Sep. 17th, 2021 04:45 pm
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dogpackВот Динокрок говорит, что надо постить все некомфортное, совсем как в письме, которое получает Дядек в "Сиренах Титана", которое про добровольную пытку болью. Все, что я знаю, я узнал ценой неимоверной головной боли, такое.
Я думаю -- возможно. Потом я думаю про печаль, которая останется навсегда, и думаю, имеет ли смысл умножение печалей. Ведь, хоть это и сложно представить, у меня есть теплые чувства к людям в целом, и мне нравится думать, что кто-то должен охранять их неведение, из любви, конечно. Кто-то должен знать все, но охранять их. Глупо, конечно: проекция собственной утраченной невинности на мир, и сейчас я каак защищу ее, бгг. Но я всегда чувствую себя немного предателем, я думаю о том, как забыв о наших различиях я огорчал тех, кто был мне дорог, и о том, что удовольствие головной боли доступно в принципе немногим.
Знание и неведение. Я всегда рад распространить знание, но я должен охранять сладкое неведение.
Триггер ворнинги -- отчасти баланс этих крайностей, но я все еще думаю и, наверное, никогда не перестану.
In the fairy tales about father-daughter incest—“The Girl Without Hands,” “Thousand Furs,” the original “Cinderella,” “Donkey Skin,” and the stories of Saint Dymphna, patron saint of incest survivors—the daughters are all as you would expect them to be: horrified by their fathers’ sexual advances. They do everything in their power to escape. But I didn’t. A child can’t escape. And later, when I could, it was too late. My father controlled my mind, my body, my desire. I wanted him. I went home. I went back for more.
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That week with my father and brother, I wore a blue bikini top. The bottoms were bright red. My father wanted me. I felt his eyes on my shoulders and neck, on my legs, my breasts, and my hips. I held my body differently when I knew he was looking. I wanted to be sexy. I walked differently when I knew he was watching me from behind. Watching me as I walked back and forth from the house to the shore. Watching me take off the white shirt I wore over my bathing suit when I sat to read before I swam. I wanted him, too. I wasn’t a child anymore. I wasn’t even a teenager. I was a grown-up. My body was a woman’s body.
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The first two nights I couldn’t stop masturbating, thinking about my father being so close. At the other end of the house, alone, sleeping in the bed with the walnut headboard. I couldn’t help it. I wanted and I didn’t want him to come in and fuck me. On the third night he did.
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My father pulled off the bedspread and saw my twenty-one-year-old body. I was naked and I was wet. I wanted his big hard cock deep inside me. I was very wet. I wanted him inside me all the way up. I had never felt sexier. My body was pure sex. My father had made himself a sexual object for me, too. I objectified him as I objectified myself for him. I had an orgasm bigger than any single one I had in my subsequent twelve-year marriage. We didn’t say anything. Not one word. Then he got out of my bed, went out of the room and down the hall and back into his bed. Not one word ever about that night.
He fucked me and he made me come. We never kissed. We didn’t kiss that night, and we didn’t kiss when I was a teenager, and we didn’t kiss when I was eleven or ten or nine or eight or seven or six or five or four or three.
He never put his tongue inside my mouth.
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The world is full of work to do
A little rest and then
The world is full of work to do
Sing hushabye loo, low loo, low lan
Hushabye loo, low loo
This is the song my mother sang me to sleep. Then later my father would come into my room. Sometimes he would penetrate me, sometimes he would masturbate onto my body. He said he couldn’t help it. He told me it was my fault. It must have been my fault. He said that he couldn’t help it because I was so beautiful and it felt so good. He said he was a sick man. A weak victim of his desire. And I, too, felt desire; I felt my wildness. Sometimes I rubbed myself on his hairy thigh. I did it because it felt good.
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Strawberry was my father’s favorite kind of jam. One morning when I was five or six, he put strawberry jam on his penis and asked me to lick it off. I remember the sweet and the slime of the fruit combining with the sweet and the slime of the man.
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I had a book about how babies are made. There were anatomical drawings of a man and a woman. I remember wondering why they didn’t also have a drawing of a little girl when they explained how the penis goes into the vagina.
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My father wanted to fuck me, and sometimes he wanted to kill me. Sometimes it was both. I don’t know how many times he cut me with a knife. Sometimes he was threatening to kill me with it, other times he cut inside my pussy. Was he trying to circumcise me? Maybe he was trying to cut my pleasure out, to remove his pleasure.
