A few days ago the doctor examined me. The examination advanced from touching to rubbing to squeezing to further. The entire time I didn’t look. I just couldn’t. During the further my eyes began to rise until they reached the ceiling. Once the suction began I thought my eyes would roll backwards and examine my insides. The doctor ended by telling me that all was well, that I had nothing to worry about. I was thankful for that. As I understand some people do not like this procedure. It was my first time. It was an experience. Coincidentally, my husband goes to the same doctor’s office. I wonder if he has partaken in similar procedures. I shall ask him when he returns home. I understand it is uncouth to share what goes on in the doctor’s office. However, the idea of such a procedure happening to my husband does make me wonder in devilish ways. Forgive me. You’re not here for that. Though, perhaps you are? Upon my asking I may share further details with you. Do you wish to receive that information?
There’s a woman on stage. A man is next to me. He leans over and says “She’s hot.” I nod because having a conversation in this place would be difficult unless you’re in one of the backrooms. I’ve never been there but I’ve heard tales. At some point the woman comes from the stage and stands in front of me. She’s beautiful though it’s difficult to tell in this light. Her energy feels almost tangible. She says something to me. I can’t hear her properly. It sounds like gibberish. The guy next to me says “Lucky you.” The woman reaches for my hands and pulls me to my feet. Well, I allow her to pull me. I’m bigger than her, though she does seem to have a sort of strength unmatched. In the same way ballerinas are strong. You know what I mean? Now I’m walking along with this woman, who has strong legs, strong arms and flexible parts, she leads me to a backroom. The lights are colored here, looks like Christmas mixed with Halloween. “What’s going on?” I say as I’m pushed onto a couch. She puts a finger to my lips and leans forward. I can now smell this woman. She smells fantastic. With pillow-like lips a whisper hits my ear. She says my name, and then I am taken.
There’s graffiti on this woman, and eyes are depicted. She is sultry to an extreme degree, burning me from outside in. She hasn’t come anywhere close to my personal space, and we have yet to touch yet I see myself in her tats, her back covered, her arms covered, her legs as well. I can barely make out skin beneath all the ink. Is there a person there, a bit of skin untouched? She must have a bit of herself uncovered. Under the covers I’ll be surprised, amazing, this maze of a woman. Bold am I, when I slither past crevices, hoping to enter. Not to be rude, I honestly want the tattoos. You can’t taste the ink after its tasted flesh. Yet flesh marinated in ink may be a treat to digest.
Slept with an editor yesterday, was criticized the whole time, felt transported back to childhood, scrutinized for things beyond my control. They said things like “sloppy, unorganized, and rough.” I felt them leave red marks all over. These marks took away from my overall grade or score or whatever editors use to classify acceptance. I think they’ll discuss me at the next editorial congregation, probably have a good laugh. This editor was cruel but it didn’t take away the attraction. The rejection gave a stinging sensation. It produced a bit of depression. However, I can’t lose hope. One can improve on anything if they work hard enough at it. That’s what they teach you at least. It’ll be difficult to be as hard as I was, but I promise to try and try harder still.
This year’s company orgy was a disaster. The concept of hygiene seems lost on several employees. How are you cleaner at work? Why would you even allow your spouse to leave home in such states of stench? I’m not in the business of relations with the unkempt. Though orgies are naturally filthy there’s a certain organized chaos within. We are not animals. We are co-workers. Therefore we should behave as such. I won’t stand for this sort of unclean behavior for much longer. I hope to smell improvement next year. Baths beforehand, everyone should smell like assorted soaps and lotions. No matter your size, you shouldn’t be sweating before disrobing. I don’t care how anxious you are. Be professional and above all else be clean.
I retired from the industry. My life, as it is now, is as normal as the word can be defined. Only thing is numbskulls, would-be fans, sometimes like to speak out of turn as if someone gave them the right. The women are fine, surprising even. It’s the boys who come up and say things like “Hey, aren’t you…” and “What happened to you?” Sometimes they ask if I could pose for photographs in suggestive positions. How does the world birth such low level louses? It boggles the mind to think your career must infinitely define you even after you leave it behind. Still, I put on a pleasant face and decline. This is what you must do. You must pretend. Lest you be assumed as some uncreative derogatory term. I’ve heard them all, they don’t bother me. Yet the lack of awareness annoys. As if you weren’t pleasuring yourself to me. Be humble. I’ve even had dummies approach me while I’m out with family I offer politeness and decline invites from ingrates. When the camera stops we’re expected to be cordial. It’s insanity how the world assumes they know you based off seeing you perform. None of the performances were personal. Yet, what can you do when it comes to entitlement? I wonder if complaints ever discourage others. One can hope. I hope everyday. At this point that’s all you can do.
I don’t like bondage. It terrifies me. My friend was into it. She allowed herself to be tied, to be treated like furniture. It’s funny; the idea of a safe word seems safe until it isn’t. That’s when it’s the last word. I think about that a lot. I mean, considering how she went how could I not? When I heard the news I froze. I couldn’t believe it. Hearing the fetish of your friend before attending their funeral should never be a thing. Though, I suppose that’s the best way to hear about it, unless you’re into sharing that sort of information with friends. She wasn’t into that, and I share that stance. Some secrecy isn’t a bad thing. Ironically, a person shouldn’t want to be untangled purposely. Guarding yourself is a right, a firm right to grasp, no matter how selfish it may seem.