Some days it’s gonna be harder than others to get up and get to the blog — that doesn’t mean the coming isn’t happening, though.
I don’t want to be inside today, don’t want to be at the computer — I want to be outside, running, soaking up big sun into this thinned skin.
That’s not all I want to do.
Take this body to the beach, to the mountains, to the desert, to the high grasses around the cottonwoods along the Platte River. Take this body to the cornfields, to the dust of Route 66, take this body to a single lane road and a convertible with the top down, take this body to high cliffs over a pounding ocean. Take this body home. Let it / me / us understand how exactly home we have already come.
This is about joy today, about all the different ways we can lift off and sing, about flying grounded and opening hot into the morning.
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I want to write the story of my masturbation – or how I grew to ignore stranger’s stories and learned to love my fingers – how the release, when I can get there, opens my shoulders and hands, the back of my throat and how, when I’m just fucking myself, I’m not worried about what anyone else is thinking—if I’m doing it right, if they are, no—it’s just me and my vibrator or my other vibrator or my other vibrator or the showerhead or my own tender fingers luxuriating in all this body and too many unfulfilled fantasies. It’s just me loving the breasts that he was the first one to put his mouth on, the belly that he was the first one to touch, the ass that he first cupped in his hands during the backrubs that he dissuaded my mother from worrying about. I want to tell you the long history of me and masturbation, how I never did it as a child except vague rockings, now and again, against tight underwear, seams of jeans or bedclothes.
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What was the shame that kept me from pressing my hands into the ions of myself, those nights I slept alone? Why, when I was exploring everything else in my world, didn’t I explore this skin, that heat and pleasure between my legs?
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Because almost there, that phrase, those words, rivet themselves from my lips every time I masturbate (every time I have any sort of sex at all), the poem below is playing for me.
Today I think I lived in those words for a month: oh god, don’t stop, I’m almost there, almost there, almost there.
After this morning, the count goes up by two, maybe more. Am I keeping count somewhere? Maybe we could track the different kinds of orgasms — the laughing hard, the tearing up, the different eruptions that lift from my body. Those all count, don’t they? Then there’re the explosions — those are the ones everyone can recognize. I’m learning to watch the other sorts of orgasms; like learning to listen to the quieter voices that live inside my fingers and belly.
Almost There Timothy Liu
Hard to imagine gettinganywhere near another semi-nude encounter down this concreteslab of interstate, the two of usall thumbs—
white-throated swifts mating mid-flightinstead of buckets ofcrispy wings thrown downhoi polloi—an army of mouths
eager to feedleft without any lasting sustenance.Best get down on all fours.Ease our noses pastrear-end collisions wrapped around
guardrails shaking loose their boltswhile unseen choirs jacked onairwaves go on preachingloud and clear to every last pair of unrepentant ears—
Unrepentant ears. That’s all I am today. That, and unrepentant mouth, unrepentant fingers, unrepentant hunger. I’m taking all this shamelessness out into the world now. Maybe I’ll see you out there.
Be easy with you and your body. Thanks for reading — come again tomorrow!