Oct 22, 2017

Every Me and Every You

1. An essay like this works best if we’re all good-looking (reader, writer, critic). This helps with attraction.

2. I am unapologetically shallow.

3. No one ever learns anything, and you won’t learn anything here.


By invading my privacy my mother finds a note where I say that like girls and want to try LSD. “You can’t just do whatever you want like an animal”, she says in response. She says it loudly and in Spanish, trying to shame me. But I didn’t feel shame right then, because I hadn’t worn a dress since I was five. They’re not good for climbing trees.

* * *

The cross-section between what we like, want, think about, and what breaches into action has a lot to do with brain chemistry. I’m not a scientist, but I do masturbate regularly, and anyone who has managed a moment of honest self-reflection after having masturbated down a fantasy rabbit hole, knows just what it’s like to not be themselves.

A mechanized tentacle medical exam isn’t something that I’m into.

It’s interesting that with the right wash of chemicals, what we find desirable changes. It’s the headspace where you’d choose a riding crop over a movie, or a sharp-tongued insult over a sweet compliment. However, despite the very specific practical knowledge you’ve amassed to get you off satisfactorily and efficiently, you will likely never be asked to speak at a podium about your techniques, or receive the respect of your colleagues and peers for sharing your expertise. This is a private proficiency, and it’s very important it remain that way. Everyone knows that civilization balances on the tips of dicks, nips, and clits.

Of course the fear is that one day you’ll take it too far. If you keep making that face it’ll stay that way. It’s unsettling to think that we are big, meaty bags of chemicals, one imbalance away from spilling over, to become compulsive gamblers and sex addicts (like that poor French guy who took the wrong medication in 2011). Or that undergoing male menopause might make the idea of legislating women’s bodies irresistible. Or maybe one day you’ll mash your genitals so creatively that you’ll lobby for another letter to be added to the already untenably long LGBT acronym. The fear is that you were not yourself then and now you never will be again

Perhaps the people we find despicable, disgusting, or puzzling are just those that are wired differently. I know I’m not alone in asking why sex-negative feminists want to ruin everything, why limp-dicked gentlemen who eroticize land deals also treat uteruses like real-estate, why the gays want a monopoly on erotic parades, and why they prefer wedding cakes flavored with Christian tears.

We fail to recognize we are home to latent programs our active selves find reprehensible. But these other selves are our selves. This is you too! (Or it can be.) Given different brain chemistry, you would be unrecognizable to yourself. Not to mention, that if you’d been alive in a different time, you probably wouldn’t be able to stomach that self either.  You probably would have cheered at a gallows hanging. You would have advocated drowning witches. You might have even been a Nazi.

Not I, you say. Not today, you say, but humans act out what we don’t understand before we form articulated positions. That is, we don’t understand much of what we’re already acting out. It is this lack of self-awareness—as well as the narcissism of small differences—that makes people want to control other people. And man, do we love to do that shit.

In an incredible move of psychological jiujutsu, a byproduct of this tendency is that control then turns into sex. Moral reformers work society’s meat grinder to transform pleasure into misery and the mundane into fetish. Horrific campaigns against pleasure have been waged righteously, trying to solve the problems in other people. The moralizing turns them on and gets them off. And because it requires a listener or a viewer, whether they grandstand in front of an audience or just one-on-one with the person they wish to control, it’s also an act of exhibitionism. It is performance—Performance at, not for, someone else.

In other words, he who smelt it, dealt it…and is getting off on it.

So let’s get into this rape fantasy you have. Of course, while the examples above (spectating-Nazi-witch-burners) are of groups acting violently upon the unwilling, this one is make-believe. Here, no one is trying to control anyone, and fantasies have no victims. In fact, having a rape fantasy isn’t bad, it’s ordinary to the point of being banal. It’s even ordinary to say it’s ordinary. It’s the latest in cutting edge of faux-naughty discourse to publicly admit this. But one of the functions of doing so is to remind ourselves that everyone is just fine. No crusades need be waged over this, and you’re allowed to like it. Really, you didn’t need permission anyway.

I remember when I first decided to grab a mirror and have a look at my junk. Just like everyone else, what I saw looked strange to me at first. I had access to some porn, but not very much (It was the mid 90s, and I was in my early teens just discovering the internet.), and mine just didn’t quite look as tidy as the ones I was seeing. I didn’t think there was anything wrong with me. I just thought there were different types (I was right) and mine must be the rarer O-negative (I was right). Later I learned that a lot of images in porn are photoshopped. I believe that this in no small part, caused of the great labiaplasty rush of the early twenty-first century.

Unlike boys, who at minimum can check out each other’s dicks in the locker room, women’s genitals are just not in plain view. And I don’t specifically mean conspiratorially, I just mean anatomically. Unless you go out of your way to do so, you could go your whole life without even accidentally seeing another vagina in person (In my 20s and 30s I went out of my way). Not until I was 35 though, did I come across another person whose meow resembled mine. We enthusiastically high-fived and called ourselves pussy twins.

