This is dedicated to all women:

The Pelvic Area of a Woman

I can’t give myself an orgasm any longer.

I just can’t. My friend Beatrix Boyle (who is a model for many major fashion magazines on like a regular basis) told me that she went through the same thing when her boyfriend turned out to be a straight cross-dresser and she saw him dancing around in her pink thong with a great erection sticking out, dancing to a song by Christina Aguilera; and the only thing that helped for her was to peel carrots and use them as dildos.

I tried that. I peeled the carrot as if I was to eat it. It looked like a thick, orange finger. I warmed it in the microwave because I had taken it right from the fridge. At first it was too hot, so I let I cool. But then it was just right.
I couldn’t come with a carrot.

Beatrix Boyle told me about one of her friends, Harper Estelle, who also tried the carrot thing but could not come with it. She ended up using some bigger vegetable instead and could definitely, super strongly come with that.

I tried something bigger. I went to the market and asked for the biggest zucchini they had and the teenager who was working there looked at me as if I was one of his underdeveloped, sexual fantasies come real.

I just stared at him and glanced at the area between his legs where I could swear I saw some definite swelling.

I was part of some teenager’s fantasy. I was being mixed in with the whores in the music videos and the actresses of seedy Hollywood films about marriage and commitment and sex. I could see the film in my head, could see myself clad in tight jeans and pink blouses which left nothing to the imagination except the three, small molls I have on my left breast right under the nipple. I could see myself on a bed, accepting pizza guys with extra sausage and plumbers and hairy men with big cars. I did not like this film, so I switched it off and watched a cooking program instead with a vivacious British woman who deep-fried Snicker bars.

I brought the zucchini home, hidden in an entire plastic bag for the purpose of secrecy, and I made myself ready for it, the zucchini being a very big zucchini and I oiled it with baby oil and I oiled myself with baby oil, oiling everything except a baby with baby oil.
But I could not come.

I could not come with the zucchini.

I woked the zucchini and the rest of the carrots and ate a low-carb, low-fat, high protein meal, fantasizing about what would happen if I just walked around without any clothes on, being molested by seventy year old men with flaccid guts and hanging breasts and limping penises and hair on their backs and no hair on their heads or fifty year old leather-clad dominatrixes with whips and strap-on cocks.

But I could not come to this fantasy, with or without any vegetable, least of all the half-digested zucchini.

So I just walked around some more, not being able to walk around without any clothes on, a dangerous, furious buzz in my head as I am flying from work to the gym, thinking that I can harness this sexual energy in some other media, use it to pump up those triceps I am worried about because I feel that they in a few months will look exactly like the triceps of my grandmother.

I always feel like a duplicate version of my grandmother, of course, a younger grandmother than I remember, but still… I watch my triceps and I especially feel like her.

Those great, upside-down wings of white, wobbly flesh that seemed animate with a life of their own. They were waving hours after she had waved us home. I remember the slack fat sticking out of her summer dresses, her smiles regardless of this fat, her round, homely, womanly shapes hidden poorly beneath that summer dress that was almost a tent.

I don’t think my grandmother ever came. She lived in a time when the female orgasm was a myth. It was proven that female swans could not have orgasms.
I feel bad for my grandmother.

But I still cannot come.

When I was at the store again after having lifted small manuals while checking out the asses of those young men boiling with testosterone, oozing out pre-cum and sweat; I saw something strange.

This woman, seeming infinitely younger than me, wearing a highly professional but still sexy outfit (you know, black hoes which made her elegant, thin legs seem as if they were the softest things in the universe, a black mini-skirt, a white blouse, earrings, lip-stick, lip-gloss, some lip-sealing agent which I read about in Cosmopolitan which makes the pores in your lips constantly breathe so it seems you just took collagen or something). This woman, yes, this arch-woman, this contemporary extension of any kitchen, this doll, this sexy, secure… thing, this perfect product of human evolution, this perfect gift to any man, this perfect construction, this perfect chemical equilibrium between fat, bones, ass, tits, skin and muscle, was on the dirty floor, heaving, groaning over some massive pelvic area of a woman shaped out of cheap, gray plastic. There were buttocks, firm and tender, there were the higher ends of thighs, a small crack but no hole for a cunt(my dictionary says that this is a non-existent word, which makes me very angry. Cunt does not exist, just the same way the female orgasm does not exist; but I just added it to the dictionary, so now everything is going to be okay) and this woman was trying to apply this ridiculous thong, black-laced of course, to the massive pelvic hips of this statue.

She glanced up, saw me, saw my made-up face, the gloss and the cream applied after the triceps work-out at the gym and she glanced down and saw that I carried a squash in my hands, like some massive, black cock.

