Tag Archives: sex

On Becoming Someone Else

12630882_10208245045394245_229427756_o

It’s complicated.

Since the day I  started keeping records, my primordial thoughts were about a Jeff. Jeff, et al. Jeff in all his incarnations. The first diary I ever kept began,

I like Jeff. Jeff is in my class.

And then a quick nod to my coordinates in space:

Today is Friday.

Once I even cut a life-sized boy out of a roll of paper and walked around the neighborhood with it, until the real boys who lived down the street saw what I was doing and laughed me back into the house. That’s the thing about boys. Boys weren’t weird. They were practical. They weren’t dumbed down by a love of plastic dolls, ABBA ballads, or a chronic need to tuck blankets around everything until it was nice and cozy. And they sure as shit didn’t walk the block with a paper girl.

Maybe that’s why I got crushes on the mischievous Jeffs of the world, the troublemakers who got sent to the principal’s office, the ones too poor even to be cool. They operated outside the system that had me trapped; they had a nihilist sort of courage to do wrong and the balls to pretend they didn’t give a shit. They didn’t need to be cozy. They probably didn’t even use blankets.

My penchant for Jeffs became a chronic condition in adulthood. They were the types who didn’t care about much beyond their own dicks (a fact they’d never admit). They’d say instead, baby don’t get all deep n shit.  Their aggrandized masculinity contained something frightening and foreign that I wanted to own. I wanted to study their skill set and their physical style, I wanted to be on the winning side of that roughness and intimidation. I longed to absorb their mannerisms, chemically react to their smell and plug my face into their naked bodies. My instincts told me that the only way a girl like me could ever stake a permanent flag on Mt. Man, was by fucking it.

IMG_2204 (1)

Cross-crawling. It’s like Parkour                   for lonely people.

really lonely people.

 

The only problem was that I am in fact, secretly, quintessentially, regrettably deep n shit. I wanted to feel whole, and a relationship based solely on sex left me in roadkill condition. So, at the inevitable break-up, the part of me that had bloomed now receded painfully into hyper sleep. It was the maleness I grieved most– even though it had ignored me and slipped the beloved D to someone else –  I mourned it. I’d felt so alive! And now look at me, half dead. Forgotten. Staring down the void. Wait. I know how to fix this! Let’s find another one.

This is how I got hooked on men.

12596773_10208249708710825_1881017440_o

But don’t take my word for it. Take Edie’s.

Writing Crash Bang Burn was about embracing this alleged half-dead side. Instead of crashing, banging and burning, I made my characters do it – over and over. Poor things. But it was a way of taking my demons for a walk without letting them off the leash. The goal was neither desecration nor worship –  I just wanted to scratch the itch without tearing my skin off for a change.  I wanted to get one teensy step removed from the rejection and grief that seemed, for me, to be the predicable and perpetual female experience. Instead of it being my cross to bear, it was now, quite literally, Braylee and Edie’s.

But when I was done writing the book, I was by no means done being the puppetmaster. I had just begun. I was compelled to step into their diametrically opposed shoes and gather witnesses for the revival.  I needed cameras because hey, not everyone is a reader. Edie and Braylee would be easy to act out. After all, Edie was a caricature of who I wished I wasn’t and Braylee is kinda who I wished I was.

But Cross. Cross was a different story.

pppp

Hell, I’d fuck me/him/it

Cross wasn’t just any guy. He was every guy. He was an amalgamation of all I loved and hated about men, about the south, about sex. He was the street drug I could never get enough of, even as I bled out. How was I going to animate him? I figured I should find some supermale actor to play him. But no, that wouldn’t do. They might get it wrong. Plus I didn’t need real; I’d had enough real to last a decade. I needed control. I needed a laugh. And anyway, who better to nail Cross than the one who’d been nailed the hardest?

What would I wear, I asked myself, if I were a dude?  And so began the experience called “trying on men’s clothes.”

I wiped off all my makeup and strapped on a rubber dick. I found some boxer briefs, buckled on a pair of men’s pants and took a few paces across the room.

The first thing I’d like to note is, wearing a dick is very distracting. Your sex is literally wagging around like a goddamn panhandler. It wants to proposition everything you’re looking at, even the wall or the door jamb. Dick informs your every step. Dick makes you sit and walk different.  You can’t just put it out of your mind. Dick is always….right…there. It gently carjacks your senses. Or Car-jeffs.

12636908_10208242285925260_1455756974_o

It’s really hard to stop touching it

Next I put on men’s boots, pinned on some foam superman muscles and wrapped an ace bandage around my tits. I cocked my jaw, put on a ball cap, checked the mirror – and somewhere in that series of steps, I disappeared.  The same way you might disappear into a hot bath or the driver’s seat of a Ferrari.  I wouldn’t call it transcendent. But it’s the kind of ahhhh that put my yearnings at ease. I felt my whole center of gravity shift. I swaggered. I swooned. Look at me, I thought. Holy shit. Finally, instead of trying to crawl under a man’s skin, I was actually in it.  Behold, my fix was here before me, staring back in the mirror, awaiting orders. But this time there would be no tears upon extraction. The circuit was contained and closed. I could peel him on, skewer him, adore him, and then pack him up in the closet as needed.

