So, over at The Fuck House, my ex-boyfriend marcus and our mutual boyfriend Jefferson have been having a discussion of sorts about Hedwig and the Angry Inch, John Cameron Mitchell and (ugh) Rufus Wainwright.
You can track the jabs and insults here.
I wanted to post this version of one of my favorite songs ever, because JCM is my bf, too, and I actually did blow him in the ladies’ room right before this in-store performance and then he went out and sang this song.
That boy loves to makes me cry.
You call and ask if I’m free tonight, “…a long shot, I know.”
I’ve just been fucked like a bitch by my love as three others watched and came, their come swirling together, homogenizing in a pool at the small of my back.
I do not return your call.
I return to our bed where life is still and time is heavy haze, where cunt swallows cock. I breathe the air from his mouth, making it mine. When he dies I will pull his last breath deep inside me, imprisoning his soul within my ribcage.
He fits me. Loves me.
Quietly rocking, writhing, bending, pulling, stretching, gasping, squirming. Content. Senza voce.
I do not love you, because when we fuck, I am discontented. Impatient. Growling.
When we fuck, my hand does not move to your cheek, tracing its thumb across your brow. You do not shut your eyes and turn into it, kissing my palm.
Because you do not love me.
leg slung across pale softness
i will never move.
Tonight my ex-husband looks me up and down and says, “You look great! You’re so skinny–show me?”
I’m no thinner than I was when we were married, unless you count the 22 pounds of pregnancy weight which were long gone when we split up.
And then I wave it off, “I’m not so skinny, I’m just happy.”
. . .which really is the sweetest thing.
At 6 AM you’re turned toward me and I’m on my back and our legs are scissored lying in warm caramel contact and your cock pulses down onto my thigh and my cunt does that seizing pumping grasping thing and I’m hot and wet and you’re hard against my skin and then you roll onto me and slide inside and we match and I don’t care if I come because this is the thing, lazy and sweet, and you kick off the covers and I know you want to come but you don’t–not yet–and my blood swirls in my head as you pin me down put your face next to mine and do that thing and my back arches toes curl and I say “oh, oh, oh,” and those are the first words anyone speaks.
Filed under Love, Quiet, Stories
You know the feeling when you’re skin to skin with someone and you’re not close enough? The feeling that you want to forge your bodies together like steel, strong and impervious against the elements? You know that feeling?
I’m not talking about fucking.
I’m talking about lying together kissing, touching, hands traveling, breath catching, lips sucking, noses tracing making out. And you have this feeling that you want to be one person together. And you hold tightly to them and you will this thought–this wish–to be granted by the universe.
You can’t verbalize it. So you shut your eyes tightly and you wish it.
Sometimes you’re lucky. Sometimes you’re with that person and they’re making the same wish.
And sometimes you’re already the same person. You just inhabit two earthly bodies.
I’ve been awake since 5:45. I lay in bed, wrapped up, trying to sleep, relax, breathe, let go but I couldn’t get my thoughts to stop.
My stomach feels sick. Like there’s a hollow place that needs to be filled and not with food or drink. I take deep breaths and blink my eyes.
My mouth has that sick-in-bed-all-day funky taste that doesn’t go away even after you brush your teeth.
And my damn heart hurts. I think of tearing it out and leaving it behind. Just give it away. Because there must be some way to say goodbye that doesn’t hurt like this.
Filed under Love, New York