I don't know where I'm at or where I'm going - only that I am standing at a precipice and the only way forward is d o w n . Instead of feeling anxious or fearful, I'm fantasizing about what it will feel like to finally tip over, head first. I imagine it will be a relief; the dropping sensation in my stomach - like that second you crest over the first coaster hill - and the wind in my hair, tangling it all to hell, as I plummet toward the ground. What a comfort it'll be to leave the dust of the old behind; what a delight to be carried on the thermal of a new life.
If you want to know the REAL reason why your boyfriend won't let you fuck him up his ass you have to ask questions - deductive questions - the kind of questions that eliminates all the superficial reasons. "Do you think it's gay?" No. "Are you afraid you'll like it?" No. "Are you afraid it'll hurt?" No. "Are you worried poop will come out?" <<Silence>> There ya go, ladies. Your man won't let you fuck his ass because he's afraid his own shit will come back to haunt him.
They say you can't get blood from a stone, but you tried to get milk from my bones to nourish your anorexic heart that weighs love and control in equal measure on the rigged scales of parenthood. I've grown up in the shadow of your buzz words and catch phrases for women: Cunt. Bitch. Dyke. Slut. Cocktease. Prude. Whore. Pronouncing with a fascist authority what women can and can't, shouldn't, be or do And me trying valiantly to mould myself to the exact form for what you consider the ideal man - because women, in your eyes, ain't shit - so that I could garner a single scrap of affection or respect from you. But after 38 years, I've finally caught on to your game - better late than never! - and I'd rather char my bones to cinders in the crematorium of my own righteous fury and indignation than ever let you back in the door that I slammed in your face last April.
The problem with calling yourself the muse of a girl with daddy issues, and a habit of using men's bodies to masturbate with is that the love may be fabricated, and when she's used you up and the well of inspiration has run dry, you'll be thrown away like a shitty diaper.
Who the fuck are you anyway, that my blood should turn from rust to fire at the mere closeness of you? And who the fuck am I becoming with the shiver of every orgasm, under the pressure of your lips on my own? Who am I? Because I seem to have lost track - seemed to have forgotten that I'm only a: broken girl, a fast girl, a foul-mouthed girl. Who the fuck am I? Because when I look in your eye, and see myself reflected there, I'm not trash anymore.
I forgot I called the plumber because the sinks weren't draining properly in my house. After a strong cup of coffee, and about twenty menthol cigarettes, I felt the tell-tale rattling in my guts that I have to take a monstrous shit. So I ambled to the bathroom, produced a bowl-buster, marveled at its length like a proud parent, and then - without a thought - flushed my shit baby away. About ten seconds later I heard a horrified scream from the basement, and immediately remembered.... Oh shit. The plumber.
You were drunk on fine spirits, on the precipice of belligerence, trapping me between your body and the door - its knob in my back. "What the fuck are you doing?" I asked calmly cautious, but could see that your pupils were pinpricks, even in the dim. "Tell me all about it. Every little detail. I need to know the who, what, why, how, when of that stupid video." And I realized I was being mocked; for talking too much, for needing someone to share stream of consciousness with. It confirmed what I'd suspected for so long; that I'm not human to you - just a possession that you can molest whenever you want.
There's a flap of flesh along side my thumbnail. I wonder what would happen if I pulled at it? I imagine it would cleave the skin, running all the way to the bone, like some wayward thread. And what would I find, there, hidden beneath the flesh? A lifetime of regret, lies, doubt and self loathing. Best to leave it alone.
Don't come to me if you don't want a straight answer. Don't come to me if you want to be coddled. Don't come to me if you don't want practical advice. Don't come to me if you just want me to agree with you. Don't come to me if you can't take it raw. I'm not your fucking bartender, baby. I'm not serving you a chaser after this shit.
Maybe I don't like the silence because it reminds me of an ex who used to disappear for days at a time, saying that the aliens had abducted him. Every time he'd reappear it was with some new girl, hanging off his dick - and I knew he'd slept with her so that he'd have a place to sleep, and food to eat. I could never understand why he wouldn't come to me to ask for these things, knowing that he'd never have to pay for them with sex. The last time he disappeared for months, turning up on the opposite coast so that he could "make it," but came back home with a pregnant fiancé.