kat writes

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Wed, 22 May 2013 14:13:24 -0400

Look at Brittney! She looks stunning. Not a teeny boper, not...

Wed, 22 May 2013 14:09:16 -0400

Look at Brittney!

She looks stunning. Not a teeny boper, not covered in makeup, not shaven like a bowling ball, just like standing before a mirror naked- she is real. A mommy, with circles under her eyes and a little tummy that is rounded like a soft blanket that warms you on the coldest night. Her skin is not flawless- it is grey. It is uncovered, raw and visceral.

She is totally beautiful.

Poems written between lovers

Wed, 22 May 2013 13:48:08 -0400

Grey T-shirt sits down

Whirring fan flicks above our heads

Happy dirty feet

was so

sure

The sea plays

Dancing with the ribbons of the pale

Peach sun

The cup overflowing like the

Sky above

She reads the lines on my palm

tree

While I feed her chocolate cherries

glazed in honeysuckle

In Hawaii

On a Monday in

March

He tosses the plate like mangos

Bursting

Open

As if a parachute

Had exploded inside

My chest

Applefarm obligations

Swiftly wrapping around me

Pulled tight by both sides

Horses on either end

Either end on either hand

There are no

Apples

The dolphin rises from the orange

Juice factory

And murders the dark

Black clouds

That crossed the bridge

Sweet and salty

Brianna with her Bible blankets

Builds a bench under

The broadway bar

-chapter four of her book,

“Bones Over Bullets”

She sells it for a billion pennies

She drowns a copper cat

She drinks until the sea cows

Leave church

The dogs evade his

Lips mumbling

Like warm peanutbutter sliding

Down toast

Don’t get crumbs

Inside

The jar

Meet me at the

Eunuch fair

Mastectomies are half off

Only one boob

Left on earth

But there is a spider

Inside

The nipple L

The poet

Day by day

Wept for jesus

To touch his penis

Like sandollars

His feet there

Beside him

Bastard bibles under the bed in the building

They read:

“Hallowed be thy ween

Thy funbits cum

Then they will be done

Lord of lords

Heaven’s in hell

Don’t forget to tell

The babysitter, Bell…

I left the money in the bible”

Sometimes I wonder where

The pressue lies

Beneath pavement

Perhaps the devil

Is Ronald mcdonald

Getting a blowjob

Inside the ball pit

His meat and red hair

Memory: Ten years Old

Tue, 14 May 2013 12:46:25 -0400

In the summers, when humidity descended upon my small childhood town like a thick layer of cream cheese, I would play outside on Carina’s white porch. Unlike my mother, Carina didn’t believe in air conditioning, microwaves, or weight watchers frozen dinners , and sitting outside underneath her black and white auning was cooler than being indoors. Vinnie sat on the step along side of me, nursing my chest with a cold rag. Gina, the other girl they had babysat, a feisty Puerto rican, had punched me so hard I couldn’t breathe. Vinnie- who was mowing the lawn at the time- saw me fall backwards into a ditch and came running. He scooped me up into his Italian arms and carried me. The sun played peekaboo through the shadows in the trees. I already had a bruise.

“I don’t know what pissed her off.” I said.

Vinnie shook his head at me. “You put deodorant all over her doll!” Molly, The American girl doll, rested behind him covered in pink powdery lady speed stick. Her hair was clumped into dreadlochs.

“She was sweaty from the sun!”

Vinnie removed the cloth and tried to clean Molly’s glasses or something. When I got up to go find Gina to play some more, he yanked my little hand and pulled me onto his lap.

“You stay away from that little bitch” Vinnie said. “I’ll play with you.” He laughed a low chuckle like a car starting it’s engine and bounced me up and down. I liked playing with Vinnie. The way his hands fit mine, touched my skin like kneading dough. I wished my Dad came home and hugged me sometimes. It felt like there was something inside me he was afraid of- something that hurt him to even look me in the eye at night when he turned out my Minnie mouse light.

Vinnie’s breath was warm. I squirmed on his lap, not sure why he had to be so close. But, maybe this was what normal little girls did with their dads. Maybe this was what it meant to be loved. He had found the 4 page story I wrote on the bathroom floor about a demonic librarian and told me I was something else. I wasn’t anything to my Dad, so something else was everything to me. Vinnie adjusted me on his lap. He always told me the coolest stories about his trips around the world, the nuns in catholic school, his skiing tournaments. In fact, we used to play a game where he would trap my legs inside his and I would try to use the strength in my thighs to open them. He said it was a skiing game- a leg excersize. A dancer since the age of four, I was good at it. You’d be surprised how strong the human body is when it knows it’s needs to survive. I would use all of my power like the Jaws of Life prying myself from his body. His leg from my leg, his heart from my chest. What are they now without him?

