Tuesday, April 23, 2013

A Touchy Subject

In light of the passing of sweet-ass Chrissy Amphlett, rivaled in my heart only by Joan Jett, I feel the need to talk about something.  Something most chicks don’t really talk about.

The ages and ways boys and girls discover their bodies are as varied as one snowflake to the next.  It seems as though, in today's society at least, a boy's process of physical self-discovery is not only expected, but condoned, and understood, and is as inevitable in a parent's mind as his eventual desire for a driver's license.  

The one double standard that is not as clearly defined and accepted is a little girl's process of physical self-discovery.  Mothers of daughters fret over it.  And quickly correct their daughters if they happen upon a chubby little hand shoved into her Strawberry Shortcake panties.  Even more misunderstood is that for many little girls, their self-discovery starts at a much earlier age than little boys.  The last thing most parents of boys would expect to inadvertently interrupt is their 4-year-old son jerking his junk to an episode of Dora the Explorer.  But if you have a 4-year-old daughter, you may already have, and did not even know it.  Well, not Dora.  But maybe Diego.

I am about to turn everything you thought you knew about little girls upside down (or perhaps tipped slightly askew?).  It is going to be explicit (or perhaps vaguely so?).  It is going to be uncomfortable.  The girl I am talking about is me.  And I am not ashamed.  You have been warned.  If you'd rather read something else, may I suggest This?


For many of us, our process begins as soon as we develop enough hand-eye coordination to deliberately touch our no-no parts.  

And that is where the raising of your hypersexual little princess soars light-years beyond anything parents are conditioned to expect in a daughter.   

Let's cut to the chase, shall we?   

How the fuck do you parent a little girl who had her first orgasm when she was 4 years old? 

On the flip side.  Let's look at it from your little darlin's point of view.  Do you know how scary that is?  

Perhaps it is better for me to illustrate this scenario with clips from the inner dialogue of a tenderly young baby girl.

4 years old—“WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT??!!!”  (Yes, tiny girls say words in their noggins that would make most parents shit their pants). 

4 years old (5 minutes later)- “OH MY GOD!!!  I DID IT AGAIN!!!”

4 years old (5 more minutes later)-  “Hmmm…. I wonder how many times I can do it in a row?”

----- Months pass.  Techniques perfected.  Ignorance as to her own biology remains----

5 years old- “Oh shit!  What if it runs out?  What if I can only do it so many times and after that, I’ll never be able to do it again??  Oh craaaaap!!!!  Okay, I’ll just do it one more time….. today…..”

6 years old- She meets a boy at daycare who explains that the word “fuck” means to touch tongues.  So, after fucking Trey, she goes home and tells her mommy that she fucked a boy at daycare.  Mommy flips her shit, only to discover her sweet little baby’s innocent mistake.  Deep breaths. 

6 years old (the next day)- “Mom, what does fuck mean?”  Grandmother passes out on the kitchen floor.  Mommy takes girl by the arm into another room and explains about penises and vaginas.  Girl begins to make a tenuous connection between fucking and that really cool thing she does with her no-no parts when no one is watching. 

7 years old- Girl discovers that if she imagines certain things while she is touching her no-no parts, that awesome thing that happens feels even better!!

8 years old- Girl discovers that she can control it.  Faster, slower, circles, up and down.  She discovers that she can deliberately prolong that awesome thing from happening so that when it finally does happen, it’s like….. HUGE.  She discovers 20+ years later that there is an actual term for that technique- “Edging.” 

10 years old- Girl watches her first porno.  She watches with vested interest, analyzing, taking mental notes.  Instead of disgust, she is fascinated.  And after 6 years of perfecting her favorite undercover pastime, she is finally introduced to the word “cum.” 

--- Years pass.  Girl finally adds the word “orgasm” to her lexicon.  And it is slowly elevated from just a super-secret hobby  to an Olympic sport.-----  

It is around this time that an idea begins to take shape in her mind.  A challenge of sorts.  In public places.  In school.  And so she begins to practice.  Wearing different kinds of pants, preferably jeans with thick inseams.  She tries sitting in certain ways in her desk at school, moving her hips in certain directions, so slowly that no one in the entire classroom even notices she is wiggling ever so barely in her seat. 

15 years old-  Girl finally achieves a scientific breakthrough that, if she were brave enough to admit it to the world, would have certainly garnered her some sort of Nobel Prize-  the hands-free orgasm. 

