Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Bodily Harm

I called him a poor man's Edward Scissorhands. I can't remember why, but this is what he tells me. "You are hungry", he says. He is not mistaken: I am hungry, famished, starving. What he doesn't understand is that he's not the object of my desire. I yearn for something vast, sentimental, grandiose, technicolour, magical, ridicilous. This is not hunger. It's my attempt at meaningless sex, a detached display of lust and appetite. I try to use my body as a vessel; I perform like an animal. He regards me as locker-room material, smokin' hot and raunchy. I'm a top-notch lay and a talented dish, a fantasy from the past. The guy's into pornographic aesthetics. I am into ravishing bodies, tangible or otherwise.

There's an unbearable sense of lack and alienation. I hope I could say: "Let's get this over and done with. Please, don't hold my hand like that."

Abruptly and in a somewhat bizarre manner everything comes to an end. Years ago, I would have gritted my teeth and remained anxiously in my place. I have changed, however, and there's no need to be polite or embarrassed: I don't want this. I want to go home. On the street I smile a little, for I am a contradiction in flesh. Laughingstock, an object for mockery and ridicule. A lewd, itchy woman with wanton desires yet lacking the qualifications for casual sex. Why can't I be one of those emancipated vixens who take pleasure in banging faceless strangers? I don't have anything against no-hooks and no-strings, rope quartets and book-clichés there's room for the jakes, the pauls, and the daniels. This is, nevertheless, not enough for me. I long for conversation, intensity, fervour and heat.

Thus, do not slander yourself. You had to be reminded of this. Your emancipation lies elsewhere.


I know what hunger is.

It's lying in the arms of another on the Mayday night, lips slightly touching each other, a slow burn at the bottom of my stomach. It's painful abstinence and restraint, the man beside me striving to conceal his desire. It's waking up in the morning hopeful as ever, or is it hopelessness, I no longer know. As much as I cherish the concept of fucking, when it eventually happens, it's not fucking but making love. I touch him slowly, intently, carefully. When he touches me back, I want to cry. Oh, I mumble. Oh.

Afterwards, when the intimacy and pleasure are discarded and thrown aside, and he has reduced me to an object of his bodily functions and whatnots, I take my body and run. I don't need another man I'm not supposed to expect anything from.


  1. A quick, reckless, expressionistic take

    …on those things, those so-human bodies, such-a-waste, such needs, such excesses balanced between walls, floors & ceilings, ever-flat and ever-aligned. Bodies ravished by dust and rust, real and imagined, inseparably ambiguous. Bodies seen through pain, in tarry tarries, moments of hesitation and restless dead-ends, vainly and in vain; vanished, filled with and stripped of meaning before your very eyes. Bodies carrying their tacit exellence as well as secret stains, their longing, shame and loneliness, whatever is left and whatever is added...

    Who wouldnt' be tempted to stash it all (or whatever one has managed to snatch of it) in a locker, just to keep it safe, to let it wither as it is, as a relic of what-might-have-been; to let the uncontrollable effervescence wane; to aestheticize it; to make a modicum of sense of the often-contradictory, bittersweet bodily idea flailing and short-circuiting (creating sparks with after-images, bolts'n'balls of lightning, magnetic aurae, all sorts of will-o-the-wisps...) in a tragi-comical way against the (all-too-soon forgotten) body itself – whatever it could be as such, before our fears, wishes and hopes, even before being seen…

    I just found myself wondering if, in terms of necessary aestheticization (of your particular bodily presence, should I point out), you two are really that far apart.

    [Word verification: vases]

  2. A quick take, huh? Your vocabulary makes me curious.

    I just found myself wondering if, in terms of necessary aestheticization (of your particular bodily presence, should I point out), you two are really that far apart.

    And why is that? I suppose you're referring to the male subject's 'pornographic aesthetics' contra the author's knack for 'ravishing bodies' or, indeed, 'those so-human bodies'. Pornographic aesthetics, in this context, is quite a literal allusion to certain representations in contemporary pornography: rauchy coeds, girls gone wild, moneyshots, you name it.

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  4. Well yeah, I took a poetic licence or two: I tried not to regret the fact that my English skills have become impractical if not practically obsolete; you know, when trying be quick, the first things to come into mind tend (and turn out) to be quite idiosyncratic and non-colloquial, which in this case served the purpose of making you curious as well...

    And it occurred to me that a random walk (or a bumpy ride) through some byways of language could give you (or your commenter[s]) a relevant but relatively unexpected viewpoint or two. Because it seems to be more about attitudes and emotional framing, so to say, than aesthetics per se (you know, it isn't easy to be there, to be present and intimate, in an environment manifestly saturated with all sorts of representations), I felt that letting the discourse come apart--a part of it at least--and the resulting verbal fireworks (easy and cheap as they are) could shed a patch of new light on your being and sharing; or this is how I'd like to think in & with my newly-found poetic hubris. And, in fact, it basically isn't that easy to talk straight about such matters (alas, now I feel even more like an intruder than in my previous comment): I really appreciate your courage. It's a pity if you can't win with it the heart you need.

  5. As we discussed earlier, you are surely not an intruder of any kind. Comments are treasured and appreciated, so feel free to contribute. <3