I want to fuck the words, go deep inside their velvety wetness and feel them throb against my brain; feel them contract and pulse in my veins, stroke them until they arch beneath my fingertips as they shudder and beg for more completion and expression. I want them to rut against my intelligence, wrap their tendrils around my thighs and grind down; imprinting their essence on my skin. I want…oh how I want to feel their hot breaths against my lips as they try to gasp out because of the intensity, the fire that burns when creativity and passion rub against one another. I want to watch when a word touches itself in front of another word, be a voyeur when words effortlessly seduce each other and come together to form an orgasm of literature. I want their taste on my tongue and to feel their heat when they fuse to form a sentence, a paragraph, a page, a book, a library. I want to write and to be written.
There is a certain frenzied madness that takes over my brain in the late hours of the night when the only respite for insomnia is to purge the cause out of your system. But how do you stop something that is so virulent that it has become an essential part of you? I revel in this insanity that holds my thoughts in a vice-like grip, squeezes them until they ooze out in a congealed bastardization of the mania that runs rampant in me.
If I do not create I will implode, it cannot be contained within because it is a natural abnormality that transcends the shell it resides in. Writer, writing, words. I grit my teeth and the pressure pounds through my temples and resonates with a compelling conviction. Suppressing it is a disaster, try as I may. I revel in it, welcome it even. Because it is I and I am it.
I walked into the bar and immediately concluded that this was how a pimp’s room would look like had I imagined it. Dim red lighting and hazy scented smoke gave it a psychedelic feeling and One Minute Man by Missy Elliot playing in the background added to the pimpish atmosphere. Of course there were the classic white, gauzy curtains that billowed from unseen wind and imitated the sinuous movement of the scantily clad women scattered all over.
One woman in particular caught my eye. Perched atop a table near the main bar, her dark arresting eyes bore into mine as she moved to the music. Her hands gave the impression that they did not belong to her as they ran over her body; seemingly with the intent to possess. Lewd sensuality poured off her in waves as she winked at me and moved her hands southwards. Jesus. Mary. And Joseph. On a bicycle to Jerusalem. What the hell was she doing here?
I hadn’t expected to run into her in this particular place; she did not seem the type to frequent such establishments but then again I was learning that this was a night full of shattered expectations. Who knew that she was such a coquette? Her shy demeanour was certainly absent as she cast several smouldering glances towards my direction.
She tasted like stale cigarettes with a touch of vodka. As if I wasn’t high enough, her tongue was eliciting euphoric feelings that I’d never experienced before. The sexy raunchy bass line had us grinding into each other with an intensity that almost set fire to the air around us. We were practically breathing each other’s air and our hands had run amuck ages ago. I was vaguely aware that we had an audience but that all faded when she pulled me in closer and whispered, ‘Take me home.’
In the moment between night and daylight my consciousness took a walk and happened upon a mysterious land of unerring vicissitudes, where you were both life and death, love and hate, sex and abstinence, innocence and cynicism, passion and ambivalence, hope and despair, sickness and health.
We came together, united in a song understood by the whispers of the leaves and the mutterings of the wind. Your sighs fell upon my skin like soft rain and your essence seeped into my bloodstream where it swam with lazy decadence and reigned supreme over my viscera.
Winding steadily through assumptions permutation was as inevitable as the changing weather. Still we clung onto our idyllic utopia, frolicking through waves of ambrosia and drowning in waters of bliss. Imbibing your virtue sated my hunger of consuming you, mutually we absorbed each other’s entirety; we mixed and became immiscible to outside currents that dared to dissolve our union.
My amorphous lover of phantom kisses and fleeting caresses. Permanently temporary are the form of your enticing promises. A veritable Botticelli Venus with hair like the sun and eyes like summer solstice. A convenience of complications with curves that could cripple any living being. Inamorata agonia.
I am a foreigner in my own gender simply because I do not portray femininity according to the way society perceives it. Yes I am a foreigner because I prefer boxers over thongs.
I am a foreigner in my own gender because I have strong opinions and because I do not demure to patriarchal concepts. Indeed I am a foreigner because I prefer Doc Martens over Ferragamo Pumps.
I am a foreigner in my own gender because I dare question years of tradition and my role in society. Obliviously I’m a foreigner when I choose to wear jeans instead of a dress.
I am a foreigner in my own gender because I refuse to conform to the mould I had been forced into and because I espouse values such as equality and fairness for all. Of course I am a foreigner when my fellow women reject my version of femininity.