i wish i were normal.
i wish i were normal.
i wish i were normal.
i wish i were normal.
“Please don’t be mean after I leave.”
“I’m never mean!”
i feel very sad and alone in the world. maybe i’m incapable of being loved like this. how can i fix myself?
~fin~
p.s.:
bdsm
“You are a very odd girl.”
“How am I odd?”
“You don’t look at me when I talk to you.”
“Why do you enjoy being dominated?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’ve never thought about it? You don’t ever write about your sexual experiences?”
“No,” I said.
“Oh. I thought all writers did that. I do that,” he said.
“Let’s see how my hickey compares to this other fucking guy’s.”
*
He put his hand around my neck and applied some pressure. I couldn’t moan like that and just breathed shallowly through my mouth. I glanced at him, and he was smiling. He applied more pressure and my breathing got shallower.
“You’re not on birth control, are you?”
“No.”
“Too bad. I wanted to creampie you.”
I thought that was weird, that he would say ‘creampie’ instead of ‘cum inside’. I guessed it was the influence of too much pornography.
*
“Say that you like being my piece of meat.”
*
“Who was rougher?”
“You are.”
“How am I rougher?”
“Because you hit me.”
“I do hit you. And some just because I can. And you know why I can?”
“Because tonight you own me.”
“That’s right. That’s what I want to hear. Say it again.”
“You own me.”
“I fucking love your voice. Such a girl…”
*
“Don’t you ever fucking pull away when I’m fucking your throat, you understand that?”
“Yes.”
“What do you understand?”
“That I won’t pull away.”
*
“Do you know how much that fucking turns me on, you struggling for air?”
*
“Do you want to be my pussy or my dog?”
“Your pussy.”
“Meow for me.”
I started to giggle.
“Come on. You say it over text.”
I kept giggling, embarrassed.
He hit me repeatedly until I meowed.
“Come on. More. You need to convince me you’re in heat.”
…
“Meow with my cock in your mouth.”
I did.
“Again.”
*
“I want to be fucked.”
*
“You’re throwing up already?”
*
He wrote on my face with green marker.
“What does that say?”
I giggled a lot. “I can’t read it…”
He hit me. “What do you think it says?”
I kept giggling, embarrassed.
He hit me again.
“It says ‘whore’.”
*
“Tell me that you’re my whore.”
“I’m your whore.”
“I’m a piece of shit whore.”
“Damn right you are.”
*
I stared at myself in the mirror
“What?” he asked.
“My eyes are all red,” I said. The whites of my eyes were completely red.
“I know.”
*
“You’re not being a good sub.”
“I don’t care.”
“Did I awaken some hidden trauma?” he asked.
“No.”
“You realize how aloof you’re being?”
“Yes.”
“What’s like, the most brutal thing you did to a girl?”
“I’ve made a few girls throw up blood. I’ve made a few pussies bleed, too. And I made one girl puke and made her slurp it all up.”
*
“My cock looks huge in your tiny mouth.”
*
“has any guy ever cum on your face before?”
“yeah.”
I don’t feel degraded or aroused. I don’t feel anything right now.
He emptied the condom into my mouth.
“Are you going to spit it out or swallow it?”
“You know what’s coming now. Lick.”
(Imagine what it tastes like to lick up cum emptied from a condom on top of a towel covered in vomit.)
“Again.”
*
“Say nice things about me,” I said.
“You’re very cute. You have a cute voice. You dress well. And you’re submissive like no other.”
*
“come on, taste yourself.”
he jammed his fingers down my throat.
“that’s right, you fucking slut.”
“Stop resisting and open your fucking mouth.”
*
To look someone in the eyes is very hard for me, and he knew it.
I averted my gaze downwards.
He slapped me and yelled, “I said ‘chin up!’”
*
“Come on bitch, I wanna fucking see you cry.”
*
I gasped from the pain. I didn’t know that being hit could hurt that badly.
*
“Open that fucking whore mouth.”
*
I put my arms in front of my face, trying to protect myself from him.
“No, that’s right. If you can’t take it get on the fucking floor.”
He grabbed me roughly by my hair and rubbed my face across a towel he had laid on the floor that was now covered in my vomit.
“Do you feel gross?”
I nodded.
“Do you like it?”
I nodded.
*
“Shut the fuck up!”
it was the same tone, cadence as when i was little and my stepdad would yell at me. and i freezed up and became detached like i did when i was little. frequently, girls/women who write about sex or have any sort of public creative life at all i would say are made fun of for having “daddy issues”, and i was really scared of being assigned with that label so i shied away from discussing or even allowing myself to think about those things. but i realize this is really important to explore, kind of at the core of my whole project. and men are going to say these things anyway why should i give into it why should you let men control the conversation the conversation of yourself and your own sexuality. it’s scary that being tarnished by a label can make you too afraid to even think about something.