I was going to need to. A lot.

12636986_10208249970117360_1928583873_o

Retired mattress is unintentionally                                 symbolic

The first time I walked into a crowded bar dressed as Cross, the thing that hit me hardest was how completely under the radar I had become. Nobody, male or female, sized me up. I was neither bait nor competition. I was the looker, not the lookee.  I had stepped outside the whole fucking female paradigm. I was free.

But I think the really good shit hit the fan after I got a film crew to capture me acting as all three characters.  I wrote the script and then I  buttoned up like sweet naive Edie, waiting for Cross with baited breath. Then I melted down like hot little Braylee and told him to get the fuck outta my trailer. And finally, I glued on my facial hair, spat my dip into a bottle, looked deep into the camera, and became Cross:

red

Well, at least that’s how it felt.

When I returned home that night, with my three identities and spare dick in a bag,  I went through the usual motions. I flipped on the light, hung up my keys, bent down by the the cupboard to get out a bowl, and then, unexpectedly, dropped to a knee. I stared into the back of the dark pantry and happy-cried. Hard. Happy crying, how can I explain this sensation? I know all about sad-crying but this shit was new to me. Imagine feeling so fucking complete that you literally overflow with liquid gratitude. I guess I’d stumbled upon a part of me that had been buried for like, 30 years.  Oh yeah, I’m an actor. I’m a goddamn motherfucking actor, people. I forgot. I had three kids, got stranded in Georgia and I completely forgot. Then one day, I dressed up like a dude and remembered who I fucking was.

And to think, it all started with sad little Edie in a bar bathroom, trying to become someone else.

Dear Diary,

I like Jeff. I think I’m going to dress up like him and film a split-screen sequence making out with myself.

Today is Friday.

 

 

 

copyright © K. Dawn Goodwin 2016

 

 


The Epoch of Blahh

me 2.6 con

On the drive over, I came upon two dogs humping in the road. Their retinas reflected my headlights, refusing to move aside.  The last time I’d driven to a man’s house for sex, I’d passed a dog that had gotten run over on the double yellow lines.  So maybe this was a step in the right direction.  Or at least that was slightly less  dead.

Don’t be shy, he’d texted me, twenty minutes before.   You may get a kiss at the door.

A kiss at the door, huh. Cue the  release of adrenaline-laced butterflies, just south of the border.

He was from the Epocch of Suches – such a face, such a body – physical attributes that incite saliva and blood and elicit cell memory and blot out the decision-making sun. Those things had left such a fissure behind, dragging across the landscape like a melting glacier.  The Epoch of Suches.  Almost grown in now, filled in with shrubs and weeds, and soon: one black minivan.

I’d only seen him once before – supple lips and saturated forearms and silence, eyes shaded under a ballcap, all the trappings of the instinctive and careless, hot southern boy.

At the stoplight I checked the dials in my dashboard: all read-outs steady. The clock said 11:30. Meanwhile the ones on the inside were looping round and round, losing altitude.  His texts had come in hot and heavy all afternoon, driving me to distraction, eventually driving me to his door, leaving every important task undone.  Not just undone, completely invisible.  Lust was like that, your very own internally manufactured nicotine and dopamine and ephedrine supply.  My charged electrons were bumping into his,  equally excited and equally opposed, unable to power anything.

In a few minutes he was going to undo everything, he was going to get up on the inside, I was going to touch whatever I wanted, orally fixate to my heart’s content, and in the process lose my groove, my composure, my self-respect, strewn out my open car window like paper as I politely excused myself down into the ditch.

Oh but it was all so new!  And also, the same as always.

Most days weren’t like this. Most days, young men were a thing of the past. Most days consisted of  plastic bags and car keys and my hair like an old scratchy blanket. The choking smell from the plastic factory nearby. The  dead cement depot overhead, on the hilltop by the railroad tracks. The trains always heaving forward, always leaving, then coming right back. They  were so identically plain that I completely forgot: I was young too.

It’s not that I didn’t notice men. Men outside the  pawn shop awning, smoking and staring.  Men laying concrete, men driving trucks, men loading equipment, men with their girlfriends at the store. I deflected eye contact; I only did doubletakes from behind the safety glass of my minivan.

“Almost there,” I texted.

 Hmm, he replied, lighting up my screen. Can’t wait.

In his driveway, I stared long and hard at his pickup, an extension of his naked body.  A porch light came on, casting a cold light. His unfamiliar form appeared in the opened screen door.

