jakob and anathema lay in bed: jakob over the covers, anathema under.
“you know,” jakob said like a thief, “freud once said that every sexual act involves four people. the two lovers, and each lover’s projected fantasy of the other.”
“only four?” anathema said mildly.
jakob’s brows became anxious. see, jakob? that’s what you get for trying to be clever while naked. “yeah, only four. unless you got more?”
“i read, i don’t remember where, maybe lacan, that it takes a minimum of nine.”
“nine!?”
“mmm-hmm.” and she yawned.
ah, anathema: you’re one of those girls who hates to try, but loves to win. how brittle your seashell heart must be!
anathema’s voice went professorial. “first, there’s us: two atomic, untouching intelligences. then, like you said, the fantasied objects of desire. you didn’t mention, but, usually oedipal.”
“okay,” jakob said, then with a twitch of the mouth decided he had conceded too much. “maybe.”
“then there’s the repressed part of each person.” a solemn nod. well, at least grad studentorial. “often the most revealing part, sexually.”
“i don’t repress,” jakob said, “do you repress? maybe you repress.”
“of course you repress, jakob,” anathema said, stroking his hand. “whatever you aren’t, your unconscious is, you know? so if you’re a skinny, sensitive, poet-type, then your unconscious is obese, uncouth, illiterate.”
“i bet he eats pussy like a king though,” jakob said, “what’s yours?”
anathema touched her cheek. “dunno. i’m well-integrated.”