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I can see the image of my father with the knife over my head, and I don’t feel frightened. Numb, but not scared. But when I remember the sounds—his footsteps coming up the hall leading to my room, the sound of the door opening, his breathing, the sheering sound of the metal blade being pulled from the sheath—then I freeze and go outside my body. It was a buck knife, the same one he used on camping trips. He used it to sharpen a willow branch to pierce marshmallows and roast them. He used it to sever cord for tying the tent down in a windstorm. My father pulled the knife out and had that dead, cold look in his eyes and his jaw was clenched. But then he realized that I was awake, watching him holding the knife over me. He turned away, the knife shaking in his hand, and he left my room holding the sheath in one hand and the shaking knife in the other. The other day I read a story about a woman who killed her two young daughters while they slept. She doesn’t remember doing it. Now she wants to know if her daughters are all right. I wonder about my father. Would he remember if he had cut me up with the buck knife? Maybe not. Maybe he would have wondered afterward if I was all right.
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In the cabin were beautiful colored-glass cups. They shone like jewels. Deep, rich colors. Teal, turquoise, golden ocher, royal blue, purple, scarlet, fuchsia, silver gray. I loved drinking water out of those colored cups with question-mark-shaped handles. They were kept in the same wooden hutch as a drawer that held spices in little jars sealed with shaved-down corks. I liked to open that drawer, pull out the tiny corks, and smell the spices.
I remember the red-stripe ticking on the mattress in the bed where I slept. My father took off my pants and my underwear. I remember being facedown, biting the button on the mattress while my father put something inside me. I felt him rub his penis between my butt cheeks. I ran my tongue along the button I was biting. I remember the taste of the mattress. Smoky canvas. The smell of the mattress. Old fabric, firewood smoke, musty smell.
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I climbed on a stool and opened the medicine cabinet over the bathroom sink and took out a bottle of my mother’s Nivea lotion. I unscrewed the top and left it inside the cabinet. I liked the smell because it was the smell of my mother. I sought comfort from her in her scent since I didn’t have it from her directly. I carried around the lotion bottle and smelled it while I sucked my thumb. Smell and suck, smell and suck. Smell the sweet perfume, suck my soothing thumb. I made my thumb turn white and withered with all the sucking. I sucked it all the time until my dentist, who called me Princess, told me I would get buck teeth if I kept it up. He told me he would be proud of me for quitting, and I wanted my dentist to be proud of me. But I like to have things in my mouth.
When I was very little, I couldn’t sleep because of my nightmares and I peed in my bed every night. A few times at the grocery market, I walked up to a stranger who looked nice and asked if they would take me home with them. I was difficult at my school. I hit the boys. I drew coiled cobras in beds and girls being impaled by large buildings. When we went on a family trip to Boston and New York, I had strong pains in my body, because every time I looked at the big tall buildings I felt that they were about to fuck me. I wondered if I was pregnant all through first, second, and third grades. I obsessively masturbated. I had open sores on my hands from washing them over and over until they bled.
But to my mother, I was the other woman. She often told me that she wished I hadn’t been born.
For discipline, my father tied me to a chair. Sometimes he put the chair in the closet. Over time, I learned not to scream. I learned that eventually my father would come and let me out.
I remember looking at a painting in a book of a woman wearing a white dress hanging off of a bed. An evil, ugly monster was sitting on her belly. It scared me and excited me to look at her. It also excited me to look at the painting, in my mother’s book of the Louvre, of the two women, topless, where one is pinching the other’s nipple. I looked at the saints with eyes plucked out, bodies pierced by arrows, Saint Bartholomew skinned. I looked at the pictures of the Sabines being abducted. And Judith slaying Holofernes. I looked and looked and ran my finger over that bleeding, murdered man.
Years later, when I saw Botero’s paintings of prisoners at Abu Ghraib, blindfolded and restrained, it excited me. Botero paints all the prisoners as very fat. They are easier to look at fat. I like to be gagged and restrained. It makes me think of the time my father tied me up in the closet and face-fucked me until he came in my mouth and I vomited up the semen. I’m thinking of me as a very fat five-year-old girl and my father as a fat Botero man, naked but for his hat.
My mother blamed me for everything that wasn’t right in our house. She even blamed me for my father’s hair going completely white before he was thirty years old. She called me whore, bitch, fucking bitch, and little shit. My least favorite was being called little shit. Maybe I was a whore and a bitch and a fucking bitch. But I wasn’t a little shit.
I remember my mother telling me many times that life is about two things—sex and the fear of death.
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My father is my secret. That he raped me is my secret. But the secret under the secret is that sometimes I liked it. Sometimes I wanted it, and sometimes I seduced him and made him fuck me. I have seen therapists and psychiatrists and psychologists and analysts, and I told them about missing my grandparents. I talked about missing my three friends who died. I talked about my mother slapping me hard across the face and then crumpling into a pile on the floor, weeping, telling me she was terrible, such a terrible mother. And I would comfort her and tell her not to worry, it didn’t hurt very much and I was fine. I did tell a few of them that my father molested me. And if they wanted to talk further about it, I stopped the conversation. I never told any of them the whole truth about me and my father.
Today I read in a book about torture that the more a captive is raped, the more likely she is to experience pleasure. Pleasure as a means of survival. The more she is raped. The more pleasure. Does this mean I have felt the most pleasure in the world? My body is pure rapture. Writing this arouses me. I think about my father and I get wet. I think about my father and I feel him in my pussy.
