Like Clockwork

All the ritzy black girls duking it up at the kareoke bar on first street and second avenue boozed heavily in disbelief when the charming young man working the sound system bawled out Welcome to the Black Parade by MCR at the end of the night. They all felt so betrayed.

I was glad it wasn’t another take on This Is How We Do It.

I ran in-sync with another human yesterday, for the first time ever. My brother and I ran six miles. I wasn’t ashamed of my breathing once.

I can’t wait to do it again. 

The clitoris isn’t sacred.

Baby girls are taught how special her ‘peepee’ is when she potty trains. Intense institution is thrust upon her like brainwashing. These are your private parts. No one can touch you here if you do not want them to. Both are lies.

The former took me a lot longer to realize than the latter. Fueled by despair - brimming to my surface as a result from this morning’s coffee and a 3-minute session of furious masturbation - I recall every major abuse other humans have laid upon me. My fingers aren’t even dry yet.

The clit is not even remotely sacred when it is sausage-fingered over the lip of a pull-up, panties, boxers, jeans. The clit is certainly fought for; men and women duke it out to get their place in line to see it.

The clit is not sacred when blood dries around it as the over-ripened seed is shed every cycle. Handfuls of mixed, coagulated tissues drip down the sides of it, drying into crusty scabs, clinging like mud to shale rocks adorned by moss. A woman must contend with her insides plopping heavily into a cloroxed-white toilet, the visceral duality of which can provoke her to claw at every ion of stimuli unfortunate enough to cross her path. I’ve put a 9 volt battery to my clit in a fit of manic and aggressive curiosity because of this duality. 

Make sure to fuck your woman  especially during her period. 

The clit is not sacred when it stretches and rips to accommodate life spilling out of it. It is not sacred when it is sewn back up.

I will argue, however, that the clit is rife with the divine when it’s woman chooses to love it, touch it. She soothes herself in a lavish wash of selfishness; it expands at a proportional ratio to the amount of lust she has for herself. Her body opens up to her fingers. She is alone in orgasm - completely satiated with feelings about her own body.

Make sure to tell your woman with every nuance of communication you have that she is the reason she is coming. Ask her if she likes that. Confirm again and again and again to her upturned face that she digs you digging in her. 

I made a commitment to sound as loud and breathy as I do while getting fucked when I masturbate. The sound of my own voice gets me off.

When another human attempts to get that clit through subversion and dominance, the woman often breaks. Rape mutes the hunger in a woman. It teaches her to protect, subsume, revert. A raped woman is a tragic thing.

A raped woman is also worse for the wear. Presented with a situation wrapped in an endless weave of things to learn - in ways she could never learn in any other way, and thus a unique opportunity for only a victim - the raped woman often forgoes the possibilities inherent in her experience and blocks her mind from the world the trauma opens to her. She can no longer orgasm. She chooses not to love. She gets smart. 

But this is stupid. 

Wanna know why?

Because she has every resource to understand and supersede the pain! She is a potentially erotic vessel, as strong as she is dripping in sex, if she only made that death-defying leap to try it. If not for the soul-validating eroticism, she could at least come to understand why sex was taken from her unwillingly. 

She could find clarity for the pain in the simple economic principle of demand and supply. Women do hold a resource others want. When they - those that have need - cannot acquire it naturally - by established means - they steal it.

What is this valuable resource? I don’t know if there is a word for it that can summarize every facet of its feeling. It’s the kind of eye-rolling ectasy a man hungers to produce in a woman - they are the ultimate standard of the man’s capacity to produce. Produce what? The divine. The sublime. The id, ego, and superego in one. Das ding. Livid, lurid lust. Bliss. Perfection. Completion. True violence.

The woman looks into herself, at the back of her eyelids when she comes. A man stares at the view of her upturned chin, gasping lips, her cunt, or even himself as he enters her. As he fucks her, his head is fixed tighter in place as his body crescendos into an anaerobic and violent exercise, hips breaking upon her. He is a sort-of backwards bobble head. The woman does minimal work. Sex is optimal when the woman lets herself be worked on. 

I learned how to let myself be worked on this year. I learned how to orgasm. It was like a double tap to my cerebral cortex. It forces me to beg the question, “How can humans nit-pick their lives away at the wheel of a car, in grocery stores, filling out paperwork, looking at ourselves in the mirror….?” when they have learned what lies between atoms because a cock&cunt combo taught them how to surge. The contrast between the me that learned how to orgasm and the me that tries to get to class on time is larger than the space between the core of this earth and the outer-lying edges of this expanding universe. I find a bitter, empowered, loving, and aggressive person in that abyss. 

