Excerpts from The Encyclopedia of Sexual Positions with God

Meghan Privitello

The Crucifier

Keep your panties on. Fill the room with sand and blood. Play the role of a mountain range: distant and cold. Play the role of a desert: dry. Make your holes so impenetrable God must make new holes. This is the greatest tease: promising a new opening, new entrances to the sad soul. Hold out your arms like you are guilty, even if you are not guilty. Lie on the divan like a dissected frog. Spread, splayed, pinned. Label your parts as you wish: Latinate, Romance, Slavic. God is fluent in language and ruin. The smell of desire is rank, with blooming. A spiritual mustard. Make your body into the letter t: terrified, temporary. You will die the same way your pleasure dies: violently, weeping.







The Begetter

Burn the memory of your mother, her mother, her mother, her mother. Burn the idea of being a mother, to her, to her, to her. Trace your ancestry back to the violin to validate your hollows. Begin your body from no one and nothing. Watch God’s excitement as he sees your meaningless figure. You could be a salesman, a bed wetter, a botanist, a slave. He will get off on naming you. This is the closest he will come to being a woman, your mother.






The Communion

Take into your mouth everything but the beef of the other. Curtains, bird nests, bridges, smoke, etc. Kneel at the altar of your own godly breasts. Hold out your hands to egrets. Pleasure will travel through sawmills and swamps to nest at your hind. In the meantime, your mouth. Let it speak in tongues. Let it maraud the man. As a woman, you’ve swallowed enough of God’s currency to have an ocean behind the teeth, salty enough for any wrongful bones to float. Watch God bob up and down in the cold current, his shrinking cock the first promise of all the things he was never willing to give you.






The Disciple

When you want less, raise your hand. When you want more, raise your hand. Be God’s ceiling mirror. Be his twin. When god says jump, say into which discourse. God is a labyrinth, enter without leaving. The ass is another mouth. Let him choose which he wants to kiss you with and praise that teaching. Be God’s co-ed, his girl on girl. Make yourself into mythology — half cow, half cunt or half serpent, half nun. Read the anthology of God’s pleasure and recite it back to him as a eulogy. There is no littler death than God’s semen on the carpet, his children swimming to drown. Regardless, you get a gold star. Be a man and name it. With your hands on fire stroke everything you see and say mine mine mine.






The Resurrection

Name all the ways to be punished for what you haven’t done. Murder, and repent. Vandalize, and repent. Fuck the good out of God until he is only a man. Write a requiem and perform it with your own dead hands, your instruments made of fruit peels and the blow fly’s fresh eggs. When God is panting on his knees like a dog he hasn’t created yet, wrap your legs around his neck and let him smell your death. Shroud yourself in ordinary linen. Make a cave out of your unsatisfied pleasure and crawl into it (you already have). Look at your body and make a list of what you can stand to keep. Look at God’s body and let him keep it all, every sinking inch. Passion is where the cells go to die. Step out of your death like a pair of panties and watch God watch you. Call it tantric, telepathic, this untouching of each other. At this point God is so hard he nearly crucifies himself. Let him. Let him come again. Unlike a man, feast on the presence of his blood.


about the author