misterpoop

That girl. The blond one with a face like a pug. Jay thought she was cute: nice rack and all. Dairies for gravity and a tribe of progeny. Butter face, I thought: but her face. I had imagined her sniffing around the back side of my balls, her little tongue, pink and darting ferreting out dingle berries. Her face jabbing up ward like a pig snorting for truffles. but these werent my balls. They were Jays. Hes the one who went home with her. I woke up from the dream and jerked off to the image. Her name was Trisha and she was employed as a paint peeler on the upper west side. She specialized in truck bumpers and old dumpsters. When she walked she jiggled and I imagined myself ejaculating inside of her quickly: three or four pumps before rolling over to turn on the Television. But I dont own a television so I picked up a copy of Celine and began dodging words and images until I couldnt take it anymore and took a walk to Sakura Park and drank coffee beneath the spring cherries and wondered where the hell I was headed in this life. This life that Ive tried so many times to end. This life that now I couldnt bare to leave. So full of lust and ache and love for life I had to quell the urge to eat the very dirt beneath my feet. It seemed that I was to consume the entire universe with lust as it was simultaneously engulfing me. A commensurable fulcrum kept me suspended in air, like all thoughts in that moment before orgasm. I sat there floating, holding my coffee as if it were a lotus flower. Perhaps I became a Lotus flower with the effulgence of my efflorescence arising out of the filth in my life. I began to wonder how this was at all possible, particularly for a man like myself, a depraved man with a disturbing deficiency of morals, to feel any love at all! And here I was ready to eat the very dirt beneath my feet because of this intense love I was experiencing, this love for everything in the universe, including Trisha who I had just moments before objectified as a mere vessel for sperm. Clearly I was not well. My love which manifested itself in this desire to consume and be consumed, to fuck and get fucked by everything began to undermine my identity. (Which I will admit, was fairly shoddy in the first place.) Was I then objectifying everything, including myself. And who was I? What was I? Am I an archetypal penis? or just a figurative dick head? Love and sex began to meld into this indistinguishable fog so that sex became love and love became sex but they were both, neither sex or love. Just this energy. Was it penis energy? Did this energy demand and object. Is this because I am male and inherently an objectifier, or was the universe trying to explain to me that with out an Object there could be no love, and that love needed a subject to manifest and therefore, ipso facto subject becomes object, that in fact Love needed a specificity, a sort of landing pad where it could materialize. Otherwise it was just this amorphous haze. And therefore I was in fact Love incarnate with my objectifications. Is this nonsense? If so, were my sexual fantasies in fact, poisonous psychic energies that I had unleashed upon the universe which had been thus rejected and so had come full circle to attack the very thing that created them. Which was me. Me me me me me me. And who is that. They were dismantling me atom by perverted atom.
I couldnt figure it out then, and I cant figure it out now, long after the feeling has left. There is a part of me that thinks that if I were a woman, I wouldnt be writing this. Perhaps I would just know, I would understand. Id be writing about something finer. Id be in touch with higher vibrations like flowers in bloom and the subtle shift of someones body language as the desired object entered the room. Or a man might lean over to reach for the salt and pepper and I would sense the testicular tension of his body. The taught sinews and misguided ideas of women but not care because he could never know what its like to take someone into you or to have someone growing inside you like a warm glowing flower or depending on your orientation, a sebaceous cyst which is then taken out of you to continue the long march, someone to take up the flag and fuck the world up some more. I have no answers for this and wonder if Ive just wasted many precious hours of my life. I have, That girl. to thank for this and wonder if Jay has to suffer these thoughts too. I still think of her from time to time though Ive only met her once and havent seen her in six months or more. I cant even remember what she looks like but Im sure if I were to see her again I would recognize her. Its been nearly one half of a year since that time in Sakura park. It is now, November 27. Its a Sunday and warm for the season, and for one brief moment I again feel it, this feeling of love, the same as when I was in Sakura park only briefer. I feel that Im going to implode with love, that I could wrap my arms around the world. I feel floating and massive and wonder if its because, the former disgust that I had felt for the denizens of this world has lifted: Like a curse or like Ive been cured of a disease. I feel that I am at once entering and entered like that snake that eats its own tail. I begin to wonder if I am at least learning what it feels like to be a man like the time I thought I knew what it was like to be a woman. At the time, I was working at a dimly lit gay bar as a cocktail waiter and kept getting my ass grabbed. I was fondled quite often and thought if Im going to get fondled for six hours a night, I needed to make more than a hundred and twenty dollars, and so I quit. It has since occurred to me that theres more to being a woman than being fondled and ogled by men who try to imagine what there penis looks like in their hand. It also occurred to me that I could never know what its like to be a woman, try as I may; I am inherently a man, and one with a shoddy identity at that. I am a sort of pig snorting for truffles in the dark, trying over and over again to learn what it means to love. What it really means.