The world looks different after you cum.
I don’t mean to say that the sky is brighter, sidewalks
sparkle, birds seem more cohesive in their pathmaking or that the sheen of
human skin seems any more radiant. I don’t
mean to posit that the surrounding environment bobs and weaves like an
unorganized Oedipal theater, dancing in front of the eyes of an eighteen year
old girl tripping on shitty, west-side acid for the first time. No, if anything, I mean to state that the
physical space between one body and another (my body and the Other) is more
concrete and less subtle, that skin looks more like the less-than-durable outer
shell of a machine we only borrow rather than the pageantry we dress it up to
be. In a word, life-after-orgasm is honest.
Maybe too honest.
Hard to believe that one provoked release of ejaculate would
pull so much fantasy away with it, not unlike the way my mother pulled so much
fantasy about familial structure and whimsical definitions of what sturdy meant when she exited our family
home for a better life. Hard to believe
one could mention one’s mother right after mentioning one’s orgasm, separated only
by the fake boundary of language. Maybe
the divide isn’t too hard to comprehend; only post-cum could I even begin to
articulate the ridges and contours of the roman-esque pillars shouldering the
occasional, flash-weight of sexuality barely two decades young. Before the effort, before going through the
motions of release, I see only conquests and natives (indigenous and
colonialism). I have begun to fear
sexuality is the great imperial beast.
“Humynkind needs to cum, collectively…needs to arhythmically
remove the monocle of sexual colonizing from the right eye and dig the rheum of
a three century long night out of the left eye.
Maybe then will white devils in gray trucks turn their blue eyes away
from malice and pale skin demons skitter away to reclaim their magnum hearts
for love.” You looked like a demagogue from
the third row and I could feel the sexual thirst for waters of domination dry
my throat and roll lazily across my liar’s tongue. Three hours have passed and I am the
dichotomy of native and oppressor once more.
Fanon argues for half my soul, Van Aerssen van
Sommelsdijck brutalizes for the remaining half.
All of history tumbles, rejoices, feigns
and then burns within three hours, behind my eyes and below my stomach.
And then we cum.
