Coming Home: Day 10 – the disassembly

Today I’m feeling freaked out about this whole project, ready to let it go, let it fly, set it down at the back of the table with all the rest of my unfinished loveliness: that manuscript, that couple of story collections, those poems, all of it. Go read someone else’s book. Other people have done this work, they’ve figured it out, why do I have to do it again?
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I am crying because I want this so badly — I am scared of all this wanting. I am broken open and I chase my orgasms all over the country of my body; I want to find them and feed them to you but I am so fucking terrified. Like what? Like I could get over him, over it, like finally my body could be mine again, or just for once, like the thick swell of pleasure could only sift through my own fingers like I could deserve this can it — my chest feels like it will erupt, split apart, fissure and burst with the weight of what I want to hold, to let in, to release
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I haven’t come yet today — it’s 9pm in Atlanta, and I am tired and hopeful and sad and split open and grateful and scared.

Today, this morning, early, I tried and tried to come, to let go, to find what would work, and then finally I gave up. I cried on the plane — I just get so fucking sad because I know my body is capable of different kinds of orgasms (that means: orgasms I don’t have to actively drive with my hand/will/vibrator/etc — orgasms in dreams or under a mouth, say) and what am I so afraid of, what’s the lashing that unhooks in my brain and singsongs me somewhere else, takes me away from just what I’m doing to some grocery list or workshop I need to plan for –

or — and here’s the worst part — my brain just gets so focused on what someone else (let’s just imagine there might be a someone else, because 1) this is what I’m sad about today and 2) masturbation happens in all kinds of configurations, not just when we’re alone-alone) is doing that I can’t concentrate on coming.

That doesn’t even make sense. Can you parse that sentence, that idea? My body can, unfortunately.

This morning it was the vibrator for an hour, try to get there, work it hard, numbing me completely. On a day like today, a vibrator on my clit (or my fingers there, or maybe even the water — or someone else’s hands or mouth pressed fast and slick, let’s just pretend) is just not enough.

Yes, it’s true, sometimes it just doesn’t work (for other people, too, Jen: not just you), but today I hate that. Today I want to be better / different / well / healed / fixed / changed / Other. I want to work. I don’t want to be broken. I don’t want to feel broken. I don’t want to be so fucking obsessed about this.
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What would it look like not to be in charge of my orgasm — if no one was in charge of it? If I let it have its own life? I wallow in the tears for a minute and then want to go dancing at a blues club, want to be dim lights live band smokey wearing a thin dress with a short, loose skirt.  I want to learn this story new.
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Why can’t I be a nice normal porno girl with a hair-trigger clit that creams easy like really, just careens into orgasm at just the right moment — ok, maybe hands get used sometimes but couldn’t I come too just with a mouth, rocking against a body. Couldn’t I have a little of what those other women have?

This is my grass-is-always-greener moment, my sour grapes my self pity piss green apple bottle swollen cheeked sad survivor girl if I can come when my fucking stepfather has his goddamn mouth on me then why can’t I come with easy with my fingers or when someone I actually like and want to have sex with has their fucking mouth on me? Why is this disconnect fair?

Yes, ok, psyche, I honor your protection of ourself — but can’t we turn it off now? Can’t we have that probability back, that set theory, those amalga, that venn diagram with me in one circle, my hands in an overlapping circle, the idea (or the reality) of your body in a third circle that overlaps the first two, and in that big curvy center triangle described by the intersection of the three circles/sets = my fucking multiple orgasms.

I wouldn’t even bother trying again today if it weren’t for this blog — and so I have mixed feelings about the whole project today. I don’t want to be obsessed with my orgasm; I just want it to happen. I don’t want to have to go after it. I’d like to be surprised by it — regularly, I’d like to be surprised that at its eruption. What would that be like?

Today I’m just sad.  Let the sad in. I’m sad about a lifetime of consensual sex that’s been pretty damn good, actually, and yet always too with that distance, the orgasm anxiety, the wax paper worry of what about me will I get to come will I get there how frustrated will I get this time — will I finish up with coming, how long will it take, how far away will I have to go inside my head to get enough distance from the intimacy / danger / terror / longing / this person I adore to be able to actually come? 

What would it look like to rip off that overlay? Actually, I think that’s part of the issue now — or just today: this deepened ability I have now to be present with what’s happening to my body means it’s hard to escape / dissociate into fantasy, means I have to do the work now of re-associating orgasm with exactly my body’s sensations. We haven’t done this before, me and this body. We’re dancing a new dance now. Some days the steps won’t work the way I want them to. We have to practice more. I can sing this metaphor all the way into tomorrow. Here’s me heading back to my fingers, because I said 31 orgasms in 31 days and I’ll be damned if I give up now.

(be easy with you. come if you want. see you tomorrow.)

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