A Secret Mark

Sometimes I wonder what the limit is that you can go out onto a limb before you fall.  I know it is different in every situation, that there is no true and concrete answer to this question.  I’d like to reach just a little further than I comfortably can.  I’d like to be so casual, to be so confident, to say, oh, hello, would you like to come have sex with me?  I’d like to believe that part wasn’t robbed from me- that I make the choice to be demure and am not ruled by terror or shame.  It was on the tip of my tongue really- spilling it all- the true depth of depravity- what-I-want-from-you… but there wasn’t a moment that was quiet enough or a place as intimate enough.  Maybe its being almost 30 or maybe because I know there is a definite end of my suffering in sight, but I am feeling bold and I think it might be time to get back the courage I had at one time- when even though I wept all night, I could still say, “I am worth your true commitment.  Be mine of stop wasting my time.”  For now I intend to bide my time and wear it close to the inside of my skin, the secret mark that will pull your heart into my mouth.

Back Log

On her missionary back
the girl can count the stains on the ceiling
and feel her stomach growl-
and the noises around her
which are human and inanimate
blur in her ears
and become a dulling ache
a repetitive quaking
of things she has forgotten how to do
and words she has never said.
A girl who is fast at everything
takes her time in this parade
the slow and steady march
from room to room
in the chambers of her heart
over the wall of her collar bone
down into the river that flows
between the still forest-
takes her time and closes her eyes
she has nowhere to be
and absolutely nothing to prove.
Keeping track in her head
the number of times she has
loved and lost and
at what cost
makes an easy way to fall asleep each night
a wad of cash rolled up in her pillow case
she is always ready to go
at a moment’s notice.
A quiet removal of modesty
she’ll give away her cow and
all the milk
if it means that the farmer keeps coming back
to fill her day with rivulets of joy-
the colors are dimmer in the pale
shadowy light
of the one lamp that separates her
from sleep.
So she takes one more sleeping pill
and her hair falls into her face
she brushes it away carelessly
and that’s when she sees-
so much time wasted on her back
logging hours for a smile
waging battles for a kind word
getting by-
and getting by-
and getting by-
until there is nothing left.

Ever Virgin.

If sex isn't a joke, what is~ Nella Larsen

A question for all you philosophers out there.

Here is a scenario.

You’re ex-boyfriend offers to pay your rent for the rest of your lease if you sleep with him one time.  It’s as simple as that.  You give up the goods, he gives over the cash, every month until you move out of your apartment.  So, let’s look at this in a little more depth.

You dated this man for four years and were emotionally though not officially, attached to him for another year and a half.  In that time, your morals and values were such that you did not think it was appropriate to have sexual intercourse with someone until you were lawfully married in the eyes of the church, thusly, the two of you, despite the length of your relationship, never got down.  So he still considers you a big V even if you have already thrown down with dozens, even hundreds of men, and even if you already told him that you may not be as innocent as he once knew you to be he still sees the scarlet V dazzling on your bosom.  His desire for conquest seems to have no basis in the actual reality of your sexual history.
Now, let’s consider the implications of your break up.  You assured the ex that at the time of your breakup you would never again, under any circumstances; take him back if he decided to make the choice to end the relationship.  Even with a full understanding of what would happen, he decides the time for the two of you is over.  So, having made his choice, you cut him out of your heart.  Throughout the years since there have been countless moments where he regrets this decision and on many occasions crawls back to you, begging to be taken back, but true to yourself and your ideals, you stand firm.  To have sex with him now would effectively destroy the delicate fence that you built between the two of you even when your own temptation was very strong.
That being said, you wonder what it would be like to bone the man that you already know so much about.  You can hardly remember what his mouth tastes like (or other things) and you wonder if the same things still get a standing ovation.  Part of you is curious to see what it would be like to be with him now that you are both adults and now that you both understand what means a lot, and what means nothing, and maybe you would do it just for fun anyway, money aside.
Yes, there’s the money.  Does receiving this monthly gift from him, at a point post-coital, make you a prostitute?  If a prostitute is defined as someone who has sex for monetary compensation, then maybe you are.  But are you having the sex for the money or is the money merely a gift brought on in generosity for the giving of a gift that he has been longing for, for many years.  Perhaps you do it because you want to do it, and the money isn’t even an object, but then the money ends up coming out of the experience anyway, does that then make you a whore?  A whore is someone who has sex not for money but because they like it, at least that is my understanding.  And even if the real definition implies many, varied, sexual partners for an extended period of time, by the sheer weirdness of this one sex act, you’d be thrown into that category.
So what to do?   Sex and money, no sex and no money, or maybe even sex but no money?  Please, offer me your suggestions.   Please keep in mind the HYPOTHETICAL nature of this post.