Let’s have a look at what else we keep out of view. By doing this, hopefully we can all chill the fuck out a bit more, and embrace how truly, wonderfully similar, and boring we all are.

I’ll show you mine…

I want to be used for sex.

Ok, that was definitely an attention grabber, but it is also true. I can assure you I’d be using you, and hopefully we’re engrossed really in enjoying each other.  And though it’s none of my business what you may think of me, I would like to be thought of as an invaluable actor in your selfish act. If you ask me permission for something while fucking, I might throw up in my mouth a little. “Is it ok if I…?” “How’s this?” That kind of over-attentiveness, that’s only appropriate if you’re Chris Klein in a rom-com, or a dentist performing a root canal. 

Just leave any self-consciousness behind. We each embody millions of years of horny monkey evolution that will work optimally if we don’t let our analytic selves intervene. Sex is ridiculous given any amount of scrutiny, so ultimately if it feels good, do it. Do what you have to do, just be really into me. Reduce me to what I can do for you. Just feel. I don’t mind, in fact I prefer it. You can be sure that I am also reducing you down to some trait, or singular aspect, so I can fixate on it until I cum. You’re a big dick, or the smell of your sweat and saliva, or dynamic angles of un-yeilding meat and muscle. Or so many tendons. Interrupting personhood is a fantastic way to orgasm.

Field note: It helps to apply a stabilizing structure to avoid hurt feelings. It’s just good etiquette. Let’s look at the function below.

f(u) = [R (B * (k / S + P)) + U]

Where Respect (R) has to be applied to the risK (k) that the Body (B) is put under when added to the power differential (P).

And where that risk is mitigated by a Safe word (S).

U = i * e
Where Understanding (U) is an expression of intelligence (i) compounded by experience (e)

This way, we all catch one another as we rip ourselves apart. There is an inherent instability in treating each other like animals, out of which greater peaks and troughs emerge. In profound moments of destruction, unimaginable new selves are constructed.

Sometimes I masturbate with my imaginary cock.

This is something I only started doing a few years ago, when I bought my first glass dildo. I mapped onto that toy an imaginary dick which belonged to me, rather than belonging to someone else. Perhaps that seems like an obvious move to make, but it hadn’t occurred to me until then. It’s incredible how believable the sensation is. Given the right headspace, I can literally feel that it’s a part of my body, and surprisingly the psychoplastic space it takes up exceeds the volume of the dildo itself*.

*Results may vary.

Technical note: this virtual cock only overcomes the uncanny valley of sensation (where it only feels as real as my own body) if I use my right hand. Whatever, I don’t question it.

I suffer from penile erectile disfunction.

It should be said here, that while writing this I began masturbating, and that helped me to remember this! Given this idiosyncrasy of mine, a necessary component of this fantasy is the complete non-judgement of a completely imaginary version of a close, attractive friend. Someone with transgressively welcoming breasts, small organized pink nipples, and of course the right attitude (if you think it’s you, it’s probably you…and thank you!). And since male masturbation is such a simple function—I’ve discovvvvered—cumming is inevitable if I just do it long enough. A laughable statement if made about the female orgasm. My vagina can turn into an uncooperative jellyfish when I go on for too long. And when it’s not the aforementioned cock.

Even still, the moments before cumming the whole event teeters on hopeless. An unsettling feeling akin to dreaming about flying as an adult, because past puberty we know just a little too much about aerodynamics to facilitate an easy lift off. I don’t know about you, but I have to hop and flap my arms around hoping I catch a gust of wind. Apparently, this is a feeling I’m into. (“Aren’t flying dreams some of the most pleasurable dreams?” someone asked me….)


Of all the things I’ve mentioned so far, I’m only slightly embarrassed by this: that all my fantasizes include an imaginary partner. I’ve heard other women describe that they can get off on pure sensation, but I’ve tried this to no avail. For me, the visualizing a partner is crucial. Let’s visualize some guys. Really, they’re just NPCs—lifeless, story-carrying, background characters. No one knows anyone, and everyone is either just being polite, annoyed, or both. I might fill in their backstories with some lazy writing, but the scripts for these scenarios are really more “pop genre” visualizations: D.P., militarization, medicalization, militarized-medicalization, hushed tones, crying, and we might even see jock-straps, boners in tighty-whiteys, and various types of uniforms in the mix. I’m sharing the creative well from which mainstream porn drinks its Jaeger Bombs. I do make some minor edits however. No one wears make-up and no one talks needlessly. Also, everyone has prior engagements, which helps move things along.

* * *

I am having sex with two people I’m in love with. We are all unexpectedly in sync. The following year one is absent. Instead of returning to sex between two people, it becomes sex between three minus one. The two fuck the unexpected void. We do it through tears sometimes, because we have to get this back to meaning us.

Our tendons pull tightly.










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