Getting Fucked Really Deep[1]
When I think about sexual liberty, I don’t think about the oppressed
feminists cursed by Victorian times, [2] undressed, writhing goddesses,
those, who the sharp tongued daughters nightly called whore,
but my ex-lover, who was the progeny of a French-lipped Spanish
mom and a Palestinian-American mysterious professor[3]. I forgot my Jewish
father’s warnings about meeting liberal women in college (though he never
went) when I met her[4] straddling a motorcycle in mid-November
because I only just learned how much I craved a woman in tight
jeans and boots and hair so fuck-you-wild because she barely said a word,
but when she did, she asked me to go for a ride. I wrote my address on her
arm in red pen three times and said, “anytime.” If you have ever been so
blessed to have a date begin with a woman shaped like an animal’s prayer[5]
outside your window, then you know what happens next: the engine
sizzling your thighs stretched tight below her stiff leather jacket[6],
the shape of your bodies pressed together like a stich on the back of her
bike[7] and later wearing nothing but earrings.[8] When I think of queer sex
I do not think of the careless minded or the disease-prone.[9] I do not think
of boring or mundane intimacies[10] (though I do know a number of folks
who would fall into this category), rather I think of that ex-lover and me
in my bed reducing ourselves to flesh, fantasy and silicon--[11]surrounded
in empty beer bottles, ashtrays, pile mixtures of library books and laundry
left over from my lingering adolescence amplified by the badly spun tribal
beats[12] a roommate blasted from the speakers down the hall—because
it was the closest I had come at that point to anything resembling authenticity,
anything lacking codes[13] or because for the first time, I felt neither woman
nor man when she slipped a harness around my waist and her wet pelvis fell
into place above mine.[14] I have been beaten, tricked, fool-hearted, terrified,
brainwashed and dumbfounded[15] but when I think of feminine queer women
I refuse to think of that instant-membership to the sleaze party[16] where anyone
who is too old and under-bathed/welcome/dressed can drip their ick into her
personal space.[17] I think of the girl’s hips coaching mine when I think
of radically queer sex. I think of her coffee-colored back and sumach
shaded nipples. I think of an accident encounter connecting separate worlds
into galaxies[18] and us two, too, there in my bed joined by movement[19]
and a purple limb[20] we later named Frida or Artemis or Fred;
joined by a movement we inherited from the dead.[21]
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
[1] Daphne Gottlieb, Adult books.com
[2] “Why is it we can remember the bad things so well, but not the good things?” Ibid
[3] “I have….the tiniest, shiny particles of moments, freezeframes: In the one I visit the most, I was 20.” Ibid
[4] “That week I did not hear from him.” Ibid
[5] “Here’s a piece of perfect ruination” Ibid
[6] “The smell of cut grass.” Ibid
[7] “The white arms of roads, their promise of close embraces.” James Joyce, Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
[8] “and my whole body almost a seize.” Daphne Gottlieb, Adult books.com
[9] “Isn’t it funny that perfection is a state and ruination is a story?” Ibid
[10] “What would it be like to let him feel desired, adored.” Ibid
[11] “There was also the small, disturbing fact that thinking about getting used by a pathetic, unattractive guy in a porno booth made me wet. Fuck. Really wet.” Ibid
[12] “Tell me about the music you listened to” Daphne Gottlieb, Adult books.com
[13] “They pressed upon his brain as upon his lips as though they were the vehicle of a vague speech.” James Joyce, Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
[14] “The gasp and twist of skin and bone” Daphne Gottlieb, Adult books.com
[15] “Apparently, I have lived long enough.” Ibid
[16] “His frustration and history better than the present.” Ibid
[17] “His breath was something fetid under insistent wintergreen.” Ibid
[18] “The earth continued to spin.” Ibid
[19] “open windows that left everything in nuclear glare.” Ibid
[20] “I hadn’t ever seen a 101/2 inch cock” Ibid
[21] “There are few moments like that, and you get to keep them” Ibid
