
incredibly, doing battle with me in her domain, perhaps dimly aware 
that to me, pain in the realm of the body and emotions was never 
more than a seed about which new structures would crystallize in 
the endless expanse of my mind. Any pleasure that was given her, 
she returned twofold,  and then divided by seventeen, observing 
with confusion and awe the forms into which my brain twisted her 
joy. 

We were a chaotic psychotic dynamical system, moving in imaginary 
frenetic orbits, passing through each other and transforming each 
other, yet always coming out the same. She re-molded my flesh in 
her own image; I re-molded her mind in mine; yet no matter how 
many times we proved 2+2=4 in our own personal logics, it always 
came out to equal 3 or 5 collectively, or occasionally 6.27 or even 
3.1415926535…. In the end it was nothing but love, as five billion 
people have experienced, read about, written about. It was purely 
biological: my lust for her body, her differently angled lust for mine, 
our thrill in each others' pleasure, our endless conversations, fights, 
seductions, passions, deliriums. We moved along like biological 
robots, heeding the calls of hormones, enzymes, neurons, 
pheromones, ribosomes. But of course, the mind finds a vehicle in 
the body. Something different, contained in the zero of the circle of 
her mouth, as she leans her head back rapt in ecstasy, divided by the 
zero of my absence, when she feels half-asleep because I am not 
there. A zero divided by zero, an indeterminate form, a random 
element beyond all words, even these ones, and yet crying out with 
insatiable lust to be described, described, described....  

And then, the other, her, on the other hand.  Sweet dreams, the 
motherfucking madness of women!  So far and yet so sweet!  An 
infinite divisor, constantly dividing itself by itself and by zero in 
bizarre conflagrations.  She was so perfect, like an idol, a pagan love-
goddess – a demigoddess at least.  I could have spent eternity bent 
over at her feet, sucking the lint from between her toes, thanking 
the heavens for her immense and eternal beauty.  What she uniquely 
evoked was not a warm family kind of love nor a purely sexual 
obsession but a kind of aesthetic fervor.  Unexceptional as others 
may have considered her.  She was the elementary particle of which 
my universe was composed.  She hypnotized me.  Around the other I 
was crazy, around her I was rational, supreme, nervous but 
elevated to outer space wonder.   It wasn't just the beauty of her 
form, it was the gorgeous nine-dimensional symmetry of her mind 
and personality, divided by the square root of her body, that made 
her so incredible.  One made me crazy, the other made me saner, 
forced me to be saner, didn't tolerate my sappy side.  Her perfection 
demanded that I strive to be more perfect myself, so as to match 
and deserve her better. What was in the circle of her mouth as she 
leaned her head back in orgasm?  The perfect demented symmetry 
of a Picasso woman?  Or the texture of the ocean?
  
Less baffled by my ornate inner universe, because she understood it 
better – she, like me, had a powerful rational component – she was 
able to enter into my trains of thought, though she frequently got 
thrown off the tracks.  She could look at me in a way that made me 
forget everything, that made everything else in the universe seem 
meaningless and irrelevant, like scenery in a video game.  The other 
could never do that.  She had to take off her clothes and sit on 
my lap to really distract me from my internal galaxy.  But she could 
do it with a glance.  

On the other hand, she wasn't much of a puzzle.  Not that I saw 
right through her – she had her subtleties, sophistications and mazes 
-- but the basic logic of her existence was reasonably sane to me.  
Not like the other, whose soul was utter blackness.  Not black as in 
evil but black as in opaque, with occasional glimmers of visibility, 
warmth or hatred bubbling out, and occasional transformations into 
comprehensible forms such as the shape of a bunny or a woman's 
face or a nicely curved ass begging for kisses, kisses verging up to 
the back then down to the perineum and around to the widely 
bulging hips, and darting into the crack now and then daringly, 
provoking squirms and squeals of embarrassed pleasure.

Hypnotized in multiple directions, can I even say that I exist?  I 
stagger, dazed by diverse beauties of women, internal and external, 
grabbing and ignoring me, igniting me with incorporeal flames, and 
singing my name in strange languages.  I howl, howl and howl and 
they don't even care, they say, shut your mouth fool and give me 
something, give me love or money or wonder or intelligent words or 
give me children or a four bedroom house with a half an acre property or 
a night at the movies or on the town or eat dinner with 
me and hold my hand and gaze at me hypnotically but not too 
bizarrely please, don't give me these strange feelings, give me real 
meaningful love, give me something I can understand, something I 
can grasp onto, don't give me the outpourings of your antediluvian 
soul because no one can really see into another's mind, no matter 
how hard you try you stupid fool you can never really get it all out.