7/7/2012 — 3:02 AM
I dreamt about Beatrice again. I was back at the conference, mingling in the reception hall. Bartleby was boring me with another of his tirades against “those jag-off editors” at the Annals, when suddenly the door to the atrium flew open and in floated Beatrice. She wore a virginal white dress, contrasting nicely against her mahogany skin. The dress billowed as she hovered silently towards me. When she passed the others they transformed into tiny bees, swarming upwards out of sight, until it was just me and the queen Beatrice.
Still hovering before me, she put a single finger to my lips and I instantly became erect. For a moment we both examined my tumescence and as I returned my gaze to her I found she was completely naked except for a coy, enticing smile. And she was half bee from the waist down. As was I.
Brushing the hors d’oeuvres off the snack table, I lept onto its surface and she floated herself over me. We paused, looking deep into each other’s eyes, and I could feel the heat coming off her copulatory bursa. I took her there, stinging her with my bee-penis. I felt a white flash of pain–a hurts-so-good–as my bee-genitals exploded and detached from my body, as happens when honey bees mate (Bishop 1920). Beatrice twisted away from me, taking my lower abdomen with her. My intestines spilled out of me like a magician’s handkerchief. Tied to the end of my gut-links was my quivering, still-beating heart. I watched it expel the last spurts of my blood, and then I died.
My corpse slumped to the floor and Beatrice grabbed my heart off the pile of entrails, delicately smeared a dollop of ranch dip on the heart, and ate it with a smile. It cracked and crunched in her mouth like a carrot. My hollow torso gave her a smile back, just happy to see her happy.
Once she finished eating, I floated upwards away from her and the scene below me retreated into darkness. But I was not alone in the void. I could feel the presence of a man, an unfathomably large man, looming behind me. I darted my head around, but the figure was always just out of sight. The void around me began to brighten with white static, and I knew I was coming out the dream. I began to panic, darting my head around, trying to catch the figure with a quick glance. But the static took over, and I screamed imploringly into it: “Tad! Where are you!?”
I woke up. My cats looked at me, startled.
Bishop, G. H. 1920. Fertilization in the Honey Bee: The male sexual organs. I. Their histological structure and physiological functioning. J. Exp. Zoo.: 31(2), 224-265. DOI: 10.1002/jez.1400310203.
Snodgrass, R. E. 1910. The Anatomy of the Honey Bee. U.S. Department of Agriculture, Bureau of Entomology Technical Series. No. 18.
In my post about the lesser water boatman I drew a comparison to nineteenth century piano virtuoso Franz Liszt and my reasons for this must have seemed obscure at the time. With this post I would like to explain myself a little further. I also worry sometimes this blog may get too dry and technical with all the hard science, so I’m sure the reader will welcome a brief digression into cultural history and the arts, namely the life and work of Franz Liszt.
But you may object: Richard, like all scientists you must be a cold, dispassionate, narrow-minded “square” who eats plain bran cereal for breakfast, how could you possibly teach us anything about the fiery artistic life of Franz Liszt, who probably ate exciting things for breakfast, like cocaine pancakes with opium syrup. Well, it may surprise the reader to learn that in addition to the research I do here at PRIC, I am also a renowned Liszt scholar, and an all around “Lisztomaniac”. In fact there is a sizable overlap between the penile science and Liszt fandom communities. Why this is, I hope to now explain.
Brody, it’s a shame you’ve been AWOL for the last two weeks. I was hoping I could get you to sign off on this letter, make sure I didn’t forget anything. Well, no bother; I’ve already faxed it on its way. The well-lubricated wheels of PRIC HQ are in motion, and there is nothing you can do to stop them.
I received a troubling fax this morning from PRIC headquarters. Well, maybe it’s best if you just read it for yourself:
Needless to say, dear reader, Dr. Richard Cox, PhD., is not one to back down from a fight! As the most senior research fellow at PRIC (excepting of course the poor comatose Prof. Wiener), I should not have to put up with this pushy bureaucratic nonsense.
And Brody, I don’t know how you earned such special favor with the higher-ups at PRIC, but I promise you it won’t last long. I’m currently writing a response to Mr. Fallace that will bright to light the true character of Brody J. Dickworth.
However, in the meantime I’m willing to put aside our differences to get back to the roots of Curious Cox: exposing the world to awe-inspiring animal penises.
I will keep you abreast of any further developments in my good fight. As always,
Dr. Richard Cox, PhD.