Scalped

02.01.99
11.30.03

You fold back my labia from my
sullen clit like a charwoman slicking back
greasy, sticky layers of brown paper wrapping
from day old trout. You sniff, suspiciously,
prodding for freshness, waiting for illegitimate
wriggling evidence of life. Waiting for an
excuse to check me, slap me down.
I am being scalped, with all the ensuing
metaphysical horror.

Her Lipstick Mouth

I am remembering the time you let me rub
the knots from the back of your neck in the
middle of senior year economics class. You
complained of tension and I rubbed my thumb
in pressing little circles over muscle bumps
and knotty scars of vertebrae. I wondered
what would happen if I kissed you. You had
the mouth of an 1800’s whore, lipstick
red and swollen wet and full and stretching
round, a mouth meant to suck cock. I
wonder how it would look against my
pussy.

I Tell Too Greedy

I tell you the idea that bigger is better is an entirely masculine conceit. Girls like things small, I tell you, petite. We are the ones they must fit inside, after all. We are, more importantly, the ones they must pass out of. A large baby may delight its father, but also he will rip his mother’s womb. Our hands are smaller, our mouths and throats generally narrower. We like whispering better than yelling, generally. Already I am afraid of exhausting you. I am always too greedy.

Buy Me

Buy me silk stockings and ruffled panties and a grey plush elephant with shiny eyes. Feed me hot chocolate and buttered toast with a linen napkin to wipe my crumbly mouth. Carry me to bed and tuck me in. My dad was neither a Daddy nor a Father. Swaddle me in comforters and roll me to sleep, like Alice, I long to sleep in tunnels. My life is oatmeal without authority figures. And I never got my fur coat.

Instinct and Hard Boots

I asked Sir about the whole fear/fighting
being afraid thing from last weekend....he said a
lot of it went back to the trust thing, of
me knowing he wasn’t going to hurt me, or well,
he might hurt me a little, but nothing I
couldn’t take. And I didn’t know how to
explain, it’s not being hurt so much I’m afraid
of, I’ve been hurt before, I’m quite used to it,
it’s....it’s something else and I’m not even sure
what. Partly, it’s the feeling so....so open, so
exposed. It’s not knowing how things are going to
feel. My skin, my body is not used to
sensations, is not used to feeling anything.
Sometimes this is just all a bit much. It....it
quite randomly makes me remember those days of
physical therapy from when I was little.
What the hell was the point of all that,
anyways? Effie and her stupid vibrators, God
I hated those. Maybe that’s why I’m still not
terribly big on vibrators now. It seemed like
someone was always trying to touch me,
shape, arrange me. My eyes, my mind, my
body. My emotions. None of them were
ever good enough on their own. What
was all that about? All those years of eye
therapy never accomplished anything. The years I
spent seeing Polly were a joke, a waste
of time and money. I never told her anything,
never trusted her. I knew damn well that every
sigh that escaped my mouth went straight to
my parent’s ear. Too much sensation. Looking
back there always seemed to be too
much sensation. Too much yelling, too much
noise, too much smell, too much food....
Maybe that’s why I’ve cut so many things out.
No perfume, no cologne, no more food than I
could help, no meat for so many years, no
God, no touch. Absolute minimum sensation.
No music. No noise. No kissing. Maybe
I’m just afraid of enjoying it all. Maybe I’ve
spent enough time isolating myself from
everything I was force-fed as a child. God, I
still don’t even drink milkshakes, my parents so
put the fear of God and obesity into
me....I drink a little bit of one once in
a while, every few years, and glance down at
myself almost expecting to see the extra
weight sagging grossly off me. Maybe it’s
time I had more fun. Maybe it’s time I
stopped feeling so guilty for existing.
Stopped worrying about being in the way
and inconveniencing everyone and just enjoyed
myself. There are no words I know of
to describe just how terribly afraid of
that I am. I’m afraid to have fun, I’m
afraid of relaxing and fucking up.
Things that are good for me are never fun.
Really loud, agressive concerts are fun.
Hitchhiking home with people whose names you
don’t know and don’t ask, smoking too much
and laughing too loud ‘cause your ears are still
so full of sound and slamming and getting into
fights, that’s fun. Nothing to worry about except
staying alive, and instinct and hard boots pretty
much takes care of that. When you have to
start thinking, that’s when it gets scary.

Skin

I’m reading Dorothy Allison’s book Skin and
thinking—I don’t even know what I’m afraid of. Or, I’m
afraid of finding out what I’m afraid of. Thinking, I
always told myself the things I think about in bed in
dark in night under safe piles of comforters and
plush toys aren’t me, aren’t any part of me, mean
nothing about me, but if they don’t then the
fact that I so adamantly deny them surely does.
Am I afraid of being told, again, I’m sick? It’s
not anything I’m unused to hearing. I push things
deliberately. What no one wants to admit to knowing is
that all the perversions I joke about are not
anything I haven’t actually thought about. I
want to write books that will let other people
know they are not the only ones, that they can stop
obsessing over their bizarrities and move on to
other things. And then I want to write books
celebrating everything. And then? Probably I can’t do these
things well until I can accept myself more/better.
Maybe it would help?