“Calm the fuck down!” he yelled and slapped me across the face. A week later, I was with my boyfriend and I was drunk and overly emotional. I thought then about how I wanted him to tell me to calm the fuck down and slap me, hard, like R had. That’s what I need from a boyfriend...
“This feels too good, this looks too good.”
I don’t know if I like this. I must like it in a sense because I came back. It’s more like I don’t know if I’m enjoying it because I get off on this or if I’m just making myself act out past trauma and it’s like a psychological issue thing… There’s that same feeling of detachment is it okay because I get to feel out of my head… Is it detachment? I don’t think it’s a good thing to feel detached, or to make yourself
feel that way…
*
“Say, ‘I want your cock, Daddy.’”
“I want your cock, Daddy.”
*
“Shut the fuck up!” he yelled and slapped me.
Later, I would tell my boyfriend to tell me to ‘shut the fuck up’ if he wanted to, as a favor to me.
*
“You took it pre
tty well. Do you feel proud that you can take so much brutality?”
“I feel neutral.” I feel like it would be a sad day when I start priding myself on that.
*
“[I feel like there’s such a limited way that you can be socially acceptable in this world]” my roommate, Lonely Christopher, told me after people complained to him about me.
“What did your Facebook friends say about those pictures?”
“Most people didn’t like them…I got called a misogynist…”
“They called me a misogynist? Or you?”
“Me. For posting those pictures.”
“But did you explain that it’s not misogynistic because of Fuck Me Feminism?”
“People have different ideas about that sort of thing…”
“I understand that. It’s very paradoxical… Do you think it’s misogynistic?”
“I’ve never thought about it.”
“I’m asking you to think about it now and tell me your opinion.”
“I’m not intelligent enough to have an opinion.”
*
thank you for touching me
August 2, 2012
“I’m by the Lorimer stop at M Noodle. What are you doing?”
“I’m at a hotel in Manhattan.”
“We’re going to a gig then a hotel roof on Wythe. Let me know if you swing through the hood.”
I didn’t respond, and so Kip texted me again a few hours later.
“You still about? Thinking of heading.”
“I’m around. You should come hang out.”
“Is it cool if I come in a couple or so hours?”
“Okay.”
Two hours later Kip texted me again.
“Yo badda bing, I’m dancing. I’m at an incredible gig with Chris Feldman, but he’s tired and I’m full of energy. I’d like to come over later if you’re feeling up for it—your last night dread da dread dread.”
“Come! Bring Christopher.”
“What’s the hotel name and room number?”
“It’s called Radisson. Room 1709. It’s on 32nd st and Broadway.”
“We’re on the way x. Chris’s much more lively now.”
“Okay. I’m really tired by the way. Sorry if I’m half-asleep.”
It was around 2 AM I had not slept in over 36 hours. I lay on the bed, trying to keep myself from falling asleep. I wondered how I would entertain Kip and Christopher with my exhausted zombie brain.
Kip and Christopher were two Facebook friends of mine in their early 20’s from London. They happened to be in New York at the same time as I was visiting, and had asked me before to hang out while I was there. It was late at night then, and I had just wanted to go to sleep, but I thought that since Kip had been texting me throughout the week wanting to hang out that I should meet with him before I left, and tonight was my last night in New York.
Kip and I had talked about Scandinavia and Sheila Jeffreys and Jon Gnarr, (“I have a friend in New York who has been emailing back and forth with Jon Gnarr. Here’s what he said to me, ‘Do you think we should all move to Iceland? Speaking of comedians, I just got an email from Jon Gnarr saying he thinks Iceland could become an anarcho-socialist society but he needs all the good and creative people from around the world to come there and help…’”)
Christopher had sent me long messages about literature and politics that I never bothered to read (“I’m writing my dissertation on contemporary experimental literature: is there an avant-garde today? What would being avant-garde today look like? Does that term even have meaning any more etc.… I read your thing on London and found it really interesting, especially as I can really imagine that sort of guy and see them around town a lot, and it’s interesting reading about other people’s experiences of London and as a guy it’s obviously always interesting to hear about sex from the woman’s point of view…”).
*
About half an hour after his last text, Kip texted me that they were here, and a minute after that the room phone on the desk rang. I walked over to answer it.
“Miss, there are two people here who say they’re here to see you.”
“Okay.”
I got up to go meet them outside, and we ran into each other at the entrance to the elevator. We said hello and laughed about almost missing each other. Kip and Christopher were lively and chatty in the elevator; I felt half-asleep and didn’t say much.
I opened the door to my room and we all went in.
“This is nice. How did you afford it?” Kip asked.
