Brainstorming notes:<\/p>\n
Part One; or, How I Wound Up With An Ass Around My Cock and A Grateful Submission,\u00a0 \u201cDaddy, Please Stop, Please Daddy, Thank you, Daddy\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n B\/s:<\/p>\n It was too late for my mind to stay abreast of the images that were designed to taunt me. Too late, because\u2026 well, you\u2019ll see, but also for a second reason: it was late at night, and I\u2019d just walked into an empty apartment after a woman\u2019s yoga class. It felt good to step away from corporate box-farm, and into a space defined by the open minds within its walls (who knew that acceptance is judgment\u2019s better and younger sister, who could have spared mankind their pubescent warring and chest-thumping fetishes).<\/p>\n The elastic clothes make me feel tightly held, like a grip around a curved bow, like how I wish I could feel without makeup. I try and wear for as long as I can excuse, an opportunity to feel pampered without the risk of vulnerability. Not just physically, it reminds me, like an old scent, of the acceptance which I feel when stretching on my mat, knowing that together we are each alone contributing to the others\u2019 journeys.<\/p>\n The tactile serenity which my gym clothes could have been enough to explain what the images were \u2013 the context being that I was undressing, pulling black leggings off with the delicacy and patience of a geisha serving tea, every action purposeful, even the half-intended carelessness which scraped the very tips of my nails against my thigh, and the half-accidental disregard, which allowed the sensation to waft through my mind\u2019s window without any special notice or approval \u2013 my clothes could have primed me to see what was right in front of my face, but the simple fact is that I couldn\u2019t see what I couldn\u2019t imagine.<\/p>\n I was soon to learn that my inability to see what was heading for my face was the invalid excuse choked by any woman who\u2019d ever entertained an insect seeing their mouth as an open door policy. Foreign biological matter notwithstanding, I\u2019d been blind sighted by a higher game which treated me as an anonymous pawn, picked and dropped with a philosophy which favoured immediate utility over long term bonding.<\/p>\n My night time ritual hadn\u2019t changed in years, only the days of the week alternated office hours and weekends, and gym classes with runs in the park. Today was no different. Yoga, run run run (I know that I don\u2019t need to lose weight, but was talking to my supervisor, who runs marathons, about the meditative aspect), then wine, then shower, then bed with a laptop and maybe The L Word<\/em>.<\/p>\n The laptop was on my lap, my lap was enveloped in a blanket, and my whole head felt enveloped by a fuzzy static, undoubtedly derived from the merlot selected solely for its alcohol content. I took another sip.<\/p>\n The email seemed ordinary enough, \u201cFollowing up on Equal Work Means Equal Workers discussion from meeting, I found this link which we could use as a basis for communication.\u201d We\u2019d had a vigorous discussion at the last group progress meeting. It felt good knowing I wasn\u2019t the only one still thinking about it.<\/p>\n As the link loaded, I realized that I would never allow any child I called my own to wear such arousing nightwear as what I\u2019d chosen. I loved the transition from supple yoga to relaxed shower to pliant bed-goer. It was like being the star on Broadway, hurrying from one glamorous costume to another, each showing another facet of her complicated personhood.<\/p>\n The link continued to load, and I sighed as I realized it was a vain and moot thought. I had no daughter, and the only way I could ever forbid a girl from dressing herself was if I was willing to be honest about my reasons. Which was why<\/em> it was moot: I can\u2019t imagine telling anyone just how special this high-quality sleep set was to me, and of course, I don\u2019t mean practically. Emotionally. They were from Modern Persia, whose brand name alone evoked the smell of spluttering oil wicks in harem halls, which cast their blinking halos onto an otherworldly festival of sparkling fountains, the most beautiful of woman being fed by bronze genies who fulfilled their mistresses wishes without the slightest pause or question. The specialized clothing was made of a singular complex fabric, alternating elaborate stitching with a translucent gauze, which was designed to hint, not reveal.