I started ejaculating. My friend died. I wrote a novel. I learned to make perfume.
And I’m still sitting here wondering how to write. How to write about sex and death and squirting. Writing never comes easy to me, even when something flows simply and freely. Writing is putting words out there, outside the safe confines of myself, and when you write those words are no longer a part of you. Not anymore. There is something to be said of people who have the courage to share their stories.
I’m not always that person. I don’t like writing about myself unless I’m really writing about something else. And in the midst of all these things (the sex, the death, and the squirting) I’m facing this fact. That this is not the type of work I really want to do or really set out to do. Or at least all the time.
Because I have stories that I do not tell. Stories that I can’t let outside of myself, not necessarily because I am ashamed or afraid or haven’t risen to a certain higher consciousness. Sometimes because I know they won’t be understood. These stories are so organic to me. They lay roots in me. Sometimes it just hurts too much to uproot them.
I’m finally understanding that that’s ok.
Coming out, for example, is a narrative not all of us are afforded. I do not tell my coming out story. But, when I came out “again,” I did so hesitantly like I was peeking out between curtains before opening a door. I didn’t do so alone. I did it alongside this friend. This friend who was here and now isn’t. Together we tried to claw our way out of the claustrophobic blue collar limitations we were born into and tried all the more to imagine a future. There’s a certain type of violence in becoming — in moving and changing towards a self that feels real or true. We clawed and clawed our way out of the boxes we had been thrown into and out to a new understanding of ourselves. Sometimes our sharp edges found each other.
I was formed by the life of a friend who isn’t here anymore. I wonder how often we limit our conversations about sex and death. We usually talk about partners. The world seems obsessed with partners and romance and the confines of particular relationships. But so much of my sexuality was developed alongside, without directly physically contacting, someone else.
And here I am sitting and writing. Trying to think about how to describe this shift that I’ve undergone. Ways I am now that I wasn’t so shortly ago, and now am. Why is that?
How do we describe a relationship? How can I make a story out of what now only belongs to me and memory of you and I and you are no longer here? How do I make that legible? Should I?
A relationship that was once here and now isn’t.
The lines I found under my eyes the day after I found out he was dead. I swore on my life they weren’t there before.
My body now ejaculating, as if it always had. Nonchalantly, this power that was there maybe and now I see clearly. Easily.
These parts (so many!) of me that I neglected, that I left unfinished. A stack of issues 8 years high. Was it always there?
Well, yes and no.
Different. It felt like all at once everything was inverse. Backwards. Suddenly, I didn’t have my body figured out. Suddenly, I didn’t know how to grieve or what to do with the mountains and mountains of things that I have not dealt with. Suddenly, I needed to reorient myself to my body, to others, to my writing. I see that I got lost trying to be a writer that I am not. That I prescribed a bit too freely to a sex-positive paradigm that I will always be skeptical of.
And my body. Different too.
If you had told me that slowing down would have been the thing to help me ejaculate, I would have laughed at you. And now I’m embarrassed that I would have laughed. Because I see how silly I’d been. I was really attached to the books and the information and the outside knowledge. So much so, that I put myself, my body, my experiences second.
I had it figured out! (I thought) I know and claim how I like to have sex (rough and fast and as hard as humanly possible). Isn’t it great to have it all figured out?
I came to know how much I enjoy slow, deep strokes. Maybe it’s because I don’t have that so much outside my sexual relationship myself.
So, quietly I retraced the contours of my desire, my response, my pleasure. The darker parts, too. Loss, the pain of becoming, and the necessity of becoming over and over again.
I’ve been thinking about that loss and that change. I’ve been trying to just write. And writing doesn’t come easy. But when I confronted the fact that I might always feel like shit when I write (especially when I write about sex and that is my chosen field), that I may always face my childhood fears of rejection and humiliation around writing and sex, I learned that I could write about four thousand words a day.
For now, I’m not going to requesting any new toys for a while. I will, however, be finishing the ones I have still do (sorry people) and I will continue and push myself to write book reviews, but I want to follow the impulse I’ve been having for awhile which is that I want do the type of writing that scares me. Honestly, I feel buried under a pile of dildos, and there is a lot of writing just sitting in my head waiting to be put outside of myself here.
Stories that I am ready to uproot.
What this sex and death and squirting has shown me is that I want to create more and respond less. I want to melt back into my gushy, lofty, ambitious dreams, and especially for where I want to go as a blogger. There was a perfect storm to remind me, quite literally, that I need to slow down. To let me know that I was barreling over sensation instead of reveling in it.
When I arrived at the storm of sex and death and squirting, I realized I wasn’t be honest with myself. There is still a lot to do.