He gave me a sip of his coffee, his hands moving my hair. Vinnie’s hands were always moving. They stirred bowls of flour, they made me pizza and oreo mint milkshakes, they cracked open eggs, they wrote down my stories, they grabbed my crotch, my ass. Vinnie’s hands- they nurtured and shattered me.

“Let’s go for a walk, kiddo” Vinnie said. I followed Vinnie to the woods. I never forgot that day. How stupid I was at ten years old, how I never stopped searching for someone’s arms, falling in love with anyone and everyone who caresses the small of my back, how completely I belonged.

He kissed me in the woods. Actually, first he let me play with his matches. He was supposed to have quit smoking weeks ago, but that was another one of our little secrets.

“We’re pals right.” Vinnie said. His hands reached for me and in a panic, I burnt part of my hand. The web of skin between my index finger and thumb bubbled like a soda can. Vinnie kissed my hand and I began to cry.

“Don’t tell anybody about this. I’ll get in trouble.” He pulled me into him. “Were pals right? You don’t want that do you?”

I shook my head as he gripped me tighter. Vinnie laughed once more, and I felt like ashes. He kissed me and my stomach deflated like balloon. The trees were falling in on me, an accordion of sound like screeching tires. I pushed him away, and tried to go back to the house, but he wouldn’t let me.

“Just give me one more kiss.”

I didn’t know what to do. I was a little kid, and my hand throbbed, but I knew that Vinnie was my pal, my mentor, my dad. I leaned in and kissed him. He tasted like metal and grass stains. I would let him do anything to me. As Vinnie’s tongue rolled around my mouth I focused on the bark on the tree in the shape of west Virginia. When he pulled away, I ran like hell, my feet snapping twigs beneath me. When I arrived at the cape cod, my father had just walked over. We lived right next door, so my dad never bothered driving to pick me up after he got home from work. I came up to him breathless, hid my hand in my pocket.

“I’m ready Daddy.”

He didn’t ask why I was in the woods, or why I was running. We just walked to our house in silence, with me peaking over my shoulder every other step of the way.

That night I didn’t sleep. I kept waiting for Vinnie to pop out from under my bed like some monster. It was a Tuesday, my mother’s drinking night with her friends, and I had already called her two times with no answer. I crawled into my Dad’s bed tentatively.

“Is school okay?” My dad said this like he was asking directions in a foreign language he didn’t understand. He didn’t know how to talk to me, but like intro to Spanish, this was the only phrase he mastered. He asked me everyday. He said I could talk to him about everything.

“It’s summer.” I said. I drew the maroon blanket up to my chest like a wall I desperately needed.

My father nodded, rolled over and set his alarm.

“Daddy-” I could feel my voice rising and getting caught in my throat, tacky like Gina’s speed stick. This was my only chance, and I knew he would never believe me. Instead of crying, I focused on my father’s scar on his thigh. While he was working at a carwash in the 80s, one of the cars hit him. The bone went right through his skin. It was the only story my father ever told me. “Daddy, can I stay here with you, tonight?”

“Yeah, Honey.” Maybe he knew that something was wrong, but he didn’t know the words. Or maybe he simply didn’t want to believe it could be true- after all, no dad wants to check under their daughters bed for monsters to find an honest to god Dracula.

I spent most of my childhood through middle school sleeping in my parents bed. Nobody asked about the nightmares. It was just a phase. “She’ll grow out of it.” Silly thing is, I still have trouble sleeping by myself. Maybe I always will. Or maybe, the challenge is to sleep with a man, and no longer feel like a little girl in another country- lost and afraid.

Josh took a picture of us writing stories and plotting my...

Mon, 13 May 2013 14:34:26 -0400

Josh took a picture of us writing stories and plotting my anorexia recovery tattoo last night.

6 months ago, I was laying on a bathroom floor and Alison could not come see me. I had to lift her into a photobooth on one of our dates.

What has happened to my life?!

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Mon, 13 May 2013 14:22:26 -0400

“That was the thing about words, they were clear and...

