I’m going to go it for a bit. No big, just working.
In the meantime, I unreservedly recommend the following top-shelf masturbatory material:
So much panty-wettingly exciting stuff popping. Please please please check it and declare your undying love. I promise you’ll light a fag and have no regrets come morning.
Back very soon. Do wait up.
So he goes, you were doing your same old boundary-pushing sex thing. And I smiled because it was true. And then I pretended to apologise, but I didn’t mean it. Not really.
&
He bought me a teddy bear. He told my mom I was a very special girl and she beamed elated. She pushed me towards him and he took my hand. His own hand was clammy and he smelled like dewy moss.
One day she beat me for letting a boy give me a hickie. It was the town fair and we made out on the ferris wheel like we’d been told to do by countless tv shows and movies. I perfectly understood the appeal of bruises begetting bruises. Sadly, mom didn’t.
&
He said I had an addictive personality. I wasn’t sure whether he meant that I was prone to addiction or that I myself was an addictive substance. The latter suited me. And when I blew him on the couch of my grandparents living room hiding my face behind a large cushion in full view of the window and the small, talkative town beyond it and he begged for more and again, I knew it suited me perfectly.
&
At seven years old I modeled swimwear in front of hundreds of faces. Later I remember thinking no one apart from mom had ever seen the bendy place where leg meets torso, though plenty had. During performances I was always blank behind the eyes.
Around that same time I had my first kisses from a girl. I can still recall her taste to my lips (moist bland strawberry) and the practised way with which she twined her tongue round mine.
&
This boundary-pushing sex thing has been going on for a while, kid. It’s just money’s never been the chosen reward. So now you know. I’ll take a john when things turn sour again so quite soon. Give him what little I have in exchange for not much and be done with.
I put it on a book. And then I sit there and I wait for it to beep. I write stuff, like this. I write this and then I shut it and I wait for it to beep. I write in long lines. No word wrap for me. I close it and I put it by my ear and I wait for it to beep and for the beep to seep into my brain through my ear canal. I write some shit, like this. I write this and I sit there and I wait and sometimes I wonder. If I walk away, will I go to hell? I put it on a book. I sit there and I write it and I put it on a book and I wait. For someone who loves typing I sure can’t think of more than worthlessness to say sometimes. I sit there and I write anyway, like this. And then the five-word thought comes back. There’s something wrong with me. There’s something wrong with me. There’s something wrong with me. I put it on a book and then I sit there and I think there’s something wrong with me. I think there’s something wrong with me. There is something wrong. I sit there and I put it on a book and I think there’s something wrong with me.
The pitch. You know, the pitch. The pitch for the book man, the pitch the PITCH.
Fuck.
What are you doing? I don’t know. Exchanging a momentary thrill for a lifetime of office christmas parties and crackers. Not sleeping. Eating poorly. Drinking in moderation. Where are you going with all of this, you had it in your mind, had it so crystal there once. Everything you would say, how you would say it and when and with what emphasis on which word - and the right words. My god the right words. Words clean and true and unmistakably genuine. Felt. Understandable. But also open to positive interpretations and with rooms for discussion in houses of concern.
The fucking pitch, man. You can’t talk.
Okay, listen. I’m just a girl so I don’t know much about these things, right. But it seems to me - because I have been doing some thinking - I know crazy, right? - funny fuck - it just seems to me that the way we are going about this is all wrong.
You can talk, all right? You can talk now. Toucan sam, three bottles of aspirin, that bicycle you let them run into the lake, the video camera he took while you were out getting him breakfast with that video of you trying to show your friends how to be cool on acid. Your mother’s reprehensible face melting distorted. The time you threatened your stepfather with a glass bottle and how you would have killed him if he hadn’t backed the fuck up.
God, you would have killed.
“Hey get over here quick. She’s on.”
“She’s on?”
“Oh yeah. She’s on all right.”
“What’s she saying?”
“I’m not even repeating that shit. That shit is fucked up.”
“I think I love her.”
“Fuck off.”
“I’m serious! I do. I think I love her.”
“Why do you do that?”
“What?”
“You say love when you mean you want to fuck or fuck over.”
“I’m a romantic, and you know—”
“Wait wait. Look at this shit. Oh my god.”
“Hoooooly mary mother of god.”
“Haha.”