Pleasure as a means to survive. My father is my sexual pleasure. I’m tied up and he’s hand-feeding me his semen. Hand-feeding me what he just jacked off into his palm. This great pleasure of ours is bursting in light. I feel God in my heart getting bigger. I’m swallowing his sperm while I’m bound to the chair, and I have rays of light shooting out of my head and face.
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I get warm, soft buzzing feelings when I think about that. Being locked in the closet tied up, waiting for him, waiting for my father to rescue me after he hurt me. He rescued me. I was so relieved. So happy when the closet door opened and he untied me, undoing the knots holding me to the chair. He let me out, he let me run. I ran out into the sunshine.
How could I not love the man who set me free?
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Claude Lévi-Strauss wrote that the key difference between animals and humans is incest prohibition. What does this make me?
I remember one time in my bed watching my father’s enormous penis riding my flat-breasted chest—the fleshy head coming at me, erupting in fluid that got everywhere, but I especially remember it pooling in my belly button.
My mother was terrified that if I played outside barefoot I would cut myself and get tetanus. She was afraid, too, when I had a paper cut that it would get infected and kill me like that lady in Alabama. But when I showed her the blood between my legs when I was very small and, on a different day, blood on my unicorn-patterned sheets, she said nothing, she did nothing.
I wanted to hurt myself when I cut my thigh with a paring knife. One morning while my mother was making coffee, I sliced my leg with a knife. She told me not to get the blood on the carpet where I sat. It felt good to have that kind of pain, a different kind of pain, but I remember the shame I felt when she didn’t care.
My school was concerned about my abdominal pains, and, once, I was rushed to the hospital to have an emergency appendectomy. But it was because I hadn’t shit for a month.
When my second-grade teacher told us the story of Scheherazade, I felt I was like her. Every night she had to save her life. Every night I had to save mine, too. My father told me that he would kill me and himself if he couldn’t have me.
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On the nights when my father didn’t do anything to me, I felt abandoned. I loved him. Sometimes it was weeks, sometimes months, maybe a year, I don’t know how long, but sometimes he didn’t fuck me and he didn’t masturbate over my bed while I was supposed to be sleeping. Why was he leaving me alone? Why was he neglecting me? Did he not love me as much anymore? Was I not good enough anymore?
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My brother lives in Charleston now. He and his wife are both surgeons. They have three daughters and two hypoallergenic dogs. My brother and I would both say that we are close. We trade recipes, we talk about cooking and food, his daughters. But we don’t talk about the rest of it. There is a closeness, though. It’s as if we are very, very close—too close, even—in one way and galaxies apart in every other way. We are close because of everything we don’t—and probably never will—talk about. He doesn’t know that us both having heard the sounds of our father masturbating in the other room, in the bed with the French doors open to the light rain, makes us closer, but it does. Closer and farther away at the same time.
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It makes my palms sweat remembering how my father asked me if I wanted to fuck when I was little. He asked me in baby talk if I wanted to fuck. Yes, I replied, let’s fuck.
I wasn’t afraid of my father. My father was the one who fed me, got me dressed, took me to school, made me pasta, bathed me, dried me off with a towel, brushed my teeth. Thoughts of monsters were what kept me from falling asleep—hidden under my sheets, trying not to move or breathe.
There were two fathers, so there must have been two of me.
I masturbated with the smooth back of my little wooden hairbrush. I felt ashamed, but it felt so good. I would be overcome with desire, and I would feel the desire here, in my pussy, and I would rub the back of the hairbrush along my pussy. Secretly, quietly. Full of shame and remorse. Hoping I wouldn’t need to do it again. But I would. When I was a little older, sometimes I thought about a boy named Harry while I rubbed myself. I remember the wood of the hairbrush covered in my slimy wet.
I was too shy to stick out my tongue around other people. Would they be able to tell that this tongue had licked a penis? Would my tongue give me away? My vagina looked like a bird. Like how you draw a bird—an m in the sky, with soft tips, like a McDonald’s m. When I looked down at my vagina, the pudgy lips were like a fleshy bird. This made me uncomfortable when I drew birds, because then maybe everyone else would know what I looked like naked. Would they be able to tell that my vagina looked like a bird? And if they knew my pussy looked like a bird would they know that my father rubbed his penis on it and that he fucked me? And would they know then that it was my fault?
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I got a new black-and-white bathing suit when I was in fourth grade. I wore it on a trip to a state park with my parents and my brother. I was walking ahead of everyone, and I remember feeling my father’s eyes on my back in my new low-cut bathing suit. Did he think I looked sexy? I hoped so. The back was cut all the way down to just above my bottom. I didn’t have breasts yet, but some of the girls in my class did. I was looking forward to getting mine. I remember going off the path and into the greenery to pull down my shorts and then my bathing suit to pee. The stream splashed up on my shoes. I wondered if my father was peeking at me. Sometimes I caught him looking at me when I was doing things. Not expecting to be watched, and finding him watching me. One time I was shitting and I was looking down through my legs and trying to watch the shit come out and fall into the water. Then I looked up and saw my father’s legs right in front of me. I didn’t like that. He wasn’t supposed to watch me shit.