There was a furious, merciless contempt in her eyes and around those breathing, open-pored lips.

I could not come with the squash, either. But I bought a pair of those thongs and now I wear them all the time.

But I still cannot come.

So now I have given up vegetables and I no longer listen to my friend Beatrix Boyle and her cross-dressing boyfriend. They went underwear shopping together yesterday. Luckily they are the same size.

I remember the time I came four times, which seems so long ago that I feel like I am two billion years old, and I wish I could say I had the four orgasms with some hot, beautiful, funny, smart guy who I was desperately in love with(why do I wish that?). But it wasn’t. And I don’t know why I wish that I was.

He seemed painfully beside the point, just excess material, just filler, and not filler in the sexy, intercourse-y kind of way even though he was filling me perfectly at the time.
It reminded me of those strange spiders in the Amazons where the female is this great, swollen, hairy monster and the male is this tiny, little thing. The male deposits his seed into the spider woman and then he either dies or is eaten by the woman.
That guy had nothing to do with my four orgasms. He thought he did. But he was just flattering himself. I gave myself those four orgasms.

But now I feel bad I used him and did not please his ego more, so I cannot come all the more.
Instead I watch a reality show about weight loss and I glance over at my triceps and then switch the channel to this strange, homoerotic music video and I watch tight asses all over again. I drag a pillow up and down my vagina.

But I still cannot come.

When I am a the gym again, desperately trying to tighten my slacking stomach inspired by the women who had lost like four billion pounds combined and looked great on the reality show, I delicately hump the seat of the abdomen cruncher and feel myself become wet.
I am very close to an orgasm. But then this other woman who I at first believe is naked but who turns out to be wearing a brown lycra suit asks me rudely:” Are you done with that seat soon?” and I feel embarrassed that this boy with breasts saw me do it and I go to the showers and apply more make-up.

I feel tremendously old. I feel like a cracked, weather-torn stone on a beach, surrounded by white, trimmed, rounded and soft fragments called sand.
When I come home, the lust I got rubbing myself against that firm, black seat of the abdomen cruncher is gone and even though I light candles and dim the light and light incense and listen to Tori Amos I cannot come. All the magazines are lying to me.

I listen to afro-American female jazz artists, to feminist women singing about being strong, being independent, being part of an all female revolution to reclaim this dying earth from the dirty nails of the men who destroy it.

But I cannot come.

Even when I oil myself with fragranced lavender oil and massage my breasts and finger myself I cannot come.
Instead I fall on the floor because the oil has somehow gotten under my feet. And I hit my head against the frame of my huge bed and I feel stupid.

Why can’t I come?

I just can’t, can’t, can’t come.
I am probably damaged goods. I can feel the desire, the lust, the hunger, the unholy sex-drive, the furious yearning, the despairing ache for sex. I can feel it so close, right under my increasingly dangling flesh, right under my pumped-up, hard triceps. I can feel it so close.
But I don’t know how to use it.

It has nothing to do with love. I remember seeing a show about two guys saying that a woman has to be in love with a guy before she can have sex with him because she is so grossed out by his penis. The penis is somehow a grave insult to a woman, like being told you have a big ass or that your stretch-marks from giving birth to a hundred children are too visible.
I don’t think so. I love cocks. I love men. I want to have sex with a hundred thousand men, and I don’t need to love any of them. It has nothing to do with love.
But why then can I not make myself come?

This must be the end for what else can it be?
This is the end of my sexual self. I shall seal my lust, my desire, my endless surplus of sexual energy that it is taboo for a woman to have and seal it into a small box and use a lot of time to wrap it in nice silk paper and a ribbon with hearts, just like a woman should. I shall add a card that says:” Here it is. You have wanted it for so long.”
But I don’t know who I shall post it to.

I feel like this is the funeral of some dear friend, some friend who has been with me for years, some essential, beloved, intimate friend. The only person in the world who gets me fully, the sole individual in this entire realm who understands and fathoms and comprehends and apprehends me in my entire solid being, undaunted, unchanged. Whole.
And I am standing there, watching her fall into the earth, watching the morbid lilies and the dull roses and the lead sky and the choir boys with their small swellings between their legs sing the undertaker’s melody.

I am watching her white dress with the red blotches, watching her pink vagina throbbing, watching her skin newly born and sweaty, watching her partially opened lips, screaming or crying, watching her raw fingernails with skin of some man’s back underneath.
And I am watching her fall into the grave.

But at least I had her for so long, they tell me. At least you had her for this long time. That’s more than most women get. At least you knew her. At least you have felt her fully, experienced her, talked to her, touched her.
At least you knew this woman.
My sexual self dies when I am twenty three years old.

I cannot come any longer.

Not even with a zucchini.