<\/p>\n It wasn\u2019t the point. The point was that I<\/em> would not allow any daughter I taught to think that wearing something that looked like this was anything short of extraordinary. Perhaps not \u201cspecial\u201d, but \u201cnot to be given freely over an open heart\u201d.<\/p>\n The point was that the things she\u2019d said at the meeting, and then the way she\u2019s felt dizzy in the shower and wondered if she could call anyone if they would save her, and whether she\u2019d be helpless and forced to trust them as they carried her out of the bath and onto the bed.<\/p>\n The wine is disappearing, and I still don\u2019t know what I\u2019m looking at. Video. HR meeting. Psychologist last week said I needed to be more assertive. I proved that I could be more assertive. The designs our creative team had passed onto the sales team were at the very least, dubious, and possibly, utterly sexist. The designs were borderline pornographic, and if they had a claim to efficacy, it was in their streamlined ability to simplify women into cartoon avatars designed by gazing males; legs and ass, and pretty lips that quivered if a man so much as grunted their way.<\/p>\n I\u2019d done the right thing, I\u2019d done what the doctor ordered, and had done so with respect, even pausing to choose the masculine-friendly \u201cI think\u201d, to the \u201cI feel,\u201d which turned most men into gibbons.<\/p>\n The girl has a nice ass. This was the point (in her mental chatter) to which my study of the moving pictures had advanced. The images were unfolding their timeline in the glow of my computer screen, on my bed, my body partially hidden by blankets, and partly revealed by clothes that (were designed to) seduce by promising what cannot be freely delivered; reluctance.<\/p>\n Is this another marketing video? Because that girl is way too unrealistic. I wish I had an ass like that.<\/p>\n Why is it so awkward? The angle feels like whoever\u2019s holding it is trapped, a limb caught in the merciless jaws of an unthinking lasso. It\u2019s like they\u2019re being made to fit their environment, rather than manipulating their environment to serve their needs. What makes sense of this angle? I remembered puzzles on holidays, starting with corners and edges\u2026<\/p>\n Obviously, this was indoors. How did I not see what that was? It\u2019s the top of a head. Blonde, long and wavy like the honey pot in a 007 film. That\u2019s the back and top of the blonde\u2019s head, and then that must be a glass or mirror behind her?<\/p>\n Slow deductive reasonings drunkenly climbed a lumbering ladder of conclusions, until I suddenly saw the whole scene at once, and realized what was immediately obvious: the glass was nor a window, it was a mirror, hence the back of the woman\u2019s head reflected behind her. The mirror\u2019s showing her\u2026 kneeling. Praying? It sounded like a prayer when a soft voice, between a whisper and a weak plea, became the first sound to be heard, \u00a0\u201cGod, please, oh please. I never ask you for anything, but please, I need this, you don\u2019t understand how I need this.\u201d<\/p>\n I was confusing the desperate tenor for biological necessity (life and death, hah!), as if the kneeling faithful was begging for a boon to fix her broken heart (whom all doctors had diagnosed as though it\u2019s break was akin to Humpty Dumpty\u2019s fall).<\/p>\n It was only after<\/em> being perplexed by the angle of the camera, and by the specific nuances within the trust which the voice seemed to expect from me (how could it expect me to see it?), it was only after these trial-and-error thoughts-and-deductions that I noticed what was most unique about the scene.<\/p>\n What was unique was also not unique at all: Fashion.<\/p>\n I noticed the shades of green and white on the skirt and that was enough. The rest was proof of diligence, such as the range of deep verdant tones on a sweater which read (in reverse, per the mirror, hence her delay in reading), \u201cClass of 2018, because 17 is not the same as 18\u201d. It was the senior uniform from St Ambrosia\u2019s School for Honorable Young Ladies.<\/p>\n It wasn\u2019t the official sweater, of course. I would prefer immolation to being a hypocrite cog in a machine which telling girls to become women without considering their roles as ladies. She wishes she could explain what it meant to be given a market value against their companionship\u2019s worth (it was a dark calculus which progressed indubitably like geometry from Euclid\u2019s axioms, and by similar cause-to-effects, from low self-esteem amongst young ladies<\/em> to international slavery)<\/p>\n The official jumper read, \u201cClass of 2018, Honor the Work\u201d.<\/p>\n I have two reasons for knowing the slogans of a passing year level amongst schools which are as indistinct as they are varied.<\/p>\n The first was innocent and was an accident. I was looking for tampons. It was way outside normal times and places. I was helping an old friend, providing the skill to which I am least qualified, that is, looking after her children. I had finished putting the younger brats to bed when I saw the older daughter\u2019s school jumper. I admit that I got carried away, but it felt right, like my activist days. I probably shouldn\u2019t have stolen, but I promised that I was doing it for the young lady<\/em>, even if they would never agree explicitly.<\/p>\n That night I\u2019d taken hedge clippers, cutting the symbol of society\u2019s regression into roughly shaped strips, and sent my ex baby-siter a primer on Wollstonecraft to whet her pre-university teeth.<\/p>\n The second reason for recognizing the motto is not innocent, but it occurred innocently in a fate-willed parallel course. I had planned \u2013 irrespective of personal gender political beliefs \u2013 on using the destroyed patriarchal sweater amongst my props for stealing the Interior Education client away from the franchise holdings, and then for crucifying a headmaster who was only my client until he was fired. I was the bad bitch at the office, although no one would ever know just how Machiavellian I was willing to lowball.<\/p>\n I had planned on verbally humiliating the school\u2019s principal, who was obviously responsible for greenlighting our creative team\u2019s \u201cWoman are beautiful and so are girls\u201d dried bird shit. I imagined myself barging past the secretary, testosterone filling my throat with the confidence I needed to finish what I\u2019d started. I would never stop marching my own march. I deserve to be sexy without being seen as sexy. Why are pigs so quick to label others as rodents, when they disliked the label themselves\u2026 It was a complicated issue, I\u2019d work it all out before any strike.<\/p>\n All these thoughts were processed with the speed of a light beam caught between the refracting lenses of a reflective crystal mind. As I categorized and filed each thought according to my existential logic and prerogative, I felt the alcohol continue its raison d’etre (smoothening the barbs that threatened her, without caring) and snuggled beneath the doona, the goose down forcing its weight with a vocabulary of unexpected density and firmness. Everything would be alright.<\/p>\n It felt as if the world (the warm bed and clothes) were snuggling into me like a conscientious lover, but any such appearance was sleight of hand, and the same palm was slapping me in the face without displaying any dialectical contradiction. It was only my self-awareness that was delayed, buffered by shock and alcohol.<\/p>\n The shame and disbelief struck my chords of self-awareness well before any cognitive explanations voiced themselves within the cacophonous orchestra that was my mind. Something about what I\u2019d seen made me feel small and controllable, like a freak at an old travelling circus, or a lobster in the tank at restaurants.<\/p>\n It was probably ironic \u2013 I couldn\u2019t balance the legalese of dictionary definitions with my own sense for the meaning of things \u2013 that I was wondering whether my butt would look so perfectly bubble <\/em>at the same time as I was deploring the silent commodification that was the presumed sexuality of the female form. It was probably ironic that I called it a \u201cbubble but\u201d, which was a plainly diminishing term, but it\u2019s exactly what I would have named those contours of the plaited skirt seen in a mirror, in a video, on my screen, on my bed.<\/p>\n These weren\u2019t new thoughts and vulnerabilities. I\u2019d once sat on a city bench, watching the eyes and heads swivel and pirouette as they each directed their course way through streets[1]<\/sup><\/a> into doorways. Men\u2019s eyes would always find what they wanted most. Apparently, most men want a perfectly heart-shaped rear, stuffed \u2013 I knew it, even if the men didn\u2019t \u2013 into skirts and pants that were a least one size too small, and could only be entered by repeated tugs amidst gyrating hips. Or those men\u2019s gaze would find the suddenly exposed inch of cleavage, as a woman knelt to pick up a tissue stolen by the breeze. Or those hungry faces would file behind a pretty-thing, matching the pace of their quarry as though they were hunters seeking fresh meat for their hungry tribesmen.<\/p>\n So it didn\u2019t matter whether it was ironic, or hypocritical, because I knew what everyone was not<\/em> saying. However, what I didn\u2019t<\/em> know, and this drove me a little crazy sometimes, was not knowing just how far everyone saw me<\/em> in those ways.<\/p>\n I wouldn\u2019t trust any boobed creature who denied fantasizing about a builder who catches himself staring, or about the wolves of wall street who trip on the curb when shocked by their own helplessness before their own sexual urges. Which is to say, I didn\u2019t think it was wrong to want (in my own case, far less than average) to know whether my own butt would look so goddamn sexy in the same angle.<\/p>\n What is it about this cushy tushie that has me green with envy? It\u2019s something to do with the way it murmurs suppleness (implied by the taut thighs and calves that peaked above white socks), and the way those murmurs cover a melody written in the morse code of movements (first a mere suggestion, but eventually an undeniable back, and forth, and back and forth, and forth, and forth and back, and forth and back). The movements didn\u2019t announce themselves, but I had stared at their fulcrum\u2019s crevisse for too long and with too skilful intensity to ever not-see again. Whatever its cause, it was only human of me, and good-for-me at that.<\/p>\n That\u2019s when I heard a second voice. It rode a body made of acoustics and timbre and pitch, and these spelt a fear unknown since primary school. The recognition made me feel sick as though forced to cower against a world that didn\u2019t seem to ever care about me. \u201cDo you want to be a good cum bucket?\u201d<\/p>\n It wasn\u2019t the non-anthropic misanthropy which introduced me to a new urge to escape exposure. I felt a new type of naked. Even here in this bed, beneath blankets, wearing my cosiest lazy-wear, I can feel it stripping everything that hides me away.<\/p>\n That sense of dread accompanied the first moment of recognition. That was him<\/em>. That son of a bitch. Oh no. Fucking pig. Oh god, who sent this to me. What do they want?<\/p>\n \u201cYes, daddy. Please don\u2019t let mommy drink all your cum, I\u2019ll be a good girl this time.\u201d<\/p>\n Intellectually, I was behaving like an animal, but retrospective reevaluation looks like I was hypnotized. I couldn\u2019t look away. It was one particular area of the young woman\u2019s utterly desirable figure; the patch of skin, between the ends of the skirt and the long socks, as though painting the boundaries of sin and pleasure away from innocence and naive cunning.<\/p>\n If I was talking to my therapist, I would ask whether that patch of skin was an archetype for what I want him<\/em> to see and feel when he sees and thinks about me. The therapist would probably say that merely by being aware of the vestigial nature<\/em> of a feeling serves as motivating force for its rectification: men like him<\/em> don\u2019t look at women like me in that<\/em> way; men like him look into magic mirrors that hold nymphs that fulfil their every need.<\/p>\n There are some things I don\u2019t share ever, not even when protected by the seal of the therapist\u2019s oath. I refused to share the awareness of a mind\u2019s eye that saw that, even recoiling away from fear of rejection couldn\u2019t stop the warmth from seeping beneath my skin, as though there was a fire spirit which could pull my strings but ignore any I tried to lasso to make my own puppet.<\/p>\n Thus, drooped like Jasmine on a luxurious bed, pining for an unknown and unrealistic prince, but trapped by Jafar\u2026 I was at the end of a weird day, one which defied closure, instead leaving me with a talking mind, and neural engines that were clogged as they processed a problem set by an audacious devilry…\u00a0 thus my tired mind gave up on the thing \u201ctoday\u201d, presumably expecting tomorrow to be a sufficient cause for existence so as to justify slumber[2]<\/sup><\/a>. Thus, thus, thus, back and forth, thus.<\/p>\n Like the first quarter hour of most work days, I woke with a morphean bliss which echoed freedom from responsibility, like younger days and the summers they had known.<\/p>\n That\u2019s how I\u00a0 could watch my fingers teasing their way underneath the waistband\u2019s elastic. In later hours, the same manoeuvre was known to need at least a gizmo, and probably batteries. But this morning, in the fresh new, virgin hours, innocent of expectations or trauma, all of the time felt like the fertile moment of creativity, as for example the first man to notice that the hollow of gloves suited the shape of his palms and fingers.<\/p>\n The itch was warm, and it carried its own tempo. My fingers already knew the rhythm, which only asked of them to do what they felt right and good.<\/p>\n Finished, I was breathed deeply, but the digits which had met her own yearnings perfectly could lie still. I had began micromanaging the short-to-long-term memory transfer,\u00a0 reminiscing, comparing myself to my yesterdays, such as those yesterdays wherein I\u2019d awoken the fascination of excelling at a school that taught to touch and feel one\u2019s own skin, and had felt like the first discoverer of bacchanalian oscillations, which later would signpost habituations towards dull disappointments. But, this <\/em>morning it was fireworks, and those experiences were the most important to document, I\u2019d found.<\/p>\n I was still half-smiling, unknowingly dazed, as I carried soap over my shoulders, and tenderly sponged my latent-shame at being a woman into a pride of cleanliness which preceded (even) the possibility of corruption. The physical relief had relinquished half the tension, but the rest was founded upon petrifying terror, and a looping movement, back and forth, carried by a sexy, beautiful, perfect, arched-so-slightly, back, and forth and back and back,\u00a0 and \u201cOh god\u201d and him<\/em>. Last night refused to erase itself, and the inappropriate attraction which its images sold themselves to her mind only added further allure, as if seduced by her visceral disapproval for being seduced.<\/p>\n How was it him<\/em>? Was I sure? I seem to have no doubt. It was him. It was him<\/em>. Of course, he had many women, but why the dress, and what was being planned for her. Did they know how it had caused her sleep to be unsettled, filled by self-obliviating fantasies, each one as full of potential as it is beyond recapture, lost to a world which necessitated the mandating of fantasies into dreams.<\/p>\n I couldn\u2019t believe it was him. How?!<\/p>\n By the time I was in the office, I was protected by being numbed by my Iron Man suit (my joke, on account of Robert Downey Jr because so hunkishly cute, but specifically its the name I give my work clothes, and the way they let me perceive myself as a drone, or any other man). The reprieve would last until the meeting sometime in the afternoon.<\/p>\n The meeting was after lunch, and I didn\u2019t bother attempting to concentrate, instead, counting the hours crawling. It wasn’t just worrying, or fear of rejection (even the subtle rejection of unannounced acceptance). And yet despite the pointless back-and-forth inside my skull, I kept justifying a sidetrack, as I fantasized how I would speak to a sales clerk, \u201cYes, I need a skirt and blouse. They\u2019re for my daughter… No, <\/span>(too risky, what if she has a daughter at the school too)<\/sup> they\u2019re for my niece. Yes, I know her sizes\u2026 Yes, socks too\u2026.\u201d I think I\u2019d look good. Not that anyone would guess. But I do work out, and\u2026.<\/p>\n \u201cMeeting, five minutes.\u201d I didn\u2019t even get to see the face that was ramming its clock against my plans as if forcing me to acknowledge that just because a challenge was more than I could handle, did not give me any extra power to choose against it.<\/p>\n I was the last to arrive at the meeting. I sat in my usual chair and took my usual notes as the project head instructed his vision for our next campaign. \u201cGirls are beautiful\u201d was the slogan for the head staff (managerial paper pushers, behind the scenes, doing what was needed, but not caring about the deeper issues), designed to slip our expertise into a society that rewarded perfidy with a whipped cream made with salt instead of sugar. The thing we were not saying publically[3]<\/sup><\/a> was that we were sexualizing girls whom the law deemed to not<\/em> be women. We were pretending to not be pretending that we believed sexual freedom for woman implied some similar freedom for their younger ranks.