“Dude, she’s crazy.”
“I know.”
“Hey, you think she knows?”
“What? That we? Nah man.”
“Okay, so are we doing it?”
“Yeah. You ready?”
“Fuck yeah.”
*sweet sweet bunny ass by potentially nervous
The bunny hopped into the cold room wearing only a t-shirt black-marker scrawled with the words RAPE ME. She’s not an extraordinarily pretty bunny so she doesn’t think anyone will want to rape her. Nor is she an extraordinarily astute bunny. She doesn’t think anyone will misconstrue her political anti-rape stance.
In the cold room, other bunnies are being raped. On the couch, on the floor by the couch, on the coffee table, two in the hallway. Bloody downy fluff bodies are pinned down by rope, by metal, by other bunnies. Jackalopes - mostly uneducated white male jackalopes from broken homes - push flailing bunny paws apart to discover the furry goodness between. Rape-me t-shirt bunny shuffles around like a somewhat shy punter surveying a shop piled to the rafters with useless antiques.
“Hey. Hey what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” A burly brown jackalope startles the bunny. She didn’t expect anyone to notice her. Much less speak to her.
“Um. Nothin’.”
“Get the fuck out of here.”
“Why?”
“Oh my god you’re so fuckin’ stupid. Come ‘ere. Dumb bitch.”
Well. We all know what happens next, don’t we? I know you saw it coming. Rape-me bunny did too. Somewhere in the back of her small bunny brain, nestled between the make-up tips she got at the lab, the daddy issues and the extra helping of carrot cheesecake guilt she had at lunch there was a large NO BUNNIES ALLOWED sign she wilfully ignored.
Sour like vodkashits
Sop up the new blood stains with a wet towel
slither back into bed flush with the DTs
Soft, the only clean pillow
Crushed to your trembling face restricting flow
The mighty hand of god himself pressing
on the back of your head
Rock that 4 am regret, baby
Crossfade
you're someone else, relax
breathe sharp
I had something to say, there was something I needed to say. What was it? There’s something wrong with me, I know. I know there’s something wrong with me. Not just anything, I know. I know there’s something really wrong with me I had something to say. What was it? There was something I really wanted to say, something I’ve been trying to say for a long time I’ve been wanting to say something. Something something is wrong with me. Can’t quite put your finger on the trigger and pull. Can’t quite put your finger on what’s wrong with me and pull my hair can’t. Can’t quite say what I wanted to say. What was it?
“… and she said you were in love.”
“The fuck?”
“She said you were in love. Who are you in love with?”
“She’s full of shit, obviously.”
“So you’re not in love?”
“Look at me? Am I glowing? Do I have a shit-eating grin on my face? Is everything rosy kittens and strawberry ice cream and hallucinatory orgasms? Who am I in love with? That guy that slept huddled up next to me for an hour on the train - even though there were plenty of empty seats to move to - him? Am I in love with him? Or maybe I’m in love with the sweet one in my office who constantly smiles at me and nothing else? How about that rude, blonde snot-nosed airhead I so violently want to hatefuck? Maybe I’m love with her? No I know. MAYBE, I’m in love with that guy from ‘amateur cute couple’ I rubbed one out to the other day. The one who kept gushing over how beautiful his saggy-titted, chunky, short-haired, doe-eyed girlfriend was. Yes, maybe he’s the fabled object of my affections. Clearly he’s been the object of my pathetic masturbatory fantasies so why the fuck not?”
“I’m just telling you what she said.”
“I’m just telling you she can fuck off.”
I’m rarely happier than when I’m ignored rarely pleased with being attended to so carefully since I’m not so carefully attained I’m a driver a driver in a car that likes to think it’s seen better times when all it saw were different owners. The water doesn’t flow freely from your lips like it once did everything’s dry desolate cracking fuck it but girls are astute. They categorise lifeless organisms and breathe life into strangers with a shake of their heads I’m sullen morose and unidentified I’m crashing hard and it’s hard not to talk about my fantasies for once it’s hard not be sexual when I know you’re watching but fucked if I’m not everything you think I am except that I’m not that which I’m not. And fuck whoever thinks this is anything other than bullshit this goes back way back to the beginning to the original purpose the reason why we’re all here me my fucking reason. It’s more targeted now more aloof less ornate maybe who knows but it’s still shit.