When I think about sexual liberty, I don’t think about the oppressed
feminists cursed by Victorian times, [2] undressed, writhing goddesses,
those, who the sharp tongued daughters nightly called whore,
but my ex-lover, who was the progeny of a French-lipped Spanish
mom and a Palestinian-American mysterious professor[3]. I forgot my Jewish
father’s warnings about meeting liberal women in college (though he never
went) when I met her[4] straddling a motorcycle in mid-November
because I only just learned how much I craved a woman in tight
jeans and boots and hair so fuck-you-wild because she barely said a word,
but when she did, she asked me to go for a ride. I wrote my address on her
arm in red pen three times and said, “anytime.” If you have ever been so
blessed to have a date begin with a woman shaped like an animal’s prayer[5]
outside your window, then you know what happens next: the engine
sizzling your thighs stretched tight below her stiff leather jacket[6],
the shape of your bodies pressed together like a stich on the back of her
bike[7] and later wearing nothing but earrings.[8] When I think of queer sex
I do not think of the careless minded or the disease-prone.[9] I do not think
of boring or mundane intimacies[10] (though I do know a number of folks
who would fall into this category), rather I think of that ex-lover and me
in my bed reducing ourselves to flesh, fantasy and silicon--[11]surrounded
in empty beer bottles, ashtrays, pile mixtures of library books and laundry
left over from my lingering adolescence amplified by the badly spun tribal
beats[12] a roommate blasted from the speakers down the hall—because
it was the closest I had come at that point to anything resembling authenticity,
anything lacking codes[13] or because for the first time, I felt neither woman
nor man when she slipped a harness around my waist and her wet pelvis fell
into place above mine.[14] I have been beaten, tricked, fool-hearted, terrified,
brainwashed and dumbfounded[15] but when I think of feminine queer women
I refuse to think of that instant-membership to the sleaze party[16] where anyone
who is too old and under-bathed/welcome/dressed can drip their ick into her
personal space.[17] I think of the girl’s hips coaching mine when I think
of radically queer sex. I think of her coffee-colored back and sumach
shaded nipples. I think of an accident encounter connecting separate worlds
into galaxies[18] and us two, too, there in my bed joined by movement[19]
and a purple limb[20] we later named Frida or Artemis or Fred;
joined by a movement we inherited from the dead.[21]
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
[1] Daphne Gottlieb, Adult books.com
[2] “Why is it we can remember the bad things so well, but not the good things?” Ibid
[3] “I have….the tiniest, shiny particles of moments, freezeframes: In the one I visit the most, I was 20.” Ibid
[4] “That week I did not hear from him.” Ibid
[5] “Here’s a piece of perfect ruination” Ibid
[6] “The smell of cut grass.” Ibid
[7] “The white arms of roads, their promise of close embraces.” James Joyce, Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
[8] “and my whole body almost a seize.” Daphne Gottlieb, Adult books.com
[9] “Isn’t it funny that perfection is a state and ruination is a story?” Ibid
[10] “What would it be like to let him feel desired, adored.” Ibid
[11] “There was also the small, disturbing fact that thinking about getting used by a pathetic, unattractive guy in a porno booth made me wet. Fuck. Really wet.” Ibid
[12] “Tell me about the music you listened to” Daphne Gottlieb, Adult books.com
[13] “They pressed upon his brain as upon his lips as though they were the vehicle of a vague speech.” James Joyce, Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
[14] “The gasp and twist of skin and bone” Daphne Gottlieb, Adult books.com
[15] “Apparently, I have lived long enough.” Ibid
[16] “His frustration and history better than the present.” Ibid
[17] “His breath was something fetid under insistent wintergreen.” Ibid
[18] “The earth continued to spin.” Ibid
[19] “open windows that left everything in nuclear glare.” Ibid
[20] “I hadn’t ever seen a 101/2 inch cock” Ibid
[21] “There are few moments like that, and you get to keep them” Ibid