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It didn’t hurt when my father rubbed my pussy with his fingers, or when I rubbed my pussy on his leg. Those things felt good. I liked it when he masturbated. I liked it because it was exciting for me to watch. Sometimes he rubbed the tip of his penis along my pussy and that felt good, too. He liked looking down at his penis rubbing me. I liked looking, too. I liked the feel of his flesh rubbing my flesh. Putting his cock into me was pure pain until my body was big enough, which wasn’t until I was a teenager. I remember being afraid it would hurt the way it had before—like I was being torn, split in two, blood everywhere, but suddenly it didn’t. My body was finally big enough; I was wet, too. I must have been fourteen or so. I remember being naked on a foam mattress on the floor of one of the houses my father lived in after he left my mother. We were alone then, except for my brother. We hid from him just as we had hid from my mother, from the world. I remember the feeling of my body getting fucked on that foam mattress. There wasn’t a mattress pad—just a cotton sheet over the yellow foam—and it didn’t feel good to move on it. But it felt good when he was inside me finally—now that I was big enough. I had little breasts, too. It was different. My body was so much bigger and I was shy and covered my breasts while we did it. I remember those dark days full of light when my father fucked me.
I remember years before—when I was little—feeling my wet pussy. My fleshy little pussy lips. He touched them with his large fingers; he liked the way it felt. I had orgasms. I remember how scary they felt. Scary and so good. Like I was flying and falling and exploding and about to die. I didn’t know if my body would still be there when it was over. Every time he fucked me, every time he made himself come, or me come, I was pushed further into solitude.
I remember his sounds. His breathing, heavy and fast, trying to be quiet, trying to be quiet while his cock was so hard and he just had to, he had to rub it between my thighs. I remember his low moaning. I remember looking into his mouth. His mouth agape and tense as he rubbed his penis, looking down at it, rubbing it, getting more excited by looking at his penis with its wet red head.
All things are lawful for me. (The Apostle Paul)
I can see his face, his blue eyes, his white hair. I see his clean-shaven face. I can see his eyes like beams driving into me. They drive through my clothes and see all of my nakedness. Me as a child, me as a teenager, me as a woman.
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I don’t know if this is accurate, but the feeling I have, and always had, is that really my father wanted to kill me but that I seduced him to keep him from killing me. I became sexy to keep myself alive. I saved my life by giving him sexual pleasure. And he became addicted to our sex, and then I did, too. Or maybe he really wanted to harm himself, so he caused me pain in order to feel his own pain. He destroyed himself by causing me pain, but that gave him pleasure. I read about a man who murdered his wife because he said that was the only way he could kill himself.
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Several years ago, I fell in love with a man named Carl. At first I thought he was gentle, but another part of me smelled his violence. And he smelled my fear, like a dog. He smelled my need for violence, which I didn’t recognize that I had. One night, he demanded that I tell him that he owned me. His eyes were other. He was angry and I was frightened. But my reaction was not to run away. Sometimes I feel safer when I’m very, very still, barely breathing. My body became aroused, I was exceedingly wet, my body wanted safety. All I wanted to do was have sex with him to calm him down, to protect myself. I wanted to have sex with him all night until the sun came up, when I could be protected by the light of day instead. And then the following night, I wanted it to happen again. I asked him if he owned me, and he said yes. He told me that my body was made for him to fuck.
In moments when he really frightened me, it took only a few minutes for me to come from his fingers, his cock, his tongue. The more I actually feared harm by him, the more excited I felt, the more deeply bonded I felt to him.
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As a teenager, I had recurring nightmares about my bloody insides being everywhere. Getting caught in my own intestines. Finding my dismembered parts in the street, in public buildings, hanging from trees. I used to terrify my friends when I spent the night at their houses by screaming in the night, and sometimes I told them about these dreams. I thought it was normal for girls to have dreams like that. But they didn’t have those same dreams of walking through a city park and looking down, and where the green grass had just been were now bloody uteruses, vaginas, guts, lungs, wet pink brains sloshing around underfoot. And up in the trees, my decapitated head, my poked-out eyes, my long-haired scalp hanging from a blossoming tree branch.
For a long time, I couldn’t have an orgasm without seeing my father’s face. It was his white hair and his piercing blue eyes that I used to see when I came. The horror of seeing his face, and of that being the image that made me come, was overwhelmingly disturbing, and it also made me deeply excited. As if my ultimate erotic experience is being raped by the man who created me. His lust and his force infected my own desire.
A couple times a year, I have a dream where it’s just him and me in the world. Finally just the two of us, and we can fuck all we want. I wake up nauseated and dizzy.
