Have you ever read me, all of me, my words, my creation, my poetry, my prose, all at once, everything I ever had to say, the words said as well as the thoughts left unsaid? Is it just me who does that? It seems like I’ve been a sponge all my life, absorbing the words of total strangers, pouring their lives into my soul, drinking their words like nectar. I remember being parched for your words but you never quenched my thirst, instead you shoved poems up my ass, watching your words dissolve, slowly, and seep inside my body like a saline drip. Tonight, I wish to be read like an open rose, tonight I want to be remembered for these words, the very words I will despise tomorrow for all the thoughts left unsaid.
I was watching porn last night. My old lady down under was feeling a bit neglected, so I decided to take my time browsing for just the right thing to get those juices flowing.
It must be said – for porn newbies like me, it takes a while before it hits the spot. It needs patience, it needs experience, and willingness to get your hands dirty. First, you need to set the basic premise. Are you in the mood for foreplay, or will you get down to business? Is this going to be a quickie, or will you go for second and third helpings? And what about dessert? Once this is done, you may open that incognito mode in your browser and begin.
At first glance, there are several categories you can eliminate right away. Big tits? Not my thing. Lesbian, gay, bestial, Hentai, MILF, cartoon, anime, cosplay, foot fetishes, handjob, blowjob, masturbation, trans, pregnancy, pissing – hell no. (I like to stay on top of things that don’t get me off). This part needs careful experimentation – start with a small peek like a voyeur hot on their prey, and if it’s too much to handle, get out before you’re scarred for life.
Now, don’t let your freak fetishes tie you down. Be open to exploring your options, you might find yourself pleasantly stimulated. Don’t be afraid to use the search button, no one’s going to judge you for typing in ‘schoolgirl pigtails minge’ (plus it’s incognito so fuck off). Another tip – you may think ‘mainstream explicit’ is a wonderful discovery – Salma Hayek is a total babe, look she’s taking off that white top now – and suddenly, wham – out of nowhere you’re watching a B-grade actress being groped by a moustached hunk, or watching some girl piss on a hairy chest. Point of no return, you have been warned.
Jeez. If you took all that seriously, you’re sadder than I am. I was never a porn person, but times like these really make you introspect. They tell you porn is unrealistic, that nobody has that much fun during sex, and porn stars are really gods and goddesses in disguise, messing with our heads. (Never heard that last one before? I made it up. But imagine if that were true.) But to them, I say: romcoms are not exactly pragmatic and believable either, sex is fun if you are having fun with it, and at least with porn, there are no unpleasant surprises at the end (no one dies in porn and it has something for everybody). That’s a one up for porn.
I have always wondered what it is about escape that makes it so inevitably attractive.
I thought I was a Carrie as I sat writing and smoking cigarettes full of tar in the balcony of my expensive sea-facing room. But after a long walk and intense reflection in front of a mirror, I feel more like the old man from Iris Murdoch’s The Sea, the Sea – the sixty-year-old, retired ex-playwright who moves into a little cottage by the sea and begins to pen down his memoirs, yet drifting, always drifting from the storyline and looping back to begin over, and finally letting his past drag him back.
I think it is the city that brings out our vices and our insecurities. The city me is awkward, clumsy, angry, depressed, spiteful, egoistic, weak, helpless. Back home, I die a little every day. Back home it is always night, and the night brings no sleep, and there’s darkness hanging from the ceiling and descending onto your fingertips. Back in the city, mirrors are magic; selfies they are called and they cover up blemishes, haze over the corpulence, and reflect distortions of the truth.
The seaside me is, well, happy. The ocean has been a far better mirror. I can hear the chirps in my head again, I can even dance to the brass beats of my mind. I may still be dying, but I am living a little as I die. I may still hate myself, but I am letting the ocean, the wind and the solitude love me just a little.