Mon, 13 May 2013 14:18:04 -0400

“That was the thing about words, they were clear and specific-chair, eye, stone- but when you talked about feelings, words were too stiff, they were this and not that, they couldn’t include all the meanings. In defining, they always left something out”

- Janet Fitch

Night Light You are the sun Grabbing onto me Like a banyan...

Sat, 11 May 2013 13:01:05 -0400

Night Light

You are the sun

Grabbing onto me

Like a banyan tree

So perfectly twisted even

The most fearful

Little girl finds comfort in your arms

You are the smoke

Rising from my cigarette

Like the moon

Shining on a lotus flower

Your kisses open inside my chest

I crave your taste

Your painful blue flicker

In the darkness

As I hold you inside me

And let your carcogens

Your nicotine

Fill me so raw

And full of light

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Sat, 11 May 2013 12:55:00 -0400

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Sat, 11 May 2013 12:51:49 -0400

My next book

Fri, 10 May 2013 21:48:34 -0400

My first book-about a lesbian heroin addict caring for her mother with alzheimers- was a 270 page distraction to eat and will never see the light of day. My next book Im currenty working on is going to be super fantastic! Its about a hippie writer that has lucid dreams, Mallorie, who leaves her catholic lesbian lover with a disability for secular journalist, Aaron, who gives her orgasms. Mallorie is pretty crazy from years of sexual abuse and believes she has many past lives. She meets her biological father. In other words- NOTHING like my life. The readers will hate Mallorie for leaving the disabled woman, and Aaron more for seducing her, but then they shall be redeemed- Aaron by supporting such a strange woman through her trials. Its funny! My first book was very depressing. Im very excited about the dreams!

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Thu, 09 May 2013 15:30:05 -0400

The sadness of apples

Tue, 07 May 2013 15:18:00 -0400

I know I’m ranting about Josh right now. I also know in nine months time I will be ranting about some girl named Whale Maiden, but really indulge me on this one last thing:

The way he handles my eating disorder is totally different from my ex girlfriend. When I told him about the craziness that was my life six months ago, the hair loss, the hospital, he was just kind of like- Oohkay then. If your hair ever falls out again, I’m gluing it back with elmers paste and force feeding you pizza and frozen yogurt. Then, a little freaked out, he said: Please, if you ever get like that just let me know so I can make you stop.

Josh does not weigh himself. He describes himself as a fucking monster that eats everything. “Ten stones does not tell my life!” Josh buys me cake and icecream at all hours of the night.

My girlfriend told me to weigh myself. “Think of it as a goal to grow! You’re growing!” When I was passed out on my girlfriend’s floor, she asked what triggered me. What are your feelings? She told me If I ever needed anything, she said she was right there for everything, but Alison’s “right there” was her voice, my emotions. She could not save me or take care of me.

Josh’s right there is literally right there, carrying my fat ass into the kitchen when I say “Ikindasortacanttodaybutitsokay.” He buys me food and brings it to my house like some fairy in the middle of the night! POOF! Like my ex- he too, makes me chocolate milk, but the chocolate milk tastes different.

I sat down on the floor and I tell him about the last time I made myself throw up blood with crimson chunks of apple in it. I kind of expected him to run out the door, but because I am his greatest sexual fantasy and moaning in his bed several times a week, Josh does not do this. My ex girlfriend used to tell me “I can’t imagine ever hating myself so much.” Instead Josh tells me about the times when he was a teenager and his religious father who always kept guns in his house. How he rolled his tongue around the barrel several times, praying for the courage to press down.

Maybe we all ARE a little crazy- I avoided food and feelings to stay in the world. Josh wanted to leave it.

Here is gone

Sun, 05 May 2013 17:24:37 -0400

I’m a little angry. Not so much that my ex-girlfriend is telling people about my eating disorder, my history of abuse, lying that I cheated on her with a man, or posting poems about me on facebook and tagging my friends in them so that they see my lack of sanity and sexual preference. I had broken up with Alison a month and a half before I lost my lesbian ID card and started bangin’ a sexy writer.

It’s the fact that she believes that I never cared about her, that our entire relationship was a lie. I loved Alison so much. We had begun dating when my eating disorder was in full force- I was really sick- and yet, as my bones cracked like sparklers I put together her 50 pound wheelchair an average of four times a day. I helped her use the bathroom for fucks sake! And I never loved her?! When I was too weak to drive, I came to her house just to see her. Alison never came to me. One night, I hit a curve, and took out three mailboxes, then passed out on her floor. She asked what triggered my feelings. She didn’t come to the hospital. She bought me journals and told me to break through. My period was gone for 6 months. She bitched about hers, and told me I was perfect, when In reality my body was shutting down. I was exhausted on our anniversary just sitting, and a clump of my hair fell out when she told me I made her feel whole.