Стоит ли продолжать? Мне кажется, нет.
Я думаю -- возможно. Потом я думаю про печаль, которая останется навсегда, и думаю, имеет ли смысл умножение печалей. Ведь, хоть это и сложно представить, у меня есть теплые чувства к людям в целом, и мне нравится думать, что кто-то должен охранять их неведение, из любви, конечно. Кто-то должен знать все, но охранять их. Глупо, конечно: проекция собственной утраченной невинности на мир, и сейчас я каак защищу ее, бгг. Но я всегда чувствую себя немного предателем, я думаю о том, как забыв о наших различиях я огорчал тех, кто был мне дорог, и о том, что удовольствие головной боли доступно в принципе немногим.
Знание и неведение. Я всегда рад распространить знание, но я должен охранять сладкое неведение.
Триггер ворнинги -- отчасти баланс этих крайностей, но я все еще думаю и, наверное, никогда не перестану.
In the fairy tales about father-daughter incest—“The Girl Without Hands,” “Thousand Furs,” the original “Cinderella,” “Donkey Skin,” and the stories of Saint Dymphna, patron saint of incest survivors—the daughters are all as you would expect them to be: horrified by their fathers’ sexual advances. They do everything in their power to escape. But I didn’t. A child can’t escape. And later, when I could, it was too late. My father controlled my mind, my body, my desire. I wanted him. I went home. I went back for more.
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That week with my father and brother, I wore a blue bikini top. The bottoms were bright red. My father wanted me. I felt his eyes on my shoulders and neck, on my legs, my breasts, and my hips. I held my body differently when I knew he was looking. I wanted to be sexy. I walked differently when I knew he was watching me from behind. Watching me as I walked back and forth from the house to the shore. Watching me take off the white shirt I wore over my bathing suit when I sat to read before I swam. I wanted him, too. I wasn’t a child anymore. I wasn’t even a teenager. I was a grown-up. My body was a woman’s body.
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The first two nights I couldn’t stop masturbating, thinking about my father being so close. At the other end of the house, alone, sleeping in the bed with the walnut headboard. I couldn’t help it. I wanted and I didn’t want him to come in and fuck me. On the third night he did.
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My father pulled off the bedspread and saw my twenty-one-year-old body. I was naked and I was wet. I wanted his big hard cock deep inside me. I was very wet. I wanted him inside me all the way up. I had never felt sexier. My body was pure sex. My father had made himself a sexual object for me, too. I objectified him as I objectified myself for him. I had an orgasm bigger than any single one I had in my subsequent twelve-year marriage. We didn’t say anything. Not one word. Then he got out of my bed, went out of the room and down the hall and back into his bed. Not one word ever about that night.
He fucked me and he made me come. We never kissed. We didn’t kiss that night, and we didn’t kiss when I was a teenager, and we didn’t kiss when I was eleven or ten or nine or eight or seven or six or five or four or three.
He never put his tongue inside my mouth.
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The world is full of work to do
A little rest and then
The world is full of work to do
Sing hushabye loo, low loo, low lan
Hushabye loo, low loo
This is the song my mother sang me to sleep. Then later my father would come into my room. Sometimes he would penetrate me, sometimes he would masturbate onto my body. He said he couldn’t help it. He told me it was my fault. It must have been my fault. He said that he couldn’t help it because I was so beautiful and it felt so good. He said he was a sick man. A weak victim of his desire. And I, too, felt desire; I felt my wildness. Sometimes I rubbed myself on his hairy thigh. I did it because it felt good.
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Strawberry was my father’s favorite kind of jam. One morning when I was five or six, he put strawberry jam on his penis and asked me to lick it off. I remember the sweet and the slime of the fruit combining with the sweet and the slime of the man.
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I had a book about how babies are made. There were anatomical drawings of a man and a woman. I remember wondering why they didn’t also have a drawing of a little girl when they explained how the penis goes into the vagina.
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My father wanted to fuck me, and sometimes he wanted to kill me. Sometimes it was both. I don’t know how many times he cut me with a knife. Sometimes he was threatening to kill me with it, other times he cut inside my pussy. Was he trying to circumcise me? Maybe he was trying to cut my pleasure out, to remove his pleasure.
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I can see the image of my father with the knife over my head, and I don’t feel frightened. Numb, but not scared. But when I remember the sounds—his footsteps coming up the hall leading to my room, the sound of the door opening, his breathing, the sheering sound of the metal blade being pulled from the sheath—then I freeze and go outside my body. It was a buck knife, the same one he used on camping trips. He used it to sharpen a willow branch to pierce marshmallows and roast them. He used it to sever cord for tying the tent down in a windstorm. My father pulled the knife out and had that dead, cold look in his eyes and his jaw was clenched. But then he realized that I was awake, watching him holding the knife over me. He turned away, the knife shaking in his hand, and he left my room holding the sheath in one hand and the shaking knife in the other. The other day I read a story about a woman who killed her two young daughters while they slept. She doesn’t remember doing it. Now she wants to know if her daughters are all right. I wonder about my father. Would he remember if he had cut me up with the buck knife? Maybe not. Maybe he would have wondered afterward if I was all right.
