Barbarism


I am so fucking bored of being the sex slave

Rebecca, as she lay in a luxuriously tousled limb-over-limb-type arrangement in full view of her cat, was heard to say, “I am so fucking bored of being the sex slave!” before casting her throw pillow exasperatedly to the floor, narrowly missing her comfortable cat and falling angrily back to a supine position with the disappointing discovery that she had no material with which to masturbate. She continued, “It’s no longer effective! I don’t find it realistic because I’m not quite THAT wimpy and it’s just not THAT interesting or surprising to me anymore!”

“I’m not turned on by lying prostrate in a yellow-and-purple polka dotted bathing suit on a grey, pebbly beach with a couple of lustful, well-mannered Frenchmen or working for the money in a white bouclé dress amid half-drunk champagne flutes and lipstick-stained carpet in the Ground Zero-overlooking apartment of that slimy shark fin-looking guy in 25th Hour. I’m not interested in being the sexy, underage secretary filing the cabinets (“cabinets”) of some faceless corporate he-man or playing the middle-of-the-country hot pants lumberjack’s assistant or even the vision of myself in real life erstwhile sexual situations. In truth, I am so fucking bored of being the sex slave in my fantasies and my body is not responding because my body is bored! Thank goodness these fantasies aren’t real or else I would be in so much pain!”

Writhe, writhe, writhe she did! In frustration, bereavement of orgasm, and anger. “I think it much more desirable to be standing at a bar or leaning by a refrigerator wearing clothes (but not just any clothes, specific clothes) with specific gazes, smiles, indecisive half-smiles or very alert eyes and general tingly embarrassment—the whole mating facial indicator dance. It seems less boring and more present to fantasize about foreplay, I guess is what I’m saying. This is unexpected! I feel very young for fantasizing sexually about non-specifically sexual episodes, as if these fantasies indicate that I can’t handle the end point of the fantasizing but it’s just SO BORING to be the French maid with the feather duster or the silent, downward-gazing slave, the dutiful lackey in bikini pelts or lovingly, nervously bumbling in submission AGAIN. I want something new!”

Rebecca’s cat, with her mouth hanging open like it does only in moments of extreme confusion, took in her owner’s outburst with a barely audible ‘meow.’ Rebecca, in crisis, failed to notice the adorably vulnerable opening of tiny, feline jaws. “But on the other hand, I don’t necessarily feel like fantasizing about being a dominatrix. I do not these days like the idea of wearing a black rubber catsuit and I don’t consider it anymore effective to fantasize about things that are so unrealistic that they could never plausibly come to pass. For example, high heels. I wouldn’t wear high heels in real life, so even in my dream life, the idea makes my feet hurt. For another example, though much noted in pornography (which has the annoying, unwanted effect of fostering much passion in my breast even though it doesn’t REALLY foster much passion in my breast—just my loins; that’s not the same) I do not wish to be humiliated or attacked. I like to think about clear voices, unwavering eyes, not terribly fluttery nerves that propel attacks of mortification. I like the idea of slowness, a steady pace, the kind of pace that says PROVE IT even though I can’t seem to shake the feeling that all passion stems from anger, usually recycled from the last person, anger that used to in small degrees expel itself in self-abnegating matrydom but now, instead of groveling and pouting and crying, I want to fuck shit up, even if shit is only the other persons’ genitals! I’d rather be the destroyer of genitals than the sex slave! Then again, I know everyone wants to be appreciated, but I’m made uneasy by the idea of respect.”

Having resigned herself to dissatisfaction, Rebecca jerked out of bed, shuffled on her indoor shoes and went to violently snuffle her extremely amorous-smelling kitty, who whinnied in struggle, a struggle that kitty would surely lose in the face of Rebecca’s overwhelming, unreleased erotic fervor.

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This post resonates with me. Later on, we discuss.

Comment by Sam




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