36 years old-  Girl is now the mother of teenage boys.  Absolutely nothing about their evolution from baby to a passionately sexual man surprises or disgusts her.  And she has never.  NEVER.  Not once.  Opened their bedroom door without knocking first. 

So.  In closing, I would like to say a few things to parents of little girls:

- I don’t care how old they are, they were created to be sexual beings. 
- Age means nothing in matters of physical pleasure. 
- It is a natural human curiosity to touch all of the parts of your body that make you who you are.
And nature- not perverted human beings- created those parts of your daughter’s body that make her feel good. 
- If you tell her it is bad- you fail. 
- If you tell her it is a sin- you fail. 
- If you refuse her questions- you fail.
- If you walk in on her, realize what she is doing, stand paralyzed with fear, and exclaim “what the FUCK are you doing??”- you fail. 
- If you believe this is only an issue for parents of boys- you fail. 

Whether you believe in god, intelligent design, secular-driven science, or nothing at all, your body reacts to masturbation exactly the way it was designed to react.  Be compassionate, not disgusted.  Be open, not repulsed.  Answer her questions if she asks.  Leave her alone if she does not.  And ever so politely suggest that she please remember to lock her bedroom door.  Misguided and misinformed speeches on morality and impurity are no different than any other social commentary that serves to cause our girls to be ashamed of their bodies.  

And THAT, my little darlings, is all I have to say about THAT.  


Sunday, April 21, 2013

I - Eye - Aye

I can blow stuff up with my mind.  It’s true.  

I believe in good and evil.   Humans who are good for the sake of being good.  And humans who create chaos and harm because they enjoy it.   Yes.  I believe in that.  

I have never wanted to die.  Even in my darkest moments.   I have never threatened or attempted suicide.  I never will. 

Compared to the things I am proud of, I have very few regrets.  Or maybe I have none.  I haven’t yet decided.  

I have never lost hope completely.  

I have, however, felt helpless plenty of times.  

I’m pretty sure I am addicted to dopamine.  

For the past 2 years, I have developed this terrible habit of ripping the skin off my lips with tweezers.  I used to just bite the shit out of them.  But tweezers are so much more accurate.  It makes people uncomfortable to watch me.  

If I dream about people I know, they are NEVER good dreams.  In my good dreams, everyone is an invented character who can change physically or psychologically at the whim of my desires.  

If I dream about physically fighting with someone, my movements are always in slow motion.  

I don’t care how many times I type it (which is almost daily because of my job), I still cannot spell silhouette right the first time.  Yet I can pound out nephroureterolithiasis without skipping a beat. Go figure. 

I have serious doubts that Albert DeSalvo was really the Boston Strangler.  I don’t know why.  I’ve never been able to put my finger on it.  

I fear emotional pain exponentially more than I fear physical pain.  Matter of fact, if given the choice, I’d choose physical every time.  

I have serious problems with women who use chemicals or unnatural processes for the sake of vanity.  That includes makeup, crap they put in their hair, manicures/pedicures/nail polish in general, tanning, waxing, perfume, hair dryers, curling irons, plastic surgery, blah, blah, blah.  I know I just ruled out 95% of the female population of this planet.  And I’m good with that.  

I leave cobwebs in my house because I think they look cool.  

My tummy hurts right now.  Like, a lot.  

Did I mention that I can blow stuff up with my mind?  

I can.  Oh.  I can. 

Wednesday, April 17, 2013

random draft -----

I hide
in my top-secret fort beneath them
draped along tree tops 
heavy they lay
folding in shadow
whispering reasons
to scribble and nap
licking fingers
much sweeter
wearing braids in my hair
singing arpeggios 
swinging sheets from the branches
as the sun cries impatient
with its scales of shouldbes 
and notenoughs 
and whynots
and toolates
its broken shame finger
bounced from my 
supercool club. 

Saturday, April 13, 2013


Life lingers not in tails of falling stars.  Life is your screaming soul- where tangible meets definitive, driven mad by the laughter of absolution- Dreams are the blood truth licks from your lips.


This weekend we're asking for exactly 33 of your own words inspired by the following quote-
“It's the possibility of having a dream come true that makes life interesting.” 
 ― Paulo Coelho, Alchemist

Wednesday, April 10, 2013

Bridge to Numb

To say she knew what she was doing would be a lie.  But a barely one.  In her Venn diagram of pain, there was that center part where physical and emotional overlap leaving little distinction between the two.  That was where she lived.  In the center part.  It was just so damn hard to tell sometimes.  Yet she knew her own weakness, her own ignorance, her own blindness when it came to her center part, and that was why she refused the pills. 

