My birthstone, it's true, but nothing so trite, why pearls came to me as talisman. Why they lustre all over me, their translucent glow born from the warm womanly heat of me. No other jewel so becomes a woman. Imbibing the oils of her skin, made translucent by her body heat. The two become one, jewel and bejewelled. A match made in heaven. Or Atlantis perhaps. Unique. Erotic. Decadent. Feminine. Timeless glow of moon and sea. Perfect globes, nipples of Venus, rising from her shell.
Bringing me out of mine.
I had come to think, I am an oyster, without a pearl. Of no use or value. Discarded.
But the oyster is the essence of aphrodisia only when it has no pearl.
It transpires, the pearl chokes the pleasure.
The oyster made for oral pleasure is a royal thing. Fit for a prince to come. No pod for implantation here. No cargo more precious than its own lush self. No grain of sand clumsily inserted, to irritate its whole life long. Never man-handled by any old knife and leather-kneed fisherman, nor ripped asunder, raped, discarded.
No such fate for the edible oyster. An occasion in itself. An act of foreplay. A priori. Bed of crushed ice, lemon-fragranced rink of plate, specific knife to tease apart. Lush smooth innards of delight, circled delicately, with anticipation. Slippery oceanic scent. Definitive taste of the sea. Swallowed whole. No ripping here. No vulgar mastication.
Divine child of cupid and his water nymph, Psyche; Pleasure.