Whatever you think about the dogs or the horses or the goats, there is always the swan. My favourite version is by Peter Paul Rubens. There is something so sensual about the way the swan dips his beak into the mouth of Leda. Leda herself is all flesh. She seems to be half asleep. That drug that is sex, arousal like a sleeping draft, relaxing the muscles, readying the body for sex.
The penis of a swan is shaped like a piece of spiral pasta. The male bird takes the female on the water, holds her head under, a kind of aquatic rape. There have been stories of female swans who drown in the act. Our Leda is more robust than a swan, but still I imagine the bird's spiral penis inching out between her legs, it's beak in her mouth, it's cork screw penetration. All this and heavy-lidded Leda falling backwards into that poppy-sleep of lust, her thick thighs tipping open, her small breasts listing sideways, the nipples erect and brushing against the sinewy neck of the bird. A fantasy, surely, because in real life there would be the tearing of webbed, clawed feet, the water and a kind of drowning. But this is my fantasy dragged from an image by Peter Paul Rubens and in this fantasy I am overwhelmed by my lust and the feel of the snow white feathers soft against my aroused skin.
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