eyelids flicker flutter
universe a miniature
warm wind captures
eyelids flicker flutter
universe a miniature
warm wind captures
I wonder if you were to stand on your head and spread your legs, would I be able to breed mosquito larvae in a stagnant pool of water in your cunt? Would all the blood gone to your head permanently altar the chemistry of your internals? Would you forget your times tables and proper etiquette at the dinner table?
If I stood you up normal ways and kissed you, would you let my tongue inside to taste your last meal or would you block me with your teeth? If I pressed my chest to yours with enough force, would our breasts merge or simply burst? If I put my hand inside your pants, would I find human sized caviar?
If I sung to you, would your body begin to vibrate and hum in response? Would your eyes close as you fell into a dreamless slumber? Would the deep relaxation melt your bones and muscles so that you collapsed to the floor all floppy and soft?
Would you feel it if I squashed your mushy flesh between my toes? Would tears of hurt and sadness fall down your cheeks? Would you remove me from your social media and stop replying to my text messages?
Ours is not a conventional marriage, if it were it never would have lasted, never would have happened in the first place, I’m too weird, you’re too weird, we don’t easily fit into standard shapes.
But we’ve been together over 10 years now and married for almost 5 and over this time I’ve only fallen for you deeper, only loved you more passionately, only come to know down to the marrow in my bones that I want to spend the rest of my existence in partnership with you.
I don’t often write about my love for you, why is that? Perhaps because I feel self-conscious, we coexist in such harmony that speaking aloud about it makes me concerned that I might come across as smug and self-satisfied but how ridiculous is that? The world needs more beauty and love and kindness and our relationship has those things in spades so maybe I should speak up about it just a little more. Here, I’ll try.
You are my rock. You have been there, unwaveringly there through the hardest, darkest stretches of my life, through my deepest depressions and most violent of traumas and instead of perceiving me as weak or broken, you have seen my battles and only loved me more for the ways in which I silently struggle onwards.
You are my friend. We passionately rant at each other about the things that make us mad, we excitedly ramble about the things which excite and thrill us. We do stupid dances and tell moronic jokes like giggly, puerile five-year-olds. I tell you all my secrets, my wildest dreams, my deepest fears and you hold them like gemstones.
You are my lover. In a relationship of 10 years long, sex is something which ebbs and flows and changes over time but what has remained consistent is the fact that I find you absurdly, ridiculously sexy and it delights me that we have a physical connection and attraction which I suspect might persist long after our bodies have wrinkled and sagged. Also, you have a big dick so that’s pretty cool.
You are my collaborator. We make art and comedy together of which we are so incredibly proud and driven by. You understand how fundamentally important my art is to me and have only ever supported me as a creative, never once questioning my priorities.
You are my conscience. You are one of the most deeply principled people that I know and because of that, it is hard for me to get away with bullshit, you are like a mirror held up to me with compassion, you make me want to do better, be better. You stand by what you believe and it motivates me to do the same.
You are so smart, so strong, so strange, so sexy. You are my husband and my partner and that gives me a sense of security in the world but it never feels like a cage. With you I am free to be entirely myself, to express and inhabit every aspect of the things that are important to me. With you I am held, with you I am loved, with you I am free.
I love the shape of the life we’ve made for ourselves, I love the rules we wrote for ourselves, I love you, you bald, lanky, beautiful idiot.
Tonight I am wallowing in a psychological rut. Letting go is so much easier when you’re moving forward, it’s this reality of my physicality that forces me to be still until the pain decreases.
If the pain decreases. God it takes so long and the surgery has caused new issues that at least are not the same issues but I’m forced once again to sit still. So I read Buddhist philosophy and meditate and tell myself I’m teaching myself to sit more comfortably with the unavoidable reality of suffering and sometimes I feel so proud of my resilience, of how I can weather the most violent and painful internal storms. Sometimes I feel so wise, so connected, so grateful, so much love and so I work to keep my focus on the beauty that is a purring cat on my lap, a storm of autumn leaves on the road, my mother humming in the kitchen, a lover telling me I am beautiful.
And I am getting better at sitting in this stillness, there are moments when I feel the reality of my body and accept it with grace and calm. There are more of those moments now as I have begun to let go of needing to meet any standards but for the ones that are realistic and kind. Everything is easier now that I am kind to myself.
Easier but not easy. Sometimes I look at my life and see how much of it has been spent from a place of enforced stillness, watching as everything moves and grows and shifts around me and I am forced to wait while my body ages and my face starts to sag. I no longer want to dwell in the bitter taste of envy when I behold the able-bodied who know not the privilege of doing without thought, I no longer want to feel as if I might die when I watch other people paint or play music or do whatever they love with unnoticed freedom. But when months go by and I am unable to pick up a pencil or brush without unworkable pain… well, to pretend that isn’t devastating would be a lie. It’s grief, it still is, maybe it always will be.
There is that temptation to fall into that grief and succumb to an overwhelming hopelessness like I once would have. I can see why I wanted to go there in the past, I can see the horrifying way in which giving up would have been a relief. This existing in my crippled and chronically painful body is hard work, it requires constant vigilance, such intense internal work, such a deep and brave and thorough exploration of myself, my worth. It requires the ability to stare into the cold face of reality and unrealisable dreams, it requires the ability to resolve to keep trying and loving and hoping no matter what. It requires a dogged determination to perceive the beauty and tenderness in whatever I might face, no matter how utterly cold and cruel it all seems.
