Angel Boy and the Purity Ball

Just call me angel of the morning, angel
Just touch my cheek before you leave me, baby
Just call me angel of the morning angel
Then slowly turn away from me
~Angel of the Morning, Olivia Newton John


We are all impatiently waiting to fuck. Whether it’s getting the fuck out of here, or getting the fuck in there, there is almost no time to waste. I told Angel Boy he was too young and I didn’t believe in fairy tales. He asked me if I harbored resentment toward my mother, came on my bed sheets, and was out the door.

Every time I see Angel Boy, he handles me like I am hot metal, cautiously, like he is trying to avoid injury. He knows I am a hunter, I carry a sharp spear. But still, he stands next to the fire/flame and cums almost instantly before he even touches me.

Part of the reason Angel Boy cums so quickly is because he has been seriously deprived of the sex he wants and deserves. His ex-girlfriend viewed sex as an annoying chore. Angel is not an alpha who scores with a babe every Saturday night, so I recognize his need for release. In fact, I empathize whole-heartedly with his lack of lusty fucking. Yet, he holds back each time we are together and I cannot understand. I work diligently to draw out the fuck. I am like Vulcan with my hammer and blow torch laboriously shifting and shaping the fuck. I am desire’s faithful servant, chipping away at his stone.

Still, he never fully consciously releases, it’s like a wet dream, with my tits and ass playing the role of young starlet. If he is at all engaged in my personhood, it almost certainly is only an idea/ideal, which after years of developing alter egos and secret double-lives, I suppose it’s logical the only Sally he sees is a cartoon character. Yet, there are foreign territories to transverse, like my pussy. He has not yet heard the diving bell, so I wait.

Angel Boy is not a pussy-eating type of man. He is albino fresh, white as white can be, and his body is perfumed with the same steady scent each time. His crisp starched clothes and clear blue eyes indicate he would’ve been an excellent boy scout. If Angel eats pussy at all, it’s probably done out of drunk half-unconscious obligation. I know I am no special exception, but still, I don’t stop waiting.

Angel said he would fuck me in two weeks, after the purity ball. I can’t decide if he waits to fuck because he is a brainwashed Catholic who believes women are dirty, or he has a demanding work schedule. Either way, my Virgo does not fuck. I wonder if the robot was assembled incorrectly. If there is a malfunction, it happened during production (childhood) at the factory.

In this cryptic mess of gobbledy- goop, I wait for Angel to dole out some clarity. I want a clean fuck, a break from the past and a super-cosmic orgasm. But, Angel is just a boy, and his offer is subject to limitations. I understand. I do not hold his immaturity against him; he could be any man on any day.

Angel traces the lines around my face at night, and I am close to him. He doesn’t realize there is a microscope in the corner and I am closest to myself when I reach for it. I crack the code and look for signals in the dark with my magnifying glass and little note pad.

Girls, when you look at your attachments and see yourself you know you are almost home. When your sex life no longer resembles the Slaughter of the Innocents, you have almost made your way back to yourself safely. You are moving beyond the polarizing situations, male versus female, good versus evil, and innocence versus guilt. If you can see your truth, you hold the mirror, not him.

Look at the men standing next to you, girls, and consider yourself informed.

Straight from the shark’s mouth,

this is Sally Sunshine signing off.

Oh January, you old whore!

“And some days I get caught stealing
And then I hear the sirens blow
And the church bells they let me know” ~ Donavon K.

The days are short, nights are long, and there is impending doom and a cloud. January, you’re a cold motherfucker, with your days of mourning and grieving. I could wear black for the rest of this month and no one would notice there is no joy. They will spend this month manufacturing happiness to avoid The Crone. The Crone wants you alone and on your knees, to strip you bare, so you are her child now. And, as such, you will obey.

The Crone demands that you approach life with maturity and awareness. No naked Twister parties. No unconscious drunk fucking. No blurry-eyed Saturday nights.

Just work bitch.

SS

Lesbians Who Fuck Men

“Cause nothing stands between us here
And I won't be denied” ~ Possession, Sarah McLachlan


Dear Sally Sunshine,

You are crazy.

