(no subject)
Fucking
A.
OK its 3:50 in the morning. I should have been asleep hours ago. Yet, while I am mentally and phsycially exhausted, I find that I can't go to bed. And why? you may ask... oh the same old reason, imaginary friend. It is because of smut. Give me smut and nothing but. A dirty novel I can't shut, if it's uncut, and unsubt-le.
It occurs to me that I don't know if I ever want to have sex again. Why should I when fictional character sex so much more interesting? I suppose this just says something about the pathetic quality of my sexual history, but to be frank, the thought of being penetrated again is absolutely abhorrent to me. Penetrating, on the other hand, sounds delightful. The problem is obvious. I am not a man, nor am I inclined to women. In other words....
I'm fucked.
You know, in an I'm-not-really-fucked-at-all-sort-of-way.
I am always so relieved when I realize that no one reads this- it is heaven to have a place where no one knows my name- where friends don't even know that there is the possibility of treading.
Cheers, you old bar of TV history, you are not for me. Give me the seedy darkness of an S&M bar where the mask I wear is more real than the one I wear in daily life. Mirror the darkness that I have tried so hard to repress in the past. The self I ran away from. The I that wanted to cause pain in myself and others.
My therapist tells me to find balance. But after so many years of repression, a back lash is to be expected. Right?
But the truth is my therapist doesn't tell me anything. She is the canyon that echoes my own words. It is I that wants to find balance. I do not want to become the Scorpio hellion that karma might have dictated for me. I want to be me, A____, part good, part bad, all human, to paraphrase the antichrist.
Perhaps tomorrow I will see Allan Ginsberg in the Supermarket, stalk him as he once stalked Whitman down long aisles of American Consumption. Perhaps I will tell him how I go to the school that he founded. Tell him that I have a love/hate relationship with him.
Perhaps I'll just tell him where he can stick it.
He would probably like my suggestion. Boulder is crawling with boys who like boys.
And I am on the outside, looking up through the glass ceiling. Excluded.
All because I've got tits instead of a cock.
A.
OK its 3:50 in the morning. I should have been asleep hours ago. Yet, while I am mentally and phsycially exhausted, I find that I can't go to bed. And why? you may ask... oh the same old reason, imaginary friend. It is because of smut. Give me smut and nothing but. A dirty novel I can't shut, if it's uncut, and unsubt-le.
It occurs to me that I don't know if I ever want to have sex again. Why should I when fictional character sex so much more interesting? I suppose this just says something about the pathetic quality of my sexual history, but to be frank, the thought of being penetrated again is absolutely abhorrent to me. Penetrating, on the other hand, sounds delightful. The problem is obvious. I am not a man, nor am I inclined to women. In other words....
I'm fucked.
You know, in an I'm-not-really-fucked-at-all-sort-of-way.
I am always so relieved when I realize that no one reads this- it is heaven to have a place where no one knows my name- where friends don't even know that there is the possibility of treading.
Cheers, you old bar of TV history, you are not for me. Give me the seedy darkness of an S&M bar where the mask I wear is more real than the one I wear in daily life. Mirror the darkness that I have tried so hard to repress in the past. The self I ran away from. The I that wanted to cause pain in myself and others.
My therapist tells me to find balance. But after so many years of repression, a back lash is to be expected. Right?
But the truth is my therapist doesn't tell me anything. She is the canyon that echoes my own words. It is I that wants to find balance. I do not want to become the Scorpio hellion that karma might have dictated for me. I want to be me, A____, part good, part bad, all human, to paraphrase the antichrist.
Perhaps tomorrow I will see Allan Ginsberg in the Supermarket, stalk him as he once stalked Whitman down long aisles of American Consumption. Perhaps I will tell him how I go to the school that he founded. Tell him that I have a love/hate relationship with him.
Perhaps I'll just tell him where he can stick it.
He would probably like my suggestion. Boulder is crawling with boys who like boys.
And I am on the outside, looking up through the glass ceiling. Excluded.
All because I've got tits instead of a cock.