02.19.00
12.04.03

Scars and Stars

Last night again, sitting outside afterwards,
shaking bundled, and all I could think was “I’m
drinking stars again. My mouth is full of stars.”
Sassi made me beg for a cigarette and I
laughed and squirmed on the ground repeating
“please? please?” until she laughed to
and told me I didn’t beg prettily enough and I
explained I didn’t know how else to do it.
Dennis told me of how Japanese girls would be
tied up to go to sleep and I almost longed to
try it, for I felt safe in the ropes as
I don’t in my own bed, like inside that
bondageI had re-entered the world that
exists under the blankets when you’re little
enough to pull them over your head and lie
with stuffed animals in the cave at
the bottom. In ropes I would not need
to sleep with my hands curled over my
mouth.


02.13.00
12.15.03

Tie me Up and Tell Me I'm Good

Saturday night Sir used these leather cuffs
to fasten [me] to....I forget what it’s called –
chain fall, I think? Which was new for
me, though I’d seen him use it many
times with Sassi. Standing like that,
blindfolded, it was odd in that I could
sort of move more than usual, and
yet not. It made me think about
how trees move.
Sir used all these different floggers on
me, and what felt like a cain. One of
them, which has this scary almost
rattling sound, turned out afterwards
to have been a new one, red and black
with beads all on the strands. I liked
it a lot; I didn’t “fly.” And I
sort of almost felt bad about that,
so I tried to avoid saying anything
about it, almost like when guys ask
after sex if I climaxed. I know that’s
sort of silly....I just felt I geusse
like I was supposed to and didn’t really.
Or maybe in a different way....I don’t
know.
It started and I liked it, liked how it
felt, and how restrained that way I
could sort of react to the blows without
really moving, or by moving but
without actually going anywhere. Then my hands sort
of felt odd, like cramping, which hurt
each time Sir stopped beating me, I kept
trying to push my hands further into the
cuffs or rearrange my arms but it
didn’t help a lot and I got annoyed
at myself for being so distracted
by such a small discomfort when the
whole point of my being there in the
first place was to be whipped.


Sir rubbed my hands, and told me I
was being a good girl. I hadn’t quite
realized until he said that, just how much I’d
missed hearing it. Several times he said
or asked if I wanted him to intensify it, and
I did, I so did. And then, a few minutes, or
at least what seemed like a few minutes
after the last time he asked me....I....had
been making noise though I was trying very
hard to be quiet I couldn’t quite
keep myself from gasping more than a
few times—anyways I sort of heard
myself gasp and thought something like—
oh shit, I don’t know that I can
take much more—and just as I was
thinking that, Sir stopped and let me
down. Interestingly, it never occured to
me what might have happened if he’d
continued, perhaps I couldn’t take much
more but I certainly wasn’t going anywhere.
So, Sir let me down and wrapped me in a
blanket and did the aftercare thing, and told
me I did well, which was so nice to
hear. Because the first thing I tried
to say, not very well, was to try to....
to apologize for whatever....I
remember sort of stumbling out “I was
afraid....I was afraid that ....” I
didn’t know how to explain how I was
so afraid I’d disapointed him by not
being able to go further. I was
just so incredibly frustrated at my own
lack of endurance.


02.28.00
12.05.03

Wet Cedarwood and Salt

After J. and I had sex the other night, I
sat, naked on the bed, on the molecule rough
blanket, against the wall I still think of as
white and J. lay curled against me with his
head against my hip. And it was one of those
moments when I wished I could slip out of
my body long enough to take a picture to
remember it by. Skin and skin. He still smells
like wet cedarwood and his skin tastes like saltwater. His tongue is too large for my mouth.

Your Imagination Always Makes Me Wet

You said "We're holding each other back," in that male but sob-struck voice that first made me force down your cum in hopes of somehow capturing that too. I remember the time you held me locked in the closet of your bedroom after one of the last big fights we had. You began it as a form of bondage, blindfolding me restrained with badly knotted ropes and giggles. I knew you were dressing me up again and couldn't wait to see what I would be. We'd explored far past naughty school-child, harem slave and the whole doctor thing. Your imagination always makes me wet. But this time gave me my vision before the huge mirror in the back of my closet and I was dressed as....a girl. In a pink-flowered mall-girl dress and crudely done make-up in streaks of soft coral and bronze.

Bed-Stained Sheets Remind Me of You

Bed-stained sheets -- menstruation that never occurs on time. Mattress pad shifting half off the side, I dream I am sleeping on a hill. Too small at night my right leg smacks your sleeping knee, my left the wall, loudly but you only mumble and drop your pillow. What is it like to will yourself too sleep? I've tried everything but voudoun blood sacrifices for the kind of thick dreamless rest you lie wrapped in, thick as felt. The noises of a house at night jar my breathing. I don't sleep. I don't sleep. I lie awake through jazz recordings and radio re-broadcasts and try to drown myself in peachish bubble-baths and old novels. What am I going to do without you here to remind me?

I Fantasize as He Walks Out

I fantasize about lying curled up on the slightly sticky tile floor of a men's restroom. Stall. I'm wearing dark leather pants, a dirty cotton t-shirt and I have brown eyes and dark messy soft brown hair. It’s at a rest stop somewhere Southern, the air is humid and smells of piss and pollen and cut grass. I'm waiting for a man to come in, tall and muscular in a wiry sort of way, much older than me. He pushes me into a stall, wordlessly unzips and I suck him off. His cock is thick and uncircumcised with an oval head. He comes in my mouth with his fist gripping my hair, I imagine it being the texture of cheap hand soap, thick and faintly oily/slimy, and I swallow it of course. He pushes me roughly to the side and pisses into the toilet, a few drops splashing back on my t-shirt. He zips up, walks out of the stall, kicking my legs as he walks out.