Then why is rape so bad? Of course there is a crime in it; someone stole something. But women have a limitless potential to understand and manipulate their world. Eve was the first to know. Why then should women shunt that zealotry by living in a skin of shame? Why do women continue to identify as victims? Help circles, hotlines, medication is all handed down to the raped woman to get her by, day to day. She lives in fear of men. She lives a life devoid of the triggers that will force her to remember.

BUT because of the knowledge the rape produces, a woman could take full possession of herself. She could know an unfathomably-confident, empowered, and satisfying life. Instead of shame and pain, rape victims could embrace a higher capacity for intimacy - erotic and not - than those who have not been raped.

Granted, there is a double edge here: she will also have a higher capacity, if not a fondness of, violent, dominating, or disturbing feelings. Rape victimizers and victims both will never be able to revert to an innocence believed lost. My argument that a  victim can achieve a higher plateau, a deeper well, a greater knowledge - whatever the fuck kinda metaphor you like - extends to settle this by way of simple deduction: the thing can never be unknown to both parties, so one might as well enjoy the rewards of the disturbing.

There will always be a time of grief - the feeling of loss. Is it not strange that we have a feeling of loss when knowledge is gained? It is the inexplicable closeness to the sublime that ages us. The French call this the petit mort. I will not deny any person their moments of grief, but I would call them to shed that grief eventually to adapt to and adopt new tastes, favors, preferences. 

I used to be haunted by fantasies of myself as a pre-pubescent girl seduced by older men. Every time I let my body go there, because it just felt far too good to deny, I felt sick afterward. A curiously-shaky guilt wrapped its sticky arms around me. My eyes couldn’t lie to me when I looked at them in the mirror. They knew what they saw on the backs of my eyelids.

Now? I relish them.

These disturbing fantasies, preferences, and feelings are far more universal than initially believed. Every woman I’ve ever spoken to on this topic has revealed a pension for rape scenarios, independent of whether or not they’ve been raped. 

Rule 34: If you can think of it, there is a fetish for it.

To add to this, beauty arises as a comparison to ugliness. With the fuller understanding of pain and hurt, a greater understanding of sensuality and intimacy - love - can develop. In its wake, there is no doubt a great period of recoil and healing will occur. It is the natural course of things. However, it is up to both parties to endeavor to produce, grow, forward, extend, after the trauma, rather than close down, shed, harden. It is the push and pull between entropy and extropy. 

There is no flesh nor action taken with it that is singularly sacred. It is the lover’s esteem that is sacred. The pair, in harmony, is sacred. The love of the clit is sacred. The clitoris is not private, the feelings about the clit is. The clit is not sexy, weak, ugly, maimed, beautiful, or otherwise anything else. The feelings thereof are sexy, weak, ugly, maimed, beautiful, or otherwise. 

Make your feelings sacred. 

I thought about you all day.

But what you came home to was a popped balloon. You didn’t say a thing. I don’t mean to be pushy, and I’m sorry for being stoned, but I really wanted you to try smoking with me for once.

It was going to consummate everything I love about you. But I guess I get it; gotta stay sharp. 

The smoke I piped out when you went to work spoke to me. It whispered “leave” in the shower. It promised “leave” with every cough.

Love, I have thought about you all day.

When I am coming, I love you. I roll my eyes back and fall madly in love with what I imagine your face looks like at that moment, the better version. I am either a coward or a snob to do it, but your face gets in the way of my climax. The harder you fuck me, the tighter I clench my eyelids, the higher the wave is that eventually breaks on me. 

In real life, you don’t phase me. But when you make me come, I love you.

I am underneath your skin. That’s what you told me, that you “tried so hard not to give in.” But darling, you had no choice in the matter.

I’m under your skin like hookworms. I am Necro fasciitis, liquifying your skin from the inside out. I can reproduce four-fold before you’ve even spotted the rash.

I am under your skin and there is no medication for it.

x.

Wanted: Open palm to

rest on my breast bone,

fixed between my nipples,

suctioned on my skin,

solid on my ribcage.

Hand Needs: conviction and sobriety.

questions propriety. Is weighted, pushes

into me pushing into it.

Fingers slightly curious.

Will remain fixed on this

solar plexus

until my chill flees in the

bow wake of your reciprocated

heartbeat.