February 14, 2008
Vagina Usuria


There’s this way I’m feeling right now. Right now, every third, maybe second, maybe fourth, maybe every other woman, I want to pour myself on her like melted butter. Right now, the way I’m feeling, I see women and I want to pry them open like oysters and pour them down my throat. I could sink my teeth into that chick’s thigh, him, right there, believe it or not. I imagine shucking her of ers clothes and nibbling her to wet, sweet morsels. Right now the way I’m feeling is omnivorous. I see a woman and I could devour her whole.

My vagina, maybe it has grown teeth. It is that voracious.

Right now, it’s been over two months since I’ve been properly laid. Over eight weeks, more than 56 days, or 1,344 hours, or 80,640 seconds have passed since I’ve been licked, kissed, touched, probed, penetrated, fornicated, fucked, in short. In the grand scheme of time, it’s not that long. Intellectually, I recognize the relative brevity. But in my panties, it feels like an eternity.

I don’t even exactly recall the details of my last copulation. Vague memories hang like the vestiges of those spray-on spiderwebs that remain in less well-kempt bars. I remember in thin sheets, the last time I fucked my previous lover. I try to recall the details; I grasp at them as at mist. I absolutely remember coming. I am fairly sure it happened in my bed. Beyond that, details haze and blow about like smoke at a Zeppelin concert. There was kissing, there was sucking, there was the piston-fornicating, and these details I am sure of because there is always kissing, sucking and piston-fornicating. Other points feel as blank as an empty Post-It note.

I walk around with this pelvis bone-deep hunger. Puissant as it is, this hunger crept up on me. The winds of the emotional vicissitudes of the past couple of months had buffeted me about so thoroughly that the dormant party in my panties was just about the last thing I was thinking about. I masturbated out of a sense of duty than joy. I had to remind myself to do it, like grieving people need to be reminded to eat. I would drag out toys, wash them off, lube them up and have a genital go of it more out of feeling like I ought to want to than out of a genuine desire. Now I find that dormancy has passed, and I am left with this gnawing need.

Which all leaves me with this hungry, hungry pussy. I could wind it up and toss plastic bits into it—shoes, shirts, tiny tin can replicas—and it would still be starving. I have tried. I have fed it vibrators and dildos and vibrating dildos and other buzzing plastic and silicone and stainless steel masturbatory flotsam and jetsam, and my pussy, indiscreet as a goat, has swallowed it all, burped, and asked for more.

Like the Mariner, I am surrounded by water, water, everywhere and not a drop to drink. I can’t turn my head without seeing—and sometimes smelling, and if I’m on the subway, rubbing up against in a bonus urban frottage—men. They’re everywhere. I see them and I want. My nose is pressed up against the glass of the sweetshop that is sex. I could cram them all into my greedy child’s mouth with my grubby fists. I am that hungry, hungry as a post-hibernation bear.

And yet, hungry as I am, needy, greedy and keening as my pussy might be, I deny it all with the remarkable self-abnegation of a holy man. No, I tell myself, no, and no again, and I wag my finger at my hungry self.

Not now, not yet, not with her, not with him, not with anyone, not until I feel ready and sure and able to digest it.


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