what started off as an attempt to write my chicky friend a thank you note/
love poem takes a turn for the worst but later redeems itself

i don’t think of him anymore. in fact none of the hims ever nostalgically kriss cross my brainwaves. but now i remember the hers i should have had. amy was eye candy that i would have loved to roll around inside my mouth. had it not been for that catholic i was dating priorly or my cousin sherry who instilled a fear of ever fucking/loving a woman again... amy bought me my first dildo for christmas so i would never be able to forget her. pushed me into a dorm room bathroom stall. while her boyfriend was down the hall getting drunk, playing video games with the piece of shit that was stalking me. full frontal contact. slid her hand up my face. stuck tongue out, slithered it against my lips. waited for me to open my mouth. later asked me to move in with her one night after we had been reading our poetry to each other. both up for thirty six hours during final exams strung out on ritalin, caffeine, cocaine. amy was in love with me. how the fuck did i not realize it? why didn’t i act on how strongly i felt for her? at the time i made excuses when the truth i know now was that i had become a sickly closet case, stereotypically sleeping with he-beasts, to pacify the hatred that over years blindly intensified for women. the female body was a torture that i associated with disease- sexual abuse laced pleasure. an exotic forbidden blend of mental distress, beatings, and basic physical/sexual need. which, back then, i could never have admitted to anyone let alone myself. at that time i called myself bisexual which i very well might be. fucking men doesn’t necessarily turn me off as long as they look effeminate, or are half queer themselves. back then i missed the facts that should have been code reds. the catholic and i only had oral sex. when we finally did get around to sticking his triangle headed bent up circumcised member into my cunt i almost went dizzy from the abhorrence of it. at that moment, the split second instant of insertion he knew, i knew i wanted nothing to do with men sexually. he pulled out, we both burst into hysterics at what had just happened. later he would refer to that night as the time he raped me. said he felt my mind injecting his with my psychic rejection of his physicality. i went frigid every time he touched me after that and we broke up one month later. then there was the man i sincerely love/ed as a person who made me fond of sex with men. even made me think i was never into chicks at all. figured i had just been manipulated into liking females by licking out my cousin for seven years. a year into the relationship i had to start thinking about girls to get off. i loved him but something like a clit would always be missing. julie (my first official girlfriend) started to reappear in my fantasies. one day while going out for ice cream with him i recalled a certain incident where she ate me out in front of a group of people for cigarettes and pocket change. i even had the delusion of mind to mention something off-handed about how we should get a little girlfriend on the side. i broke up with him two months later (even though we kept sleeping together six months after the fact, nymphos can’t be choosers) for every reason other than what was honest... that i wanted more than him and our home together any woman to let me crawl into her bed and stick my face in-between her legs. allow me to fall asleep there. and stay... but i couldn’t do it, work up the nerve to seek out the dykes like i had when i was younger. i hadn’t slept with a woman in five years after eleven of nothing but pussy almost daily. (i know i’ve been personally touched by the hand of god to have gotten more, more often, then most people do in a lifetime). i had become intimidated by women. terrified. wrecked up mental contusions. i was supressing the effects of the incest-molestation. i was in denial, that it had even bothered me. i went from being a lesbian (5-16) to straight (16-18) then bisexual (18-21) back to high probability of dykehood (21-current). it is odd that the shock took so long to start setting in. you would figure that right after being molested i would have went straight and been afraid to sleep with women. but that is not how it happened at all... the older i got, the more i denied the side effects (i didn’t even consciously think about any of this shit until i was 21, when sex with men was really starting to get to me) and the longer the events had to setting in. eroding my perception of females. subconsciously, every woman i was attracted to was another sherry. (and i still can’t sleep with blonde women) a manipulative whore, demon out to con me. cunts were polluted sacks of disease waiting to infect me. there was nothing wrong with homosexuality just “bitches” in general. i could not befriend women because i had nothing in common with them. although it was more along the lines of being afraid to associate with them and becoming attracted. even now the amount of female acquaintances i have can be counted on one hand. usually the one i fuck myself with. i myself was a woman by default but was not a man either. my sexuality is mute because as much as i love to fuck someone coming on to me or asking me on a date frightens me. in-between butch and femmie is a new category we can call annie. the sexual invalid. what all this amounts to is that: i am beginning to understand myself. i sleep with men, continue to do so it is easier than having to think about what happened. (julie and i didn’t work out was because she was unintentionally making me remember). i’ve been telling myself i like sleeping with men cause i can’t digest what took place no matter how much psychotherapy i put myself through. my subconscious sabotaged every “pseudo” loving relationship i’ve had because they were with men. julie when she dyed her hair blonde and i started having flashbacks every time she went down on me. i became increasingly violent/psychologically abusive and afraid of myself until i started to burn holes in my arms to release the pressure. i hardly make a sound during sex...and i rarely speak. if i so much as opened my mouth sherry would put her hand across my face, and press down until i would start to flail, panicking that i was being suffocated, which made her laugh. there was also an occasion... put her palm under my chin, curled her fingers into my face like a muzzle than began pushing upward. “if you don’t shut up we’re gonna get caught”... most fucked up part is that i had only coughed. she didn’t beat, force, or fool me often but when that shit did happen it was drilled into my personality and reeks like rotten meat. recently a new woman has entered the picture, yes curious audience, i am sleeping with her which is what, this is really suppose to be about anyway. (as said by whats-his-face “a small step for man, a huge step for man kind”). how long this will continue is anyones guess... there