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.