It requires a deep humbleness, an uncompromising kindness and a gentler hold on my own ego. It requires the careful cultivation of people who can hold space with me through light and dark, sickness and health. Compassion has become non-negotiable.
Tonight I am wallowing in a psychological rut. Tonight I may cry for an hour and feel entirely bereft and alone. Tonight I might not be ok. Tomorrow I may step outside and notice something overwhelmingly beautiful such as the drama of sunlit storm clouds. Tomorrow I may read a book that takes me out of myself. Tomorrow I might have a drink with friends who make me feel loved and content. It’s light and dark just every day, it’s pain and joy just every day. The magical highs, the tedious lows, much of it is unavoidable and inevitable so I might as well learn what I can from it all. I hope, no matter what, that I can learn to navigate the entire spectrum of experience with equilibrium, curiosity and dignity.
Unfolding. I am unfurling. The look in your eyes tells me that can I continue to do so, that you approve, that I am safe. Your words are enthusiastic consent for me to keep on going with this showing of myself to yourself. You tell me I am beautiful and brave. The second compliment means the most and makes the first one stick.
New. That feeling, that thrilling feeling, of discovering someone whose words feel like gifts, whose mind feels like a new country to discover, their body a new territory to traverse. Through this newness and awakeness, one discovers new tastes within themselves such as my love for sending you videos of dancing dappled light and the way I want to mask you in shimmering make-up and then let you have your way with my flesh.
Your strange solitary sweetness touches the deepest parts of me and I find myself perceiving myself as something warm and light and sexy and good. You are moonlight I am sunlight and we both glow so beautiful in appreciation of one another. I feel myself expand with hope, with excitement, with the wonder of realising how little we can ever know about what the future might hold.
I am wet and tense with pent up passion but… but gently. I hope to hold you gently, sweet one, and hope that we might both be kind.
My name is Jessie and I am a slut.
I own this identity so that it cannot be thrown against me as a weapon, though of course it still will. I own this identity because it feels like a bold sort of defiance, a refusal to sit down, to be quiet and to close my legs.
My sluttiness is a sort of overabundance, a “too much” – my shirts reveal too much cleavage, my selfies reveal too much skin, I have too much sex, I take too much pleasure, I have too many lovers, I speak too freely, I’m too comfortable inhabiting my own flesh, too comfortable using it for my own purposes. I do none of this to offend or upset, in fact it hurts me that the fact of my existing as I am is a source of disgust, judgement and paternalistic concern for others but the fact is that I exist this way because of my absolute commitment to being exactly who I am.
I am a slut because I love sex, I love the filth, fun, freedom and I love the profound connection. It is a fact of my personality and principles that I refuse to live my life in fear, refuse to make my decisions out of cowardice, my commitment is to the truth as I perceive it and the truth I perceive is that sex is an undeniable force, that denying it turns its powers dark, ugly and dangerous. Repression is a sickness that I refuse to bear.
My sluttiness does not mean I am without boundaries nor that I have low self-esteem. Though learning my boundaries has been a process throughout the years as I carve out my own path, I have a profound awareness of my own value as a lover and choose my connections carefully. I do sometimes enjoy the feeling of power that comes from being admired for my physical attractiveness but this does not mean I see it as my only value, I simply enjoy inhabiting this body of mine and utilising the gifts it has given me.
I am a slut because I have used my body for profit, I had sold images of my body for money to travel and buy art supplies when my options have been otherwise limited, I have made porn for the sheer fun of it, I have sold my sexual services when exploring ways in which I, as a disabled woman with limited employment options, might be able to pursue some degree of financial autonomy. I have no shame about profiting from my body and sexual skills, but for the discomfort I feel when I am judged and shunned and silenced by the greater world.
I’m a slut because I’ve been dominated and spanked and tied in rope at kink clubs, I’m a slut because my house parties have broken into spontaneous orgies, I’m a slut because I’ve publically orgasmed in front of big crowds of people, I’m a slut because I have multiple lovers who I adore, I’m a slut because I have a husband I’ve been with for over ten years who I still fuck on a regular basis.
I’m a slut, it is a fact without value but for that which you impose upon me. I hope, for both our sakes, that you can see I am no less human or valuable than you. I hope, for both our sakes, that you realise if you judge a woman for her sex life, you are trapped in a hateful and misogynistic mindset. I hope, for both our sakes, that you can open up your mind and heart.
I am a slut and I refuse to apologise for who I am. I’m a slut and I’m proud of who I am. I’m a slut and I’m happy with who I am. I’m a slut and I’m loved for who I am.
My name is Jessie and I am a slut.
The world is not your oyster
its flesh wasn’t made for you
to greedily slide into your mouth
and mindlessly consume
that girl is not your chattel
her form wasn’t made for you
to thrust yourself inside her skin
and violently abuse
those folk are not your servants
their homes were not made for you
to conquer with cold laws and guns
and silence their world views
that land is not your birthright
those woods were not made for you
to plunder with your steel machines
and utterly denude
the world is not your oyster
to mindlessly consume
in your castle built on bodies
of those fallen under you
the world is not your oyster
and as your fragile ego quakes
and the ocean drowns our people
we all pay for your mistakes