Behind Closed Doors, or 36 Again

Something is wrong with me.

Every morning no matter who I’m with, alone, troubled, sick, drunk or blissful, I wake myself up from wet dreams and free drives by clutching myself from the inside and moaning, low with a greet of the day that only 1000 fucks from other lifetimes could bring, jettisoned into the high pitched innocent voice of a bright and cheery, turned on femme fatale, my own self contained grin that can't stop her smiling about it all. Thrusting, leg out, to get some fresh morning air, and some fantasies bred of simple trust in her gut, her cunt and her brainwaves.  The heart bleeds, but it is less easy to decipher.  And that's ok. Just fine, cause my heart always beats my head at night, and tells me to wake up when I need to.  She'd never leave me without tears, at the muddy, polluted banks of a forlorn river, without a hand to hold, or a dream to unfold, anything that rhymes like violin, double down oxygen in her soul, it's mine and it's alive and it knows you.  Still, the waves ripple like that.

One of my favourite books is The Collector, so much so I want to resurrect myself as a filmmaker and make it one day, mainly because the scenes where they fight in the rain turn me on.  Henry Miller made me realize I am a male chauvinist pig in womanly form.  Used to read Sexus in my old apt in Queens, not wearing underwear, crouched up on the easy chair, only to discover many of the long, drawn out passages of filthy French sex made me really, really excited and I had to then spend my time cleaning up the slight stains I’d made….even friends had said to me, it’s the sort of book after having read certain very lengthy passages of, that you need to excuse yourself and come back shortly thereafter, massivemasturbation (it should  be one word, just like that) interceptions in between pages which were meant to stick together just so, so the words you had to work for were worth it, no matter if the first time or the 100th time reading them.

I am sometimes insatiable, a man’s woman thinking all the time, filtering all the time and fantasizing all the time.   I am at home, at ease and with myself in all manner of what is today considered sexual attire – yesterday, considered attire.  My pulse races when there are stockings, garters (w/ tucked in flask for safe keeping), my favourite place on my whole body other than my ass, and hips, is that area above my breasts which I feel I need to expose, frame and present to the world else I feel like there is a sack over my head.  

And now to the clothing....yes I know....but, when I see a corset, a harness (Victorian not goth freak from the streets of nyc post modern, I dabble but not really…I never tried to shock my family), a suit, a spanking, a well written fantasmical (I create words with my muscles) dream set of good times, my belly goes south and I am not in control anymore, which for my brain is a fucking god sent relief......the colours paint themselves, and I am launched into the space of the dirty, comely stars.  Happy to be there, on cobblestones and rough patch voices, leading me and taking me where I need to go.  It does get dizzy out here sometimes, but there were always roots.  It's just a different sort of dizziness is all....the kind that emanates from heavy, soiled, wet and earthy roots flying through space, orgasming into and around black holes, parallel universes coming again and again, tossing wayward but sound dirt on its inhabitants, and the angels sing for me all the same, and for all of us, who have figured it out.  I diverted from the clothing - just that the thought occurs to me, in my large and well diversified mind, at least once every few days, that I need to get a job: burlesque is the goal, stripper is the decent wage version.  It seems like the best and purest way to go.  But did all those dancing girls with their curvy fishnet legs in the air have thoughts of physics and Heaven's location? Maybe they did, and I'm just getting the chemical combination right to make it the norm of the kicking legged pin up girls, who get a real rise out of it all from taking their clothes off, for an audience, perfectly in tempo with the music and with the clouds passing shadows over them.

 

Back when I was 13 I learned on my own accord, about all this.  Not even sure about what men and women did, I learned quite liberally and physically of my Own accord.  Hold it in when you need to pee, and god do the angels sing sweet dirty songs between your legs, but that's the thing.  Before I ever knew the right ways to touch myself and touch the men who I caught looking my way when they thought they were alone, I could make this alchemy happen, in the liquid systems of my body, growing with weight and hips, but not sorted yet, and the height not making her way to the top of the class, a final finish like no other, no surprise, just a quiet signal that I was not meant to be a woman before I was fully ready to be.  And I was worth this strange and longtime wait.  Cause I could make a visit to the toilet (still do) like a Greek chorus of ecstasy and it wasn't so local as it is with the touch-- it's different than all that...it starts somewhere in the front of the hips, grows like the vines of Jesus (when he wasn't trying to impress his boss) seducing Magda in the garden, growing up and around them like joys which we all forget entirely too easily, moving easily through itself into my belly, above and beyond that child bearing place, but with an ocean view all the same, and into (somehow) my upper chest, my heart and my physical fingertips, my hands having an orgasm like ripples of a tide not come in yet....thirteen to thirty and beyond, this is always possible....so, with decades of this know how and humility at its roots at my (actual) fingertips, how couldn't all the rest finally fall into place for me? I keep thinking there is some guilt behind the next corner, alone in my bed, the memory of the blood on his wall, the mix in match of insecurities and emotions that one may call a woman, before she figures out that she can use this to her advantage (I will never use this to my advantage, since the killing of that sort of liberation and purity is a crime which I dare not commit) has informed the woman who can still make her muscles ache to the desperate tune of the world, and its men...

Something is right with me.

M. Lucia