“My friend, John, got it for us today, and then he went back home to Connecticut, so I have it for tonight.”
We all sat on the edge of the bed.
“Can I have this?” I asked and picked up the beer Kip had set on the desk. He said it was fine, and I drank it rapidly.
“You’re leaving tomorrow?” Christopher asked.
“Yeah, my flight’s leaving at like seven in the morning,” I said, laughing.
“Where are you going back to?” Christopher asked.
“The West Coast.”
“So, you’re not really Icelandic like you told me before? That’s a shame… I wanted you to meet all of my friends in Reykjavik… I did my degree in Scandinavian studies,” Kip said.
Christopher and Kip talked about going to Chicago. I talked about how rude people could be there.
“ Get the fuck out of my way!” Kip said in an English accent-tinged imitation of a Chicago accent.
“London is full of cunts, too, though,” Kip said.
“People in London can be like cold, I guess…” I said.
“Once late at night my friend was peeing on the street, and my friend was a girl, and a guy walked past and saw her and said, Not pretty, not classy!’ So that whole night we were all shouting ‘not pretty, not classy!’”
“What have you been doing in New York?” Kip asked.
I started to laugh nervously. “I had a threesome with my friend and her husband, and it was one of the most awkward experiences of my life.”
“But don’t you think life is about those awkward moments and finding beauty in them…?”
I was too tired to formulate a response, so I just smiled.
“Are you one of those people who is really negative all of the time?” Kip asked.
“This guy who came over before you guys came—”
“ That’s dread.”
“What’s ‘dread’?”
“It’s like over the top, extreme, in a good way.”
“Anyway, the guy who came over before you guys came over was like, ‘Oh baby, I was really looking forward to coming over tonight.’ And then I said, ‘I look forward to dying.’”
Kip laughed and kissed me on the top of my head. I was surprised, but then I figured that it was just a natural expression of his extraversion.
“What’s the best and the worst thing that’s happened to you in New York?” Christopher asked.
“I threw up in my friend’s bed.”
“Was that the best or the worst thing?”
“It was kind of both.”
Kip took out a bag of weed from his coat and asked me if I had any rolling papers; I didn’t.
“Can you believe that we got all of this for twenty dollars?” Kip asked.
“The weed is a lot better here, right?” I asked.
“It might be better here, yeah…” Christopher demurred.
We decided to leave the hotel and walk down the street to Duane Reade to get rolling papers. Inside, Kip and Christopher picked out beer and bought it. At the counter, Kip asked for rolling papers, but the clerk said they didn’t have any. He bought Parliament cigarettes instead, thinking that he could roll out the tobacco and use the paper.
Outside, we all smoked cigarettes on the street.
“I got you a present,” Kip said and handed me an energy shot; he had shoplifted it.
“Oh, thank you.”
Kip asked every passerby on the street if th
ey had rolling papers. None did. I was interested in how he effortlessly, unselfconsciously engaged everyone, and charmed them. Christopher and I stood back, watching him. I drank the energy shot and made a face, but about fifteen minutes afterwards I felt much more awake.
“None of these people are the sort who would have rolling papers… We need to find a tramp,” Kip said.
A disheveled looking man approached us and asked Kip for a cigarette. Kip gave him one.
“What kinda cigarettes are these?”
“These are Parliaments. You know, the crackhead cigarettes with the extended tip.”
“Where are you from?”
“I’m from London.”
“You sound like you’s from London.”
“Yes, I should hope so,” Kip said.
“I heard ya’ll call cigarettes ‘fags’ in London. Is that true?”
Kip confirmed that it was.
“I’d like to bum a fag,” Christopher said in an imitation of an American accent.
The man took the cigarette from Kip and walked away.
“I feel like the accent doesn’t matter much in New York. Too cosmopolitan or something. Don’t they know who we are?” Kip said.
“Yeah, how important we are…” Christopher added.
After a few more rejections, Kip said, “Let’s give up.” Christopher and I followed him back to my hotel room.
I sat down on the bed because I felt so tired. Kip sat down next to me and without hesitation pressed his body against mine and kissed me. I felt confused as I had gotten the feeling that he wasn’t attracted to me. I had thought that the idea of anyone being attracted to me then, with my tired face without make-up, messy hair, and old, wrinkled clothes was unthinkable.
“Can I use your shower?” Kip asked.
“Go ahead.”
Kip went into the bathroom and closed the door behind him.
Christopher sat down next to me on the bed.
“What ethnicity are you?” he asked.
“I’m part Korean and part German.”
“I can see the German in you. Germans are always funny.”
We talked about London and different places we had traveled to and how much we liked Japan.
I was slightly drunk, and liked the idea of making out with Christopher while Kip couldn’t see us, so I moved to kiss Christopher.
what purpose did i serve in your life Page 14