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In the cabin were beautiful colored-glass cups. They shone like jewels. Deep, rich colors. Teal, turquoise, golden ocher, royal blue, purple, scarlet, fuchsia, silver gray. I loved drinking water out of those colored cups with question-mark-shaped handles. They were kept in the same wooden hutch as a drawer that held spices in little jars sealed with shaved-down corks. I liked to open that drawer, pull out the tiny corks, and smell the spices.
I remember the red-stripe ticking on the mattress in the bed where I slept. My father took off my pants and my underwear. I remember being facedown, biting the button on the mattress while my father put something inside me. I felt him rub his penis between my butt cheeks. I ran my tongue along the button I was biting. I remember the taste of the mattress. Smoky canvas. The smell of the mattress. Old fabric, firewood smoke, musty smell.
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I climbed on a stool and opened the medicine cabinet over the bathroom sink and took out a bottle of my mother’s Nivea lotion. I unscrewed the top and left it inside the cabinet. I liked the smell because it was the smell of my mother. I sought comfort from her in her scent since I didn’t have it from her directly. I carried around the lotion bottle and smelled it while I sucked my thumb. Smell and suck, smell and suck. Smell the sweet perfume, suck my soothing thumb. I made my thumb turn white and withered with all the sucking. I sucked it all the time until my dentist, who called me Princess, told me I would get buck teeth if I kept it up. He told me he would be proud of me for quitting, and I wanted my dentist to be proud of me. But I like to have things in my mouth.
When I was very little, I couldn’t sleep because of my nightmares and I peed in my bed every night. A few times at the grocery market, I walked up to a stranger who looked nice and asked if they would take me home with them. I was difficult at my school. I hit the boys. I drew coiled cobras in beds and girls being impaled by large buildings. When we went on a family trip to Boston and New York, I had strong pains in my body, because every time I looked at the big tall buildings I felt that they were about to fuck me. I wondered if I was pregnant all through first, second, and third grades. I obsessively masturbated. I had open sores on my hands from washing them over and over until they bled.
But to my mother, I was the other woman. She often told me that she wished I hadn’t been born.
For discipline, my father tied me to a chair. Sometimes he put the chair in the closet. Over time, I learned not to scream. I learned that eventually my father would come and let me out.
I remember looking at a painting in a book of a woman wearing a white dress hanging off of a bed. An evil, ugly monster was sitting on her belly. It scared me and excited me to look at her. It also excited me to look at the painting, in my mother’s book of the Louvre, of the two women, topless, where one is pinching the other’s nipple. I looked at the saints with eyes plucked out, bodies pierced by arrows, Saint Bartholomew skinned. I looked at the pictures of the Sabines being abducted. And Judith slaying Holofernes. I looked and looked and ran my finger over that bleeding, murdered man.
Years later, when I saw Botero’s paintings of prisoners at Abu Ghraib, blindfolded and restrained, it excited me. Botero paints all the prisoners as very fat. They are easier to look at fat. I like to be gagged and restrained. It makes me think of the time my father tied me up in the closet and face-fucked me until he came in my mouth and I vomited up the semen. I’m thinking of me as a very fat five-year-old girl and my father as a fat Botero man, naked but for his hat.
My mother blamed me for everything that wasn’t right in our house. She even blamed me for my father’s hair going completely white before he was thirty years old. She called me whore, bitch, fucking bitch, and little shit. My least favorite was being called little shit. Maybe I was a whore and a bitch and a fucking bitch. But I wasn’t a little shit.
I remember my mother telling me many times that life is about two things—sex and the fear of death.
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My father is my secret. That he raped me is my secret. But the secret under the secret is that sometimes I liked it. Sometimes I wanted it, and sometimes I seduced him and made him fuck me. I have seen therapists and psychiatrists and psychologists and analysts, and I told them about missing my grandparents. I talked about missing my three friends who died. I talked about my mother slapping me hard across the face and then crumpling into a pile on the floor, weeping, telling me she was terrible, such a terrible mother. And I would comfort her and tell her not to worry, it didn’t hurt very much and I was fine. I did tell a few of them that my father molested me. And if they wanted to talk further about it, I stopped the conversation. I never told any of them the whole truth about me and my father.
Today I read in a book about torture that the more a captive is raped, the more likely she is to experience pleasure. Pleasure as a means of survival. The more she is raped. The more pleasure. Does this mean I have felt the most pleasure in the world? My body is pure rapture. Writing this arouses me. I think about my father and I get wet. I think about my father and I feel him in my pussy.
