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THE BOA CONSTRICTOR

    Once a boa constrictor made no excuses for being enamored of itself.
    Why should it? Among all the creatures on the planet, which one could boast anything approaching the boa’s appeal? Devoting a moment of its time to the distractions posed by the existence of others was one moment too many stolen from the hours, days, weeks, a lifetime necessary for the proper contemplation of its own coils.
    What perfection they were. How imposing in their girth and grip. There might be larger snakes but none more sensuously lithe. Just as there were perhaps more colorful ones but none so entrancing. For a marriage of power and fascination, what could touch the boa, snake or otherwise? Nothing it had ever seen. Nothing.
    Not that the boa was in the habit of looking very far. Why bother? When you’re ideal in yourself, what can lesser beings offer you? The sublime is only lowered by company. To be peerless in this world might be a lonely blessing, but a blessing worth the world in exchange.
    What breathless rapture must thrill through the boa’s conquests in their surrender to its charms. What indescribable transport. To be cradled in its deepening folds and know consummation had come at last, how must that feel? Like nothing even dreamed of before, presumably. But the boa couldn’t be sure, could only imagine the extremes of feeling brought on by the full force of its attention. 
    And not being sure became a source of galling distress. For without this ultimate proof of its glory, without this final testament to itself, what meaning could life as a nonpareil have? One sigh short of ecstasy was no ecstasy at all, just as a broken circle of pleasure in oneself was a disappointment no narcissist could abide. 
    Ecstasy, circle, both were measures of perfection, and nothing must be allowed to hinder the boa constrictor’s fulfillment in perfection. Coiling upon itself, it strained to hear that matchless final sigh it had listened to with satisfaction so often, determined to reach the heights of pleasure even the least must have known in its embrace, free at last to be ravished by its own charisma.	
    Now if it could just turn tightly enough on itself to catch a glimpse of the blissful swoon glazing its eyes. Just . . . a . . . glimpse . . .