Ever Virgin

For flavor, instant sex will never supercede the stuff you have to peel and cook. ~Quentin Crisp

I’m furious and filled with anger today. I know that our society places a lot of emphasis on sex, sexual attraction, and sexual attractiveness. It would be a fool’s errand to seek out a place where you could live comfortably without the touch of societal pressure upon you with regard to sex. The having of it, the seeking it out, who is having more and how they are managing to have more. I’ve already come to the conclusion that despite my being a sexual creature, my relationship with physical intimacy is less desperate than most people’s. I don’t need to be gratified physically to feel gratified emotionally and I would rather work on being a good friend to someone or helping someone than go out of my way to locate someone who will have sex with me. I just don’t care. There’s too much else to do. Now, that being said and accepted, what follows is a brief description of what happened to me in only the short time it took me to leave my apartment and reach my office. I imagine that someone who is better looking than me might be used to having more attention on a day to day basis, but I’m not. Today I am very simply dressed in a black sun dress and copper slide-on shoes. Lip gloss, clean hair. No frills, it’s too hot.

So, thinking that because it is particularly hot today, I decided to treat myself to an ice cream cone from the little shop at the Forrest Hills T station. I select vanilla. I proceed down the stairs and enter the train (I chose a car with fabric seats, I find them cozier) and take a seat in an uninhabited section of seat towards the end of the car. A few minutes later, a tall man, dressed in baggy pants, an over sized basketball jersie and a white head scarf takes a seat across from me, directly. I continue to enjoy the ice cream, minding my own business, when I hear him clear his throat in a gesture clearly indicating that he wanted to get my attention- so I look up in his direction, and he flashes an absolutely grimy smile. He says, “I bet that would be even better for you in chocolate, baby”. I looked at him in utter disgust, and got up to move to another section of the train. At this point, I’m annoyed, not flattered, and frustrated that I had to give up my quiet bit of train space for a more crowded section on the other part of the car. As I sit down, two other men get on the train and sit down next to me. They are both in suit-ish attire, and tripped my gaydar pretty quickly. Generally I am more at-ease when I am surrounded by gay men because they either ignore me or want to chat about the bon appetite magazine they are reading. I pull out the novel I’ve been reading “The Woman Warrior” by Maxine Hong Kingston, and start reading- I reach up to fluff my hair which needed to be separated because it was still sort of damp, and I notice them looking at me and chatting and laughing. They were definitely doing the “I’m looking at something past you so it doesn’t look like I am looking at you” thing, while turning back and whispering to one another. I was infuriated. I made direct eye contact with one of them as their eyes “swept passed” me again and I actually SAW him color with embarrassment. I wanted to scream at them. All of them. Every one of the men on the whole train. Who told them they had the right to make people feel bad about themselves? Either of the examples. I mean, who taught that other man that he could say disgusting things to strangers? What made those other men okay with talking about someone right NEXT to them?

I don’t like men. I don’t like the idea that wherever I go, whatever I do, I am on display and they feel justified and entitled to comment either positively or negatively about who I am and what I deserve. No. You don’t. You can and should go to hell. Leave me alone.

Ever Virgin.