The Other L Word

Didn’t you, then, not even a little; but I know you did, how was it possible that you could do that to me otherwise, could insert yourself into me, with your eyes wide close-gazing into mine, to see how far my pupils dilated of course, but wasn’t there something else, as you pushed the needle in below the precisely right layers of skin, the upper curve of my breast, my epidermis letting you in, as you penetrated me with the sterile steel tip the way I imagine my virginity was taken the first time, if I cared to remember that far back, if I had cared about that; but this time, I did, I cared so much and your doing it so carefully, with such caring in your hands, your confident hands, made me believe you cared, so didn’t you, then, care I mean; I mean, how could you have made me fly like that without it meaning something, something more than the moment’s intimacy, something that had to do with permanence and sweetness and the word we’d been devoted to avoiding saying for months, since the very beginning, since the day we met and I drank what you gave me and spilled it on the floor from nervous arousal and let you wipe it up and believed you would take care of whatever messes you caused in me, so I let you take me, take me home, take me places I had never gone before, inside myself and into the next dimension, because I trusted how you touched me, how you kissed me, how you fucked me with your whole hand inside me, how you hurt me with such precision, how you played my jugular like a flute, how I let you do everything, everything but that, everything but love me; but you did, after all, didn’t you, at least a little?


I want to worship you, kneel down and lick the instep of your pretty, pretty shoes. I want to suck on your soft pale fingers, and tongue the webs in between so you will know how much I want all of you: both the visible and the invisible, secret parts. I want to start a church in your name and it will not be ironic, it will be the true expression of everything within me that longs to be a devotee of everything in you that deserves to be adored. I want to open my holes and let in the beauty of the world as filtered through your fist. I want to remake myself in the image of what you would create if you were the first goddess, before the gods came along in their hubris and fucked it all up. I want to please you with the altar of my tears and the sacrament of my gorgeous sweaty suffering. I want to know I have held nothing back in the offering, I have given you the best and most beautiful moments of me, I want to feel the rush of emptiness that is the only real transcendence—where there is no gap between debasement and praise, when shame melts into bliss, when my brain stops and my body is filled with light, that ultraviolet I see in you, shimmering, just between your bones. The truth is I am not interested in deities when everything I want is right here, in these bodies, in the midst of our flaws and fears, our messy awkward forms: this radiance, this lust that purifies.

And if you fall, I want to catch you with my soft, unbroken gaze.