Pleasure as a means to survive. My father is my sexual pleasure. I’m tied up and he’s hand-feeding me his semen. Hand-feeding me what he just jacked off into his palm. This great pleasure of ours is bursting in light. I feel God in my heart getting bigger. I’m swallowing his sperm while I’m bound to the chair, and I have rays of light shooting out of my head and face.
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I get warm, soft buzzing feelings when I think about that. Being locked in the closet tied up, waiting for him, waiting for my father to rescue me after he hurt me. He rescued me. I was so relieved. So happy when the closet door opened and he untied me, undoing the knots holding me to the chair. He let me out, he let me run. I ran out into the sunshine.
How could I not love the man who set me free?
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Claude Lévi-Strauss wrote that the key difference between animals and humans is incest prohibition. What does this make me?
I remember one time in my bed watching my father’s enormous penis riding my flat-breasted chest—the fleshy head coming at me, erupting in fluid that got everywhere, but I especially remember it pooling in my belly button.
My mother was terrified that if I played outside barefoot I would cut myself and get tetanus. She was afraid, too, when I had a paper cut that it would get infected and kill me like that lady in Alabama. But when I showed her the blood between my legs when I was very small and, on a different day, blood on my unicorn-patterned sheets, she said nothing, she did nothing.
I wanted to hurt myself when I cut my thigh with a paring knife. One morning while my mother was making coffee, I sliced my leg with a knife. She told me not to get the blood on the carpet where I sat. It felt good to have that kind of pain, a different kind of pain, but I remember the shame I felt when she didn’t care.
My school was concerned about my abdominal pains, and, once, I was rushed to the hospital to have an emergency appendectomy. But it was because I hadn’t shit for a month.
When my second-grade teacher told us the story of Scheherazade, I felt I was like her. Every night she had to save her life. Every night I had to save mine, too. My father told me that he would kill me and himself if he couldn’t have me.
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On the nights when my father didn’t do anything to me, I felt abandoned. I loved him. Sometimes it was weeks, sometimes months, maybe a year, I don’t know how long, but sometimes he didn’t fuck me and he didn’t masturbate over my bed while I was supposed to be sleeping. Why was he leaving me alone? Why was he neglecting me? Did he not love me as much anymore? Was I not good enough anymore?
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My brother lives in Charleston now. He and his wife are both surgeons. They have three daughters and two hypoallergenic dogs. My brother and I would both say that we are close. We trade recipes, we talk about cooking and food, his daughters. But we don’t talk about the rest of it. There is a closeness, though. It’s as if we are very, very close—too close, even—in one way and galaxies apart in every other way. We are close because of everything we don’t—and probably never will—talk about. He doesn’t know that us both having heard the sounds of our father masturbating in the other room, in the bed with the French doors open to the light rain, makes us closer, but it does. Closer and farther away at the same time.
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It makes my palms sweat remembering how my father asked me if I wanted to fuck when I was little. He asked me in baby talk if I wanted to fuck. Yes, I replied, let’s fuck.
I wasn’t afraid of my father. My father was the one who fed me, got me dressed, took me to school, made me pasta, bathed me, dried me off with a towel, brushed my teeth. Thoughts of monsters were what kept me from falling asleep—hidden under my sheets, trying not to move or breathe.
There were two fathers, so there must have been two of me.
I masturbated with the smooth back of my little wooden hairbrush. I felt ashamed, but it felt so good. I would be overcome with desire, and I would feel the desire here, in my pussy, and I would rub the back of the hairbrush along my pussy. Secretly, quietly. Full of shame and remorse. Hoping I wouldn’t need to do it again. But I would. When I was a little older, sometimes I thought about a boy named Harry while I rubbed myself. I remember the wood of the hairbrush covered in my slimy wet.
I was too shy to stick out my tongue around other people. Would they be able to tell that this tongue had licked a penis? Would my tongue give me away? My vagina looked like a bird. Like how you draw a bird—an m in the sky, with soft tips, like a McDonald’s m. When I looked down at my vagina, the pudgy lips were like a fleshy bird. This made me uncomfortable when I drew birds, because then maybe everyone else would know what I looked like naked. Would they be able to tell that my vagina looked like a bird? And if they knew my pussy looked like a bird would they know that my father rubbed his penis on it and that he fucked me? And would they know then that it was my fault?
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I got a new black-and-white bathing suit when I was in fourth grade. I wore it on a trip to a state park with my parents and my brother. I was walking ahead of everyone, and I remember feeling my father’s eyes on my back in my new low-cut bathing suit. Did he think I looked sexy? I hoped so. The back was cut all the way down to just above my bottom. I didn’t have breasts yet, but some of the girls in my class did. I was looking forward to getting mine. I remember going off the path and into the greenery to pull down my shorts and then my bathing suit to pee. The stream splashed up on my shoes. I wondered if my father was peeking at me. Sometimes I caught him looking at me when I was doing things. Not expecting to be watched, and finding him watching me. One time I was shitting and I was looking down through my legs and trying to watch the shit come out and fall into the water. Then I looked up and saw my father’s legs right in front of me. I didn’t like that. He wasn’t supposed to watch me shit.
