Gunk - willow hour
Last night Chava was talking about how she wants a cunt really badly, how she’s been wanting one from the beginning, she was one of the girls who woke up at birth and knew they needed a cunt instead. We were pretty high off k and disoriented from the funeral. There was no point telling her she already has one so I asked what do you like so much about holes? instead. I felt like I could about rip my stomach open in order to create something more breathable of my body so I knew pretty much what she would say. How a hole transports you towards your insides. But she didn’t; she was falling in between the wall and mattress of the twin in my mom’s basement and said I’m stuck, help me up. I want to speak more clearly.
We were listening to the new Lana single, the one where she sings Jimmy only love me when he wanna get high and I was soothing myself by alchemizing the sound into all sorts of colors and textures that swaddled me like a blanket. This is embarrassing, but I think Lana is so hot. Like, even though she has this reputation as a clown, she’s so deep feeling, people who feel deep fuck the best. Personally she made me want to cross my hips and tug from behind, like how I wanted Chava to spit in my mouth really bad but we weren’t having sex anymore, just talking about how we wanted to trade the dull protruding ache of dick desire for the wet hot fever at the other end of the rainbow.
That was how she put it, anyways, as I was fumbling with the code lock at my mom’s, that a cunt meant wet hot fever. I was looking at her like, can you try the lock maybe but my mouth stuck like my fingers in the cold. Maybe if I put them inside someone they would melt up and I could get the lock. But my mom heard and came to get us in, said hi Chava I’m glad you could stay with us, cuz she was pretty good about us both being girls now, and would ask me all the time how it was a shame about the other family, was Chava doing ok. I didn’t know really–we hadn’t talked in a long time, she lived in Minneapolis now and would date girls, like cis girls–but I saw her at the funeral and felt the same sort of stirring inside as I did when I first saw her in an open button up and denim shorts and bowling shoes, a silver chain around her neck, real faggy, like me. I still mostly dated fags, not girls—but now I dated fags whose various openings I could envy as my own, and who would see me as the pretty girl that I was, wild and with my hair sticking to the spit of my mouth while I sat on top of their faces and brought their hands up to my tits.
When I saw Joey, who was dead (his parents were Catholic and there was a wake) I hadn’t even texted Chava that I would be back, and I had already done bumps outside in the bushes, and I was strumming my hands together wishing there was a little arf-arf puppy for me to scratch behind the ears and maybe mount. I went up quickly to look but I didn’t see anything red underneath, so I mainly stood at the back, which is what Chava had done too. My body was humming at this vibration even the drugs wouldn’t settle, in this church full of straight people and hockey coaches, my high school math teacher, and when I saw Chava, even though it had been, I don’t know, maybe five years, it was only the two of us, the way it had always been only the two of us in these rooms and around these people. She could tell I was tweaking, there was still a really present intuition; she took my palm and pressed down the middle, she circled my wrist with her thumb and forefinger and squeezed. Real things were surfacing in me at the sight of her, but I wouldn’t let them break—not in front of this beautiful boy, suddenly with layered hair and estrogen skin, the same teeth that I had grinned into sloppy that first time I stuck my hand through the underwear band and felt for a boner. In my head Lana was singing you’re so funny I wish I could skinny dip inside your mind and when Chava said she was gonna sleep in her car, February in Indiana, I said that was stupid, don’t worry, my mom will be happy to see you, and the cats always loved you the most.
During the year we were boyfriends, I used to take her back to this very house, to the third bedroom which had a screen door which opened to the backyard, and in the summer I would lie her on her stomach, lazy and nice; I’d play with the smooth strip of skin behind her cock until where she opened up under me like the sinkhole in the roof of my city apartment. Now, lying in the bed in the basement, blunted, on its faded paisley pattern quilt and with her thigh pressing against mine, I wanted something much angrier. It made me think of how I had hovered over Joey’s body, the way I was obsessing over flesh, over blood and guts, how I would watch Cronenberg movies like every other tranny, and understand how mutilation could really be an act of service. Chava would worship me when she used to suck my dick, I thought maybe she would bite it off. I would say look up at me, in the eyes, but then I would make direct eye contact with anyone, I would say that to the boys I cruised stealth in the park. It was really important for me to look— I never shut my eyes during sex, not even to kiss. And so last night, we were on the twin bed, talking about heady stuff—gender and genitalia and desire— and on one level, I was trying to have a conversation with someone who was important to me and who had left me. But on another, truer dimension, closer to the ground, I was trying to have someone rub against me with a rhythm, and there was a pretty girl on the other side of the bed, and I had seen her insides, and I didn’t care what kind of cunt she had.
So I asked what do you need to speak more clearly about? and she said can you rub my sinuses? So I told her to turn around and give me her head, put it in my lap. Something shifted. She was getting hysterical, but just a little. We weren’t the same on drugs. She started talking about how lately all she thinks about is death and dying, how she thought she knew so much about death and dead people but she really didn’t, she just saw it online; what had happened to Joey was tragic, and suburban, it wasn’t about gay people surviving, she was a white girl and had a college degree and a steady income and God I was thinking, be quiet, it didn’t bother me like that; everything was making me think of this one time when I brought up some sleazy shit cops did to me in the middle of a horny conversation, and she got mad, she said don’t mix all that shit up, and I had to say ohhh but I am scared— I’m scared all the time, even now; and I think girls who don’t fuck girls are cowards— and how the hell are you friends with cis people like that— I just wanted to make sure I looked really, really pretty. I just wanted to be a better writer. I just had to read more. She looked insane, I thought I was going to vomit. My fingers were under her belt loop and my other hand was getting snotted on, I was really vigorously attempting to get the gunk down the side of her face. She mouthed your mom called, I told her, you’re fucking up big time. That made me crack up, we were laughing, the palm of my hand suddenly at the soft triangle of her belly, and I was gonna just do it, when she started moving her hips too, feeling the same faggot need as me, the thing that taught that pain and pleasure and disgust and heartbreak, it was all presence, it was all actually the same. And so I started feeling hard in between the denim and thin Calvin Klein panties. She was really wet and I couldn’t tell if what I was touching was in or out or up or down, she moaned and turned her head into my thigh and I started stroking her neck like I was brushing a pony. Wishing I had a real grooming tool like the one I had seen a leatherdyke use on her sub, and I could rake it over the tendons I was stretching against my thigh, watch the blood bead out and lick it.
Chava was chewing on her sleeve, it was so juvenile, it got me off. I was looking around for something to shove in her mouth, maybe a stuffed animal, or a fistful of bugs. You said I was bad, let me show you how the bad girls do Lana was singing and I finally did have to break— I wanted to transgress that tight barrier of skin and let the liquid underneath drain— I wanted to rectify that cold body I had seen earlier— I knew the dead were actually hot things that spilled out of themselves, gasping. I needed the moment of connection so badly. I was trying to stave it off; I practiced breathing and stared instead at the apricot color walls and the exposed wood beams and the purple shag carpet and the little bag of powder on the TV dinner stand we had pulled out, and I pulled her up on to me so that I was leaning on the throw pillows up against the corner of the room and with the foot board of the furniture depot bed frame digging into the small of my back, and Chava on top of me weighing me down, back into myself—I thought about what I liked about holes, how I needed the blood; I bit into her neck and she screamed.
willow wilderness hour is an Aquarius Sun and Scorpio Moon. She is inspired by trans(gressive) gay lit, magic, and people getting free