Ok readers, I will refrain from addressing myself in the process of addressing you. It just adds extra layers to the crazy. I will, however, admit my lizard brain has been on a long sojourn, i.e. the creative force has not been with me. You’ll have to excuse me, removing the moldy structure at the crux of my existence was more difficult than anticipated.

After having my sexuality snacked on like a bag of Doritos, today, humbly I walk toward you with only one candle left burning- an empty vessel, formless but on the verge of a discovery. Lovers who’ve basked in my sexual duality (bisexuality) beware. I am wandering into the oblivion. I’m all up in your face and fucking up the game.

When I came out to my family and friends in 2002, I came out as a lesbian. I had a serious girlfriend, I was active in the LGBT community, I had been to Gay Pride and the Gay Church, I took communion with other queers, and I had gay books, movies, and crushes. I was eager to move from my hometown to step further, publicly, into my sexual identity without the threat of being “outed” professionally. I could not foresee myself being deeply in love with a man in the future.

There were some men who I slept with in the spirit of charity. I remember driving to meet Mercy Fuck Mark who was nursing some raw wounds surrounding a brutal break-up with his lady love. I took up a Venus mantle and touched him (read: screwed him) with tenderness in an attempt to release him from his tortured thoughts. My good deeds did not go unnoticed. A cute little blonde thing flirted her way right into my arms the night before I left Mercy Fuck Mark in the fetal position sucking his thumb.

If there were men, then, I did have the unfortunate habit of falling for their lady friends. Maybe it was the hug that lasted a little too long or a flushed-faced conversation that pushed me over the edge. This is not to say I haven’t enjoyed certain men and their cocks and/or companionship at different intervals in my life. Over the last few years, I have mainly been involved with men, but that wasn’t a conscious choice I made. There just simply weren’t any women in my area code that I had more than a passing interest in.

Overtime, I took to calling myself a bisexual- it seemed like the most ambiguous label given the cold stark reality of who I was fucking (both men and women). This theory of defining one’s sexual identity by gender preference at a given moment is misleading. The truth of our sexual identity is far more complex than who we go to bed with.

Within our erotic identities, we also contain emotional identities and transpersonal/political identities. There are infinite possibilities. Coincidentally, during the time of my feminist “coming of age”, my sexual desire for the same-sex intensified. Now, this is not a defense of “political” lesbians (i.e. women who only have relationships (sexual or otherwise) with other women as a form of protest against the patriarchy), but, it is an acknowledgement of the subtle nuances between the personal and the political. It might be fair to say, my politics (women’s rights) was working in tandem with my desire. Yes, one could exist without the other, but they blended quite well in the same vein. Lest we forget, still, beyond all the intellectualization, I wanted to eat pussy.

Since there are plenty of lesbians who are not feminists and have no interest in “woymn’s lib” and there are plenty of straight girls who are feminists, political lesbianism has been dubbed a thing of the past. Yet, the label still has societal relevance. When a lesbian is told by parents she must be a lesbian because she was molested by some family pervert (even if this is not true) or she has a huge load of resentment toward men in general they are invoking the old “the personal is political” view as an explanation for their daughter’s same-sex attraction. This is offensive for a number of reasons. The parents are basically not acknowledging their child’s identity. They are inferring that the child’s an eternal victim, unable to sort out their own desires or identity. This is an effective way to devalue a child’s sense of self, unless, of course, she is willing to call bullshit and has the language available to express it.

In a sense, all labels are ludicrous attempts to contain the very complex structure of personality. Because, all identities have a certain finality associated with them, we become prisoners of the stamp. The term “bisexuality” represents a valiant effort define the indefinable- a free-flowing sexuality with a willingness to experience deep feelings of love and desire for either gender.

Sally Sunshine, alone on your own little journey, who do you love? That is the question of the hour. Or, more precisely, who will you fuck?

In the words of Lisa Loeb*, “Do you fuck girls anymore? Do you fall gracefully into bed with the same sex? I don’t know and I don’t care.”

Well, maybe, that wasn’t her exact phraseology, but, world, listen up, I’m still a lesbian.

Your faithful hermit/servant,

SallyS



*Lyrics: Do You Sleep? : Lisa Loeb