Excerpt from the fictional Part 1 of Does My vagina Look fat in This?
(NB this prose contains coarse language. If coarse language offends you, I suggest you skip this post.)
Sandstone steps in front of me. The air is cool and smells like freesias. I start to go down. One, two, three, four. I get to five, and two huge pots filled with plants on either side loom up large in front of me. Not flowers or ferns or bushes, but great prehistoric, phallic looking vines that stretch out to beyond nothing. Six, seven, eight, nine, ten. My feet hit the soft grass and sink in. A long white skirt floats around my ankles. I walk to a large flat rock and lie on it. In front of me is a stream. Beyond the stream is a clearing that backs onto the edge of the world. The grass stops where the world stops. Beyond that is an abyss. I look at it, sure in the knowledge that that is where I need to go. I turn my cheek to the warm stone as if to fill myself with the strength of the sun before I lay claim to my bounty, my truth. As I start to get up, to summon my courage, he comes to me. I can see his intent. His desire lights my own and he lies with me, sharing the warmth of the sun on the rock beneath us. We kiss. The feel of his cheek on my face fills me with longing. I want to abolish my surroundings, myself, him, and become entirely lost. No longer the object, but the subject, both. I want to run my tongue over his eyelids. I want to drench my skin in his smell. I want to rub my face all over his neck and bury my nose in his hair. I want to lay my body flat against his and roll like children in the grass. I want his skin on me, on my back and my legs and my face. I want his hands to encircle my wrists like bracelets; not to snare, but to adorn. I want to share his breath until we can no longer distinguish one from the other.
His tongue pushes deep in my mouth and feels angry in its insistence. From my mouth to my nipples, from my nipples to my cunt. There is nothing else. It is always the same. My face cries out in defiance. My wrists scream to be held. My skin aches in loneliness. My breath is lost to the warm afternoon sky. And then he is in me, above me, hovering, as if he had built his arms up for this sole purpose, and I feel like a vessel for his hatred. His top lip curls up in a snarl. His desire. Why do you hate me? I want to cry. He tells me I’m beautiful then, as if to reassure me that all is how it should be in the world. I pull him to my skin and close my eyes… I feel him on my skin, in my flesh, and imagine me male. I am him getting pleasure from me. I see us in a dark car lot, me on the filthy ground, him behind me, his lip curled up into a snarl. I have taken the last exit to Brooklyn. I come.
© Simonne Michelle 2006