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It didn’t hurt when my father rubbed my pussy with his fingers, or when I rubbed my pussy on his leg. Those things felt good. I liked it when he masturbated. I liked it because it was exciting for me to watch. Sometimes he rubbed the tip of his penis along my pussy and that felt good, too. He liked looking down at his penis rubbing me. I liked looking, too. I liked the feel of his flesh rubbing my flesh. Putting his cock into me was pure pain until my body was big enough, which wasn’t until I was a teenager. I remember being afraid it would hurt the way it had before—like I was being torn, split in two, blood everywhere, but suddenly it didn’t. My body was finally big enough; I was wet, too. I must have been fourteen or so. I remember being naked on a foam mattress on the floor of one of the houses my father lived in after he left my mother. We were alone then, except for my brother. We hid from him just as we had hid from my mother, from the world. I remember the feeling of my body getting fucked on that foam mattress. There wasn’t a mattress pad—just a cotton sheet over the yellow foam—and it didn’t feel good to move on it. But it felt good when he was inside me finally—now that I was big enough. I had little breasts, too. It was different. My body was so much bigger and I was shy and covered my breasts while we did it. I remember those dark days full of light when my father fucked me.
I remember years before—when I was little—feeling my wet pussy. My fleshy little pussy lips. He touched them with his large fingers; he liked the way it felt. I had orgasms. I remember how scary they felt. Scary and so good. Like I was flying and falling and exploding and about to die. I didn’t know if my body would still be there when it was over. Every time he fucked me, every time he made himself come, or me come, I was pushed further into solitude.
I remember his sounds. His breathing, heavy and fast, trying to be quiet, trying to be quiet while his cock was so hard and he just had to, he had to rub it between my thighs. I remember his low moaning. I remember looking into his mouth. His mouth agape and tense as he rubbed his penis, looking down at it, rubbing it, getting more excited by looking at his penis with its wet red head.
All things are lawful for me. (The Apostle Paul)
I can see his face, his blue eyes, his white hair. I see his clean-shaven face. I can see his eyes like beams driving into me. They drive through my clothes and see all of my nakedness. Me as a child, me as a teenager, me as a woman.
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I don’t know if this is accurate, but the feeling I have, and always had, is that really my father wanted to kill me but that I seduced him to keep him from killing me. I became sexy to keep myself alive. I saved my life by giving him sexual pleasure. And he became addicted to our sex, and then I did, too. Or maybe he really wanted to harm himself, so he caused me pain in order to feel his own pain. He destroyed himself by causing me pain, but that gave him pleasure. I read about a man who murdered his wife because he said that was the only way he could kill himself.
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Several years ago, I fell in love with a man named Carl. At first I thought he was gentle, but another part of me smelled his violence. And he smelled my fear, like a dog. He smelled my need for violence, which I didn’t recognize that I had. One night, he demanded that I tell him that he owned me. His eyes were other. He was angry and I was frightened. But my reaction was not to run away. Sometimes I feel safer when I’m very, very still, barely breathing. My body became aroused, I was exceedingly wet, my body wanted safety. All I wanted to do was have sex with him to calm him down, to protect myself. I wanted to have sex with him all night until the sun came up, when I could be protected by the light of day instead. And then the following night, I wanted it to happen again. I asked him if he owned me, and he said yes. He told me that my body was made for him to fuck.
In moments when he really frightened me, it took only a few minutes for me to come from his fingers, his cock, his tongue. The more I actually feared harm by him, the more excited I felt, the more deeply bonded I felt to him.
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As a teenager, I had recurring nightmares about my bloody insides being everywhere. Getting caught in my own intestines. Finding my dismembered parts in the street, in public buildings, hanging from trees. I used to terrify my friends when I spent the night at their houses by screaming in the night, and sometimes I told them about these dreams. I thought it was normal for girls to have dreams like that. But they didn’t have those same dreams of walking through a city park and looking down, and where the green grass had just been were now bloody uteruses, vaginas, guts, lungs, wet pink brains sloshing around underfoot. And up in the trees, my decapitated head, my poked-out eyes, my long-haired scalp hanging from a blossoming tree branch.
For a long time, I couldn’t have an orgasm without seeing my father’s face. It was his white hair and his piercing blue eyes that I used to see when I came. The horror of seeing his face, and of that being the image that made me come, was overwhelmingly disturbing, and it also made me deeply excited. As if my ultimate erotic experience is being raped by the man who created me. His lust and his force infected my own desire.
A couple times a year, I have a dream where it’s just him and me in the world. Finally just the two of us, and we can fuck all we want. I wake up nauseated and dizzy.
Стоит ли продолжать? Мне кажется, нет.
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Но по ощущениям оно ту мач местами. Карл тот же, это уже уровень "все несчастья добродетели".