v u l v a l i c i o u s
There is always my cunt, no matter what else there is or isn't
Reading three hours' worth of erotica online: bored and contemplating the cold of my toes, the way my fingers clack at the keyboard, the mingling smells of cunt and laundry.
My life is on sexual repeat, a reprise of last season's less intriguing episodes. She resurfaces when I think I've left her, but I'm trying to remind myself that it's not so much about seeing her again as seeing the same scene, hearing the same lines.
Except nothing makes me come now. Not me, certainly not her, not any number of thoughts that might have pulled me up by my hair and made me beg in recent months. Nothing. Sharp fingers, the voice that says "you can't fuck with panties on," and my reply, "I don't want to fuck."
Or I don't want to come, don't want to be here, don't feel like I'm worth the time it takes to get there, mentally, make my Self physically present. I draw my cunt to make it more real, hang it up across from my bed. I notice that it looks incomplete, think that I should have let it flow into another sheet of paper: my detached coloring book cunt, beautiful on the wall but not a part of me anymore.
Then there's the part of me that's trying to come to terms with wanting pain, with not feeling bad about wanting to hurt. I read about it as a form of immersion and find myself questioning what I desire because it doesn't match what I see. I don't want humiliation so much as I want the sting of hands and leather.
On the phone she mentions new toys, props she hasn't used on anyone yet, and I hear in her voice that she is thinking of me. She doesn't say it, but I feel it, the strange electrical tether that connects people sexually. Before I hang up, I ask her for the husky voice she used to have when we would talk. She calls it the silver-tongued devil. She tells me she's sick, can't talk like that. I had built it up as the one thing that might remind me what my cunt feels like.
The sense of depending upon someone else oppresses me. I'm not used to it, and I strain underneath the way it feels, the constriction of it. I keep trying to remember what it felt like the first time I walked in the world as someone who had fucked herself very well, the way my thighs burned and the soreness of my pelvis. It's there, peripherally, constantly attempting to shove itself back into my consciousness.
But I'm caught in the strange twist of a plot that's already happened, girls who aren't really here, never really were, the people who don't exist and who can't ever, no matter how hard they try, be as real as my cunt is.
When there's nothing else to hold on to, there is always my cunt.