When I couldn’t breathe, I lifted her, cooked for her, and held her in my arms when all I wanted was for her to rescue me. If I didn’t love her, then why would I do all that? At the time, she was everything to me- but now, looking back on it, “everything” also seemed a lot like co-dependency and need. I called her to tell her that I loved her and I was terribley sorry that she felt that way, but she didn’t answer. Alison never answered. She turned off her phone when she went to bed at 11pm. When I woke up at three am with my heart in my throat, I was always alone.

“You’re a straight woman! You never liked vagina. ” My friend Michael told me when I invited him over for dinner a few nights ago. My other friends are also having trouble with my new vagina development. Lithuanian even told me she’d fuck me so I’d be a lesbian again. Michael was my gay best friend my freshman year who watched me go through girl after girl, and drop pound after pound. We laughed at her poetry while making pasta. I told him about the great sex with Josh which he dubed Dick Fest 2013. I gushed over how Josh caught me in the park from a tree. “How the fuck is Alison supposed to catch you from a tree?! She can’t pee!”

I always had dreams of Alison climbing a tree with me. I never saw her as broken, until we broke up and she proved me wrong by telling people my darkest days.

The silly thing is, as I walked down the aisle at Target, I debated who I should make a birthday cake for. Josh and Alison, my ying and my yang, are born within days of each other but total opposites. Alison listens to Savage Garden, goes to church, and does dishes. She does not crowd surf, cook, or drink more than one glass of wine. Josh listens to Radiohead, goes to Action movies, collects guitars and writes beautifully. I made Josh chocolate cupcakes, and I bought him peanutbutter m and ms, because those are his favorite candy.

Alison never took me anywhere. She used to go to church with her, because I knew she loved it even though my heart was more towards the Buddhist and pagan nature based group they had there. I told her I was going to die once while we were doing crafts. Alison pulled me to her chest and kissed me everywhere. Her hands breathing life into my darkest caverns like fireflies, her hands that made me chocolate milk when my bones throbbed. Alison’s hands held me together, until they became hands that held me back.

Josh took me to a touristy florida store like the one my grandpa and I used to go to- you know, where they have orange gum, homemaid icecream, fresh squeezed juice. And we just sampled juice, and when I drank three little cups of strawberry orange juice, he bought me a jug. Josh’s hands grabbed mine as we danced in some crappy cape coral bar to bad 90’s cover songs. His roommate’s Asian girlfriend asks “You two together?” We look at each other, and shake our heads no, our hands playing Ms. Mary Mack. Josh’s hands subtly scratched down my back and guided me to his car for another trip to Wal-Mart.

This time we weren’t getting cake. We were getting a bin for his recycling, Trojans, and a plate.

After I had broken all my plates a few months ago, I called Alison ecstatic. I wasn’t upset, I was happy. I just wanted to break them. She wept, so I fucking hung up on her. I called Josh, Who told me I was way too cool to be his friend and should invest in some paper.

Josh bought me a plate, and we got frozen yogurt at a place on the way back to his house.I was wearing his big leather jacket because I am the only person who is freezing in florida in May and short shorts. I put down my bowl of fro yo and followed him onto his porch outlooking a cape coral canal. The moon reached down and held the waves as Josh looked at me, his sapphire eyes glistening.

“How do we do this?”

“We need to put our energy in the plate together!” The rose quarts chakra crystal swang on the chain around my neck as I placed my hands on top of Josh’s. We slammed the plate down with a crash, bits of yellows and greens and blues all over. Josh grabbed a large hunk and heaved it down again shattering it. I laughed and screamed and ran as Josh chased me back into the house. His roommate Danny, who was drunk from the bar and entertaining two women looked over at us.

“What the fuck just happened?” Danny said.

“We broke a plate!” Josh said. I ate some more of my frozen yogurt, laughing as Josh put his arm around me.

“Why?!” Bimbo number one said. “Is this a greek dinner?!”

“Because we just wanted to! ” Josh said, guiding me into his room. I fed him frozen yogurt as he sat next to me. His leather jacket smelled of sandalwood as his hands cupped my thigh. He looked at the yellow sharpie chicken scratch LDF on my leg. “What is that?”

