After the fire.

Driving, post-sunset, with a wet wind whipping my hair into tangles and snares.  Your fingers resting on the nape of my neck, slow circular motions that leave gooseflesh, not fingerprints.  My dress, hiked above my knees, my heels digging into the carpeted floor, foot on the accelerator.  I am literally shifting gears while we are metaphorically doing the same.

We will arrive home, my shoes clacking against the cobbled pavement, hand in hand, stopping to kiss, only once, and closed mouth, but hard.  The door opens, so we kiss again, and our mouths follow suit, though much softer now.  My gooseflesh returns.

I have been fucking the same man for seven years.  Sometimes I wonder if I am, in fact, any good at this game we silly and simple humans have fashioned for not only ourselves, but one another.  How well do I kiss?  How thoroughly and fantastically do I stimulate?  Can I turn others on?  Do I turn others on? 

Do I turn you on?

Before I die I would like an annotated, yet succinct list of every person who has ever fantasized about me in bed with them.  On many levels I understand that this is but one manifestation of my over-rampant and highly destructive vanity.  But I honestly can’t help being curious.  I have spent so much of my life with the same man (a loving, beautiful, exquisite man) I fall into extended periods of time where I forget that I even exist as a woman to the entirety of the world’s opposite-sex population. 

But on the occasion that I remember, it hits me hard.

And during these times I fuck my husband with an almost maniacal ferocity.  As if I believe I could exorcize my lust-stained demons the more I bite and scratch, and banish all manner of my narcissistic character through missing strands of hair and my aggrieved and red swollen lips.  I want to be ravaged as much I want to ravage.  Lay waste to our bodies, my sexuality and his.  And I imagine every single male I’ve ever found attractive sitting in the room watching me, in my savage, erotic fury.  I want them to digest, but never comprehend, what they are missing, what they could have experienced, in another age, on another planet, had I not met, loved and viciously fucked, a loving, beautiful, exquisite man.

I strip the sex off of me, out of me.  So that I will forget, for some period of time, what I think I may be truly afraid to acknowledge, afraid to know.

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Sexy Times

Lately, my thesis work has got me thinking about sex. Oh, who am I kidding? I have always thought about sex. I should say: lately, my thesis work has provided a conduit for my preoccupation with sex.

The working title is Wicked Little Girls. It’s a sort of subverted dystopian feminist critique of the medical/psychiatric field’s co-optation of, and profiteering off, female sexual abuse narratives. Evolutionary biology and psychology, in the hands of the patriarch, have distorted these narratives, repackaged them, and sold them back to a generation of women in a box marked Survivor’s Guide to Recovery. Caution: Will Take A Lifetime to Complete.

Throughout my research and writing, I’ve been imagining an alternate universe. One where a woman (now comprehending, emotionally, the violations against her as a child) turns to an ‘expert’ and says: my father raped me. In this alternate universe, the expert does not begin listing, ad nauseam, the boatload of symptoms accompanying childhood sexual abuse, like PTSD, low self-esteem, dissociation, sexual deviance, suicidal ideation, substance abuse, anxiety, depression, etc. In this alternate universe, the expert does not go on to exploit implore the woman (‘patient/layman’) to recover more memories, darker memories, the most disgusting acts she’s surely repressed for the sake of her own survival.

Instead, in this alternate universe she says: WHAT THE FUCK? ARE YOU SERIOUS? SOMEONE CALL THE COPS, THERE’S A PERVERT ON THE LOOSE. In this alternate universe, instead of focussing on what is wrong with the woman, we turn with indignation to the perpetrator and ask what the hell is wrong with him.

“I believe child sexual abuse and violence against women are an integral structural part of patriarchal society and culture. They are how we–especially, but not only, women–are socialized to accept powerlessness. If this were any other issue with such a devastating effect, we’d have a massive mobilization of resources, we’d have comprehensive programmes, we’d have a blank cheque to enable us to do the work that needs to be done. If any other sort of plague or virus than the one called child abuse ravaged the children and left them crippled or destroyed, we’d find the resources to stop it.” — Elly Danica

Lately, I have been thinking about sex. Oh, who am I kidding? I have always thought about sex. I should say: lately, sex has been thinking about me. Sex wants to get to know me. It keeps asking me questions and stripping off its own layers to reveal more. It whispers words like ‘feminist’ and ‘patriarch’ and says: Hey, don’t run! You’ve always said you’re up for trying new positions!