Deeply by Wendy C. Ortiz in Bedwetter (a zine by artist Christopher Russell) I. * I open like a starfish, salt, sea, fingers kneading, your fingers in me, in your mouth, the sound of waves lapping against the flanks of a boat, still waters, lapping, lapping. Soft tissue pummeled and pounded into a new ocean. The desires gather in my cunt like the ingredients of a bomb: Name them. I become willing to keep secrets, to lie, in order to detonate, regardless of impact. It’s important to be impaled sometimes. I’m in charge of so many projects and responsibilities and people count on me to produce, to astound, to rectify—and all I ask is for someone, then, in the night, in the morning, in the secret afternoon, to remove my clothes, order me to stick my ass out, to open myself up to him, to call me girl, to tell me he’s going all the way in, to tell me I’m stubborn and so is he. Ideally, when our clothes are on, he will have a polite, soft voice, and never look me in the eye, except when I start to bend my head down, my lips parted slightly to receive his cock. II. Transgression: it’s a gendered thing, as though I can’t just think with my cunt, as though men are allowed the privilege of only thinking with their cocks. When really, stories storm under the surface, always, dramas to re-enact, resolutions to try for, trauma long-forgotten but searching for that alternate ending. You told me our situation is very different and it is—but it was more than just the brainstorming of our genitals that occurred. III. The careful working of a puzzle The dance of sexual particles as our eyes meet across the room The ocean rising when I describe my love unraveling The click that goes off in your head when you hear that I’m leaving him Your palms on my forehead, my eyelids The way you undressed me The way I have been undressed before and before and before IV. [You get to stand in this place of unfettered studs. This place of unbridled sex and easy justifications and then a quiet guilt. I have to be in this place of unchaste, of snapping the head off a flower just bloomed and tossing it over one shoulder into a grave. I have to wear black and forget that I am wet, and open, and that this dress should never come off around you again (even as I dream of it being hiked up, around my hips, inviting you…)] V. I had placed dynamite in all the places that proved safe to detonate, that might have the least impact on innocents. Then I left clues, a trail in my wake. I lay in bed and with some careful maneuvering of hips and hands and a pair of green eyes watching me writhe, I lit the fuses.

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