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The Switch has been Flipped, and my Cunt is turned off
2002-10-20 // 6:25 p.m.

I feel like a child in all the wrong ways.

To make matters worse, it seems as though someone has turned off the switch to my sex drive, and I do not even desire my own Cunt, let alone that of anyone else.

The lack of desire is a deadening thing, and it drains me like nothing else. I feel as though I need healing sensual experiences in order to revive my Self, but, being a child, I don't know where or how to get them.

While walking today, I tried to think of what could draw me out. I tried to imagine who could find and flip my switch, and how it would be done.

I envisioned myself sitting in the library, quietly typing or reading. I am approached from behind, and a voice I do not recognize whispers something in my ear. The words are hot and dirty, are the kind of things I've never actually heard spoken by another human being. I haven't the chance to absorb them before I hear the words "follow me," to which I respond immediately.

I walk up the stairs behind this person, whose face I have yet to see. Whose face, in all actuality, I do not want to see. I want nothing more than what will come out of some chance encounter that is not chance at all, which is perfectly planned and even more perfectly executed.

The library is laid out such that there is never any privacy, and so any room is as good as the next. I follow the Whisperer into one of the many brick rooms, where I am abruptly pinned against the wall.

Pinned. I feel as though I need something hard and heavy to wake me from my sickly stupor of overly emotional emotionlessness, of crying without producing sound or tears, of feeling nothing more than numbness. My wrists are against the wall, and I resist without resisting. I imagine the struggle that will only make the Whisperer pin me harder, because that's what I'd like to happen.

I can feel mouth and teeth and hair and skin, all colliding roughly. The incident is over within minutes, it seems, and I am unaware of whether or not we were seen or heard. The Whisperer kisses me once very softly, and I taste a bit of our blood mingled.

I don't ever want to know the name or the face. I don't ever want to feel as though I must give anything back or take anything away from this imaginary, elusive figure that pulled me out of sleep.

And I thought of these things on my walk, and I sit here now, craving their reality. Craving the feeling of my Cunt below me and around me, and of the security She brings.

Sometimes, I think a Cunt needs to be shaken--somewhat roughly--awake.


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The Gentrification of a Perfectly Good Cunt - 2006-04-02
apologia, not apology - 2006-03-06
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kissing like you mean it, even when you don't necessarily know what "it" is - 2005-04-16