“Directions to your house, silly.” I said.

“That is the best thing I have ever seen” Josh said. “You have sexy legs by the way.” I feed him more frozen yogurt, as we lay there laughing about random things and talking, until he kisses my neck and throws off his leather jacket. Being with him was like rolling around in candy after surviving on celery.

You could look at me as someone in the midst of a complete nervous breakdown. I’m writing, I’m eating cake, breaking dinnerware, and I’m having sex with some guy- clearly, my shit is not together. That’s the beauty of recovering from an eating disorder: Losing control, learning to feel your body, and following your heart in each and every moment.

My mosaic is not complete, but the contrasts, and misshapen pieces are incredible- and without them I would not be me.

My therapist told me not to think about Alison or Josh, just to...

Sat, 04 May 2013 14:53:54 -0400

My therapist told me not to think about Alison or Josh, just to think about what I wanted- and I want to get a tattoo to symbolize recovering from anorexia.

I still have some work to do with working out my relationships and connection of food with my family and my dad- But god damn, Baby, I have come a long way.

I’m going to get a typewriter with a quote. I’m going to ask one of my friends to come, because the last time I got a tattoo I was heavier and shit hurt terrible then.

And then we will get food and celebrate that I am alive, and changing everyday like the sun.

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Sat, 04 May 2013 14:32:43 -0400

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Sat, 04 May 2013 14:28:59 -0400

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Sat, 04 May 2013 14:27:48 -0400

How to Have your Cake And Eat it too

Sat, 04 May 2013 13:51:19 -0400

After I had sex with my best friend, I could no longer label myself a lesbian. The poor guy had chased after me for three years, telling me he had Brittney Spears’ soul and he would wear a bra for me if I just gave him a chance. I don’t know why he was super into me. Maybe it was the fact that I was the unattainable kooky girl next door who wanted to become a sexologist and made bedazzled vaginas out of clay; or maybe it was the way that I teased him with graphic details of my sex life and showed him my boobs. Whenever I got drunk, we would always wind up kissing. Otherwise, I was a total lezzerella though!

Until one night after I broke up with my girlfriend, I admitted I had a crush on him and he ripped my little rainbow panties off with his teeth.

Like vampires and unicorns, a lot of people don’t believe in bisexuality. Our culture, though a mystical faerie land of tits and cock, is surprisingly sex negative. Some people believe that bisexuality is just the doorway to homosexuality and coming out as gay. You crawl through the wardrobe into Narnia where a half-naked sparkling faun greets you with Turkish delight. Some people see bisexuality as one of those things emo teenage girls do with their friends between shopping at HotTopic and planning to become wiccans. The way people view bisexuality is not easy to track or understand. However, gay and straight alike agree that bisexuals are sluts, greedily stuffing their faces with all the items off the dessert table.

You order chocolate cake for dessert your whole life, and then when you say “Hey man, that cheesecake looks yummy!” people wig the fuck out. What do you mean you want cheesecake?! You don’t even like cheesecake! Do you not like chocolate cake anymore?!! Aren’t you full from dinner? That is so unhealthy. You should be ashamed of yourself. You are TOO DAMN BIG!

The problem that people have with bisexuality isn’t that bisexuals sleep with multiple genders, it’s that bisexuals fully embrace their sexual desires and eat their cake, while everybody else hits the gym and counts calories. It’s not “You ate tiramisu?!” It’s “I have been running three miles a day and eating lettuce for weeks and have not lost a fucking pound. How dare you!!”

In the 1960’s, Sexologist Dr. Alfred Kinsey invented the Kinsey scale as a way to classify male human sexuality. The Kinsey scale rates from 0 to 6, with 0 being totally straight and 6 being completely gay. In a survey of over 12,000 people, most rated around a three or four. I’m not saying that everybody is bisexual. There are certainly people who can’t go both ways. But Is it because they don’t want to, or is it because of the way they were raised, their abusive childhood, their latino heritage, their baptist faith, their fraternity’s values, their best friend/sister/mother’s acceptance, their societies judgments and norms?

Like cake, our gender is a combination of so many different social, political, psychological, and emotional ingredients besides the flesh between our legs. In fact, you can tell a lot about a person’s sex life by the kind of cake they would be.

Marble pound cake: Traditional Hopeless romantic

Red velvet: Classy public persona with a pole secretly in their bedroom.

Carrot cake: Quirky and a big fan of incense.

Angel food: Nuerotic prude.

