On the Secrets of My Heart Shaped Box



There's no place like home.

 I was going to write about sex, and by the time you were done reading this post, you were going to say yourselves, "if it takes the rest of my life, I will make love to her." I planned on describing my fetishes in detail, leaving you ensorcelled by my honesty, and with my potent sexuality. The computer would have immediately been turned off so that you could get yourselves on to a treadmill and start working off anything that might leave me feeling repulsed. You were going to sharpen your wits and your pencils in order to compose a love letter than would conquer my heart, and warm my vagina. But I failed. I stumbled only inches away from the starting point. I possess no grace, no elegance, and only some charm by way of a lollipop I keep in my back pocket.
I've tried to be seductive many times over, and it has led to nothing but moments of embarrassment and discomfort. The kind that can never be erased by time, and will always cause you to cringe. I suppose it would be wise to learn from those moments, to allow them to change what is only causing me harm, but wisdom is best left to talking trees.

Most attempts I have made at seducing a man start off well. My raspy voice is reduced to a whisper, almost humming into a man's ear. I then push my insignificant weight against a body I want to explore, but cannot find the courage to do. Gentle kisses quickly cover hands I will safely slip into mine before I attempt to conquer lips that softly pronounce my name, making it sound new again. I know by now, yet don't always care to remember, it is only a matter of time before something louder than lust grabs my attention, usually my insecurities. I will destroy any moment that leaves me feeling vulnerable and exposed. Just when a man responds with a passion that matches my own, I will surely find a way to put out a fire. You would think Smokey Bear was guarding my cunt. Yeah, CUNT.

Much of the way we view sex is formed early in life. I try and find the exact location of where I took a sharp left turn, and what led me to take that course. There are images that flash blurry. Beautiful white women, and men that accept their sexuality. Catholic aunts labeling anything done before and after prayer a sin. A life that has always been in motion and the mind that directs it viewing sex and love as an inconvenience. Abraham Romero (don't google him, it's creepy.),  wearing eyeliner, sitting across from me outside of a coffee shop in Burbank, California. The caffeine made me feel like an adult without the burden of any real responsibilities. A couple in their mid-twenties argued about Jung. My arm twitched when I heard his name. It was jealousy. Carl Jung was mine. My possessive nature was obvious enough for Abraham to find himself amused by it. He laughed while I suppressed tears. I turned to the woman, ready to strike at her, but she was beautiful. I wanted to be her. Molly (Sixteen Candles Down the Drain) by Sponge began to play over our conversation. Abraham told me he likes the band. I told him I hate the band just to be contrary.

"I do not care about what you like. Things don't mean anything. People mean something, or they should. Do I mean anything to you?" I asked.

He replied," I am beyond something so simple."

I did not know what he meant, and I knew exactly. It was like a song you do not know the lyrics to, but can follow along absolutely when you hear it on the radio. I understood only when I found myself there. It's not a place you can find on a map.

 I asked him if he would take me home with him, and keep me safe. He said we had not even kissed yet, but even if we had, he did not want to complicate me. He stood up and led me down the street, to a parking garage, up four flights of stairs, and he kissed me. It was not perfect, but we were not perfect. And when he walked me home, serenading me with my favorite song, Late at Night by Buffalo Tome,  I promised I would not run away as I had before.

"It's cold," I said.

 Abraham smiled while he took of his sweater. It was the middle of summer. I would never talk to him again. We both knew that. I wanted a piece of him without having to make a commitment, without having to sacrifice my freedom. So, I took his sweater, and pressed my face into his chest, no longer caring to hold back tears. Goodbye, I said.
"You do this to yourself, little viking," he said.
He walked away, but I never really did.