Tonight I stumbled upon a memory from a bit over a year ago. I was revisiting an old journal trying to locate this great quote from Anthony Bourdain, from Kitchen Confidential. The quote reads, "It was boiling up the line like a drano enema."
I was hunting the quote because it perfectly describes something I've been feeling. I'm growing an angry state of mind. I taste bile, a seething acridity under my surface, under a layer of makeup and jewelry and perhaps perfume. Bitterness is boiling up my line. And I was going to write something witty about that tonight, but I guess that's for another time, because tonight I veered into my past, and read from my own hand about a time when I did not know such anger, when I was only beginning this journey that has led me to this place.
It seems appropriate to share the memory as my introduction here. My own sexuality is the greatest thing I've learned over the past two years, after all. I wiped away tears reading it tonight, though, because when I wrote it, the emotion expressed was so pure and uncluttered. Even my total naivete then seems beautifully pure and young, as though the reality of life has aged me, and knowledge has pulled me from cotton candy clouds and sugar plum eating unicorns to something stale and plain. I cried a little, because I remember feeling it keenly in my soul, without doubt of any kind. I KNEW it, a pure, raw emotion, an insatiable intensity. And it was full of possibilities, a thousand epiphanies to unfold, the world a budding flower waiting for me. Knowledge makes things so complicated, really. .. it's not as carefree anymore, and I haven't seen a unicorn. My experiences since then have left me unsure, muddled. Angry.
But this is what I wrote.
Slumming
I don't want to write it if it comes off as negative to you, because it's not negative to me. There's comfort in the dirtiness of our encounters. He has one main desire and it isn't my mind, it isn't the gracefulness in my step nor the delicate curve in my neck. Subtleties are lost with him. It's my cunt that brings him here. Don't talk of dreams or fears or other piddly girl shit, he says. Just bend over. or spread. And instead of getting offended, I throw caution aside and move into him with abandon. Feminist notions disappear like his chivalrous charms that weren't. It's not gussied up with niceties; it is bare, exposed, and therefore, truthful. Who is slumming? Who has scraped the barrel? Keep scraping, I say.