“I saw these dogs…in the road,” I mumbled, nonsensically, climbing the cement steps.

“Yeah,” his voice was so gravelly, like the air in his throat was dragged down a dirt road too. “I was worried it would be hard for you to find.”

The initial arrows of conversation had each missed their mark.  There was no kiss. Inside, a mud room with an  old washing machine.

“Hi,” I said finally, and cracked a joke about something, anything.

He said nothing.

“I’m keeping the light off, it’s a mess,” he said, and turned his back to lead me through a cold, pitch black room. I soaked him up from top to bottom, t-shirt, and a muscly, narrow ass in soft sweatpants.  Sleeping clothes.  Taller than before.  His hand reached back for mine, to lead me through the dark.  Startled by the gesture, I reached forward and took it, shockwaves rippling up my arm. All the prior digital sex, the robotic syntax and exposed pictures, all of it safe and non-tactile, nothing approximating a held hand.  It immediately flooded my circuits. Everything I really wanted,  previously on lockdown, was suddenly set loose in my system.

The darkness gave way to a tiny warm bedroom and a glowing space heater.  Gray light from a murmuring TV flashed from an adjoining room. His sheets were pulled back, his phone near his pillow, waiting on my texts. And whoever else’s probably.

I froze, not knowing what to do.  He maybe said something then, something obtuse and dumb, but all I heard was the gritty growl.  My purse and my clothes, where to put them?  Where to stand, what to do. I could barely see his face and body it was so dim, I needed more light to see. I slipped off my boots and sat on the edge of his bed  as if it was the deep end. He sat next to me, and after one long awful awkward silent moment, there was one little kiss ,then another.

It felt like nothing at first, like kissing a wall. But only because of the delay while serotonin and dopamine dumped hard, polluting the bloodstream with fog and bliss.  My god, it was so good to sweep pastthe boundaries of appropriate distance, erode the mile high walls with a fingertip.  I slid back on the bed and watched him undress, the shadows hiding behind the ridges of his bare chest. He had a good body, but so what, big fucking deal. But  I stared hard, memorizing.

I shed mine too, and slithered up on top of him, eye to eye, skin on skin, ready for the intake, the uptake, the all-consuming meld. He reached his fingertip and tucked back a loose strand of my hair. I froze, still as a mouse, letting him.  What was that supposed to be, exactly?  Tenderness? Some  mutation therein?  A bomb went barreling down to the core, burrowing below the magma. It registered a direct hit to my fortress, but I covered it up with my teeth,  slipped it under my tongue, overrode it with purring, writhing hips.

He was getting it in now, and I was awash in the body buzz that comes from being roughed up, hollering out a year of pent up days. But all the sound and fury was predictable novelty really, stuff  worthy of an omg in a forgettable email. But his fingertip on that lock of hair, imitating love. His hand holding mine, as if he cared — these tiny insignificant variables were the ones you had to watch out for. These were tricky.

And then it was over.  Thirty minutes, maybe? Forty-five?  Somehow, I had actually believed it would go on forever. Or at least an hour.

I laid with his arm under my neck, chest heaving, blood in my ears, breathing long and deep. I wanted to curl into the heat of his right flank, to cool into a pretty mess and light down on a placid lake of Twilight-grade togetherness. For a minute I skimmed this ridiculous  yearning, gliding face to face above it, longing to  rest fully on his sprawled body, and sleep.  But my mouth was dry, so instead I swallowed.  It was the loudest sound in the room. He stirred, and I lifted my head and sat up, looking around, wondering what to do. I did not belong here. I wanted to belong here. I was rendered into a statue, hovering slightly outside my body.

“You can stay if you want,” he said. And I grabbed with both hands at this chance to get my cool back.

I stood up beside the bed and began picking up my clothes, readying to leave, watching him watch me.

Only when I was fully dressed did he flick the bedside light.  Strange. I could see his smile for the first time, white teeth  in the warm yellow light.  Stupid hot boy. An effortless checkmate. I kissed him at the door. He didn’t kiss back.

He never came back for more.  I was so sure he would.  I was so sure that my splendidly ecstatic nude form had created a disturbance in his force.  But no, not even a smallish one.  He’d finished the race while I tumbled off the track. It took a full week to get the outstretched hand out of my system, the feel of an actual arm under my neck, his mouth taking me down.

“I know him,” my hair dresser told me a few weeks later. I’d forgotten the cardinal rule of small towns:  they are very fucking small. “Only wants one thing, okay. When he gets it, he’s gone.”

I guess I’d known that. But what about me being the exception. What about me being sexually exceptional. What about me and my sex-ceptional self.

“Trust me,” she said, reading my face. “It’s not just you.  He did the same thing to me. And one of my friends.”

.

copyright © K. Dawn Goodwin 2016

READ MORE 


%d bloggers like this: