Treasured Vulva

2009-04-18T12:56:00.000-07:00

Author's Note: this experimental project has been put on hold for several reasons.
I cannot say when I will continue this blog or if I will. My experiment of a blog per week was fun but is just not possible to continue at the moment.

Thank you everyone who has read.

Solutions

2009-02-22T18:39:00.000-08:00

Sorry I haven’t typed in a while. My computer caught a virus and it took a while for my virus-scan to give me an update with the correct solution. Solutions are the trick to life. Solutions to all kinds of problems. I searched for a solution to her, to revenge; to redemption, to saving what I have.

I disappeared on Valentine’s Day. I went out and wandered the city. I found myself down one street, then another street—walking farther and farther from our little apartment, our loud little building. I found myself browsing an organic food shop. There were canned fish, soy milks, strange vegetables, and they sold canvas bags for shopping. Instead of plastic bags I saw them reuse the boxes their goods came in for the customers without their own little canvas bags. I wandered around and found some modern sculptures erected between some large buildings. A rusted monster being held with bolts and gravity. A statue-nail hybrid in a circle (hard to describe) and a towering cone made of reeds and old piping. I wandered all day. I even went to a theater and watched a movie. I ate over buttered popcorn and drank a diet soda.

Then I came home. She was worried, scared, upset. This was my revenge. This time I disappeared on her. I left her without me, reminding her that she does need me as much as I need her. My redemption, how I saved what I had, was the vase of flowers and the little card with hearts that I brought home with me. They broke her and she said, “I love you, I love you, I love you. God, don’t go again. I love you.”

This time I found control. Things are feeling better.

Coughing

2009-02-09T13:45:00.001-08:00

The neighbor in the room next to ours just keeps coughing. I haven’t seen him in three days. We often pass in the communal men’s bathroom. The cars and trucks outside have been rumbling by all day, splashing water. I feel so scared. I’m jumpy. I just want to sleep and shut it all out but cannot. I hear the chairs moving, but they’re not. We’re out of coffee. The bathroom (which is above the pipes in the boiler room) is too hot on this warm day to find refuge in. The Asian man next door keeps coughing and coughing. I cannot tell his rumbling from that of the diesel engines that pass sometimes. He is coughing and coughing and coughing. When does he breathe?

Super Bowl Sunday 09'

2009-02-03T21:03:00.000-08:00

I woke up Sunday to the sounds of her meowing and the neighbor coughing. I slept in the green felt chair. She slept in the bed. My neighbor, the short Asian man, has been coughing all week. It has changed from a wheeze to a deeper cough from the chest. When she woke up she made coffee and drank a cup. The she took me, took off my shirt, unbuttoned and unzipped my pants, and tied me to the brown wooden chair. She pulled out my cock and teased it with her hands and mouth. Then she undressed and, bending over, put her naked parts to my mouth which I licked and suckled. Then she climbed on top of me, sliding onto my hard shaft. She was going harder and harder and then the chair broke. I had forgotten that I had broken a support on the chair. I worried that she would see my guilt and blame me for breaking the chair. But she kept fucking me on the collapsed chair. It hurt and I tried to move but couldn’t. I was stilled tied firmly and she was on top of me.

She came again and again and again. Finally she got off of me and dressed. I waited for her to untie me but she didn’t. She started to put on her coat when I finally told her to get me out of the ropes. But she just walked out and locked the door. I yelled after her but she did not come back.

I tried and tried to get out, but I couldn’t even rock myself from my side. I had to stay there ALL FUCKING DAY. I missed the Super Bowl that I was planning to watch at a downtown bar. I couldn’t eat. I tried to hold it. I tried. But I shit and pissed myself. I’m so fucking pissed at that cuntfaced bitch! I lied there in pain all day and shat my pants and my limp cock pissed all over my jeans and the carpet. The smell made me gag and I nearly vomited several times.

Then, oh then when she got back at 10:30 she unties and then ignores me. I waited to yell at her until she unbound me. I stripped and threw my pants out in the hall. Then I started a laundry load of my soiled clothes and took a shower, came back and yelled at her more while I scrubbed the carpet. She didn’t say anything. She wouldn’t tell me why the fuck she would do that. She wouldn’t tell me what the fuck made her tie me up all fucking day. Nor would she tell me why she stayed out until fucking 10:30 at night. She wouldn’t say anything. I was so infuriated that I stomped on the broken chair and threw it against the wall until I had broken it into a conglomeration of broken pieces.

She got dressed for the night, crawled into bed and asked me to go to bed with her. I did. I just wanted to pinch her, make her hurt. I didn’t actually do it, but I wanted to think I could, lying next to her in the dark.

She turned away from me and said, “You ever skin a cat?”
“I don’t fucking care,” I said, “I don’t fucking care.”

Troglobite

2009-01-23T08:55:00.000-08:00

I awoke from a dream where I was a man with grubby, hairy fingers. In the dream it’s dark but a white light illuminates whatever the man faces. He looks into a pool of water and says Where ya’ll hide’n in a thick southern accent. He spots movement and snatches out a small colorless lizard. He looks at it; it doesn’t have any eyes, just strange reddish things protruding from its neck. Then he says Troglobite and lifts the lizard to his face and into his mouth. I can feel the form of the wet, unlucky creature before he crunches it between his molars.

I woke up to the sound of the crunching that I quickly realized was the short Asian man next door was coughing. He continued coughing while I lied awake. There was another, softer noise too but I stayed in my bed. After a while I looked around and saw she was next to the bookcase scratching something into the side of it with the cheap silverware I got her for Christmas. I made coffee and drank a cup. My insides bustled and I left the room with its sounds of her scratching on wood and the neighbor’s cough. I found refuge in the sanctum of the men’s toilet. I shat in the overheated room for a half an hour before I returned to the room.
She was leaving. “Work,” she said.
“Ok,” I said back.
“For me,” she said. “And you. Use your scintillating charms to look for a job today. I want to see you fail.” She knows I am not employable. I was fired too many times. I shit. I shake. I come to work black and blue after touching her. She hasn’t mentioned my unemployment in a very long time. The subject burns and she smiled at my humiliation before leaving.

I went back to the restroom to finish voiding my bowls. When I came back I read some from the new dictionary that she got me for Christmas; I looked up the word troglobite. Then I played a bit with the Rubik's Cube she also got me (more humiliation?). I was bored and distracted by the neighbor’s hacking cough, so I got down on the ground by the bookcase where she had left her new silverware. On the side I saw she had carved the crude outlines of a figure in boots and a cowboy hat.

Burnt Coffee

2009-01-15T11:01:00.000-08:00

I get up this morning and have toast and coffee. I mention to her that the coffee tastes burnt. She yells at me and asks how heated water filtered through coffee could taste burnt. I tell her I do not know but that it still tastes burnt and you made it. She throws the contents of her cup at me, but the coffee misses and lands instead on the green felt chair. I call her a cunt and a cur. She says she is damn sick of me and it ain’t even noon yet. I go grab my coat to leave. I head for the door and I notice she is wearing her coat, she sees I am wearing mine. It is awkward. Shouldn’t one of us stay? How will we know who the winner is if we both leave?

Her Treasured Vulva

2009-01-06T18:47:00.000-08:00

She is gone now, out to the little part-time job she picked up. I am alone, sitting in a chair typing this. I miss her, her scent, her skin, her eyes. Oh, the feel of her on me. I’m naked. I’m alone, sitting in a chair typing this out slowly. Slowly thinking of her. It is quiet out. The smell of my two tuna fish sandwiches is strong. I’ve only taken one bite. The other sandwich is for her. But she won’t be back to eat it before it spoils. My back hurts. I am touching myself. I am naked. I am alone, sitting in this chair and typing this. The feel of her last night. My wrists are bruised from where she tied me up. I miss her feel so much. Oh God I could feel the scratching of her short pubic hair. The wetness of her vulva. Her treasured vulva sliding along me. Then she’d whip me and put her body over mine again and again and again. My back burns. Her vulva. Wet. I just want my fingers inside her. Why can’t I get inside her? NOW! Oh God, oh God, oh God. . .

Nareep

2008-12-25T09:08:00.000-08:00

I am standing in the hallway. Nareep-nareep! is the first sound I hear. My eyes are burning and I’m blinded when I look at one of the flashing white lights on the wall. There is smoke everywhere. The lights are flashing in time to the nareep-nareep of the building’s fire alarm. The hallway lights suddenly go out.

I am trying to find my way out. I can only see when the alarm lights flash and then it is only a blinding, panicked white. My eyes are watering from fear and smoke. There are goosebumps on my skin. I can’t find my way out. I turn a corner and see the flicker of orange light reflecting on a wall.

Now I’m in a room. I must have crawled here. I look up at an old woman. She has long white hair and loose, thin skin; there’s even wrinkles on her fingers. A boy is crying in the corner of the room. He’s holding a teddy bear with a missing eye. The alarm is still screaming from the hallway. I can see the alarm lights flashing from the open apartment door. The room is illuminated by several bright flashlights and a dozen or so candles.

The old lady is walking around the room in a grey negligee. In her arms she is holding some paltry objects. I can see a fork, a spoon, a ceramic Dutch girl. . . She walks around the room adding slowly adding to the small heap of things in her arms as best she can. Is she muttering to herself? I’m not sure.

I can hear the roar of fire but I’m not sure where it’s coming from. From somewhere I hear a banging sound then running. From the hall comes a fireman dressed in bright colors. He’s carrying an axe. I cannot see his face; he’s wearing a mask. He tries to grab the old woman. She screams and the boy in the corner cries even louder.

I hear the sound of glass shattering somewhere.

He tries to grab her again but she screams and drops her things. She bends to gather them up and the fireman tries to lift her up. She resists and out of her pile of objects pulls out what looks like a miniature butcher knife and tries to stab the man. He backs away. He says something but it’s muffled. The boy in the corner sobs. She starts screaming at the fireman, says something about not leaving her things behind. He says something back and she rushes at him with her knife. He slams his axe down on her, splitting her head open. The little boy screams and the floor below him collapses and all I can see is the bright light of the grumbling fire and I wake up and it is Christmas morning.

Between Bread and Bread

2008-12-19T06:34:00.000-08:00

My neighbor is a short Asian man with thick glasses, dark slits for eyes, and a giant smiling overbite. His white teeth spread out like melted piano keys. Does he celebrate Christmas? Where is his family? He strikes me as a married man, yet I’ve never seen a wife. Could he use an extra chair? Maybe she is still in Taiwan or wherever.
I have never said a word to him.

The welfare check finally came in on the fifteenth. I don’t know what to buy. Ham, bread, cottage cheese. . .
Earlier this week I found a food stamp on the ground outside in the snow. With it I bought bologna.
I like to lick her stomach, feel her ribs. Make her sandwiches and eat together. Spread of mayo, spread of butter. I find making sandwiches is the best way to stifle the flow of my tears.

Sometimes I make two when she is not there and pretend she is eating with me. But not often. I know it is wrong.

The Asian man smiled at me in the bathroom today. I wonder what type of sandwiches he eats? American peanut butter and jelly? Ham and cheese? Or does he spend his money on homesickness: rice, noodles, wontons , shrimp flavored chips?

I cannot keep writing. I cannot stay in this room. There are snow ploughs outside now. I must use the restroom again—escape and shit. But what to buy? What to comfort her? What to please her this Christmas?

Vacancy

2008-12-13T08:53:00.001-08:00

My right nipple is all black and blue. She bit it last night out of malice. Her teeth are nefarious entities epitomizing her wrath. I only wanted to move to a vacant room across the hall and a few doors down. The tenants moved out and, like all our neighbors, we did not know them. She was instantly angry upon hearing my suggestion and she demanded why I’d want to make such a “useless” move. I couldn’t tell her that the vacant room was on the side farthest from the street. She doesn’t know how the sound of traffic affects me. If she knew I’d only feel the continuous taunting bite of her scorn.

She slept on the floor last night. I did not sleep well. She periodically meowed or hissed me out of my dreams. I swear her teeth glow in the burnt orange of the city’s night sky filtering through our filthy window.

Shopping

2008-12-04T23:57:00.000-08:00

There are chairs everywhere. The room we rent seems small. There is no kitchen (although we do have a coffee pot and microwave on the vanity) and there is no bathroom. We must share these luxuries with the rest of the tenants on the floor. I broke a support between two legs of the small, brown wooden chair by accident. I won’t tell her because she’d get mad and then I wouldn’t be able to touch her skin while she sleeps.

How did we accumulate so many chairs? This is a question I often contemplate while I sip my coffee sitting in the green felt chair, the torn brown leather chair, the wooden white chair, the chair with the weaved seat, or the chair that squeaks when no one is in it. There are other chairs but I do not sit in them.

She should be back soon from the store. She’s buying ointment for the raised welts on my back and a new gag; the old one is ripping at the seams and I’ve been choking on the strings.

Time to Eat

2008-12-01T16:34:00.000-08:00

I climb out of bed hungry but I don't eat for she is sleeping and I only have things to microwave. Sometimes she sleeps in the bed by herself. Other times she sleeps on my chest. The floor has a carpet and sometimes she sleeps there and meows like a cat. I say I don't make her do this, but I'm not sure.

A truck rumbles outside and I feel my face heat up. It heats up in fear and my heart races too. Why do I notice my face heating before my heart racing? The coffee is burnt and I think I made it so I won't try to blame her. Sometimes she disappears into the corner of the room next to the bookcase I bought for five dollars. I dream of places outside this room I haven't been. She never tells me her dreams. I say, "In my dream the window frosted first and then the window frame. It frosted in the shapes of hundreds of butterflies and they began to beat their wings in unison and sing a song without words and the world cried but their tears froze to their faces." She says, "Your soul is like a dead animal on the side of the road. It is torn open with guts spilled across the road and no one but the fly-baby maggots care about your remains. You are nothing but a breading ground for the filthy and putrid bugs of this world."

I am drinking my coffee despite the fact that I think it is burnt. Sugar only lessens the bite. We are out of cream. Another truck rumbles by. My drink turns to liquid shit in my lower intestines. I take much pleasure in the overheated bathroom. I wonder if my dreams are like hers? Maybe I dream about the places she has been. I hope so. I feel so at one with her skin right now, the skin she never lets me touch without the pain first.