Exposure Therapy, or, A Meat Romance

So close your eyes are mountain ranges
chains of radial radiant muscles so delicate.
I want to pull out your eyelashes
gather them carefully into a revolting heap
and burn them somewhere far away.
I tell you this as my skin begins to crawl.

You roll your eyes;
you do not understand. You are covered with your skin
I am covered with your skin.
I want to push my face into your hot neck but that too
is flaking slowly away, and it is held together by grease and sick warmth.
You’re meat I mutter,
not shuddering as I drag my chewed-up thumb cautiously over your jaw.
So are you you point out.
You smile and try to kiss me,
and I moan
in panic, disappointment, frustration.

I try to explain with a tongue like a swelling tumor:
You’re too good for meat. You’re not disgusting
but all of this is.
I pass my hand over all your body
with tremulous brittle-winged fingers.
You push into my touch (I hate it)
(thank you thankyou)
and murmur in a stream of warm breath:
I am my body I am
a complex system of fluids and electrics I
am not a brain alone but a biome.

You know that kind of talk gets me hot and bothered
—in a different way from before—
that’s why you do it. You want
to leave philosophy for a little while but I
I’m not exactly like that.
I inhabit my body uneasily, never sure
just what it is trying to communicate
or whether at any moment it will disintegrate into wet chunks.

That you are your body is one of the reasons I love you
even though it means I cannot separate what I love from what I hate.

Think of it as exposure therapy.
To inure yourself to me.

I hope I am never inured to you
I say fervently.
I marshal the forces of chemical insistence
and start looking for places to put my hands.

Sexuality Complaints and the Statistical Analysis of Attraction

Best Beloveds, I am often frustrated by the very concept of sexuality. It has never made sense to me in a personal capacity, and thus reason leads me to believe that I may be asexual. I do not want to be asexual! Sex is obviously very pleasant, perhaps even moreso than the memetically vaunted cake.  It saddens me to think that I will never experience such a visceral pleasure. It seems my situation is somewhat unique: I am intellectually attracted to sex (and it has a host of health benefits, too, that would be a shame to miss) but unsure if I am physically compatible with this. Thing.

Let us talk about sexuality as a whole! It has recently expanded from one type (heterosexuality, although this is after some shrinkage from when a few other types were accepted too) to several distinct types, and then to a continuum.  I like to think of it as a three-dimensional continuum–although three dimensions is no longer enough considering the variety of gender expressions that exist–with the following axes: sexual attraction to men, to women, and to people who do not fall neatly into either of those categories. I still have no idea where I fall on any of these axes. I know that sexual attraction is just one of myriad kinds of attraction, which can be seen as another n-dimensional continuum, and I have tried exhaustively (exhaustingly) to analyze how the other types of attraction work for me. I am most prone to aesthetic and intellectual attraction, and I would say that I am even less likely to experience romantic attraction than sexual if I had any idea whatsoever what romance is. Many of my friends have tried to explain romance to me at length, and given up in the face of my curious stupefaction.

Here, then, is my complaint: romance and sexuality are much too confusing, and there is no conceivable way to fix this. Nature has gifted humans with the desire to procreate and the desire to stick around and make sure the offspring don’t die, but in the messiest possible way. Evolution does things by trial and error, so humanity is stuck, for the most part, with a lot of hormones and various sloshy concoctions that send contradictory and unhelpful messages as often as not. Add to this social and familial norms and–congratulations! everyone is miserable trying to figure out the one thing they are told will make them happy.

Obviously this is an exaggeration, but can I be blamed if I am the tiniest amount bitter? I’ve seen people wrecked, people wrecking other people, and I wish it would stop. I wish I could blame someone (besides our old enemy Society) but sadly I am atheistic and have only the random distribution of past events to yell at. Here’s to a brighter future in which, perhaps, I figure out what’s going on in my pants. Cheers.