Chocolate with Buttercream icing and M& Ms : Hide your wallet and RUN BITCH RUN.

While male sexuality is goal based like running on a treadmill, female sexuality is like running a triathlon. You train for a while, bicycle, run, and swim, all to be faced with a riddle. You could be Michael Phelps, but unless you know what the fuck gets wetter as it dries, she isn’t going to come.

I’ve dated women who have left me for men, so I can’t blame Alison for taking the breakup badly. I’ve also had enough straight girls’ tongues in my mouth to know that when it comes to female sexuality, its faceted. One of my ex-girlfriends was a straight country girl. Her brother was gay, so she was supportive, but she had always been with men. She told me I was funny, but most importantly, I made her feel safe. Women will leap into the arms of anyone who makes them feel treasured. God knows we’re all taught otherwise.

Women also secretly love vaginas. We’re taught that they are this bloody succubus were not allowed to touch or talk about, a place of conquest and deceit and shame. Sleeping with another woman is like being Persephone, traveling down into the underworld. It’s a journey that leads a girl into herself, and back out again, as a woman. A victim of sexual assault, I hated my vagina for a long time. The first woman I ever slept with- a Sunday school teacher- I was terrified. I screamed I was disgusting down there and did not do my confirmation homework. She kissed me and said I was beautiful, and for the first time in my life, I began to believe it. There is a special kind of bond created between two women. It’s a combination of tenderness and understanding, with a sprinkle of PMS rage over who ate the last oreo.

The relationship between a man and a woman tends to be glorified by Reese Witherspoon and Channing Tatum. But, there is something sexier about a guy who doesn’t see a woman as a prized cow to brand. I think the most romantic thing a man can do for his mate is have a picnic on the living room floor.

Women’s sexual desires tend to waiver back and forth with time and expieriences, with a woman reaching her sexual peak in her thirties. However, a woman in her thirties has a lot of shit going on. She could be in a boring career bogged down with three kids, a mortgage, and a husband who sits on his ass all day and eats Fritos. She could be a lesbian struggling with breast cancer and needing someone to take care of her. Some lesbians have been in relationships with men periodically throughout their lives depending on situations. For this same reason, a woman in her thirties who miscarried may find herself falling in love with her best friend who understands her pain; Or two divorcees begin a passionate relationship. Were these women in denial their entire lives sleeping with and loving men? Lying to the fathers of their children that they were off to a PTA meeting and licking honey off their gal pal’s feet instead? Maybe this was the case for a few women, or maybe it just fucking felt right when it was right.

I never thought I’d be with a man; but Josh filled me. Maybe I had sex with Josh because I loved the idea of him. He represented what I wanted- freedom, writing, and dragon sex- and I love a good metaphor. Or maybe I just wanted to have some fun after being wrapped up in so much pain. Humans are complex and changeable, and although you can ask yourself questions until you are blue in the face, the smoke in the mirror will never disappear.

There are several external reasons why we choose the cake that we do, but maybe you have changed and the cake that you used to get all the time no longer makes you happy. Alison was an incredible woman, and I loved her very much, but she didn’t fill me anymore. People change mates all the time. Was this really so different? I stared at Alison’s ring for a few minutes, and then I put it in a drawer.

We eat the cake because it’s enchanting. We eat the cake because we deserve it. We eat the cake because cake celebrates an authentic life from birthdays and weddings to fourth of julys. We eat the cake because it is joy and love. We do not have sex with a ‘penis’ or a ‘vagina’. We have sex with artists creating colors and connection, a hunger that burns on our canvases. Don’t be gross and go eat ten whole cakes, but allow yourself into the kitchen. Give yourself permission to touch the porcelain shell of the egg and listen to it crack open against the bowl. Let your hands play in the bag of brown sugar and feel each rough crisp grain against your fingertips. Taste a single chocolate chip.

By sharing our imperfect bodies, we are releasing our energies, happiness, loves, fears and doubts, and becoming vulnerable. Sex is not shameful, but a sacred communion in which we are no longer just a body. As our pulsating hearts pound like rain on a tin roof, we ride the wave until our skin divides and opens like a river of light bursting from the belly and we become one. Sexuality is fluid like the ocean, and love is just as deep.

Am I gay? Am I straight? I’m just a crazy bitch who doesn’t weigh herself. I go by how my clothes fit, and how I feel inside my skin. Cake is not the enemy. It’s all in the way we hold the fork.

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Thu, 02 May 2013 14:16:35 -0400