Her soft, lotioned legs held me—leading me into a womb that I never wanted to escape.  We laughed, while my semen dripped out. “I have to clean up!” she’d exclaim.

I’d had this hunger—this craving for wanting to be inside of someone soft and fleshy and wet.  Why?  Because I was and am human, and mimicking reproduction, over and over, was my way of quelling the need—which was deeper than anything I’d ever felt.

She, and dozens of others.  I didn’t want it like this.  I never just wanted to “bang some chick.” But they came, I came, and they went.

Help me…feel like I once was.

The whole thing was always—the repetition of these things—just  some dream I’d wanted to relive, without realizing it. “Born again” was a Christian indiscretion.  Those zealots didn’t know what the fuck they were talking about.  But there was this girl, and this other girl.  And I wanted to be a part of them—of their lives.  Of who and everything that they were.  I wanted, desperately and with unheeded caution, to be inside of them.  This wasn’t just to fuck them.  I wanted to listen to them talk about things—everything. To know them.

I wanted to listen to their heartbeats when we were done—to hear the drums of that old human effort, over and over.  I clawed at the double-helix of what it was to be a person.  But, in all this, I knew what it meant to succeed: to reproduce.  And, all in all, I just didn’t believe in it—to replicate such a wretched thing as life.

Yet, I craved it from someplace I couldn’t grasp.  It was something that was a deeper part of who I am that I wanted to believe.  I wanted to transcend this natural selection shit.  But, if it weren’t for the old algorithm, I wouldn’t be here to talk about it to begin with.  I wouldn’t be here to bitch.

So, the girl, she cleaned off my semen.  My worthless slime.  I’d had a vasectomy years back.  I didn’t believe in life.  I still don’t. “Ugly thing! Life!” I’d exclaim this, to myself. “I’m not having kids.  I don’t want to give this wretchedness—this need—to anyone!”

Yet, here I am—the unwilling participant in a game that disgusts me, and from which I cannot escape.

And I still, despite it all, want inside.


6 thoughts on “Inside

  1. I’m going to go out on a limb here and say you are not alone in your desire. But it is intersting how you present it, as if it were the oddest, filthiest thing. I always look forward to your posts, keep at it.

    1. “Out on a limb.” Lmao.

      It’s only odd and filthy because I know why I have it: which disturbs me. I never should’ve majored in psychology in college.

      And thank you for inspiring me to keep at it. I think I will: until the internet bans me. In which case, let’s face it: I will, anyway.

      1. Does understanding your demons make them any easier to deal with? For me it did, but my story is different.
        it was drilled into my head from an early age that sex, and desire, and fantasies were dirty things that good girls just didn’t do. But everything I was told was bad drove me to want them in excess. The end result was always guilt and shame, but it didn’t stop me from wanting those things.
        Perhaps that’s why I enjoyed your post so much…on some level I can relate.

      2. See, I figured this out about you from that post you wrote about Axle Rose. Don’t think that I’m trying to stereotype you, but I’ve seen and read about people who have been through similar childhoods. Marilyn Manson’s “The Long Hard Road Out of Hell” chronicles a tale that I see being like yours: everything you’ve been told just made you want those things in excess. I get that. I understand it, and I empathize with that guilt and shame.

        Me? My story is much different, but that doesn’t mean we don’t have commonalities. You’ve read “Ronald. Fucking. McDonald.” Needless to say, I’ve had guilt and shame, but they came from a different place: one where people made me experience such emotions for having went through things that I didn’t deserve to. It was a different life.

        My experiences (and I intend on writing my own, long and drawn out tale), were mostly stories about how I was surrounded by “excesses” of human behavior. I mean, I was getting drunk with my parents when I was six. These things I went through made me into the type of person who, looking into what makes people do these things, wanted to avoid doing them.

        Nolan, I’m not sure where the crossroads is: the part where your experiences meet with mine. Now, I’ve always been curious as hell to find out. And I’ll still be curious, reading your work. I’ll always be trying to figure out that human medium.

        This is the reason I’m such a Manson fan. The whole thing reminds me of this Escher piece, called “encounter.” Everything’s just tied up into itself like that. I may never know what it means.

        But I’ll keep trying to find out.

        In short, no: understanding my demons doesn’t help me deal with them. It just makes me want to focus my anger outward.

      3. We seemed to have lived opposite extremes. Somewhere in there is a balance. But perhaps that would have just made us boring. It’s something we’ll probably never know.
        I will check out the Manson song, I do like a lot of his music but I don’t believe I”m familiar with the song you mentioned.
        I will eagerly await more of your life story. I have always been attracted to pain. It is the bane of my existance.

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