have been two times when she has mentioned an experience she had with a guy... it goes like this he stuffed a pillow over her face, (but he wasn’t really “choking her out”) told her that if she didn’t shut the fuck up aka “quiet down”, he would stop whatever it was he was doing, presumably fucking her... obviously by the way she talks about this encounter it excites her. really gets her juices flowing. her speaking, the words, the look on her face, and tone of voice are now carved into the folds of my neurocenter. i hope that man holds hands with my cousin while they burn in hell together. the first time i heard this story instant recall, fathers bedroom clocks showing 3:13 am sherry’s looking at me but it’s dark... now i couldn’t dive too much into this (no pun intended) because i’m sitting at a shit hole restaurant trying to listen to the story and forget the feelings of nausea or trying to convince myself the upset stomach is from all the coffee i’ve just ingested or that this is different than what happened to me. second time i hear the story we’re at her house on the couch (got to be silent cause her parents are home and they don’t know she does some dyking on the side) getting a little bit physical. the room is dim (why does everyone want to fuck in the dark? am i ugly? does that make it easier to pretend like you’re sleeping with someone else?) something something something “like that time the guy put the pillow over my face”. admittedly i was half-in-the-bag drunk but the sensation i had psychically was that i had heard razor blades being grinded into a chalkboard. i don’t even know who this man is, i’m not sure what his name is but i want him to suffer. in fact i want to put a pillow over his face, or try that neat muzzle trick my cousin taught me, because anyone who uses physical pleasure as a means of control deserves a bit of some good old fashioned torture-torture. not that s and m shit either, more along the lines of say edward gein or ted bundy. sure this anonymous douche bag wasn’t trying to hurt my little love bird but that isn’t the fucking problem... (my cousin wasn’t trying to hurt me either, she was trying to train me like an animal) using sex, the enjoyment of sex, to get the person you are fucking to do something you want them to do is wrong. it is always wrong. it will always be wrong. a con move, cheap shot, etc. it’s the same as telling a starving person you’ll feed them for a week if they let you fuck them in the ass. it’s not very nicey nice or respectful to say the least. jesus fucking christ does anyone see what i mean...when i set out writing tonight my goal was to write some type of lesbian love poetry but i can’t even do that because encapsulated inside of me is a train wreck nobody survives. my hard drives been hit by a lightning bolt. see, folks, in plain simple english (which is the best my uneducated ass can master anyway) i like this new woman in my life and want to be able to express the excitement i feel because of her. let her know she’s revitalized a part of my life, i mean a fucking gigantic/extremely important aspect of my very fucking existence but every time i set out to do that, my distortions, delusions, personal problems, etc take over. instead of writing some corny ass flowery lovey-dovey “awww you’re so special to me and make me feel so happy, will you let me suck your snatch for 10 hours” (i’m so romantic) poetry... it turns into “when are you going to leave me” “how long will it be before you fuck me over or start playing with my head” “are you really thinking about me when we’re sleeping together” “are you going to pull that i’m back with guys shit” “will you stab me in the back or in the front” “you think i’m annoying and insane don’t you” “you don’t really even want to sleep with me do you” but it’s not her fault and she’s done nothing that deserves my suspicion. it’s not even, necessarily, that i think she would work me over but it’s because i don’t think she would do that to me and i want to lay down my defenses and i want to trust her that i feel so razzled. she makes me squirm like a lesbian school girl who has just discovered her fathers stash of chick on chick action flicks. it’s so bad, i get self-consious, nervous, not as in paranoid, but in a “am i making an ass out of myself in front of this hot, sharp, hyper intelligent girl... again” type of way. i never apologize for myself, but over night, every other word out of my mouth is “i’m sorry i’m a dork/i’m so lame/i’m so weird” etc. also (as if you couldn’t tell from the excessive length of this piece) i’m an exquisite conversationalist, (save the laughs for later assholes) i always have something interesting to talk about, but as soon as i open my mouth to tell her any thing my head trips itself up. “you can’t say that to her, she’s going to think you a fucking loser for sure, not like she’d be that wrong...but you can’t let her know just yet how pathetic you really are”. but it gets worse when i’m alone with her. i’ll sit paralized by desire. running circles around myself. internal conversations like: “will she think i’m a pervert-freak if i try to hold her hand? should i just ask her if she minds?? hell no dude, that would be weird don’t fucking do that” “should i call her, or wait for her to call me? don’t call, you don’t want to look desperate or obsessed although you’re probably both by this point in time” “should i see if she wants to come over/wants to hang out? no no, she’ll think you’re out to get laid, wait for her to ask what you are doing...but whatever happens don’t seem anxious” am i suppose to tell her she is a crystaline beauty who defies aesthetics harboring a galactic personality that words fail to encompass? (oh my god that was so fucking lame i’ve honestly embarressed myself). i’d ask my guy friends for advice if they weren’t drunkan derilicts, drug dejects that don’t know anything about women in the first place. i want her to feel: secure but not enslaved. safe not smothered. affectionatly appresciated, not like a slobbered over lusted after piece of meat. most important is for her to know she will never be obligated to me because any debt she could owe has already been repaid... by giving me the life back that had been wretched out of my childhood hands.



Anne McMillen (AKA) AnnieM is a manic depressive who is currently living on the charity of her brothers couch. She is very single although there is a certain girl whose pants Annie is dying to get into, and there is also a guy who has a script for Oxycotin that Annie’s been thinking of “dating”. In her free time (which is all of her time) she enjoys substance abuse, video games, reading philosophy (because she is that pretentious), listening to music, and being a normal asshole from Ohio. When not busy playing pool or online spades, Annie some how fines time to write, obsessivly compulsivly, leaving her with a large arsenal of words she plans on unleashing on the “free” world.

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