<\/p>\n Our production team \u00a0would launch via a sports festival \u2013 some inane umbrella co-op which united a set of schools and youth movements with flimsy, jingoistic, team hullabaloo \u2013 for a revolutionary market-shaking product, which (as my project supervisor explained, as if though we were imbeciles, needing tedious rote reiterations) both material (e.g. school uniforms) and cultural (e.g. youth culture takes back from the patriarchal-subtext of the-Judeo-Christian-family-blueprint by refusing to accept their<\/em> attempts at prostituting vis a vis \u201cchastity\u201d etc). I despised the tone he used in delivering this business management 101 meets media studies intro as if he were revealing mystic secrets promising eschatological freedoms, and all with that dickins-smile that always made his<\/em> face so intuitive and comforting, and thus so often the imagined other<\/em> in my private struggles and imagined confidants.<\/p>\n The other men on the team – there were three of them, (and one other woman) – were always fascinated by the pictures in the powerpoint, which ostensibly were there to establish our campaign\u2019s scientific credibility.<\/p>\n I was smarter than the three of them combined.<\/p>\n What did a comparison of three different cleavages provide, except illustrating our campaign\u2019s founding principle: sexy sells.<\/p>\n How could they think that they needed a visual comparison of socks-on-crossed legs.<\/p>\n And, clearly, whoever had commissioned the computer modelling for simulating the relationship between shoes and the sway of a hip\u2019s gait, had sacrificed fiscal integrity for personal titillation.<\/p>\n It would be poetic, maybe\u2026 Maybe I should try some of these \u201cuniforms\u201d for myself. See just how degrading they are, see the calibre of animal I am ordered by HR to treat as equal!<\/p>\n Except for him<\/em>. He smiled as he finished, holding my gaze as I swallowed the saliva which had been building up, tapping its fluid form against the reflex which could compel me to gag, no matter whether I was perhaps too shy to be seen in its subservient posture. I could just imagine what would have happened if I\u2019d actually coughed, or even spluttered; the other woman would have been all over it, making sure to catch his<\/em> eyes, and making sure to give him a knowing look, as if I<\/em> had been thinking of the video, and as if the video had made me almost-gag. It wasn\u2019t, it was because I\u2019d been focused on his<\/em> presentation.<\/p>\n \u201cSo that\u2019s all. We\u2019ll update progress in a week.\u201d<\/p>\n Everyone left. Except for me. And him<\/em>. His chair was next to mine. I\u2019d chosen it on my first day, and it had been proven to be an advantageous gambit, securing a line of ascent within the politics of corporate intrigue[4]<\/sup><\/a>. Being close to him<\/em> had always been good, until today, when I wished that I could slink underneath a file cabinet or into the secret loos in the basement.<\/p>\n \u201cWe have our first client meeting now. Taxi\u2019s downstairs. Be a good gal and make sure he waits, I\u2019ll be one phone call then you\u2019ll have my full attention for whatever you were hiding during the meeting. Don\u2019t think I didn\u2019t notice that you kept your mouth closed just one day after launching PC grenades into the HR meeting.\u201d<\/p>\n Which is how the blur of a morning, became a blurred car ride, and it was the unwelcoming sight of my boring shape in the front door that awoke me, rudely, to the unsurprising fact of my locality: St Ambrosia\u2019s. We stepped into an office behind the front reception, but after handshakes and small nothings, he<\/em> excused himself, \u201cDon\u2019t worry, this is our best woman. There\u2019s nothing she can\u2019t or won\u2019t do to make our team happy. Great to have you on the team.\u201d<\/p>\n Which was the second rug pulled from underneath my feet in as many hours. First was knowing that I\u2019d heard his<\/em> voice, and would be sharing a cab-ride. And now this, second, realizing I had no idea who had sent the video.<\/p>\n I discussed hollow mission statements and projections with the headmaster, who presented himself with a greater class and degree of cultural inheritance than I would have credited him \u2013 him who had taught girls to be spinsters blessed with youthful figurines, eager to play with their toys in the sandpit.<\/p>\n The source of my determination, which kept my head upright, and proved my professionalism for a team whose members could include a malicious traitor\u2026 wherever I found the inevitable capacity to walk each moment into the next, it should have been the\u00a0cause for a real pride. But in addition to ignoring my strengths, I had missed the most important questions: not just, \u201cWhy is this my problem?