It is getting to the point where every little thing I do has taken on a sort of eroticness, because in my mind it's all for you. The photos I take, the contrast of my pale pink against a crisp white wife beater, the lessons in submission. There is an inescapable desire to please you, which I'd be content to let swallow me if I only knew what to do with the tension and energy it created. I sleep with the windows open, the curtains open, my legs open.
I'm too lazy to explain who I am now, but know that I am lost in my worship of the moon.
Too much was going on in January to really dig into a photo challenge, but February is on! I know Sara is going to be snapping along with me, and maybe Lilo too? Looking forward to a month of mostly silly, sometimes serious photos.
This is a draft excerpt from a new zine I am working on. Possible title: Bad Romance. It is a follow up to Woody + Me, in which I use quotes from pop artists I admire as jumping off points for personal essays. This issue features Lady Gaga.
“Trust is like a mirror, you can fix it if it's broken, but you can still see the crack in that mother fucker's reflection.”
She bought me sex toys, having given up sex herself. The box laid in the corner of the room, near the dresser, away from the window, surrounded by carpet and the smell of must. The box was shy, yet eager to learn. The room was my most hidden.
Large black boots. Boots in our room did not belong. I guess I never knew you wore those, and I almost asked to borrow them before we played up against the wall. I almost asked for you to kiss my chin, until you slammed me into your elbow instead. Instead of what? Obviously I never knew the answer to that overdue query.
Used limb for I let oddities enter
here wildest, weirdest mother bucks
them having first
the limb to my enter.
I left with knots in my hair. I am almost sure they will never come out.
The party went on as if nothing happened. As if I’d been standing off to the side holding a red solo cup looking aimless. Just as I still tend to do in crowded rooms. Stuck inside my head, wilting in moments of thought as the affair goes on around me. Maybe that is where I was. Yes, that makes sense. This is what I will tell them when I get home. No, I didn't drink. Yes, I had fun. They never speak of harlotry.
Fuck you. You are the reason what happened to me happened. And, what happened is why I can’t talk about why I can’t talk about why I can’t talk.