My orgasms are watery, thin and forgettable,...

Tuesday July 26, 2011

My orgasms are watery, thin and forgettable, diluted. There’s a ridge of anger running under everything, a live wire, a mountain range of rage. The photographer sent me an email about his coke addiction, about his “infatuation” with me. “Trying to figure out right and not wrong,” he wrote. Who bothers with that anymore? I couldn’t reply. I hung my torso over the edge of the bed. I went down on the floor. The dream told me how much I hate being paid to swallow someone’s lies. I learnt of my own absence during sex, saw the zero that sex has become, like I’m a serf fucking to build a monarch’s empty empire, bending my body over a foreign agenda. (“No one is harsh to me,” I often think. “No one treats me badly.” I shouldn’t assume permission to speak like this.) Planes become almost safe spaces. They are a pause. My hotel rooms are only inhabited after dark. I play the TV to feel like part of the world. I sleep with my cheek packed with cotton to ease the ache in my mouth.