The Herps, Part 5: Resolution, There Will Be Blood

 

BBC There Will Be Blood

 

July 24th, 2014

Emptying my bladder and bowels for my standing-and-squatting appt, I straddled my magnifying mirror and my eyes BULGED out. Acknowledging that the sore, too, had protruded. I wondered what Frank the Physical Therapist would think about what kinda girl I was if he knew. Recalling Jonathan Ames’ “A W on my P” story, I was consoled by the realization that I am becoming a little more like him each day (if only gingerness w/out baldness could become part of my religious transformation—conversion). Fifteen minute later I was on my back on the padded table and Frank told me to scoot forward, then all cutesy-like, “Scootch (your cooch) just a little bit more.” Oooh, ah, just a little bit, oooh, ah, just a little bit more. In that instant, our gyno office romance was rekindled. Only more authentic this time. (I had been practicing in the interim!) I spread my legs dutifully.

"A W on my P" --Jonathan Ames

“A W on my P” –Jonathan Ames

During PT I thought despondently about the state of disrepair of my body, why Andrew will no longer bone me, whether he hates pleasure, and this Chuck Palahniuk quote:

I think I shall never see a poem so lovely as a hot-gushing, butt-cramping, gut-hosing orgasm. Painting a picture, composing an opera, that’s just something you do until you find the next willing piece of ass.

–Victor Mancini, Choke

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I spend a lot of time writing to myself. Very low-brow, handsomely written letters. Under the guise of communication with other humans. Mostly as I am falling asleep, half asleep, wadding though life, teetering, on the brink. After PT, I climbed into bed and crawled right into my vagina cocoon.

At what point should I give up? Two months later I’m sure you think I’m some crazy who gets creepily obsessed with every guy she gets naked with. Which could not be further from the truth. I can’t stop thinking about you holding my arms behind my back and whispering to me how much you love shoving your cock inside me. In the same voice Booth Jonathan used for Marnie when he told her he was gonna scare her a little because he’s a man and knows how to do things. I can’t stop thinking about you taunting me, inquiring whether your cum spilled out, down my ass crack when you made me laugh. It sounds primitive because it is: having you spray semen on my cervix was the purest joy I’ve experienced in so long and the best simplest decision. I loved feeling you grow inside of me and licking myself off of you. You owned me the second you hooked your long, limber fingers deep inside my pussy and made me whimper for more. Even more so when you plowed into me with my legs wrapped around your neck and made me cum on the first night. The past two months have been incredibly challenging, first reacclimating to the thankless world of adult toil, then being knocked down again by my continuing medical troubles. Apparently you’ve been having a tough time too and it would have been wonderful to have had each other as outlets. Speaking of vacations, I haven’t been able to go on a real one in three and a half years, since before my body gave up, but with your copious cum dripping out of me on the smug subway rides home, I could pretend. If only for a week, I was the luckiest girl in the world to be your cumbucket. I wish I could get that feeling back. To catch your captive eyes twinkling at me as I come hard, collapsing on your chest. You’ve left me so disillusioned.

I’ve gone from elated to deflated and intermittently nauseated when thinking of you. My eyes used to light up with your text messages. At my most exhausted and unguarded, my mind takes a vacation to FG and I get waywardly wet before you even unpeel my clothes. My butt cheeks tense and my pussy tightens, instinctively gripping your cock. I would replace you if only I believed anyone could compare. If only I cared more about pride than pleasure. Self-respect is for people who just aren’t that into sex.

Until you tell me to fuck off, periodically I’m gonna send you messages and hope you get at least a little hard reading them. A girl can dream.

 

P.S. here is the link to my blog

Miss you, and your bounty of semen.

As I lay in bed, I began to wank. Because I am weak, weak. And it had been two days. Which is not a terribly persuasive argument. So you can just reread the first explanation. My gut crunched rhythmically, over and over, it was almost too much, when is this gonna be over? Smugly, I thought: I am a tractable, assiduous pupil. This is almost exactly the same as my PT pelvic tilt exercise.

Mostly I marveled, sometimes it is so lovely to take advantage of myself. I mean, the situation at-hand, heh heh. My outlandish ability to lubricate despite apparent Bartholin’s gland clogging. Which I hope is from over-wanking. To foolish men. Deliciously illicit, clandestine arousal. Hey, I don’t tell my vag what to like. I mean, I do, but it never listens to me! Authoritative parenting; petulant child.

If I could design a line of devastatingly romantic v-day cards, they would say the following:

I will wank to you until the day that I dry.

I’ll always have a place for you in my vagina. Unless it’s otherwise occupied. (And, even then, I’m willing to share.)

Admittedly, it was one of the most relieving and joyful orgasm I’ve had since my most recent diagnosis and poor prognosis. Historically, since then, I’ve only liberated acrid tears. This time: restorative catharsis. Somehow I managed to distract myself enough with thoughts of his body, our bodies entwined in motion, to not dwell on my own ailing body.

"Instead of crying, I keep ejaculating." --Jonathan Ames

“Instead of crying, I keep ejaculating.” –Jonathan Ames

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Like a responsible W(anker), I went to P(ee). When I wiped—i.e. patted myself down—a dab of blood stared back at me with its mean, Cyclops eye. This time my eyebrows did not jump, nor did my eyes bulge like those of Harold Ramis spotting a ghost. Bleeding, I felt less broken. Resolved. Smiling at the spot conspiratorially, I flushed it down the toilet with fibers of filthy thoughts.

I ain't afraid of no ghost

I ain’t afraid of no ghost

What’s a little non-menstrual bleeding, anyway?

Hey baby can you bleed like me. C’mon baby can you bleed like me.

—Shirley Manson, ginger extraordinaire

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POSTMORTEM: To Be Continued

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