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| Silence by Odilon Redon |
To all my lovers, from
this life and the many previous…
Dear Lover,
Thank you for taking the time to read this message. I
understand it’s been difficult between us. I know you are wanting
more of me and believe me, there is nothing more I’d love than to be able to
offer you (and me!) the incredible sex you want anytime you want.
But I simply can’t.
Believe me, I try. Every time you reach for me, all I can
hear is:
“Why you can’t a be a
goddamned normal human being who fucks when she wants, cums when she wants and goes
about her merry way?”
This I lament as you watch me collapse into a puddle of
tears and snot once again—our sex
hijacked by the alien demon baby that lives in my vagina.
OK. Maybe I’m being a little overdramatic.
That could be part of the problem.
I know the answers lie wrapped up, charred up, scarred up
beneath the calcified strata of my orgasm; but as I listen closer, each layer has
its own story to tell…
LAYER ONE: CONFUSION
If you asked me what I wanted from sex, I wouldn’t know
where to begin. My people-pleasing reflex leaves me disconnected from the
hunger in my heart.
Because really, who am I if I’m not making you happy? I
don’t even exist. Cosmo says so.
Clinging to an identity wrapped in the dogma of “good little
girls who only eat one scoop of ice cream,” I suffer in silence as I yield my
voice, again and again, until silence becomes the norm.
Lost in a barrage of choices, I abdicate my power to another
in the hopes of escaping the freedom-binding fear of making a decision.
What is sex? What is desire? How does my body work? Is it OK
to feel these things? To want so much?
Maybe porn can teach me something? I remember the magazines
hidden under the sink when I was 12. Later came fervent moans through green and
red squiggles on late night TV. Now I can’t even check my email without getting
spammed by a site promising me “lonely, horny girls who are looking just for
me.” The porn world has left me feeling incompetent in every way. I will never
be a) novel, b) a fantasy and c) ready to be fucked at the drop of a hat.
Which brings me to…
LAYER TWO: ANGER
Fuck you.
Fuck you for not wanting ME, but some trumped up, dolled up,
cummed up, fucked up version of an automated sexbot.
Stop trying to prove your worth by conquering my pussy.
When did sex become finding the “10 Ways to Light Him On
Fire” or the “15 Moves That Will Turn Her Pussy Into Jizz Pudding”? (Gross)
I avoid sex because penetration is so goddammed boring. I need more. So much more. More
than I could possibly understand and yet I need you to figure it out and take
me there. To more. To the heights of my mind. Fuck my mind and we could fuck
forever.
I have discovered (to my polite, feminine chagrin) that I’m
angry. Fucking angry. At the way the erotic has been reduced to this
two-minute, frictioned frenzy factory.
But because of my confusion (see Layer One), it’s easier to
just stay angry at you for not remembering to do that thing that I asked you to
do two weeks ago (you remember the one—I shouldn’t have to remind you).
So no. I won’t fuck you. I won’t give you the satisfaction
of my pleasure.
If I give an inch, you take my pride.
You’ll see me crumble and break, my vanity at stake, as each
thrust, twang, tickle and tuck strips me of my beautiful hide and renders me
defenseless to the
weight
of
my
own
desire.
And in that vulnerability I find myself deepening into…
LAYER THREE: TERROR
I have a not-so-secret fear: I am afraid of being thought of
as frigid.
Ironic for a woman who spends her days writing, thinking and
exploring the edges of her sexuality.
Or not. After all, the best disguise for insecurity is to
dress it up in the robes of expertise.
But I have an even greater terror—that of not being frigid.
Who is this fierce feminine beast?
A woman so ravenous for life that she knows not how to hold
all the conflicting and socially unacceptable pieces that are her. The whore tearing through her
master’s flesh while wearing the virgin’s smile.
So grab the noose and tie it to the rafters: I would rather
be dead inside than unleash the
potency of my orgasm—I dare not face this uncaged warrior.
Avoiding sex is the same as avoiding life. It’s why I avoid going onstage. It’s why I pack my feelings
into a dark corner. It's why I starved myself for seven years. It’s why it took me three fucking months to write these
1000 words.
Sex requires that we are vulnerable. We cannot hide from
ourselves anymore and we cannot shirk our responsibility to this life in a comfortable
wash of feigned ignorance.
As I resensestize my pussy, all my receptors come online and
to feel everything, the beauty and the pain, is enough to make you want to die.
And yet, here I am again. Terrified. Of death. Of life. Of
who I am. Of never knowing who I am.
So it isn’t that the magic is gone, my love—it’s that the
potency of our combined forces is too frightening to imagine. So we hide. We
play pretend. We get tired. We fall asleep until we forget that we were even
hungry in the first place.
And I feel your resistance as much as I feel mine. In fact,
I welcome it. It gives me an excuse to stay sleepy under the covers.
But please, dear lover, for the sake of your life and mine, don’t
ever stop trying. Fight for our surrender. Know that under my creeping and
crawling and cat-cat-caterwauling there is a woman who so painfully wants to
escape—who is scratching, layer after layer, for her freedom—
And for the chance to re-remember that she is…
LAYER FOUR: LOVE
Love,
c
PS: I think we're on the right track.
If you nourished your
sexual life with all the excitements and adventures which love injects into
sensuality, you would be the most potent human being in the world. The source
of sexual power is curiosity, passion. You are watching its little flame die of
asphyxiation. Sex does not thrive on monotony. Sex must be mixed with tears,
laughter, words, promises, scenes, jealousy, envy, all of the spices of fear,
foreign travel, new faces, novels, stories, dreams, fantasies, music, dancing,
opium, wine. ~ Anaïs Nin
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