Continue reading Part 2
Inch by fucking inch, ants crawl over the burnt flesh of my fingers. They take their time; it’s not like I can move my fingers or even flex them. Left with a throbbing hand and not much to do, I thrust my other hand down my pants and masturbate. Using my left hand feels unfamiliar and amateur, but I get myself off fantasizing about a stranger groping a shy young girl on the subway. Sick. Twisted. I know. There’s more where that came from. Perhaps it means I was abused as a child and have daddy issues. But no point dwelling on these things. The sky glows orange, then pink and my eyes fade out onto a portion of wall which reflects the changing colours. Words come to me then, words that dance before my eyes, shapeless words forming, burning, rearranging, searching for something worth fighting for. Words that fight sleep, words that scream at the walls of my mind, words that whisper to the voices inside my head, words that coax my fears to come out and play and words that are too shy to be tasted by my tongue.
It rarely happens that one has sex and death on their mind at the same time. As I lay abusing myself until darkness fell, I thought about committing suicide. I wondered why people mourn the deaths of those who had willingly tipped themselves over the edge and six feet under. I composed my note as my fingers slipped once again inside my panties, working of their own accord. “Don’t mourn me”, my note would say. “I lived well enough – I ate, I breathed, I fucked to my heart’s content. I loved somewhat, I was loved rather more. Don’t let me drain your strength and zest for life.” I would try not to sound condescending; I wanted to praise everyone for surviving me but also to let them know that I wanted this. But I always stopped myself before I began thinking of ways to die. As fascinatingly morbid as death is, one finds reasons to keep on living… I think I have more shudders left in me, as my fingers fall limp and my eyes close in sudden ecstasy.
He speaks with fantastic conviction, spilling half-truths and twisted facts with every word. He’s mastered the art; he keeps a straight face and looks directly into your eyes. His hands do not tremble when he looks away, and his lips do not press together to hide his guilt.
You’ve known for weeks now. He comes home sweaty and tired after work and immediately hops into the shower. Once you thought you saw a bite mark on his neck; another time you leaned in to kiss him and detected the unmistakable scent of another woman on his mouth. You recoiled from him then. You began to watch him closely for signs of a nervous collapse, but he seemed to have it together.
He makes no mistakes; no phone calls, messages, no photos. All data erased from memory. But you know it, you have felt it. There were no signs, but you have noticed the occasional hushed phone call to a ‘colleague’, meeting ‘college friends’ on Sunday afternoons. He never once slipped, but you saw and understood the ache in his bones after fucking her, or the smell of her pussy on his lips. He sleeps soundly at night, snoring loudly the moment he hits the bed. And you lie awake in the dark, wondering what your life has come to.
So why haven’t you confronted him yet? Perhaps you aren’t really sure and there’s a possibility that he isn’t cheating? Or perhaps you are scared to find out that he is; it opens doors to darker and disturbing questions – Who did he fuck? Did he love her? Are you not good enough for him? You close your eyes and push the thoughts out of your head, too painful to deal with at the moment. You find yourself still hoping for all this to go away, like a bad dream that never happened.
He wakes you up one day with kisses and caresses. He wishes you good morning, plays with your hair, smiling the way he used to. You smile back at him sleepily, and suddenly you’ve gone two years back in time; when you were young and stupid and madly in love. His lips graze your earlobe and whisper words of love. And just like that, you fall for his lies yet again.
Last night I had sex with a stranger. I don’t remember who, but it definitely wasn’t you. I don’t remember the details clearly, it was just a dream. Just a dream that ended in a scream. I woke up feeling guilty, that you might think it was cheating. Blurry dream images flash before my eyes in a swirling mix of alcohol and lies. And the dream started fading into the distance, dissolving into the blackness within.
Early morning streaking sunlight; blushing memories of last night. Your lips crushing mine, suddenly demanding; your hands in my hair, roughly commanding; and me surrendering to your urgency, willingly obeying. We tease pleasure and pain’s fine line; but you only find your pleasure in mine. Memories, more real than the rapidly dissolving dream. Memories can be held in the palm of your hand; dreams become lost time, sifting through the hourglass like fine grains of sand.
We can surrender body and mind, a consciousness, a waking life. But dream is destiny, they say; waking or dreaming, life’s in disarray; I wonder what remains at the end of day? Is it memories that come to stay… or haunting dreams that won’t go away?