\u201d – after all, I didn\u2019t send the video, nor would I ever make such a thing. Those impossible to pin-down wandering worries could also have served as another source for self-esteem, which sounds crazy, but is my suspicion that I\u2019m slightly telepathic during my period. How else was I right to close my mouth when blindfolded? Or to move forward not knowing how far I would be expected to take it.<\/p>\n By the evening, I was back in my silky bedwear and checking my email.<\/p>\n I literally expected a ransom note (against whom though?), or another video (I couldn\u2019t not<\/em> hope for another instalment).<\/p>\n The room was dumb testimony adumbrating my inner yearnings. Folded beside me were skirts and shirts, the former too short on self-respect, and the latter too short on the wit it pretends to have mastered.<\/p>\n The principal had insisted I take them, \u201cJust so you know what you have to work with.\u201d<\/p>\n What do<\/em> I have to work with? I imagined him<\/em> pointing at me, as I stood on the large wooden table that served our conference room, \u201cYes, you see how it\u2019s pointing outwards as if defying its material depth and intensity. That\u2019s exactly how I want it to look on the girls.\u201d In the fantasy, I couldn\u2019t care less what he<\/em> thought, instead was brimming at a pride which knew that he<\/em> was lucky enough to be gifted my serpentine profile. The nonsense coming out of his mouth was merely-redundant proof of how they<\/em> tried to constrict my feminine spirit into scientific measurements and tallies (\u201c36DD\u201d, \u201cbubble\u201d, etcetera etcetera back and forth again and again).<\/p>\n I felt stood up, as though another message had been promised sincerely. Disgruntled by my lack of certainty of my right to be dissatisfied, instead, I distracted myself, flipping a few channels on the TV, then relinquishing the image I drew for myself, watched the video from last night. And again.<\/p>\n This time I allowed the reel to reach its crescendo, \u201cDaddy, please stop,\u201d and then \u201cYou\u2019re a good anal slut, aren\u2019t you?\u201d and waiting until the last visuals was replaced by untextured blackness, and the sound replaced by the hum of silence for another dozen seconds, until finally, \u201cThank you daddy,\u201d \u201cthank-you for what?\u201d \u201cThank you for fucking my arse, daddy\u201d punctuated by whimpers that sounded equally pained and pampered<\/p>\n I couldn\u2019t sleep again. Thoughts of her crouched over her desk. Of her leg resting on top its sister [alt: its chiral twin]. Of her tight silhouette, which can transform a white blouse, otherwise not much different from my own button-down, into a feeling of a spatial awareness which was somehow able to provoke me, as though it were a spiritual duty to grab and bite (consequences be damned against the missions sacred terms). I had imagined calling her with a personal problem, and imagined her admiring my ships-in-bottles collection, sending a teasing jab with her eyes, as she stroked the bottle opening, as she tore me open by merely hinting at the intimate knowledge to which she was privy, and against which I would be outed as a vulgar and debauched, balding excuse for a (faux-)masculine attempt at individuality. <\/em><\/p>\n The censor judged me not a real man because of being too much man. It was a fool\u2019s court, and it behoved me (like so many of my generation) to exchange the shame and insecurity learned in younger years, for the quick release and self-contained solubility of a rapid, faux-urgent, auto\/cis-pampering.<\/em><\/p>\n Which is to say: average day, had a wank, then went to sleep.<\/em><\/p>\n Part Two; or, How My Sexual Vices Became An Asset Once Depravity<\/em> was Included As a Recognized Olympic Sport<\/strong><\/p>\n Outline:<\/p>\n \n Part Three; or, Why Good Girls Swallow<\/strong><\/p>\n Outline: [Editor notes: next round firing begins Monday, all writers expected to attend scheduled evaluation]\n Part Four; or, Why Daddy Never Looks At Other Women Without Mommy\u2019s Softening Her Grip on His Collar<\/strong><\/p>\n Outline:<\/p>\n [1]<\/sup><\/a>\u00a0Unique only according to the myopia dazzled by an ontology which confuses the cartographer for proof of nomenclature. i.e. \u201cThe first street is the first street since it is called so on the map\u201d is not a great basis for identity.<\/p>\n [2]<\/sup><\/a>\u00a0Like a baby allowing itself amniotic fluid.<\/p>\n\n
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