It is better to hurt than to be dead, yes? 

Oh, the stories she could tell you that are wedged within the letters of that phrase.  Oh.  The stories.  She could not even trust herself to answer that question in the socially acceptable way.   And mean it.

That was also why she refused the pills.  

Yet the doctor had a way about him, and reveled in the joy of reminding her of her own ignorance.  Reminding her that he knew best.  "Take the pills."  He told her.  "They will help."  

So she took them.  Home with her.  Tossed them in a drawer.  And waited for the pain.  

It liked to sneak up on her.  The most inconvenient times.  In waves or stabs or pulses.  Whether by body or mind, so hard to tell.  So hard.  But the hurt.  Just fucking hurt.  

And that was when she remembered the pills.  

Urgency took her by the earlobe, flinging her knowbetter like a towel used to snap her naked leg.  She shook them free into a palm.  One or two, one or two.  Her eyes wobbled.

Two or three.  Three or four.  She only felt.  She could not see.  

The bridge to numb unfolded at her feet, teasing safe passage.  'Take the bridge.  The way round is miles about, miles of undoing.  Take the bridge.' Voiceless words summoned her thus. 

She would love to say she took the long way round.  She would love to say she took the brittle path of righteousness.  

But she cannot say.  Four or five.  Five or six.  The bridge to numb rolled up behind her. 

She cannot say. 


Sunday, April 7, 2013


They come in fragments
grains of onceuponatimes
falling as rain.  
That is shit.
Straight up bullshit.
Grains of onceuponatimes don't fall.
Everyone knows that.
They fly sideways
as you stand naked on a beach
arms outstretched
daring whatshisface to fuck with you.
Poseidon.  That's his face.  I forgot for a moment.
Yes.  I will dare him.
Bringitthefuck on, you crazy bearded motherfucker.
Anyway, back to the grains.
of onceuponatimes
Holy shit, they sting.
Unfinished heartsongs
the voiceless moments just before the scream 
flying sideways
beneath skin
under my feelers
they wiggle and settle
laughing when a word cannot be broached
when a thought refuses to be tricked
into becoming a happilyeverafter.
if the christ were a monster
he'd be a chimera
the genetic one, not the mythological one
tattooed with blaschko's lines
a twin within himself
forever shifting the rift
between what is real
and what is you.

Friday, April 5, 2013

Blind Spot

Today, you passed at least 10 desperate souls.  Medicine.  Clothing.  Food.  Safe shelter.  A smile.  You remember the exact contents of your grocery cart, but how many of those souls did you notice?
Trifextra Week Sixty-Two
"We want you to give us thirty-three words of advice.  Your advice can be to anyone or about anything."

Monday, April 1, 2013

Pulling Strings

Oh my.  I think I have actually had a writing epiphany.

I know the problem.  And I know the solution.

First, I went back through my blog.  What got the most attention?  What was it about a particular post that drew people?  What did I do?  What did I write?  Why? 

Feelings.  Not stories.  Not characters.  Feelings.  That is what I do.

It's what I feel when I'm in the sweet spot.

You know the sweet spot.  That place.  When you write.  You're putting words on the page.  Tossing them like splatter paint.  And they arrange themselves into some heavenly body with which god alone can compete.  And only barely at that. 

The writing orgasm.  The fuck yeah. 

I asked myself.  What exactly am I doing at that moment?  During my fuck yeah?  

Feelings.  That is what I do.  And I just realized that.  I make people feel things.  The story is just an avenue.  One of many.  One of thousands.  The characters are merely the mode of transportation.  One of many.  One of thousands.  

But the purpose.  Is emotion.  Touching.  Tasting.  Hearing.  Seeing.  Feeling.  Drawing the reader through a carnival of commotion of my own creation.  

That is why I exist.  I exist to make people feel things.  It is my job.  And the way I choose to effect that purpose is through words. 

So it is with this in mind that I shall now practice my craft.  I must write a story in first person whose main character is deafblind and mute. 

And if I am really the writer I proclaim myself to be, he will have been born that way. 

Or perhaps locked-in syndrome?  

Either way, wish me luck.

P.S.-  Did you know that a marionette's puppeteer is technically referred to as a manipulator?  How apt.  How wickedly, shamelessly, recklessly apt.